"What changes when you have children?"
"Well, a woman's attention goes elsewhere. As it should--she's taking care of a whole family. But things become routine. You long for things to be easy again. Uncomplicated. But they're not. It all seems so life-and-death with babies--you run to the doctor, you check for fevers, you're up all night. Mac got impatient with me, and I felt helpless. Pretty soon, you start arguing about little things, and on top of the big things, you realize you're fighting all the time."
"How are things now?"
"With Mac? Better. But they're not kidding when they say marriage is a lot of work."
"Why is it work?" The unmarried one wants to know. I don't understand the concept of that; why should love be hard when life is already impossible? Shouldn't marriage be the easy part--after a long day, you look across the kitchen table and feel understood and safe and welcome? "Marriage sounds awful."
Bret laughs, even though I'm not trying to be funny. "Let me explain it like this: Mac has an idea of what life should be, and I have an idea, and sometimes we're in sync, and other times we're not. This is the work part. I married a girl who always had everything she wanted, and she expects the same from me. The way you and I grew up in Queens was different. We appreciate the house and the car and the nice restaurant meals. Mackenzie expects them. It doesn't make her a bad person--it is what it is. She doesn't know any differently."
"How is she dealing with the changes in your work?"
"She's scared. You know, I'm lucky, because I've always worked to establish new companies and businesses. But when Mac goes to the park, or to the girls' play dates, and she talks to the wives whose husbands went from getting million-dollar bonuses to being unemployed overnight, she hears how tough things are out there. And I think that helps her appreciate what she has. It was a long road to gratitude, I guess."
I take a sip of the coffee and look out the window; the corner of Hudson Street that curls into Bleecker is now bathed in full morning sunlight. The pedestrians move quickly on their way to their jobs, the bus stop is already crowded with folks waiting for the M10. A woman checks her watch, steps out onto Hudson Street, and squints to see the bus approach in the distance.
I come from a family of women who work. My stay-at-home mother occasionally threatened to get a job, but only out of her desire to be relevant in the outside world, not because of financial necessity. My parents lived within their means, in a house they could afford, in a neighborhood of like-minded working-class people, like the Fitzpatricks, who lived just down the block.
My parents took care of everything they had. A car was never purchased new, but used and in good condition. I don't remember a painter or a plumber visiting our home; my father repaired everything himself. My mother even helped my father pour a concrete walkway in the backyard when it was her dream to have one.
My mother aspired, and still does, to possess the finer things of life, but even those markers--a marble foyer, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, a state-of-the-art kitchen, all the features of fine living and upward mobility--were provided by my father through the labor of his own hands. He did the work wealthy people hire other people to do. My mother didn't sit around while he made things, she became his eager assistant. It may seem that Mom has airs, but she never lived in a rarefied atmosphere.
I remember my parents working together on projects around our house. They made my mother's obsession for a beautiful home a family project. I remember paint chips, and swatches, and Saturday afternoons at the lumberyard, where they'd scheme a new room, or improve an old one. Their marriage is one of true minds--they're a team, and they like figuring things out together. My mother never had a career, but she always had an agenda. And my father dutifully went along with it. So my mother got her dream life, and my father, a purpose.
"There's a real art to a good marriage, isn't there?"
"I think so," Bret says. "Making someone happy is a full-time job."
"Mackenzie's lucky," I say. "But she's also smart. She picked a good guy who gave her everything she ever wanted."
"I hope so." Bret smiles. "Thanks for noticing."
But it's me who is grateful to him--no matter what, Bret Fitzpatrick believes in me--and maybe it's old loyalty carried into adulthood, but whatever it is, I can always count on him. We come from the same place.
The Fitzpatricks and the Roncallis are people who gather in kitchens around a tray of homemade manicotti, not in fancy living rooms where silver trays of canapes are passed. Where we come from, champagne is for toasting, good china is for holidays, and silver place settings are heirlooms while love is given freely, not something exchanged in hopes of material gain or social status. There is something to be treasured about people who know instinctively when enough is enough.
Across the way, the Bleecker Park playground, nestled under old elm trees, comes to life with toddlers on their early-morning play dates. A mother guides a stroller with one hand while pushing the wrought iron gate open with the other. A father, his hair wet from the shower, wears a business suit and holds his son's hand as they walk quickly toward P.S. 41 in time for the bell.
The swings in the park, filled with children, begin to sway, and I watch a little girl, her legs pushing higher and higher as she leans back into the swing. Soon, it seems she might take flight.
18 aprile 2010
Cara Valentina,
I made a delivery of kidskin to the Prato mill and thought of you. I thought about your pink dress and how you looked very much like a peony the day I brought you here a year and a half ago. Signora inquired about you at the mill. I sent your regards. Prada is doing a boot made of velvet and leather for Spring 2011, and Signora cannot get enough Vechiarelli leather.
I have reread your last letter over and over again, knowing that you are very busy and cannot write as often as I do. Your words stay with me, as does the sound of your laughter. How I long to hear it again. I will call you. The sound of your voice must do, but please say you will come to Arezzo in the summer. The lavender will bloom in your honor--I promise.
