Brava, Valentine

  “The pot? No thanks, Irv.”

  “Well, here’s her key. You can clean out the apartment whenever you wish. She told me the contents were yours. I’m sure there’s a will here somewhere.”

  “Are you the landlord?” I ask.

  “Yep. Been her neighbor and landlord for twenty-seven years. When I was a kid like you, I rented in this building, and then I saved and saved, and one day, I saved enough to buy it before the boom, thank you Jesus. The first thing I did was move June in. She chose this apartment for the light.”

  “I remember when she lived on the Upper West Side.”

  “You’ve known her a long time.”

  “All my life.”

  “When she moved down here, she found her bliss. You know, you can still be yourself in this part of town. Did you ever see her dance?”

  “No, I never did.”

  “She was a wonder. Long lean body, legs that went on for days. When she was young, she had no peer. Red hair to her waist, flying behind her when she’d do these amazing jumps. She started out with Paul Taylor. So did I. That’s how we first met. I’ll never forget her dancing. That’s for sure.”

  I stand on East 5th Street in the Village in the snow. Through the flurries, I can see strands of Christmas-tree lights across the street at the neighborhood stand where they sell trees. Red, green, and blue Roma lights sway in the wind, punching color into the gray morning.

  “Oh, June,” I say out loud. “You left me at Christmas.” Tears and snow sting my face, but I don’t move. I can’t. June is gone.

  The first thing I do after I tell Gabe, Bret, and Alfred about June is go up to the roof. The snow has stopped, leaving a dusting on the roof. I take in big gulps of air, hoping it will help me stop crying. But I can’t.

  I asked Alfred to call Mom and my sisters. I told him that I would tell Gram. I pull out my phone and scroll down to Gram’s number. I look down at it, and think better of it for a moment and scroll back up to the previous number: Gianluca Vechiarelli.

  I don’t want to call him, and yet, he’s the only person in the world I want to talk to. He will comfort me. He knows how. I press the send button. The phone clicks into the international line, and I hear faint buzzing and then a series of beeps.

  “Pronto.” I hear Gianluca’s voice, bold and strong on the other end. I begin to cry. “Pronto?” he says again.

  “Gianluca, it’s Valentine. In New York.”

  “What’s wrong?” he says softly.

  “June died.”

  “Oh, Valentina.”

  “I need to call Gram, but I thought you could be with her when I called, in case she gets upset.” My cries turn to weeping.

  “Of course, of course,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Valentina.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I wail. “I was waiting for her to come to work this morning. And now I’ll never see her again.”

  “Where’s Gabriel?” he asks.

  “Down in the shop. He’s a mess too. June taught him how to cut patterns. I mean, she trained him, you know? She taught him everything she knew.”

  “She was a wonderful woman.”

  “And she was all alone,” I wail.

  “No, no, carissima. She was surrounded by love.”

  “No, I went over there and she was all alone. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “That was her choice. June wanted her privacy at the end. That’s different from not being loved. She was loved. You took good care of her.”

  His words soothe me. June was Gianluca’s greatest champion. She only met him a few times last fall, but she read all of his letters and loved every single word he wrote. I blurt, “I’m sorry about everything, Gianluca. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t follow you when you left the hotel. I was too proud. And I’m sorry about that stupid letter I sent. I’m always joking around, as if humor is what is required in every situation. It’s not. There’s nothing funny about your feelings…or mine. I never meant to diminish you in any way with my dumb, cavalier attitude.” My face stings where my tears meet the cold.

  “I understand,” he says softly.

  “Thank you.”

  “I go to Papa’s now. You call there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I flip the phone shut and hold it close to me. A cold winter wind kicks up and blows the snow off the roof west toward the Hudson River like a sheet stretched across a summer clothesline. The snow clouds hang low over my river in a veil of gray fog. I can’t see anything. Everything, it seems, is gone.

  Gram and Dominic changed their airline tickets to come to New York sooner than they planned for June’s funeral. June’s friends have planned a funeral/life celebration, a hybrid Catholic/Buddhist ceremony at Integral Yoga on 13th Street.

