Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

Mom peeks into the kitchen. “It’s time, Val.”

I’m a middle child, who only stands up for what she wants when absolutely forced to in a life-and-death situation. At all other times, I suck it up and defer to the will of the group. Gianluca showing up with a hot date isn’t exactly life or death, unless you consider humiliation terminal, so I give up and follow my mother into the dining room, where the guests are seated and already fawning over the pasta.

Gianluca has his seat turned toward Carlotta and away from the guests. Lovely. Aunt Feen is munching off a flat of bread, while the children amuse themselves with the cutlery. My father entertains Gepetto with a story, in English, which he pretends to understand while Gram and Dom take their places at the head of the table. Dominic stands.

“ Benvenuti tutti al nostro matrimonio. Teodora ed io ci consideriamo davvero fortunati d’esserci trovati e siamo lieti di avere le nostre famiglie unite in amore.

“ Vi ringraziamo d’essere qui presenti a celebrare con noi questo bellissimo giorno, e tutti i bei giorni del nostro avvenire. Auguriamo che il nostro matrimonio porterà tanta fortuna alle nostre famiglie . SALUTE! ” He raises his glass.

The glasses touch, clinking together softly like piano keys.

The pasta course is followed by succulent roasted capon on polenta. Next is a small purse of filet mignon in pastry, then a fresh salad of greens and pignoli nuts with sliced oranges. I forget my troubles and slights, and do what I do best no matter what else is happening in the universe: eat. I enjoy every single bite. Every once in a while I look down to the end of the table where Carlotta and Gianluca are engrossed in conversation, and shovel in another bite in their honor.

Finally, after a meal with more courses than a Berlusconi bacchanal, the wedding cake is brought from the kitchen. It’s a traditional white layer cake, but on the top tier, instead of a miniature bride and groom, there is a pair of tiny pink marzipan pumps next to a pair of men’s wing tips made of chocolate. The guests applaud as the cake topped with candy shoes is placed in the center of the table.

The waiters quickly fill the center of the table with platters of pastries iced in pink, dusted with sugar, or drizzled in honey. I’m going to sample every cookie, and I’d like to see somebody try and stop me. I motion to the waiter to bring espresso so I might stay awake through my binge.

Aunt Feen rises from her seat and holds up her glass. “I’d like to make a toast.”

The guests are silent as all eyes go to Aunt Feen. “My sister Tessie-that’s right, Tessie-I know you fancy-pants Italians called her Teodora, but that’s your choice. I’m gonna call my sister what I called her all my life. Tessie…Now, where was I?…Tessie is my sister…and she happens to be a good egg. Dominic, I don’t know you from a hole in the wall, but you seem okay. It’s a little kook-a-luke for two eighty-year-olds to get married-that’s just me. But you did it and it’s done and that’s where we are…”

It’s more than fine that half the people in this room don’t speak English, because if they did, they would know to be insulted. I look down the table at my mother, who is mouthing words with no sound coming out, like a carp marooned on dry land. As Aunt Feen drones on, Jaclyn and Tess exchange worried looks. My sister-in-law Pamela has her eyes squeezed shut as if she’s witnessing the massacre finale in the Texas Chainsaw movie.

Aunt Feen continues, “So raise your glasses to the seminarians-”

“Octogenarians,” my father corrects her softly. This is a first-he’s correcting someone else’s misuse of the English language. My immediate family exchanges looks of utter surprise. What could be next? Sophia Loren actually looks her chronological age?

Feen waves her hand dismissively at my father and turns to Dominic and Gram. “Octopuses. Whatever the hell you are. Cent’Anni. ”

The glasses clink with a ferocity, as if to drown out any further commentary by Aunt Feen. I hear Charlie say, “Whoa,” under his breath, while Jaclyn freezes her gaze, like Bambi seeing flames, upon Aunt Feen.

My family’s insanity can only be kept under wraps before the general public for four hours max. We’re on hour five, and it’s dire. I chew on my pearls.

Gram and Dominic share a kiss at the end of the table, but cut it short when Aunt Feen bellows, “Cut the cake!” Evidently, the newlyweds are not moving fast enough for Aunt Feen. She stands up, picks up the silver knife decorated with white ribbons, and wields it over the cake like a sword. A collective gasp goes up in the room.

“Auntie,” my mother says, and then laughs gaily as though we have knife play at all our family gatherings.

Aunt Feen stands firmly gripping the knife with two hands poised over the cake like a chef preparing to hack an eel in half in a Benihana commercial.

“Oh, Auntie, put the knife down,” Mom says casually, then glares at my father to do something.

I look around to my father and brothers-in-law, who evidently, when they gawked at Carlotta’s assets, inhaled her perfume loaded with kryptonite and have lost their ability to wrangle knives out of the hands of old ladies. They look away. Even Gepetto looks off in the distance, exhaling smoke in gray puffs like a leaky exhaust pipe. Clearly, the men don’t believe this is their problem. So I stand up and place my hand out. “Aunt Feen, give me the knife.”

“I’m gonna cut the cake,” she yells. “Cut the cake!”

“No, you’re not. The bride cuts the cake,” I say firmly.

“And the mouse takes the cheese!” Aunt Feen bellows as she circles the knife above her head. The guests shriek. Aunt Feen yells, “And the cheese stands alone!”

“Give me the knife, Aunt Feen,” I repeat. “Now.”

Gram rises and scoots behind the seated guests until she’s behind her sister. “Feen…,” she whispers, “give it to me.” Gram gets a grip on the knife handle and Aunt Feen relinquishes it.

“Ah, what the hell.” Aunt Feen drops down into her seat. “Cut your cake. Cut your cake.”

Dominic joins Gram, and together they place their hands on the knife handle and evenly slice it into the lowest layer. The gentle cut of true love triumphs over the potential hack job of hate. The guests resume their revelry as the cell phones come out and we commence snapping happy photos from all angles. Gram and Dominic hold for pictures as the waiter takes the cake to the kitchen.

“That was close,” Tess whispers.

“We have to get her out of here,” I whisper back.

Aunt Feen drains her wine and slams the empty glass onto the table. Every head turns toward the thud. Aunt Feen lifts herself out of her chair, gripping the table edge for balance. She stands. She straightens her shoulders. She surveys the room. Even Gepetto, who doesn’t understand a word of English, looks frightened as Aunt Feen looms over the table.

“And one more thing…,” she announces, raising one hand with a pointed finger to the ceiling. And then, like the drop delivery of a box spring from 1-800-MATTRESS, Aunt Feen falls full-body backward.

To the sound of twenty chairs scraping the wood floor, accompanied by cries of “Dear God” and gasps of “ O Dio,” Aunt Feen hits the floor on cue, and at the drop of her Second Act curtain.

The Hospital of Santo Pietro looks less like a haven of healing, and more like a perfunctory credit union back home. The sparse waiting area has a plain desk and lamp, and simple wooden benches along the wall. There is a suite of small rooms tucked behind the waiting area, according to my mother, who peeked. I don’t have a good feeling about this place, and from the looks on the faces of my family, they don’t either. This place makes Queens General Hospital (the insignia in Latin is translated to: Don’t Go There) seem like the Mayo Clinic.