Brava, Valentine

Charisma, Rocco, and Alfred Jr. watch the recap of the Macy’s parade on TV in the living room, while Tom feeds baby Teodora a bottle. Charlie uncorks the wine. Dad carves the turkey on a cutting board on the counter. As he slices, my mother stabs the pieces and places them artfully on a tray festooned with spinach leaves.

“Chiara, call everyone to di

She doesn’t look up at me. “Do you have a bell? Grandma Fazzani has a crystal bell with a little silver dinger.”

I look at her. “Yeah, I got a bell.” I take the computer game away from her and give my niece the egg timer shaped like a hen. “Crank it and ring it.”

“Nice attitude,” Gabriel whispers as he grabs the matches to light the candles down the center of the table. “Makes me happy my family is dead.”

“That’s not fu

“Well, they are dead. Can’t bring ’em back.”

“No, you can’t,” Aunt Feen bellows. “And you’re better off. I got a few relatives taking up space in the bowels of hell.”

It’s always fascinating that Aunt Feen pretends to be deaf when you want to send her a message, but when something is whispered, she gets it in total.

Chiara lets loose with the egg timer close to baby Teodora’s ear. The baby wails.

“Chiara!” Tess shouts. “You’ll make the baby go deaf.”

“Sorry,” she says, but the look on her face is anything but contrite.

“That’s the little devil who interrupted your coitus, isn’t it?” Gabriel says confidentially in my ear.

“The very one. That kid was on a mission.”

Dad takes his place at the head of the table, while Mom places the platter of turkey before her place setting, as she will serve it.

“I took a nibble of the stuffing, Gabriel-and it’s just like Teodora’s. You nailed it, seasonings and all,” Mom brags. “Savory. And light in texture.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel says proudly.

One by one, the family finds their seats as they check for their names at the place setting.

“Where’s Pam?” I ask Alfred.

“She’s upstairs. She has a migraine,” Alfred says, tapping his forehead.

“I told her to lie down in my room.” Gabriel places baskets of fresh rolls down the center of the table. “The serene green walls will cure whatever’s ailing her.”

“This year, we’re go

“I am not holding hands,” Aunt Feen complains. “The Catholic Church went in the toilet when they started that-I don’t like it in church, and I don’t like it at di

“Okay, then we won’t hold hands,” Dad says.

“Wait a second, Dad,” I interrupt. “Aunt Feen, if Dad wants us to hold hands, we’re going to hold hands. He’s the head of this family. You’re our beloved great-aunt, but what he says goes.”

A silence settles over the table.

I bow my head. I close my eyes, and instead of picturing Jesus on his heavenly throne surrounded by a choir of saints, I see Gianluca. Our relationship may be as dead as the autumn leaves in the centerpiece, but the things I learned from him are very much alive. He would be proud that I defended my father and his role. Gianluca taught me that tradition isn’t something we do, it’s the way we are. And now that 166 Perry Street is my home and this is officially the first holiday where this is my table-and Gabriel’s-it’s my call. I make the rules in this house.

“Hold hands,” I say firmly.

“Aw, what the hell.” Feen grabs the hands of Gabriel to her right and Charlie to her left.

“Dear God, we want to thank you. It’s been a year of transmissions-”

“Transitions,” Mom corrects him.

“-transitions. We got my mother-in-law in the old country with a new husband. We got the grandkids growing healthy and strong, we got Aunt Feen on the mend from the bruising she took in Arezzo, we got an all-clear on my prostrate-”

“Prostate.” My mother sighs.

“And we got Gabriel handy with the paint can and the sponge, turning 166 Perry Street into a Phoenecian palace.”

My mother is about to change Phoenecian to the correct Venetian. I squeeze her hand so she won’t. Egypt and Venice are close enough. Mom takes the tip and leaves Dad’s vocabulary alone.

“What I’m saying, dear Lord, is that we are grateful. June, you’re a good Irishman, and we love to have you anytime-”

“You got it, Dutch,” June says, her head bowed.

“And we thank you for this bee-you-tee-full food and table, the Vegas pumpkins, the wine from your grapes, I got my eye on you, Aunt Feen, no fair guzzling. The last place we wa

“I don’t want to be no trouble,” Feen grouses.

“So, dear Lord,” Dad continues, “we got another year under our belts. And we thank you for that. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost…Amen.”

“I’m going to check on Pamela,” Alfred says, as my sisters pass the platters. He goes up the stairs as we help the kids load their plates.

I fill my plate with turkey, stuffing, whipped potatoes, and green beans. I place my napkin on my lap. I listen while my brothers-in-law and father talk college football, and as always, the chatter loops around to Notre Dame, and will the Fighting Irish place in the polls this year. The number of the year may change, the children may grow older, and we may add in a new baby or spouse here and there, but every autumn, and every Thanksgiving, the talk turns to Notre Dame football and will they or won’t they.

Alfred returns to the table with a look of concern on his face.

“Is Pamela okay?”

He nods that she is.

But I notice that my brother isn’t eating. I’m not hungry either. Something is going on, something under the surface, looming in the depths. I can see the shadows. I can’t name the beast, but it’s there, lurking. I can feel it. And when I look at my brother, I know that he can too.

“Oh, Val, tell Feen about Buenos Aires. She hasn’t heard any details,” June says.

My mother kicks me under the table.

“It was really nice,” I say.

“That’s all?” Feen says critically. “I get on the bus and go gambling in Atlantic City-now that’s nice. But Argentina? That should be something more. Am I right?” Feen waves her fork around.

“Tell about the river walk, and the cobblestones,” June persists.

“They were lovely.”

Silence settles over the table. “But you have people there, right?”

“Yes, Aunt Feen.”

“I never saw any pictures.”

“I have them. I can show you later.”

“Okay. Nothing like waiting months on end to see your relatives who I never met and probably never will. I’ll be dead, and then maybe you’ll get off your duff and think, Sheesh, should’ve shown Aunt Feen the pictures. You’d think you’d have made a video or something. I’m never go

“You will, Aunt Feen,” I assure her.

The kids giggle as they poke the glitter pumpkins with their forks. “Don’t destroy the table,” my mother says to them nicely.

“You know, when you get to be my age, it’s a bad idea to withhold anything. That includes mail. I could win the lottery, and if I died, right before I found out, let’s say. You know, none of youse could collect the money? That’ll show you. You know, I could go in a heartbeat. Boom. One minute here, the next, I’m code blue. So, if you wouldn’t mind, get the pictures.”

“Later, Aunt Feen,” Tess pipes up.

My brother-in-law Charlie shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Who wants to go to the park?” my brother-in-law Tom says.

Chiara, Rocco, Alfred, and Charisma leap out of their seats. “The baby is fussy. She needs air.” He kisses Jaclyn on the cheek. The truth is, Tom needs air. These family di

Tess helps the girls into their coats. Alfred zips up the boys’ parkas. “You want me to go with?” Alfred asks Tom.