Love, Gianluca
The workshop is in pre-shipping mode, which means that every surface is covered with open red and white striped shoe boxes. It's like falling into Aunt Feen's pressed glass candy dish, which was filled year-round with peppermint wheels except at Christmastime, when she replaced the old Brach standbys and sprang for the chocolate and hazelnut Baci in the blue-and-silver foil wrappers.
I survey the box count against the shipping lists, propped on the table with instructions. I put down my coffee and flip on the work lights. The gates on the windows have been rolled back. Alfred is already at his desk. It's six o'clock in the morning, and he usually arrives at nine.
"Hey," I say softly so as not to startle him. "There's coffee up in the kitchen."
"I stopped at the deli."
I make space for my coffee on the table. I open the finishing closet, filled with layers of pumps, by size, separated by thin sheets of muslin. The pale pumps, soft calfskin dyed in shell pink, mint green, buttercup yellow, and beige, are stacked by size. The scent of sweet wax and leather fills the air.
"I think we should talk," Alfred says.
"Sure." I sit down on the work stool. I have been dreading this moment, when Alfred actually admits he's having an affair with Kathleen Sweeney and swears me to confidentiality. I'd really like to pretend that I didn't see Alfred and Kathleen together, and life could go on as it has before. It was so much easier when I disliked my brother for the way he treated me. Now I have to dislike him for the way he treats his wife.
Alfred takes a deep breath and says, "I think I should go to Buenos Aires with you."
The look on my face must be one of total surprise. Alfred agreed that I should go when we discussed this weeks ago.
He quickly adds, "I'd like to see the operation there."
"I don't know if Roberta even wants to bid on manufacturing the Bella Rosa. And since we may have to send you to China eventual
ly, I think we should keep costs down and just one of us should go. And I think it should be me, because I need to figure out how to put the shoe in production on-site."
"This isn't about your ability. You absolutely know what you're doing," he says.
What's going on here? Alfred has never been supportive of me. Something is up. His tone throws me off guard. "Okay, where's the hammer?"
He looks at me, confused.
"Lower the hammer. You know, this is the moment when you say, 'Just kidding. If I, Alfred, walked out of here, you'd fold in a week.' So go on. Say it."
"But that's not true."
"Alfred, now is not the moment for earnest. I need honest."
"You work hard, and you produce. You've kept up production on the custom shoes while developing the new line. You're committed. You're careful about costs. You even took in a roommate who pays rent--and all that helps in running the building and bringing down the debt. I can't be critical of you."
"Well." I think for a moment. "Thank you," I say.
I'm a classic middle child. If someone is nice to me, I'm nice right back. If they're mean, then I can be too. But when behavior crosses over into cruelty, I retreat entirely. So in light of Alfred's lovely observations about my work ethic and product, I feel I should return the compliment. "Alfred, you've come up with good ideas--and I think we're producing at a level we never did before because you're doing our budget and the financials. I mean, I've never done a shipment this size, knowing exactly what it costs, and what we'll make. We never thought about the profit margin. You've introduced real business standards to our company."
"It's nothing special."
"It is to me. I'm grateful to you for all you've done."
"But we still fight," he says.
"We do, and I don't like it. But it's getting better. And I'm completely confident leaving you here to run the shop while I'm gone."
He looks up at me, and the expression on his face is heartbreaking.
"Listen, Valentine. I know you don't really need me in Argentina. I just need to get away."
My brother is suffering. I've never seen him like this. No matter how I felt about him all of these years, and how he perceived me, he's in pain, and he needs to talk.
"Alfred, what is going on in your life?"
My brother gets tears in his eyes. The last time I saw him get misty was at our grandfather's funeral. They were a lot alike, and Alfred felt he was losing the most important man in his life when Grandpop died. Nothing we could say or do would cheer him up. He seems as sad in this moment as he was that day.
"I'm a jerk," he says. "I never intended for anything like that to happen."
"Are we talking about Kathleen?" I ask.
He nods. "I thought I'd go my whole life living in a way that I believed in."
"So...it did happen." Clearly, I didn't catch a first kiss. I caught a hot in-the-middle-of-an-affair kiss that was about to become more. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
His answer shocks me, because my brother always knows exactly what to do.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" I say gently. "You have Pamela and the boys. Does she know?"
He shakes his head no. "I haven't let her know anything lately. It took me two weeks to tell her when I was let go from the bank. I got dressed every morning and got on the train as usual. I'd come into the city and sit in Central Park and think. And then at five, I'd get back on the train and go home, having rehearsed a way to tell her what happened--and then I'd get home and I couldn't tell her I'd... failed."
The thought of my brother wandering around the city in a suit with no place to go brings tears to my eyes. He could have come here, to the shop. We could have had coffee at Gram's table. He could have gone to the roof to be alone and think. But Alfred couldn't admit defeat--not even to his own sister.
"Alfred, listen to me. The wolf has been at the door so many times over the years that we invite him in for manicotti. At least we have this business to hang on to, and this little shop might save all of us. Our great-grandfather built something for us, and long after his death, he continues to take care of our family--through these shoes. It's a beautiful thing--not a failure--to work here. We own it. It's ours."
