I run a tally on the computer as I count the finished shoe boxes and load them into the shipping boxes like I'm stacking precious gold bricks. Gram taught me that shipping is like presentation on the plate when preparing food. You want the recipient to open the box and gasp at the beauty of the contents before they even open a box of shoes. So we use bubble wrap around the edges to hold the boxes, and then over the top, we secure the boxes with a square of red velvet with an embroidered A in the center. Harlene Levin at the Piccardy shoe parlor makes throw pillows out of our packing materials--that's how luscious the boxes look when she opens them.
Jaclyn and Tess are wrapping the pumps in tissue paper, placing felt shoe bags over the paper, and closing the lids. My mother affixes the gold medallion dead center on the red and white striped boxes. She is never a millimeter off--she's been doing this since she was a girl.
My father does the heavy lifting. He checks my math, counts the boxes, and then weighs, seals, and closes them. Alfred then places the shipping label on the outside of the boxes and stacks them in the entry, ready for pickup by Overnight Trucks, who we hire to cart our shipment cross-country.
"Dad! Make her stop!" Tess hollers from the back of the shop. "Jaclyn's rumpling the tissue paper."
"Jaclyn, cut it out. You are not my favorite angel," Dad chides her.
We laugh. My dad hasn't used that line from the television show Charlie's Angels since Jaclyn was a girl.
"What self-respecting Italian Americans name one of their children after the pretty one on Charlie's Angels?" June says.
"They were all pretty on that show," Mom corrects her. "I will always love Farrah the most. May she rest in peace. She was in my group." Mom considers any movie or television star within five years under or over her age one of "her group"--never mind that she's never met them, she considers them her cultural equal. "We let the children name the baby."
"We almost named you Wonder Woman," Tess says.
"Yeah. That was our other favorite show," I tell her.
"Don't let us interrupt." Pamela stands in the doorway with Rocco and Alfred Jr.
"Hey, buddies!" The boys run to their father.
"I need some help over here, boys," Dad teases them.
"Can I help?" Pam asks.
I look at my sisters. Usually, we never take Pamela up on her offers to help, whether it's yard work or the dishes. But now that Alfred works here, Angelini Shoes belongs to all of us. It may be time to treat her like one of the family and not an in-law.
"What do you like to do?" I ask Pamela.
"Anything."
"I think you're a medallion sort of girl. Right, Ma?"
"Come over here, Pamela, and I'll teach you the fine craft of affixing the company logo to the company shoe box. This way, if I'm ever hit by a bus, God forbid, somebody will know exactly where the logo belongs."
"Great." Pamela smiles and puts down her purse. She goes to my mother, who shows her what to do.
Rocco and Alfred Jr. are being carried through the shop by Alfred, who laughs as he hauls them like sacks of flour slung over his shoulders. He catches my eye. My brother smiles at me with the same relief my father had on his face when he got the last "all-clear" report from the doctors at Sloan Kettering. They are more alike than they know.
"June, when are you taking vacation?" Mom asks.
"Right after we finish the shipment. I'm going to take off when Valentine goes to Buenos Aires."
"Who's going to Buenos Aires?" Tess asks.
"I am."
"I've always wanted to go there!"
"Well, maybe next time. Although, if we're going to be fair, it will be Alfred and Pamela on the next trip. My partner gets first dibs on international travel."
"And we'll take it!" Pamela smiles.
"Who would have thought it? Valentine and Alfred are true partners," Mom says. My mother has replaced Saint Jude, the patron saint of impossible cases, with her son and daughter, the improbable partners.
"It's a miracle," Dad says. "You act like grown-ups. Well, you are, I guess. And I'm proud of youse guys."
"Break time." Gabriel enters the shop carrying a large tray of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. He places them on the desk. He checks the coffeepot. "Stone cold. How can we have cookies without coffee?"
Gabriel takes the pot back to the sink to wash it.
"This is like the old days," Mom says.
"Yep, somebody always bitching about something," Dad says.
"Now, Dutch," Gabriel says. "Watch your language in front of the boys. And I mean...me."
