Brava, Valentine

“Dad isn’t going to be around forever.”

“That’ll be a relief,” he snaps.

“Take that back!” I shout.

A rage wells inside me. My brother’s deliberate absences make it so much harder for our family to cope with my father’s illness. It’s almost as if Alfred gets joy in separating from us, from our problems-because as long as he does so, they are not his own. He is not this way with his in-laws. He’s dutiful toward them. He’s there when Pamela’s family is in crisis. He’s most comfortable in the role of family member once removed. But with the Roncallis, he cut the tie long ago, and left us hanging.

“If you don’t want to make it right with Dad for your mother, or your sisters, consider your sons. Because I guarantee you, if you don’t get past whatever it is you have against Dad, it will visit you and your children.”

“My sons are different.” Alfred turns back to his work.

Alfred’s tone tells me he’s done talking about this. If I could throw him out of the shop, I would. I don’t know how long I can handle having him around. We try to get along, or rather, I try to get along with him, but I find myself either tiptoeing around the land mines or stepping on them, then dealing with the aftermath of the explosion. We have spats over nothing, and then I have to bring the mood of the shop back to normal. On top of my real job, I have another-trying to please Alfred. I have been doing this all of my life, and I’m tired of him.

I’m also furious. So I’m going to talk to Bret about a time line. On days like these, when the tension is as deep as the ten layers of leather on the cutting table, I can hardly do my work. And then, exhausted from the dance, I lie in bed at night and dream of what it would be like to own this business outright. I imagine the shop, debt-free, all markers paid in full. I’m the boss and answer to no one. Someday I will buy my brother out, and then I’ll be free of him once and for all.

It took two days to move Gabriel Biondi out of his cousin’s illegal sublet in Chelsea and into 166 Perry Street. There’s that much stuff.

The eight floors of the ABC Carpet and Home warehouse store on Broadway have less furniture than Gabriel Biondi. We could easily fill an additional building (if we had it) with his possessions. Boxed and crated, or wrapped in batting, each item is revered.

There are gilt Rococo mirrors, Art Deco hat stands, demi love seats in matching zebra print, a set of six straight-backed chairs shellacked off-white with rattan seats, turn-of-the-last-century steamer trunks that made it off of the Titanic and into Gabriel’s collection, Tiffany floor lamps with bronze tree-trunk bases, and lamps composed of mosaics of turquoise and rose glass, and framed posters of Broadway shows since On the Twentieth Century and She Loves Me were ru

Gabriel stands with his hands on his hips. “I know, it looks like a gay tag sale. But trust me, I plan to weed out a lot.”

“Like what?”

“A set of Minton china with soup tureens.”

“You should keep that.”

“Why?” Gabriel asks nervously.

“Because it goes with the English riding saddle you want to mount on the wall.”

Gabriel looks around at the skyscrapers of brown paper boxes in my living room and is about to ask, “What saddle?” when he realizes that I’m joking. “Oh, ha, ha. You.”

“Really, you have more stuff than a holding cell at the Met. Every period in interior decoration is represented here.”

“Except early American. I loathe it. I like Abraham Lincoln as much as the next guy, but I can’t abide major furniture that looks like it was whittled.”

“Me neither.”

“I know I have a lot of stuff. But I dream of a summer home in Bucks County. I imagine it-in full. And everything you see here is a part of the backdrop of that dream. I see a four-story white clapboard farmhouse with black shutters on a green hill in Pe

“I imagine parties in my home with guests who fascinate-Doris Kearns Goodwin and Tina Fey in one corner, with the Coen brothers and Lady Gaga in another. Oh, look! It’s Tony Kushner arguing theater economics with Joe Mantello. Michael Patrick King zings with bons mots as Mike Nichols intercepts them. Imagine a tan and freckled au naturel Frances McDormand reading aloud pithy scenes from Arsenic and Old Lace, while Bartlett Sher looks on and then gives a Juilliard critique. Afterward, we have grappa and cigars by a roaring fire, and after Mary Testa sings a couple of numbers from The Rose Tattoo, we discuss the fate of our national theater-that is, of course, if there’s one left by the time I buy my dream house.

“Oh, Valentine, I have big, big plans for my enormous life! And when I’m able to afford it all, and yes, that means buying it all for cash, and installing full-grown trees just like Moss Hart did sixty years ago because I, like he, am not one to wait, I will fill that house with things that matter to me. Decor that inspires me. Furniture that moves me. Basically all the stuff you see right here.”

“So what do we do with it in the meantime?”

“We can use it here.”

“Okay, how about this. How about you redecorate the living room with your things-these prized possessions…”

“They are prizes, believe me.”

“I agree. But whatever doesn’t fit, or you don’t think works, you put in storage.”

“Fair enough. I definitely can afford storage because you gave me such a break on the rent.”

“I’ll offer Gram’s stuff to my family. Except the farm table. The table has to stay.” I run my hand across the edge of the table that has been the center of our family gatherings since before I was born. I can’t imagine this apartment without it. “That’s the only rule. This table, in this very spot.”

“No problem. I like the table,” Gabriel agrees. “But I may want to refinish it.”

“Permission granted.”

“And we’ll keep the chandelier. I’ve always loved that touch of Venice.”

Gabriel and I immediately fall back into our old college roommate dynamic. It’s an easy give-and-take-I let him do whatever he wants, and he rides roughshod over me like a cowboy on horseback galloping through a dry creek bed in the Great Plains during a cattle crossing.

“Is this a record player?”

“RCA Victor. Truthfully, though, I use it for an end table.”

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know. I never turned it on. We’ve got all of Gram’s old Sinatra albums upstairs.”

“Brilliant! I can redecorate to Old Blue Eyes. Francis Albert will be my muse.”

“I’m going to go down and lock up the shop,” I tell him. “June and Alfred went home hours ago.”

“How’s the shipment coming?”

“Our twelve-hour days are paying off. Harlene Levin at the Picardy Shoe Parlor in Milwaukee is going to get her order on time.”

“Need me?”

“Nope.” I go to the top of the stairs, think better of it, and poke my head back into the apartment. “What’s for di

“Chicken Florentine, a fresh tossed dandelion salad with steamed artichokes, and a crème brûlée for dessert.”

I place my hand on my heart. “I love you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he says.

I go down the stairs and push the door of the shop open. June left the work lights on over the iron. I move across the room to turn them off, grabbing the keys to lock the window gates as I go. Then I notice that June has already rolled them across the glass and locked them.

I go to flip off the work light. But then I stop, sensing I am not alone.

Someone is in the far shadows of the shop, where we organize the shipping. I freeze. I can’t believe the security alarm didn’t go off. My thoughts whirl, we’re being robbed, who is it, what do they want, what do I do? But the burglars don’t move. They don’t try to flee. I realize they don’t know I’m here.