Brava, Valentine

13. A Little Learnin’ Is a Dangerous Thing

GABRIEL AND I CARRIED OUR first Christmas tree home from Jane Street and decorated it last night-two full weeks before Christmas. We like a blue spruce scent for as long as we can have it.

I carry my morning coffee over to the sofa and put my feet up. There’s nothing like the twinkle of sky blue, soft gold, ruby red, and bright green lights glowing deep in the branches first thing in the morning. Watching the lights reflect in the old glass ornaments is the closest I will get to i

“Val, Alfred and Bret are downstairs.” Gabriel stands at the top of the stairs.

“Is June in?”

“Any minute.”

“I’m on my way.”

I follow Gabriel down the stairs and into the shop.

Bret gives us each a report. “So here’s what’s happening. In about an hour, Shelley Chambers DaSilva is going to come into the shop and observe. She wants to see what inspires your designs, how June and Gabriel cut patterns, and Alfred’s role as your brother and business partner. She’s a consultant, and she reps the major department stores. They send her out to see how you create your product. She’s on the lookout for a solid operation with good business practices. She’s looking at you, Val, to understand your approach and sensibility and how Angelini shoes fit in their overall selling plan.”

“You should show her your new sketches. Like the La Boca,” Alfred says. “That’s a real calling card.”

“Thanks.” I look at my brother, who has been here since dawn. His methodical style, left over from years as an executive in the banking industry, comes in handy on mornings like these, when we have to present our wares to a wider world. The folders are neatly labeled on the cutting table; there’s a cup of number 2 pencils, a pot of coffee brewing, and a small box containing batteries and cords in case Ms. DaSilva’s laptop needs a boost. Alfred considers every scenario always. I’ve come to rely on his sense of detail in business. “Have you told the rep about our production deal in Buenos Aires?”

“She knows all about it. In fact, she has contacts in Argentina, and they’ve already gone over and checked out Roberta’s factory. They were impressed with the quality of the manufacturing. Roberta met every standard. So now all we have to do is sell them the initial order,” Bret says.

“Our hope is that they take the full order for ten thousand pairs of shoes. It would make our lives so much easier if we didn’t have to find another vendor to stock the remains,” Alfred adds.

“Do we have to do anything special for this Shelley person?” Gabriel asks. “I would love to demonstrate my pattern-cutting technique.”

“No need to grandstand.” Bret smiles.

“Who, me?”

“Just be yourself,” Bret assures him.

The phone in the shop rings. “Angelini Shoes,” Alfred says. He looks at me. “She’s right here.” Alfred hands the phone to me.

“Valentine, we met a few years ago at June’s place. This is her neighbor, Irv Raible.”

“The club owner?” I remember Irv had a piano bar that June used to frequent with Gram. One night, I joined them.

“Yeah, that’s me. Well, June called me this morning, really early. She wasn’t feeling well, and so I went over. And I was going to take her to Saint Vincent’s-over to the emergency room. But she had her breakfast and seemed better. And now…well, I think you should come over right away.”

“To June’s?”

“Yes. Please. And hurry.”

I hang up the phone. “I’m sorry, guys, I’ve got to go. Something is wrong with June.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gabriel says.

“No, no, you stay and do the meeting. I don’t know how long I will be.” I grab my coat and purse and run for the door. Snow begins to fall, steady and white, onto the cobblestone street.

I run to the corner of Washington and hail a cab. As the cab whisks me from the West Village to the East, my heart begins to pound. I jump out on East 5th Street and find June’s brownstone apartment building. I ring Irv’s bell and then June’s. He pokes his head out of the second-story window of June’s apartment. He throws me the keys.

I race up the stairs.

Irv, a muscular but small man of sixty with a shaved head and a gold hoop earring, stops me in the door. “I’m sorry, Valentine. She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

I push past Irv and into the bedroom. The Weather Cha

“I think it was a heart attack. Very fast,” Irv says from behind me. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know. I know. The picture of health.”

I go to the window and close it.

“Have you ever found somebody…somebody who just died?”

I shake my head that I haven’t.

“It’s the strangest thing. They don’t leave right away. You know she’s still here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her spirit is in the room. I’ll go down and wait for EMS. You take your time.”

Irv goes, closing the door behind him. And for a moment, I want to follow him out. I’ve only been to wakes and funerals, where the dead lie in fancy caskets, dressed in their Sunday best, in full makeup and surrounded by bouquets of flowers. This is new and strange to me. I kneel next to the bed.

I take June’s hand in mine.

I bow my head, not to pray, but to picture her coming in the shop with coffee every morning, and on Fridays with a doughnut for each of us. And I think about all the things she taught me that no woman in my family could ever say for fear of compromising their moral code. But for June, it wasn’t a compromise at all. June believed in love and making love and making better love. She lived in her body without apology. There was so much more for me to learn from her.

And now, all there will be is mourning. June tried to prepare me, but I wouldn’t listen. So now I have to hold on to everything she said, like directions given in a storm; her words will lead me to safety. I cry when I realize I won’t be able to talk with her ever again.

“Are you here, June?” I look at her peaceful face. “Whatever you’re seeing, must be pretty amazing.”

I look out the window.

“It’s snowing, June. You would’ve been bitching this morning.” I smile and remember how she hated the snow. “Thank you, friend. Thank you for being Gram’s best friend, and then, when she moved away, you became mine. You never treated me like anything but a peer. You always made me feel that I earned my seat at the cutting table. You taught me so much. I don’t know what I’ll ever do without you.” I hold on to June’s hand. And it’s the strangest thing, the longer I hold on, the more it feels like she’s leading me somewhere. I don’t release my grip for a long time.

It’s a blur when the police come with EMS and Irv explains what happened. I hear them when they declare her dead, then lift her carefully onto a gurney and carry her out.

I stand alone in her very neat, spare apartment, with its low-slung leather chairs, futon sofa, and long bamboo coffee table, a stack of books from the public library in the center. June had checked out Mrs. Astor Regrets by Meryl Gordon, a biography of Wallis Simpson Windsor called Mrs. Simpson by Charles Higham, and a large book of Louise Dahl-Wolfe photographs.

The walls, painted bright white, are covered with posters, one of the ABT ballet season in 1967 and another of a bluegrass music festival in West Virginia in 1975. Nothing crafty lies around-no hobby equipment, no knitting needles or sketchpads, only a yoga mat, rolled up neatly in the corner. And there’s an upright piano. I had no idea she played.