June spoons coffee grounds into the maker. "Let me make myself useful. I can't teach my apprentice when the table is being used for shipping."
"What apprentice?" Mom asks.
"Me," Gabriel says. "That's right, you Los Angelinis--you better look out. I've moved in, and I'm taking over. I started with the living room, and now, like a good Italian mold on veiny cheese, I'm seeping down into the workroom and into the shoe business. Soon you'll all be wearing the Biondi."
"He's got a gift." June breaks a cookie in half and tastes it. "And our lunches during the training sessions are to die for!"
The buzzer rings in the entrance. "It's probably the truck." I holler over the din of my family as they gather around the cookies, "Let them in, Dad."
Dad goes to answer the door. He comes back into the shop, followed by Kathleen Sweeney. She wears a red trench coat. She stands out like a cardinal who lands on the roof in snow.
"Val, Alfred. Somebody here to see you."
I look at Alfred. The color drains from his face. He doesn't move. Luckily Pamela has her head down, concentrating on the medallions.
I spring into action. "Hi, Kathleen! Come on in. Everybody say hello to the patron saint of Angelini Shoes--Kathleen Sweeney, from the Small Business Administration."
Kathleen stands next to the cutting table. She looks so small there, among the stacks of shipping boxes. She ignores the packing hoopla and focuses on the people, taking in my mother and father, sisters, Pamela, and the boys as if she's parachuted into enemy territory and has to gather as much information as she can as quickly as she can before the searchlights come on and she is discovered. This can't be easy for her. But as it is for all mistresses, exposure to the family of the lover is a learning opportunity, and she is taking it all in to better understand Alfred, or even to help her make a deeper connection to him.
Gabriel stares at Kathleen with a sense of wonder. No Italian comare that he has ever heard of would have the nerve to show up at the family place of business. But Kathleen is part of the Angelini Shoe Company--not directly, but she has helped us secure a loan we might not have gotten without her assistance. Whatever guilt I have about this, I'll have to sort out down the line. I have enough to worry about when it comes to the welfare of the people in this room.
Without taking his eyes off Kathleen, Gabriel grabs a cookie off the platter, bites it, and chews. It's as if the cast of General Hospital is doing a live scene in the shop. He's riveted.
Rocco runs up to Kathleen. "You have hair like Raggedy Ann."
"I know." Kathleen smiles. "Who are you?" Kathleen kneels down to talk to Rocco. Gabriel shoots me a look. The melodramatic kneeling makes this scene something out of Jezebel.
"I'm Rocco."
Alfred Jr. pushes Rocco to the side. "I'm Alfred Junior."
"You are?" Kathleen acts impressed.
"Yeah. That's my name."
"That's a cool name," she says. Kathleen takes in Alfred's children. She looks at them carefully, as though she wants to wed the conversations she had with my brother about his family to the reality. She might even be wondering what her children with Alfred might look like. "I've heard a lot about you."
Suddenly Pamela looks up from her work. My mother and sisters look at one another.
I jump in to cover for Kathleen. Doesn't she know all Italian mothers and sisters are on high alert for interlopers? Tess alone could blow this aff
air wide open with a couple of pointed questions. "Oh, I bore everybody on the planet with stories about my nephews and my nieces. I make them look at pictures. I'm a very pushy auntie." I go in for the save.
Gabriel shoots me a look that says, Stop it. You're overcompensating. If he could, he'd take the ruler and rap my hand and say, "Bad actress! Bad actress!"
"This is my wife...Pamela." Alfred introduces her to Kathleen.
"Nice to meet you." Pamela extends her hand.
From the look on Kathleen's face, I don't think she counted on The Wife being so attractive. Pamela's long champagne blond hair hangs loose, with chalk-colored highlights around her face, and her cigarette-leg jeans show off her lean shape after two babies. Kathleen cannot blame the affair on Pamela with the old "the wife let herself go" excuse. Kathleen will have to invent some other reason for Alfred's fall.
