Very Valentine

  Beyond the counter, in the living area, a long, comfortable sofa covered in beige velvet, with throw pillows of apple green and fire engine red, is situated under the front windows. Gram has a black leather recliner with a matching ottoman in the corner. The floor lamp next to it has a stem of clear, pressed glass, with a black-and-white-striped silk shade. A television set rests on a small table in front of the sofa. Sheer eggshell curtains hang from the windows, letting in light, while offering some privacy from the busy street below.

  Gram stands in the entrance of the living room and puts her hands on her hips. “I could use a nightcap. How about you?”

  “Sure.” I slip out of my shoes. “Did you water the tomatoes before we left?”

  “I completely forgot! And it was so hot today.”

  “No problem. I’ll go up.” I yank up the skirt of my gown and climb the steps to the third floor.

  I stop in Gram’s room at the top of the stairs to turn on the small lamp on her dressing table, and notice the stack of books by her bed. Gram is a big reader. Once a month she heads over to the public library on Sixth Avenue and fills a tote bag with books. The stack includes: The Ten-Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer, What Happened on the Boat by Angela Thirkell, Hold Tight by Harlan Coben, Women & Money by Suze Orman, and David Bach’s Smart Women Finish Rich.

  My mother’s old bedroom, opposite Gram’s, is decorated for an only child reared in the 1950s. The look is fussy, a prim wallpaper with bunches of violets tied with gold ribbons, a small desk and chair painted white to match the bed, which is covered in a ruffled, lavender organza spread with matching round pillows placed along the carved headboard.

  My room, which used to be the guest room, is next door to Mom’s. When Gram was lonely after Grandpop died, Aunt Feen lived here for a while. Ten years have passed, but her nearly empty flask of Bonne Nuit remains on the dresser, a thin puddle of amber perfume at the bottom of the bottle. A simple double bed with a headboard and a white coverlet is positioned between two windows with white cotton Roman shades.

  There’s an old writing desk against the wall on one side, and on the other, a wingback chair, slipcovered in white corduroy. This room has the best closet in the house, a walk-in, with shelves in three-quarter surround. We played Big Business in it when we were kids. Tess and I were secretaries, while Alfred was chairman of the board.

  I turn on the air conditioner. Gram can’t sleep in the cold, and I can’t sleep without it. I close my bedroom door behind me so the cool stays in. I pass the bathroom that has the original four-legged tub and forest-green-and-white-checked tile my great-grandfather installed when he bought the building.

  Outside the bathroom, at the very end of the hallway, is a primitive set of stairs made of rough-hewn oak that leads up to the roof. My grandfather built the steps after years of using an old ladder to get to the hatch. There are endless discussions about these stairs, and my mother sends workmen over to fix them or to replace them with regulation steps with treads, but Gram sends them away. She refuses to change them. Gram is determined to squeeze the last bit of purpose out of every gizmo in this house, whether it’s these stairs, the 1940s alarm clock on her nightstand, or the body she lives in.

  I unlock the screen door to the roof garden and push it open. There was a time when there was no bolt on the door, but now we lock every window and door.

  I stand and close the door behind me, surveying the most beautiful garden in the world. There’s just enough light from the streetlamps on Perry to blanket the roof in blue. It’s our official outdoor space, which is what you call anything that has open air around it in Manhattan. In the summer, Sunday dinner is moved to the roof, where we push the furniture against the side walls so the grandchildren have their run of the space.

  Through the fall and winter, Gram and I often take our coffee breaks up here, bundled in our coats and gloves. We’ve had some of our best talks under this city sky, just the two of us. Even though we spent a lot of time together when I was growing up, it was never one-on-one. When we’re on the roof, the workshop, the pressures of business, and our family problems seem miles away.

  The décor of the garden hasn’t changed since I was a girl. In the south corner, there’s a large, circular, wrought-iron table painted white, with matching chairs. The table is flanked by three miniature evergreens in terra-cotta pots. The water fountain features a bronze Saint Francis holding a water jug, a small bird perched on his shoulder.