  June took yoga classes there for years. Of late, she had started Pilates, but yoga was a passion with her. She’d often grab a class during lunch when she worked in the shop. A few blocks from the Angelini Shoe Company, she’d throw her rolled-up mat in its case on her back like a sack of arrows for her bow. She’d return an hour later, centered, calm, and ready for an afternoon of hard work.

  Gabriel taps on my bedroom door. He peeks in. “You ready?” Gabriel adjusts his black tie which he wears with a black shirt, and a black suit.

  “Not really.” I straighten the zipper on my skirt. “Do you think I’m overdressed?”

  “Have you ever been to Integral Yoga? You’re way overdressed. And so am I. People meditate in their underwear over there.”

  “It’s not the grocery store, is it?”

  “The natural foods section is downstairs. We’re going upstairs to the yoga studios. What did you think? We’d put June to rest in the raw nuts section?”

  “I have no expectations.”

  “You’re better off,” Gabriel says. “I shop there from time to time. And those vegans are the least healthy-looking people I’ve ever seen. Their skin tone is puce. They need to eat a burger. But I’m not getting involved in that movement. Believe me.”

  Gram and Dominic are dressed and waiting for us in the living room. Gram looks beautiful in a navy suit that June liked. Dominic wears a black suit with a navy-blue-and-white-striped tie.

  “Gabriel, what you’ve done with the house is marvelous.”

  “Gram, I was a nervous wreck before you got here,” he tells her. “I really changed it up, you know.”

  “I approve. I love what you did in Mike’s room upstairs. You kept the wallpaper and painted the furniture.”

  “Are you comfortable in there?”

  “Very much.” Dominic smiles.

  “We’d better go,” I tell them.

  Even though Integral Yoga is only a few blocks from our building, with the snow and ice, I didn’t want to take any chances of Gram or Dominic falling, so we ordered a town car. As we drive across Perry Street, we bounce on the cobblestones. June would have gotten a kick out of the town car going such a short distance. She didn’t like anything on wheels, except her work stool. She’d take the bus, but only in a pinch. She walked everywhere in this city, regardless of the weather.

  When we arrive at Integral Yoga, there’s a hand-printed sign on the door that says

  JUNE LAWTON

  with an arrow pointing up. Gabriel holds the door open. Gram and I go up the stairs, followed by Gabriel and Dominic.

  When we arrive at Studio C, the room is filled with a few rows of folding chairs, and on the floor, a series of small yoga mats laid neatly in front of them—for anyone who wants to sit pretzel style during the service, I imagine. It’s a fairly large room with polished blond wood. The long wall opposite the door is covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The mourners hang their umbrellas and snow gear on the barre. A large window overlooks the back garden. A lonely old tree, with gray gnarled branches, is glazed with ice.

  My family takes up two rows of folding chairs. We are dressed like a pack of devout Catholics, while June’s friends, ages nineteen to ninety, mill around in j
eans, spandex skirts with leggings, and for one gentleman, in a bright blue kimono. My family looks completely out of place, like Capodimonte lamps at a Conran’s yard sale. June would love the contrast.

  Mom is already weeping. She wears a black pillbox hat with a whimsy that cascades over her eyes. When she sees Gram, she gets up and goes to her.

  My sisters and their husbands anchor the second row, having saved seats for Gabriel and me on the end. They draped my mother’s black pashmina scarf over the chairs to reserve them.

  Alfred stands in the back in a proper suit. He nods to me as Gabriel and I take our seats. Bret waves to us from the corner.

  The makeshift altar is simple and beautiful. A statue of Buddha, carved out of ruby marble, rests on a pedestal directly in front of the seats. Three small candles are lit at the base.

  On a small table next to the icon is a framed photograph of June. It’s black and white in a black lacquer frame. She is dancing, jumping high through the air. June is also nude. My father stares into the eyeballs of the Buddha to avoid looking at young, naked June.

  “From my collection,” Irv whispers, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing to the photograph.

