I prayed a novena in 1984 so my mother wouldn’t get emphysema from all the hairspray she used. I did a science project on the devastation caused by aluminum chlorofluorocarbons, the powdery stuff in aerosol cans, especially Aqua Net. I showed my mother scientific proof that her beauty regimen could actually kill her. She just patted me on the head and called me “My little Ralph Nader.”
When I wasn’t praying to God to spare her life, I prayed my father wouldn’t get asthma or worse from the secondhand hairspray inhalation. I imagined the entire family dead from the fumes and the police finding us on the floor like a clump of Lincoln logs. When I told my mother my deepest fear, she said, “But when the authorities find us, I bet my hair looks good.”
“Your mother’s been landscaping again,” Gram says as we stand at the foot of the front walk of 162 Austin Street. “It looks like Babylon came to Queens.”
The Roncalli Tudor is freshly painted and shellacked with chocolate brown and off-white trim over the entry porch. There are three brand-new, glossy holly bushes on either side of the entrance. There are two small English-style flower beds where plain grass would ordinarily grow. The plots are crammed with decorative pumpkins, squat autumn cabbages, and the last of the purple impatiens, hemmed in by a slanting brick border on either side of the walk. Three hanging baskets spilling with shiny green leaves are suspended from the portico like the chickens in Chinatown. Over the front windows there’s a United States flag unfurled next to the flag of Italy. The window boxes beneath them are stuffed with red, white, and green foil pinwheels that spin in the breeze. Cars are to Queens Boulevard what flora, fauna, and foil are to my mother’s front yard. Everywhere you look, something is growing or spinning or swaying. My father may be a retired urban park ranger, but my mother has yet to allow him to put down his trowel.
“She doesn’t know when to stop.” Gram takes a step onto the walkway. “I wonder what she spends a year on Miracle-Gro.”
“A lot. The Burpee seed catalog is my mother’s porn.”
“Hi, kids!” Mom pushes the front door open and runs down the sidewalk to greet us. “Ma, you look like a jillion.”
“Thanks, Mike.” Gram gives Mom a kiss on the cheek. “Your garden looks—”
“You know I hate grass. It’s too country.”
Mom wears a long, white, raw-silk tunic with matching white slacks. The deep V neckline of the tunic is studded with flat turquoise beads. Her brown hair is blown straight to her shoulders, revealing extra large, silver hoop earrings. Her shoes, winter white suede mules with four-inch chunky heels, show off her slim ankles. Her left arm, from wrist to elbow, is covered in silver bangle bracelets. She jingles them. “Very Jennifer Lopez, don’t you think?”
“Very,” I tell her.
“I’m making custom omelets. Daddy is doing the French toast thing,” Mom tells us as we climb the stairs. “Everybody is here.”
The interior design of my parents’ home is an homage to the glory of the British Empire and a direct poaching of every room ever depicted in the Tudor style in Architectural Digest since 1968. Anything English is coveted by Italian Americans, because we respect whoever got there first. As a result, my mother adores cheery chintz, braided rugs, ceramic lamps, and oil paintings of the British countryside, which she has yet to visit.
Gram and I follow Mom to the kitchen, with its mod white appliances and white marble counters trimmed in black. Mom calls the color scheme “licorice and marshmallow,” as nothing in Mom’s life could ever be referred to as black and white.
Jaclyn has spread the photos from her wedding on the kitchen table. Alfred sits at the head of the table, but it’s Tess, who sits on his right, who captures my attention. Her nose is red; she’s been crying.
“Come on, you can’t look that bad in the photos,” I tease Tess, but she looks away.
Amid the commotion of double cheek kisses and hellos, I motion to Tess to meet me in the bathroom. We stuff ourselves into the half bath, off the kitchen, that used to be a pantry. The floor-to-ceiling wallpaper in pink, green, and yellow polka dots in this tiny space makes me feel as though I’ve landed in a bottle of pills. “What’s the matter?”
Tess shakes her head, unable to get the words out.
“Come on. What is it?”