"Why don't we go upstairs?" I offer. I turn to my family. "Back to work, people. Alfred and I have some business to attend to. I want this table cleared by the time I get back."
Kathleen, Alfred, and I go up the stairs to the apartment. I show her to the table, offering her a seat. She sits and opens her briefcase. "I make it a habit to visit the establishments that we give our loans to. I'm sorry I interrupted family time downstairs."
"No problem. I just put everybody to work on shipping days."
Kathleen looks down at the paperwork. She shuffles through it. She pulls out a document and gives it to Alfred. "Here is the loan repayment plan." She avoids eye contact.
"Thank you," he says.
"And here's the check." Kathleen hands me an envelope containing enough money to produce and launch the Bella Rosa, the first design in our Angel Shoes line.
"Thank you. This is really going to help us."
"I'm happy to have been a part of this venture."
Kathleen Sweeney has tears in her eyes. I feel bad for her, even though I know she's been involved with my married brother, and I believe that's wrong down to my bones. But I'm afraid she may actually be in love with my brother. She looks at Alfred with sadness. "I'd also like to say..." Kathleen looks at me. "I'm sorry."
I look over at my brother, whose eyes fill with tears.
"Everything is going to be all right," I say--for the life of me, I can't think of anything else that would be apt. If you'd asked me a month ago, I would have imagined yelling, "Get out of my house, you tramp!" at her. But the truth is, she isn't a tramp, and I would never have the temerity to judge another woman anyway.
I stand to go. I don't offer my hand in gratitude, nor do I embrace her. I am, after all, part of the family that her actions could have destroyed. I have to stick with my team, even when I understand the weakness of the opposition.
Kathleen stands up. I can tell that she would like a moment with my brother, alone. But this is my house, and it's my shop, and my sister-in-law is down the stairs, innocent of their nonsense, so I say, "I'll see you out."
I show her to the stairs. Alfred stands by the table, not knowing what to do. Instead of following Kathleen and me, he stays behind. When I look back before leaving him, his expression is one of pure loss.
I follow her out into the street and pull the door shut behind me. "That was rough," Kathleen says. She holds her shoulder bag tight to her body with one arm and runs her hand through her hair with the other. "I'm sorry," she says with frustration. "I have to think about myself right now. I didn't set out to cause any harm," she goes on. "I wasn't looking for...I wasn't planning on a relationship...it just happened."
It's so hard for me to imagine a love affair just happening, unfolding like a strip of fine leather under the roller. Wouldn't it be nice to be one of those people who wanders the world and runs into love like it's a corner bodega? Kathleen is one of those people who is surprised when love arrives, as if it is made of whim and fancy, and not of choice. But that's never been true for me. I have to choose. I've always had to look for trouble to find it, and the same goes for love.
"I have to go," Kathleen says, looking up at the street sign, looking for the quickest route out of here.
"Kathleen, before you go, you need to understand something. Thank you for putting your feelings aside, for letting go of my brother--for whatever reason. You've saved us all a lot of heartache. But...I'm with them. My family. They come first. If you need to discuss business with me, I'll come to your office day or night. I'm very grateful for all you've done for me. But I don't expect to see you on Perry Street again. Understood?"
As she walks away, perhaps she is thinking about how she could have saved her own heart from breaking. But it's too late for that now.
I watch as Kathleen crosses Perry Street, avoiding the pits and grooves of the cobblestone street. I wish my brother would have navigated his path as carefully.
Alfred should have known better, after all we had been through with Dad. Alfred always knew best until it came to his own life. Now he'll have to figure out a new philosophy, because the one he chose walks away with every step she takes.
I fold my arms as Kathleen makes the turn onto Washington and disappears out of my view, and, I hope, out of my brother's life, and the story of our family--for good.
My suitcases are lined up next to the door, and my outfit is laid out for the flight to Buenos Aires. My mind races. I think of a thousand things that I will need to do, should ask, and hope to accomplish in Argentina.
Roberta has been cagey about providing any family information. She wants to share it all in person, which is fine, but I hate to travel a few thousand miles to get upsetting news. On the other hand, I'm excited about seeing her factory, and about the potential business opportunity for her and the Bella Rosa.