"I'm ashamed of myself," he says quietly. "I judged our grandparents all these years. You know, I thought they were simple, and that was a lesser thing--to be simple--to work, plain and hard, till you were so tired your back ached so deeply, you couldn't stand up. Grandpop would put in such long days, working so hard, he had to soak his fingers in ice water at night."
"I remember. The calluses on his fingers never went away."
"And now I'm here. Just like he was--they were. I went to a fancy school and got a big degree, and now I'm back here."
"Is it so terrible?"
"No," Alfred says softly.
"So why are you sad?"
"Because...it's not enough."
"Oh, boy." I take a sip of my coffee. "So that's why Kathleen."
Alfred doesn't answer.
We sit in silence until he says, "I'm sorry you walked in on us. I'm a hypocrite. Maybe you even like that I'm one."
"Come on, Alfred."
He looks up at me. "At least let me be ashamed of myself."
"Too late. Self-flagellation is not going to help you now."
"It's over. With Kathleen, I mean."
"That's a start."
"What else can I do? I can't even face myself. I have to tell Pamela."
"Oh God, no! You can't tell her. This is one secret you need to keep until you're dead."
"But I've broken my vows! I have to ask forgiveness."
"What good would it do? Pam's already terrified about the future. She's not a girl who can heavy-lift. She's a good woman and a fine mother, and I'm sure a pretty wonderful wife, but she's not one to stare into the fire and find the meaning. Keep this to yourself. Forever."
"But how can I move forward if I don't tell her?"
"You got dressed and went to an imaginary job for two weeks and never told her! You've proven that you can keep a secret. You'd only hurt her, and the truth of the matter is you'd end up feeling better and she'd end up feeling worse. As the guilty party, you have to bear the burden here, not Pamela. Love builds in a series of small realizations." I quote Gianluca's letter to my brother. As soon as it's out of my mouth, I'm surprised I retained it, and even more surprised that I believe it. But in an instant, I see exactly what Gianluca meant.
"And then once it's built?" Alfred asks. "Then what?"
"You hold on, I guess." I take a deep breath.
Alfred nods. "That makes sense."
"Try and remember why you chose Pamela in the first place. Go back to the beginning. Think of the things you couldn't live without--and the things you couldn't wait to live with--and then marry her all over again."
"All right, Sis." Alfred turns and goes back to his work.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. My brother hasn't called me "Sis" since we were kids. He needs me, and in all my life, I never thought he would.
On top of everything else I've had to learn, I have to learn how to be a sister to my brother again. I imagined battling my brother in our version of the Hundred Years' War for the rest of our lives. For what? For validation. And here it is, the moment when he needs mine.
Talk about shame. I have it. I thought if I ever had the chance to one-up Alfred, I would make him pay, and enjoy every second of his misery. But he's my brother, and his unhappiness and broken heart are as real as my own.
I Skype Gram. Her face comes up on the computer screen.
"Take me through your pizelle recipe. I have a little competition going with Gabriel."
"Got a pencil?"
I nod that I do.
"Okay, melt down a pound of butter and set it off to the side. Then take one dozen eggs, three cups of sugar. Beat those together. Then drop in two tablespoons of peach schnapps. Throw in four tablespoons of vanilla. Then t
ake seven cups of flour and eight teaspoons of baking powder--add the dry to the wet. Then, preheat my press--it's in the kitchen..."
"I got it."
"...and take my shot glass--you know, the one with the Empire State Building on it?"
"Yeah."
"That's the one. You dip it into the bowl of batter. I don't know why the shot is the exact amount of batter you need, but it is. Pour batter onto the hot griddle--but in the back, not in the center. And it will spread--and when it bubbles up, lower the top half of the iron down--and then it's seconds before it bakes through."
"Thanks, Gram."
"How's Alfred?"
"He's all right." I smile. "You might even say we've hit a new level of understanding. It turns out that Alfred Michael Roncalli is a human being."
"You didn't know?" She laughs.
"You're the one who made him a saint."
"I think your mother had something to do with that."
"A little. But you're the one who encouraged her."
"True. What did he do that made him human?" Gram asks.
"He failed."
"Even bankers make mistakes." Gram shakes her head. "Was it a doozy?"
"It was. And he was sorry."
"I'm happy you could forgive him."
"I did better than that, Gram, I helped him figure out how to forgive himself."
"I'm proud of you," Gram says, then adds breezily, "Gianluca stopped in this afternoon." Gram's nonchalance is completely transparent. She leans into the screen and whispers, "Am I not supposed to know anything?"
"He writes me letters, Gram."
"That's lovely."
"They are."
"He asks me a lot of questions about you." Gram lowers her voice.
"Really? And do you present me in a fabulous light?"
"Always." Gram laughs. "I may have married a Vechiarelli, but I'll always be an Angelini."
The Angelini Shoe Company resembles Santa's Workshop in the North Pole on Christmas Eve, except it's May and we're on a deadline of a different sort. Boxes lie open everywhere, ribbons with the gold seal are spooled out on the table, and the sounds of packing tape ripping, tissue paper rustling, and our laughter thread through shipping day like music.