  Along the fence line, in full surround, is our official garden, a series of plain wooden boxes four feet deep planted with dense, green tomato vines. We alternate the dependable big boy tomatoes with the heirloom style, which have proved trickier for us to grow. Our vines are planted in the same wooden boxes my grandfather built, their branches tied with remnants of ribbon from the shop, on the same stakes he used.

  We cultivate around thirty plants a year, yielding enough tomatoes to can sauce for the entire family, with plenty of tomatoes left over to eat like apples all summer long.

  A two-foot chicken-wire fence is attached to the fence line of the roof above the plants. It’s partly for safety, but also to train the tomato vines to follow a straight path as they grow toward the sun. The dense, fragrant leaves create a spicy green wallpaper that lasts until the end of summer.

  Growing tomatoes is all about patience and process. We place the plants carefully in rich mulch in late spring. Soon, the tender vines fill with white blossoms. Weeks later those flowers become waxy clusters which, in turn, become small green orbs that grow larger before turning orange, finally ripening to a robust red before we pick them. In full harvest, the fat red tomatoes hanging from the green vines look like rubies dangling on a charm bracelet.

  I lean against the front wall and look past the West Side Highway to the Hudson River. The streetlamps throw bright pools of yellow light the color of butterfly wings onto the walkway by the water’s edge.

  In all the years I have watched the Hudson River from this roof, it has never been the same color twice, nor has the sky overhead. One day the sky is a mottled-gray leopard print, then blazing streams of white on hot orange, then a light blue expanse with a smattering of smoke-colored clouds. Just like the sky, the river’s mood changes in an instant, like a temperamental lover with a short memory. Sometimes there’s a wild surf, and other times it’s calm, with waves like the rippled flutes on a teacup. Tonight, the river rolls out like a bolt of silver organza, past the Statue of Liberty and under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, where it drops off into a midnight blue pit of ocean. It seems to go on forever, and that reassures me.

  It’s a slow summer night with only a few cars on the West Side Highway. There aren’t the usual sounds of truck brakes, car horns, and sirens; tonight it’s quiet, as if all of Manhattan is drenched in honey. The sky overhead has turned teal blue, with a border of pale white light that looks like lace over the clutter of buildings across the Hudson on the Jersey side. I can’t find the moon, but the Circle Line sails toward the shore of Manhattan, glittering in the dark night like a smoky topaz.

  “Sorry, guys,” I tell the bright red tomatoes as I press them, their tough, glassy coats in need of the morning sun to ripen fully. The earth under the vines is as dry as sawdust. I unloop the old green hose from its stand and crank the water dial. Warm pulses of water turn cold as it gushes. I turn to water the plants. My bridesmaid’s gown is so tight it won’t move with me, so I put down the hose and unzip the back of the dress and slip out of it. My instinct is to save the dress, but for what? I look sickly in taffy colors and I can’t imagine any scenario in which I’d put this thing on again.

  The gown stands before me like a stiff pink ghost. I turn the hose in its direction. Drenched, the sateen turns the color of a fizzy cranberry cocktail, the exact shade of the paint wash on Palazzo Chupi, Julian Schnabel’s West Eleventh Street creation that looms behind our building like a Tuscan villa. Now that shade of red would have looked good on me.

  All that remains on my bo
dy is the Spanx, which looks like a salmon-colored bathing suit from the 1927 Miss America pageant. The boy legs grip my thighs like bandages. My midriff is bound so tight, you’d think the fabric was setting a broken rib. My breasts look like two pink snowball cupcakes sealed in plastic wrap. There’s not a ripple on me as I douse the vines along the front of the building, feeling free of the dress, the shoes, and the role of bridesmaid.

  As I stand making rain over the tomato vines, the air fills with the scent of black earth and the slightest aroma of coffee. We put our coffee grounds around the roots, an old gardening trick of my grandfather’s. I think about him, and how Gram has a whole different view of the man I remember and loved. There seem to be some issues under the crisp white tablecloth he demanded be draped over the table at every meal. Maybe Gram will open up to me someday and tell me the story of their marriage, which is also the history of the Angelini Shoe Company.

