Brava, Valentine

“Nope. We’ll be fine,” he says as he drops baby Teodora into the snuggly. “The big girls and boys will help.”

“We will!” Chiara promises, but that devilish look returns to her face as she narrows her eyes. She probably plans to hail a cab, throw the baby in, and send her on a joyride through the five boroughs.

“And when you guys get back, we’ll go up on the roof for chestnuts and marshmallows, okay?”

The kids shout in delight as they race down the stairs.

“Kids, they are balls of energy,” June laughs.

“That’s why I never had any.” Feen takes the napkin from her lap and tucks it into her collar and spreads it across her chest. “They destroy everything they touch.”

I drain my wineglass. I look down at my food, which I still haven’t tasted. But I’m on my third glass of wine. Not good.

“So get the pictures,” Aunt Feen insists.

“Later.” I force a smile.

“Val’s not done eating, Aunt Feen,” Mom says hurriedly.

“She can eat, and I can look at pictures.”

“We are not looking at pictures!” Charlie bellows.

“Why the hell not?” Feen demands.

“Not while my children are here.”

“Technically, they’re at the park,” Mom offers helpfully.

“What difference does that make?” Aunt Feen looks around, confused. Her eyeballs bounce around in her head like slot machine lemons.

“I don’t want them to walk in and see the pictures,” Charlie says firmly.

“Are they pornos or something?” Feen throws up her hands.

“They are not…pornos.” My mother squeezes the word out, not wanting to allude to pornography at a family meal (or any other time, for that matter).

“Tell your aunt what the problem is, Ma,” Charlie says.

“There isn’t a problem,” I correct him. “At least not to thinking people.”

“What are you saying?” Charlie looks at me.

“Stop squabbling and get the pictures,” Aunt Feen says. “When Tessie and I die, you people are all that’s left. Our blood line will collapse like a tapped vein. So you found some relations on your side and I want to see them. What’s the big deal?”

“Not now,” Mom says.

“But I don’t understand why…,” Aunt Feen persists.

“Because they are black,” Charlie blurts. “That’s right. African American.”

Aunt Feen is confused.

“They can’t be African American-because they are not American. They are Argentinian,” I correct him. “But even that isn’t exactly right-they are a mix of many cultures, Ecuadorian, African, and Italian.”

“No matter how you mix it, there’s still one predominant color-and that would be black,” Charlie corrects me.

“No, it’s a mix.”

“A mix.” Feen is surprised. I guess Gram didn’t paint the fine details about our long-lost relatives. Aunt Feen thinks. Then she says, “Well, what did you expect? They’re south of Mexico.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Mom interjects.

“Huh. Look at a map.” Feen shrugs.

“Okay, look. Before this careens headlong into a stone wall, let me just say that I met our family, I like them, they’re good people, and Alfred and I are in business with them. Yes, they are black, and they are also Italian.”

“Blah blah blah,” Feen mumbles.

“That’s right. They are both. And they’re beautiful people.” I sound like an idiot. But I realize, in the center of this ridiculous argument, I react like one.

“Of course you’d say that.” Charlie taps his fork on the table.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I turn to Charlie.

“You accept anything. You’re a liberal.”

“What does that have to do with our family in Argentina?”

“You’re happy to have black people in the family. Sure, sure, let everybody in.” He waves his arms around. “What’s the difference to you?”

“There is none. Who cares what color they are?”

“I do. I don’t want my girls coming home with black guys. Okay? I’m all for equal rights, and everybody’s one and the same in God’s rainbow. I just don’t want them to marry it.”

“Charlie!” June pushes her chair away from the table. “Are you serious?”

“He’s serious.” Tess shakes her head sadly. Clearly, they’ve been fighting about this for months.

Charlie looks around the table for support. “Dad, back me up on this.”

“Hey, since I got the cancer, nothing bothers me.” Dad holds up his hands. “I love the world and everybody in it.”

“Thanks,” Charlie sneers.

“It’s not my husband’s fault that we have blacks in the family,” Mom says.

“It’s not anybody’s fault, Ma,” I say.

“I didn’t mean that like it sounded.” Mom shakes out her hands as she does whenever she’s nervous. “It’s just that whenever we start talking about race relations, I never say the right thing.”

“You’re fine,” I reassure her. “There’s nothing wrong with having black relatives.”

“Not to you,” Charlie says.

I turn to him. “It’s not like I discovered our cousins are ru

“How do we know they’re not?”

“Oh, Charlie-you’re really sick.” I can’t help it. I haven’t eaten, and I’m losing all perspective. I could bite the ass of a wild bear right now.

Mom defends me. “Look, Charlie. Valentine did not go to Argentina to unearth some family secret-”

“Oh, yes, she did-she found that goddamned drawing, Tess told me, and then she went on a hunt to find Ralph-”

“Rafael,” I correct him.

“Rafael-whatever-and then she gets on a plane and goes down there and gets in business with these people. Come on. What are we doing here?”

I find myself standing, leaning across the table. “Charlie, how dare you! Nobody has asked you for anything-ever. You rolled into this family, and we’ve been damn good to you. When you and Tess needed help buying a house, we all pitched in-”

“Oh, now you throw that up in my face-”

“It’s true. But you’re not grateful. Well, the black side of me loaned you the money, okay?” I yell.

Tess stands up. “Everybody calm down.”

Gabriel hands me a bread stick. He lives with me. He knows a low blood sugar dive when he sees one. “He needs help!” I point to my brother-in-law. I realize that I’m tipsy. I hold the table.

Charlie gets up from the table. “Sit down, Charlie,” my father yells. “Nobody leaves the room.”

Charlie sits down.

“I will not have this.” My father pounds the table. “I will not have a rift. Nobody leaves until we settle this.”

“Well, good luck on that front, nephew.” Aunt Feen picks her teeth with her name-tag flag from the pumpkin.

We sit in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say or do. “I’m leaving,” Pamela a

We turn to face Pamela, who stands in the entrance to the hallway. She has on her coat.

“Oh, Pam, you’re up, how’s that migraine? Come and eat. The stuffing is as good as my mother’s,” Mom says.

“Don’t condescend to me.”

“I wasn’t condescending.” Mom looks around the table at all of us. “Was I?”

Tess and Jaclyn shake their heads that Mom was not.

“Go ahead. Stick together.” Pamela looks at my sisters.

“Are you all right, Pamela?” June asks. “Am I missing something?”

“This. This is what you’re missing. And what I’ve been missing.” Pamela hurls a piece of paper on the table. I pick it up and smooth it out. From the looks of it, Pamela has had it balled up in her angry fist for hours. It’s a printout of an e-mail.

“Read it,” she barks at me. “I printed it out at home and memorized it on the train. Go on. Read it.”

“Read what?” my father asks. “What’s on the paper, Val?”

Alfred puts his face in his hands. “It’s me. It’s my fault.”

“What is your fault?” My mom asks softly.

“Everything. It’s my fault.”

My mother strokes her turkey brooch and thinks. Then she says, “Did you…did you break the law? Did you steal, Alfred?”

He looks at her like she’s insane.