  “Bellissima,” I say to him.

  The photograph is pure June, caught in the vigor of youth. Her body was a work of art; her thigh muscles, down through the extension of her long and graceful calves, appear chiseled in granite. Her slim ankles and pointed toes complement the bold arc of her hand, which practically touches her toes as she does a flying backbend in midair. Her hair flies behind her like a silk cape.

  A Catholic priest, wearing black slacks and a Roman collar under a sweater, enters, carrying a small leather book. I recognize him from the express Mass at the chapel at Saint Vincent’s Hospital. He is followed by a bald Buddhist monk in red robes.

  My father turns and looks at me, raising both eyebrows with an expression that says, This oughta be rich.

  “Good afternoon, friends,” the priest begins. “I’m Father Bob Bond, and this is my friend, Buddhist monk Bing Lao.” The monk bows deeply from the waist. “We both knew June, and we thought we’d talk a bit about her, and then you, her loved ones, can get up and speak if you wish.”

  “Where’s the body?” I hear my father ask my mother. She puts her finger to her lips so he won’t ask any further questions. The Church of Unorthodox/Integral Yoga is not my father’s thing. When it comes to death, my father needs familiar rituals he can count on to get him through. This isn’t it.

  The door to the yoga studio pushes open. Pamela, in a dress coat and matching hat, looks around for our familiar faces. My sisters and I wave to her. We have turned into the sweetest, most solicitous sisters-in-law in history since Alfred and Pamela hit the rocks. We could not be more supportive. We give her space and free babysitting services whenever she needs them. When Pamela’s eyes meet Alfred’s, she weaves her way through the crowd to the back of the room to stand with him.

  My father takes my mother’s hand and squeezes it.

  Father Bond begins, “June was born and baptized Roman Catholic. She was born in Brooklyn, attended what used to be called Saint Joseph’s Academy on Long Island. She went to college for two years at Marymount, when she was chosen to tour internationally with the Paul Taylor Dance Company. June went all over the world—Ireland, Poland, Germany, Italy.

  “June cherished her years as a professional dancer. She became a devoted yoga practitioner, and often taught class here at Integral.”

  “Did you know that?” Gabriel whispers.

  “I had no idea she taught classes.”

  “June attended Mass at the Dorothy Day Center in the East Village.”

  “I didn’t know that either,” I whisper to Gabriel.

  “I thought she was a collapsed Catholic. Like me,” he whispers back.

  “June would say, ‘Father, remember to pray for me, because I pray for you.’ This was the essence of this good woman, now in God’s hands. She looked out for those she cared about, and she walked in the world with a big heart. She will be missed.”

  The priest steps back as the monk steps forward. “June expressed herself through the physical, in a way that most of us cannot.”

  “She sure is expressing herself in that picture,” my father whispers to my mother.

  The monk continues, “June danced, and when she did, she became a work of art. She shared her talents, and understood the core of Buddhism, which is renewal and, ultimately, renaissance. She understood that one must change in order to grow. That one must move through life, not stand still, but move with it…”

  “I just wish she had done it in a leotard,” my father mumbles.

  “June believed that about happiness, and also pain. Her death reminds us that if we stay present, we can die on an ordinary morning, without fanfare or drama—but in a state of peace and contentment. I take this lesson from June’s life—and her death: Let go and let be.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. The priest then says, “We offer the floor to anyone who would like to speak.”

  My mother clears her throat, stands, moves before the altar, and stands between the priest and the monk. She goes into her purse and pulls out her eulogy.

  Mom unfolds the paper. I can see she printed it out in extra large letters so she wouldn’t have to wear her reading glasses in front of strangers.

  “Thank you all for coming to June Lawton’s memorial service. My name is Mike Angelini Roncalli. Though I’ve never met most of you, I’m sure you all loved June as I did, as my family did.” Mom inhales deeply, so as not to cry. “I was young when I met June…”

  “She was thirty-six,” Tess whispers and rolls her eyes.