  My grandparents’ shoe shop, and this building, is one of the last holdouts from the old days in this neighborhood. The past ten years have transformed the riverfront from a slew of factories and garages to fancy restaurants and spacious loft apartments. The shoreline of the Hudson River has changed from a flat, forbidding wall of stone to a gleaming array of modern buildings made of glass and steel. Gone are the dangerous docks, black pilings moored with barges, and piers infested with grimy trucks. They’ve been replaced with green parks, brightly colored jungle gyms in safe playgrounds, and manicured walkways speckled with blue guide lights that pull on at the first sign of nightfall.

  Gram handled the changes just fine until the big guns decided to alter our view forever. When three glass-box high-rises, designed by the famous architect Richard Meier, were built next door, Gram threatened to enclose our roof garden with a tall wooden fence covered in hardy ivy to keep out prying eyes. But she hasn’t had to yet, because there doesn’t seem to be anybody moving into the crystal towers. For months I came up on the roof dreading the neighbors. But, so far, our roof garden looks directly into an empty apartment.

  I pull the nozzle close to my face, dousing myself with cold water, I feel the itch of the LeClerc powder as it washes away. Soon, all of Nancy DeAnnoying’s handiwork is gone, leaving nothing but clean skin. My hair tumbles out of its chignon under the force of the water. Wet, the Spanx chokes my body like a vine. I look around. I put the nozzle down. Then, I pull the bandeau of the Spanx down, give the bodice a yank, and roll the Lycra down over my waist and hips, pushing it down my thighs and calves. I step out of it. As it rests on the black tar roof, the full girdle looks like the chalk outline of a body at a crime scene.

  I close my eyes and hold the nozzle high, dousing my body, like the plants. The cool water feels heavenly against my bare skin. I close my eyes; I relive a similar hot summer night long ago, when my sisters and I stood in a blue plastic pool while Gram spritzed us with the hose.

  Suddenly, a blaze of light fills the roof. At first, I’m confused. Is there a police helicopter overhead using giant searchlights to ferret out drug deals? I can see the headline now: NUDE WOMAN FROLICS IN SPRINKLER DURING CRACK BUST. But the sky is clear! I look to the right. Not a bit of movement across Perry Street. I look to the left. Oh no. The lights in the usually empty fourth-floor apartment of the Richard Meier crystal tower are blazing.

  I look directly into the eyes of a woman in a summer suit who looks right back at me. She is surprised to see me, but she is not alone. There’s a man with her, a tall, kind of gorgeous man with intense black eyes, wearing shorts and a T-shirt that says CAMPARI. We make eye contact but then his eyes move lower, darting back and forth like he’s reading incoming flights on an airport screen. It’s then that I remember I’m naked. I dive behind a tall row of tomatoes.

  I crawl toward the screen door, but as I do, the hose goes wild, like a wily snake throwing a jet stream of water willy-nilly up into the air and all over the roof. I crawl back to it, cursing as I go. I grab the nozzle and then, staying low, move to the spigot where, from a very difficult angle, I crank until the water finally shuts off. As I crawl to the door and back to safety, the light from the apartment goes out, leaving our roof and what seems like most of lower Manhattan in darkness. I slowly lift my head. The apartment is empty now, a crystal box in the dark.

  Downstairs, Gram sits in her recliner with her feet up. Her red patent leather pumps rest, pigeon-toed, by the table, while her suit jacket hangs neatly over the back of a chair. A frosty glass of limoncello waits for me on the counter. “You took a shower.”

  “Uh-huh.” I tie a knot in the sash of my bathrobe. I’ll spare Gram the details of my display of public nudity on the roof.

  “Your cocktail. I made it a double. Mine, too.” She toasts me. “The oil pretzels are on the table.” She points to her favorite snack, puffy Italian versions of popovers. I take one and snap it in half.

  “I had a talk with your brother at the wedding. He wants me to retire.”