“Dad has cancer!” Tess begins to wail. My mother opens the door to the powder room, revealing Dad, Mom, Gram, Alfred, and Jaclyn crammed in the doorway as though we are in a moving train and they’re on the platform saying good-bye.
One look at Dad’s face tells me it’s true.
“Air, I need air!” I shout. They disperse as we fan out into the kitchen. Dad grabs me and hugs me hard. Soon, Tess and Jaclyn are embracing him, too. Alfred stands back and away from it all with a grim expression on his already pinched face. Mom has her arm around Gram, big tears rolling down her face, yet miraculously, her mascara doesn’t run.
“Dad, what happened?”
“I don’t want you to worry. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? It’s cancer!” Tess fights to regain her composure, but she can’t. The tears continue to flow.
“What kind?” I manage to call out over the weeping.
“Prostate,” Mom answers.
“I’m so sorry, Dutch.” Gram takes my father’s arm. “What does the doctor say?”
“They caught it early. So, I’m weighing my options. I think I’m going to go with the seeds implanted in the nuts scenario.”
“Dad, do you have to call them…nuts?” Big tears roll down Jaclyn’s face.
“I didn’t want to say scrotum in front of your grandmother.”
“It’s better than nuts,” Mom says.
“Anyway, evidently about seventy-five percent of men who reach my age have prostrate issues.”
“Prostate, honey.” From the tone of my mother’s voice, I can tell she’s been correcting Dad’s phonics since the diagnosis.
“Prostate, prostrate, what’s the damn difference? I’m sixty-eight years old and something’s gonna get me. If it isn’t a shit ticker,” Dad says, thumping his chest, “it’s gonna be cancer. That’s the truth. I wanted you, my progeny, to know what I’m up against. And I wanted to tell you all in person, without spouses or the kids, so you could ingest the information firsthand. Naturally, I was also worried I’d scare the kids talking about my private areas. How the hell could I tell them that Grandpop has a problem in his pee-pee? It didn’t seem right.”
“No, it wouldn’t be right,” I whisper. I look at my father, who is the funniest person I know but doesn’t have any idea he’s funny. He’s worked all his life as head of the parks department here in Forest Hills, until he retired three years ago and went to work for my mother as the family gardener/dustman. He scrimped and saved and put us all through college. He’s been a willing costar to my mother, the lead, in the movie of their marriage. I never imagined anything bad happening to him because he was so stable. He wasn’t a saint, but he was solid.
My mother puts her hands in the First Communion position. “Look. We are facing this as a family, and we will beat it as a family.” The expression on her face is pure Joanna Kerns in the climax of My Husband, My Life, a TV weeper running in the repeat cycle on Lifetime. Mom takes a breath, hands still in the prayer position. She continues, “The doctor tells us it’s stage two…”
“…on a sliding scale of four,” Dad adds.
Mom continues, “…which is very good news. It means at his age, your father could easily outlive the cancer.”
I have no idea what my mother’s explanation means, and neither does anyone else, but she forges on.
“I am galvanized. He is equally galvanized. And thank God for Alfred, who is on top of getting Daddy the top medical care in the country. Alfred is going to call his friend at Sloan-Kettering to get your father the A team.”
Alfred nods that he will make the call.
“We have magnificent children…grandchildren”—Mom waves her arms around—“a lo
vely state-of-the-art home, and a beautiful life.” She breaks down and weeps. “We’re young and we’re gonna beat this thing. And that’s that.”
“Good deal, Mike.” Dad claps his hands together. “Who wants French toast?”
I drank way too much of the autumn-blend hazelnut coffee Mom served in the ornate sterling-silver urn with the spigot shaped like a bird’s head. (Heirloom, anyone?) There’s something about Mom’s delicate Spode teacups and the bottomless urn that tricks you into believing you’re consuming less caffeine than you really are. Or maybe I drank so much coffee because I was looking for an excuse to get up from the table from time to time, so I wouldn’t cry in front of my father.
