Brava, Valentine

“You? What are you go

My father moans.

“That’s right, Dad.” She glowers. “Oprah helps me. She did a show on money management, and I watched it because, you know…” And then Pamela does the strangest thing. She puts her hands on her hips like Susan Boyle when she was flirting with Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan on Britain’s Got Talent. She shimmies her hips from side to side as she says, “My husband was fired from the bank…”

“I thought you resigned,” Feen pipes up, gleeful at all the misery. “Some resignation. Turns out it was Das Boot!”

My mother glares at her.

“Oprah was giving women tips about how to save money during tough times. I followed her advice, because why? Because I’m a good wife and I want to ease my husband’s burden! Fat chance of that! He was easing it on some government employee!”

“Thank you Pope-rah!” Aunt Feen licks her lips, hopeful for more gory details.

Pam continues, “They brought on a therapist who said that men were very vulnerable right now-that women should be sensitive to their…” And then she does it again, she wiggles her hips and says, “huzz-bands, because of the economic downturn. Now, I didn’t think too much of it, because Alfred seemed so happy here with the elves making the shoes. And our life at home was fine. That’s right, even our sex life!”

My father puts his face in his hands. This diatribe might kill him.

Pamela screeches, “But the expert on Oprah said, ‘Check the man’s e-mails.’” She lowers her voice and growls like Linda Blair after the head spin. “And so I did. That’s how I found Kathleen Sweeney.” Tears roll down Pamela’s face.

“Wait, Pam.” Alfred reaches for her. She won’t let him touch her. “You told me you’d never cheat on me. You said you never would because your father cheated on your mother.”

“Now, just a minute…” My mother stands.

Pamela looks at my mother. “Well, he did. And you put up with it. But I think a little more of myself than you ever did of yourself.” She looks at Alfred. “You stay here. With your crazy sisters and your cheating father and your vain mother and your drunk great-aunt-”

Aunt Feen throws her head back and laughs. “That’s me!”

“Because…” Pamela tightens the belt on her size 2 coat. “I’m getting my boys and going home. Do you remember where that is? Home. The place where I made a life for you.”

Pam goes down the stairs. Her stilettos go clickety-click, clickety-click all the way down. Alfred follows her out.

The entrance door downstairs snaps shut.

“Anyone for dessert?” Gabriel says from behind the counter. “I could use a digestivo. Fernet Branca? Bitters, anyone?”

“Gimme a slab of tiramisu,” June says. “This is the goddamnest Thanksgiving I have ever spent.”

“I’m sorry, June.” Mom dries her tears. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“This family needs to grow up.” June pushes her plate aside.

Aunt Feen applauds. “The wheels are off the bus. Off the bus! Off the bus!”

“Shut up, Feen.” June turns to my great-aunt. “You’re a mean old broad. You got a camel’s hump of misery on your back.”

“That hump is from osteo. Bone deterioration. I had a difficult menopause,” Feen explains.

“I don’t care where you got it. You’re the only old lady I know that gets dumber as the years roll on. And all these people dance around you in fear. I’m not afraid of you.”

“You attack a lonely widow on Thanksgiving. Nice,” Feen says quietly, milking any pity her blood relatives may still have for her.

“Poor Feen.” June turns and faces her. “It’s never enough for you. Is it? Your sister kowtowed, your niece, everybody’s afraid of you. Everybody fears your temper. Not me. I see who you are. You’re just an ungrateful old nag. You never got your portion. Never got a fair shake. And when you did, it was never enough. Nobody could fill the empty sock of your awful childhood. So you never got what you wanted. Boo hoo. Most people don’t. But the difference between you and other people is that they move on. They don’t calcify. They don’t blame everybody else for their troubles, and call the lawyer to sue the city every time they take a spill on the sidewalk. Put down the wineglass and pick up the magnifying glass and look in the mirror. Face yourself.”

Aunt Feen’s spine straightens in self defense. “Why you-”

“I’m not done.” June levels her gaze at Charlie, who looks away.

“Shame on you, Chuck. Open your eyes. The world isn’t black and white anymore-it isn’t even brown-it’s shades of something completely new. And not a minute too soon. Time for God to liven up the paint box. So your sister-in-law gets on a plane and finds out you have black people in the family-hardworking people who make their own way, and speak Spanish and grow olives-what’s it to you? Really, how does that affect your life? Do you really want to spend the precious moments of your life hating people you’ve never met from two continents away? If that’s your idea of living, then that’s your business, Chuck, but don’t bring the rest of us down to your idiot level. You’re embarrassing yourself with your ignorance.”

“June,” Tess warns.

“Shut up, Tess. I’ve known you since you were a baby. I’m talking to your husband.” June turns back to Charlie. “Let me tell you this about black people-and I know, because I’ve loved ’em all, black, white, Filipino-or at least I think he was-maybe, come to think of it, he was Hawaiian. It doesn’t matter. I have tasted God’s smorgasbord from Boston to Buhl, and I’m better for my experience. Does that offend you?”

“This is some Thanksgiving.” My father sighs.

June looks at Charlie. “Well, does it?”

Charlie shakes his head.

“Didn’t think so,” June continues. “You should be proud to tell your daughters they have family in another country and that those folks have a little different patina from you. But let’s cut to it here, Charlie. You’re Sicilian, your people are a mere paddle in a canoe from North Africa. And you know it, and yet you have the temerity to act as though Sicily is the land of pilgrims and Wonder Bread. I got news for you-you’re already family-you are African. It’s just pigment, Charlie. Pigment. So knock it off. I’m a

Gabriel places June’s tiramisu in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” my brother-in-law says meekly.

“Let me tell you who your daughters will marry. They will marry men exactly like you, Charlie. So if you want them to bring home a couple of small-minded bigots with a size twenty-two and a half collar, well, then, you’ll get your wish.”

Gabriel pours June a cup of coffee. He places the cream and sugar in front of her. June dumps cream into her coffee and stirs. “It’s a café au lait world, people.” She sips. “Get used to it.”

I help Aunt Feen into the back seat of a town car. She grips the Macy’s bag full of Thanksgiving leftovers on her lap like they’re gold bricks hot off a Brinks truck. I ask the driver to see Aunt Feen to her apartment door, and he agrees. She waves me off.

I push the entrance door open and see a light on in the workshop. I kick off my shoes; the heels are killing my feet. My toes throb like my head, everything hurts after the worst holiday I’ve ever spent, anywhere, anytime.

I poke my head into the workshop. Alfred sits at the desk, his head down. My father sits at the worktable, watching him.

“Hey guys,” I say, pushing the door open. “Alfred, are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. I look at my father. Dad looks at me and shakes his head.

“Alfred?” Dad says softly.

Alfred doesn’t respond.

“Son?” Dad gets off the worktable and goes to Alfred, placing his hands on Alfred’s shoulders. Alfred begins to weep. “It’s going to be all right, Al,” Dad says.