  I’ve held in my anger all day. Now, I’ve had it. I snap, “I hope you told Alfred to mind his own business.”

  “Valentine, I am eighty years old on my next birthday. How much longer can I…” She stops and reconsiders what she is trying to say. “You do most of what needs to be done around here in the shop, in the house, and even in the garden.”

  “And I love it so much I’ll be a burden to you all of your life,” I joke. “The last single woman in our family sleeping in your spare room.”

  “Not for long and not forever. You will fall in love again.” She raises her glass to me.

  My grandmother has a way of encouraging me that is so gentle, it is only when I’m alone and reflective that I am able to recall her small turns of phrase that eventually shore me up and help me move forward. When she says, You will fall in love again, she means it, and also recognizes that I was once in love with a good man, Bret Fitzpatrick, and it was real. I had planned a future with him, and when it didn’t work out, she was the only person in my life who said it wasn’t supposed to. Everyone else (my sisters, my mother, and my friends) assumed he wasn’t enough, or maybe he was too much, or maybe ours was a first love that wasn’t meant to go the distance, but no one else was able to put it in perspective so I might make it a chapter in the story of my life, and not the definitive denouement of my romantic history. I rely on Gram to tell me the truth, and to give me her unvarnished opinion. I also require her wisdom. And her approval? Well, that’s everything.

  “I worry that I hold you back. You should be young when you’re young.”

  “According to Aunt Feen, I’m ancient ruins.”

  “Listen to me. Only an old lady can say this. No one else will have the guts to tell you the truth. Time is not your friend and it’s, well…” Gram looks at her hands.

  “What?”

  “Time is like ice in your hands.”

  I put down my drink. “Okay, now I’m completely panicked.”

  “Too late. I’m doing the panicking for the both of us.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Val…”

  The tone of her voice scares me.

  She looks at me. “I’ve made a mess of things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When your grandfather died, he had a couple of loans against the building. I knew about them at the time, but when I went to the bank to settle, the loans were more than I knew. So instead of paying them off, I borrowed more to keep the shop going. Ten years ago, I felt like I could turn the place around to make a profit, but the truth is, we were just getting by.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, we’re in trouble.”

  My mind reels. I think of us, working day in and day out and often on weekends. I can’t imagine that we aren’t making money. I take a sip of the limoncello, hoping it will fortify me. Gram and I never talk about the business side of shoemaking, the profits or losses, the expenses of making shoes. She is in charge of everything relating to the business. She handles the pricing of the stock
, the number of orders we take, and the ledger. She uses an outside company to do the payroll for the employees. At one point, I thought of offering to take over the books, but had enough work to do in the shop. I’ve dedicated the past four years to learning how to make shoes, not how to sell them. I draw a modest salary from the business, but beyond that, Gram and I never discuss money. “How…how did this happen?”

  “I’m the worst kind of businessman. I live in hope.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means that I mortgaged the building to keep the business going. The bank called when they adjusted the mortgage, and I tried to refinance, but couldn’t. In the new year, our mortgage payments double, and I don’t know how I am going to pay them. Your grandfather was a great juggler. I’m not. I put all my energy into making the shoes, thinking the business would take care of itself. When you came to work for me, I felt like I had the help I needed to pull me out of the hole I got us in. But we’re a small operation.”

  “Maybe we should think about expanding, making more shoes, and hiring people to help us grow.”

  “With what?” She looks at me.

  “I’ve got it!” I clap my hands together. “I’ll make a sex tape! I’ll sell it on the Internet! Works for the starlets. Maybe it will only bring in a couple of bucks and a MetroCard, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “Let’s hold off on the desperate measures,” Gram laughs.

  I get up and embrace my grandmother. “There’s a solution to every problem.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The Norman Vincent Peale of our family, my dear mother.”

  “Mike invented upbeat.”

  “Yeah, well, this is one time we should follow her lead.”

  “Okay, okay,” Gram says and lets go of me.

  “Gram?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s only money.”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I promise her.