We managed to keep the patter light through breakfast, but occasional silences descended on us as our thoughts wandered back to Dad’s terrible news. Conversation did not flow, it ricocheted around the room, exhausting us. Attempting to be chipper in the face of my father’s illness, a man who has never been sick a day in his life, is a tall order even for Funnyone.
The girls have cleared the brunch dishes from the table and are now sorting through the wedding pictures. Dad and Alfred are watching a football game in the den. The male bonding is evidently necessary after viewing wedding photos.
I’ve escaped to the backyard for air, but it’s actually claustrophobic because the only open space is on the stone footpath that leads to an outdoor living suite of English cottage furniture. And that’s not all. Artfully placed amid the dense landscaping is a clutter of traditional lawn ornaments including a sundial, a birdbath, and statuary of three Renaissance angels playing flutes. The reflection of my face in the blue medicine ball on a pedestal looks like a Modigliani, long and horsey and sad.
“Hey, kid,” Dad says from behind me.
“Why does Mom overdecorate everything?” I ask. “Does she think if she keeps landscaping in the English style, Colin Firth is going to come over that wall and take a dip in the birdbath?”
I sit down on the love seat. Dad squeezes in next to me. We are sharing rear-end space the size of a single subway seat. “This is the original Agony in the Garden.”
Dad laughs and puts his arm around me. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, but I do.”
“I’ve been very blessed, Valentine. Besides, the big C ain’t what it used to be. People walk around with cancer like good bridgework. It becomes a part of you, the doctors tell me. Remission can last until you’re dead, for God’s sake.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you have a positive attitude.”
“Besides, I haven’t been a saint, Val. I probably had this coming.”
“What?” I turn and face my father, which, on this Barbie dream house of a love seat is not easy.
“Mezzo-mezzo.” He makes his hand into a flat wing and tips it. “I mean I’ve tried to be a good father and a decent husband. But I’m human and sometimes I failed.”
“You’re a good man, Dad. You failed very little.”
“Ah…enough for the marker to come due.”
“You didn’t get cancer because you made mistakes in your life.”
“Of course I did. Look at the evidence. I didn’t get lung cancer because God was mad I smoked. I get the cancer down below because I…you know.”
The mention of you know leaves us to our separate silences and memories. My dad remembers 1986 one way, and I remember it as a time when the very core of our family was shaken by my father’s midlife crisis, and my mother’s ability to negotiate it.
“I don’t believe in a vengeful God,” I tell him.
“I do. I’m an old-fashioned Catholic. I believed everything the nuns taught me. They said that God was watching me every second of every day, and that I’d better examine my conscience and beg God to forgive my sins before I went to sleep because if I accidentally suffocated during the night, without cleansing my soul, I’d go straight to hell. Then, when I became a teenager, they told me if I was even going to think about sex, I’d better marry her. And I did. But somewhere along the way, I started to think about God, and who He really is, and I came to the conclusion that He wasn’t watching me, day in and day out, like the nuns said.”
“So what was He doing?”
“I figured He gave me life and then waved sayonara, saying, ‘You’re on your own, Dutch.’ The rest was up to me. It was my job to live a good life and do the right thing. A soul is like an Etch A Sketch. When you screw up, it’s like you’re writing on it. But you have a chance to say you’re sorry, turn it over, and shake it until the bad thing disappears. That’s the notion of confession in a nutshell. The trick is to hit the finish line without a mark on your soul. I mean, you could say cancer is a good thing because it’s giving me a chance to prepare. At least I’m being given the gift of a set time period. Most people get a lot less.”
My eyes fill with tears. “I never want you to die, Dad.”
“But I’m gonna.”
“But not now. It’s too soon.”
“I want to be ready, though. Then, if there’s actually a judgment day like the nuns promised, I’ll have minded my p’s and q’s. God will show up at the end as He did in the beginning, and check to see if I’ve done okay. What more can a man ask for? I wouldn’t mind seeing the face of God. What the hell.”
“Dad, I think you’re a Buddhist.”