  “I already had a family and responsibilities. June was a Greenwich Village bohemian—you don’t see too many of those around anymore—and she was also a best friend to my mother, who is here today.

  “Nearly thirty years ago, June was looking to do a job that was creative but challenging. She became the best pattern cutter my parents ever had at the Angelini Shoe Company. But she was so much more to us. She was a confidante and a friend. One of us, even though she was a glorious Irish redhead with eyes as blue as the waves of the North Sea on a summer day.

  “I have many fond memories of our dear June, but I’d like to leave you with this little story. I was going through some problems in my life, and June knew it. She took me out for a long walk, and in that very honest way she had, she told me I was full of baloney, and I needed to buck up and stop being a ninny.”

  The underdressed mourners nod in approval.

  “June didn’t suffer fools. And while…” My mother goes off script. She folds her speech in half and puts her hands behind her back.

  Jaclyn and Tess lean toward me. This could go south quickly.

  “And while I can be a fool, I thank God June could spot one. She set me straight that day. And I think that’s the most loving thing a good friend can do, to be honest when you need it, and even when you fail, she stands by you.”

  Mom looks up to heaven.

  “Thank you, June.” Mom takes a step to go back to her seat.

  Irv Raible stands and hits a portable CD player. Miles Davis plays Ravel as we sit and listen. When the music concludes, the priest says, “Thank you for coming and honoring our friend today. I know she would be grateful.”

  My mother pops up and announces, “Oh, and everyone, please come to 166 Perry Street after the service for lunch. Father…” The priest nods. “And Mr. Monk Lao…” The Buddhist priest nods that he will attend. Then Mom looks out over the mourners. “There’ll be plenty of food”—she looks around—“tabbouleh for you veggie Buddhist people…”

  “Your mother always knows the exact right thing to say,” Gabriel says softly.

  The Buddhist monk smiles at my mother, and bows deeply to her from the waist.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  And then, my mother, the nice Catholic girl from Perry Street, bows to the Buddhist
monk on the day we say good-bye to our June.

  After we put Gram and Dom back in the car and sent the rest of the family back to Perry Street, Gabriel and I settled up with the folks at Integral Yoga before walking back to join June’s funeral luncheon. Two popular yoga classes had to be canceled to accommodate June’s ceremony, and we felt it was only right to compensate the venue.

  “You okay?” I ask Gabe.

  “I’m sick of it.”

  “Of what?’

  “Death. Funerals. I’m over it.”

  “That’s the point of a funeral, to begin to heal and move through it. You heard the monk.”

  “Yeah. I guess. You know, I think June had a plan.”

  “Really?” I never saw June as a woman who made plans in advance; she seemed always to be of the moment. I never asked her to dinner a week in advance—she would never remember the date. But if you grabbed her after work for a pasta run to Piccolo Angolo, she was up for it.

  “June wanted to leave things neat,” Gabriel says. “June taught me to clear the cutting table every night. She never cut a new pattern at the end of a working day. She said you should only ever show up to a clean work space.”

  I think about June’s apartment. Everything was clean, pristine, and in place. She was dressed. She was ready to walk out the door.

  “Do you think she knew?”

  “That she was gonna die? No, I don’t. Irv’s been clearing her answering machine and calling people. And there was a message from June’s dealer. I think if she knew she was dying, she would have canceled the order.”

  As we cross 8th Avenue at Horatio Street, I see that our Village has changed. The Greenwich Village of June’s heyday is gone. Now our neighbors are polished and in many ways predictable. Bohemians of the new order wear Theory suits and boots from Jeffrey’s. They talk on cell phones and rush around just like uptowners.

  I look ahead, down Jane Street, where June made her way to the Angelini Shoe Company on foot every morning. And I swear for a moment I see her, walking at a clip, her dancer’s neck leading her forward, her legs extended in long, graceful strides, her bright blue coat unbuttoned in the cold flapping over her work smock, as she juggles two coffees from the deli. She makes the turn onto Perry Street, with a yoga mat slung across her back, her red braids flying behind her in the wind as she goes.