I am grateful for the timing of this trip. Alfred and Kathleen's secret affair took a toll on me, as did the shipment to Milwaukee. Gabriel has begun to implement his renovation and redecoration of the apartment, and it will be helpful for him to have the space to himself to get the job done. Alfred will take over the shop in my absence, June's vacation is planned, and Gabriel will be on hand to help out when he's needed. It would seem that all is in order. Until I open the most recent letter from Gianluca.
18 maggio 2010
Cara Valentina,
Enclosed is the leather sample you asked me to send. It's a basket weave of suede and leather, which gives the look of double-sided satin. I think you will agree that it is exquisite. Thank you for your letter. All is well here. I know you are busy, so I will close.
Love, Gianluca
I let his letter fall onto the floor next to my bed. Gianluca's first dud, written and sent without poetry or passion, and on the eve of my big adventure. I would have liked a sexy opus to read over and over again on the plane, but I guess I'll have to turn to the new Jackie Collins novel for that. Gianluca knows I'm nervous about this trip, and I've shared my reservations with him. You would think, wise old man that he is, that he'd come up with the exact right thing to say to make me feel more confident.
I hear a fire alarm in the distance, somewhere in Chelsea. I can't sleep. I get a special brand of insomnia before I fly. I imagine turbulence, a horrible flight, the plane is struck by lightning, a belly landing because the wings have snapped off, and once I'm on the ground, having slid down the emergency chute, Roberta meets me and hates me on sight. I develop a rash over my entire body and cannot walk. I'm put in a bad local hospital where they pump me up with drugs and change my name. I develop amnesia and have to be airlifted out on a gurney to a small hospital on the Galapagos Islands where a voodoo doctor can cure the rash but cannot restore my memory. I join a nunnery because the rash has so disfigured me I can only live in a colony where they wear veils. But wait! I know what's keeping me up this time. This letter was never intended as an endearing send-off. It's a blow-off. He's breaking up our imaginary relationship! We're only together on paper, bound by good stationery and his Italian-to-English dictionary. We're doomed. It's over. God help me, but if the plane goes down, the last words I wil
l have read from Gianluca will be about a leather sample. Well, it was literary and luscious while it lasted. I actually believed his words, and hoped he really saw the woman he described in letters to be just like me. But she's gone. His pen ran out of ink. The compliments, the insights, the idolatry--they've dried up like an old inkwell.
Face it, Valentine, I say to myself. He's probably found someone new. Probably some shoe designer from Russia with long legs, high cheekbones, and bangs that lie flat. Or maybe she's Ukrainian. She's a brunette with rosebud lips and real pearls in piles around her neck. Or French. Busty and makes a good pastry. Gianluca would be a catch anywhere in the European Union. And to think, for a while, he wanted me.
I turn over and fluff my pillow into a comfortable position. Even though it's spring in New York City, it's autumn in Buenos Aires. Fall is my favorite time of year. I blossom in the autumn. So I'm going to put the letter out of my mind (Gianluca will be lucky if he gets a postcard from Argentina) and focus on the Bella Rosa. At least I know what I'm doing when it comes to shoes. Love will have to wait.
8
Be Careful, It's My Heart
AS THE PLANE DESCENDS INTO Buenos Aires, it dawns on me that my mother should be living my life. When she was thirty-five years old, she had four children, a husband, and a teaching degree that lay dormant like hyacinths in winter. The closest she would ever come to leading the life of an international jet-setter was listening to the rhythmic rumble of the airplanes over the old neighborhood in Queens as they made the turn to land at La-Guardia.
Mom was practically giddy at the airport as she helped me check my luggage. Whereas most normal travelers loathe the paperwork and lines, my mother revels in the boarding process. She counts on the helpful redcaps. She waits patiently as she takes her place at checkin where they hand you your seat assignment. She makes pre-boarding relationships, cultivating "new friends" on her way to "new experiences." My mother holds a boarding pass the way most people cradle a winning lottery ticket.