My father has never been eloquent, especially where his feelings are concerned. But no matter what he didn’t say, I knew he loved us, and he loved us deeply. But I never knew that he had a spiritual philosophy. I figured he didn’t need one because he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. “Dad, you’ve never talked about God to me.”
“I left that up to the church. We hauled you to mass every week for a reason. Those people are in the redemption business. Let’s face it,” he says, crossing his hands on his lap and continuing, “I’m not a holy man by a long shot, but I did have to ask myself the big question: What about me, Dutch Roncalli, is eternal?”
“And what’s the answer?”
“The acre forest at park 134. When I was made an urban park ranger in 1977, I was given the responsibility of planting and maintaining a two-acre green space in the center of the park with a natural pond and a surrounding grove of fir trees. It can never be sold, just like the land in Central Park. By law, the natural habitat must be maintained in perpetuity. So, it’s my little gift to the future generations of the borough of Queens. Small stuff, but to me, eternal.”
“That’s great, Dad.” I take a deep breath. “But don’t you think your children are your legacy?”
“I can’t take credit for what you and Tess and Jaclyn and Alfred have become. You kids are like those hamsters you had to raise in the second grade. You’re strictly loaners. I just took care of you until you could take care of yourselves.”
“But you loved us, too.”
“Absolutely. And, as fathers go, I look damn good on paper. None of you on drugs, none of you gamblers or bookies. Nobody with a tic. But that’s to your mother’s credit. All of you are successful in your fields. And you, taking up the shoemaking and taking care of your grandmother. That says a lot about you. You will be repaid, Valentina.”
My father is the only person in my life who puts an a on the end of my name, and to hear him say it brings me great comfort.
Then he says, “Somebody’s gonna take care of you when you’re old. Payback.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Some guy would do the Watusi for a shot at such a good wife.”
“Me?”
“You. You’ve got a big heart. Of all the kids, you’re the most like me. You didn’t spring out of the womb knowing all the answers, like Alfred. You didn’t have a master plan, like Tess. And you never relied on your pretty face, like Jaclyn. You’ve worked hard for everything you’ve ever gotten. That’s why you’re funny. You needed a sense of humor when things didn’t work out the way you hoped. And the same is true for me. Things didn’t always go my
way. But I never gave up. And I don’t want you to give up.”
“I won’t.” I squeeze my dad’s hand.
“I want you to find a nice guy.”
“Know anybody?”
Dad puts his hands in the air. “That’s up to you. I don’t get involved in those matters.”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve met somebody.”
“Really?” Now it’s Dad’s turn to shift in the tiny seat and get a jab in the hips. I adjust to make room for his 360 degrees. “What does he do?”
“He’s a chef. Italian.”
“Real Italian? Or is he Albanian or Czech? You know, nowadays they come over here with an accent and open pizza parlors like they’re authentic sons of Mama Leone when us real Italians know the truth.”
“No, no, he’s real Italian, Pop, from Chicago.”
“So, what do you think about this paisano?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“You know what? You don’t have to know everything. Sometimes, it’s better not to.”
A Forest Hills Sunday-afternoon quiet descends on the garden, like old fog. The arm of the love seat pinches my thigh, but I don’t shift. I want to sit next to my father as long as I can, just the two of us, he with his theories of religion, love, and the eternal nature of trees, and me, hoping that he’ll be around for the turns my story will take.
I reach out for my father’s hand, something I haven’t done since I was ten years old. He grips it tightly, as though he will never let go. Dad looks off into the Buzzacaccos’ yard, with its fire engine red picnic table, shriveled hedges, and crumbling statue of the Venus de Milo (with arms). I look up at the house. My mother stands in the kitchen window watching us with a face so sad, now she’s the Modigliani.
The wheels on the brush machine whirl as I crank the pedal. I put my hand in a cotton mitt and then place a soft pink leather pump over the mitt. I brace the heel with my free hand and place the shoe between the round brushes. I buff the vamp of the shoe until the leather looks like an iridescent pink seashell.