Kiss Carlo

  Small tea sandwiches made from thin white American bread, filled with either pimento cheese and bacon bits or cream cheese and red caviar or a mixture of fig paste with whipped honey butter, were arranged on a ceramic platter on the dining table by flavor. On a tiered silver server, snowball wedding cookies iced in pink coconut were arranged alongside cutout sugar cookies shaped in the letters D and C, which Concetta had been horrified to realize were not only the initials of the surnames of the bride and groom but shorthand for a procedure she had at Allegheny Medical a few years earlier. Concetta quickly flipped the letters to C and D until the tier was in alphabetical order.

  “Why the damn fuss, Connie?” Al DePino, her husband of forty-two years, stood in the doorway in his thick white undershorts. Not since Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall had a neck, chest, and waist been so seamlessly connected.

  “Criminy, Al! Get dressed. The Palazzini women are on their way over.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t want to scare them.”

  “It’s the DePinos who should be scared.”

  “Why should we be afraid?”

  “Castone is not a man of conviction.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “He’s a shifty orphan. Couldn’t she have picked one of the boys with parents?”

  “She likes the nephew. Okay? The oldest one was never going to go for Peachy. Gio? I don’t want a gambler in the family. That’s a curse you can never crawl out from under. Besides, that one went for the Irish girl anyway. And Nino has loved Lena Cortina since grade school. That leaves Nicky Castone.”

  “We only got to pick from one family in all of Philadelphia?” Al put his fingers together in the formation of two beaks and pecked his words for emphasis. “We can’t choose from the tri-state area? We’re limited by geography? We’re like a potted plant that can only grow in certain climes. Who made up these rules?”

  “Your daughter likes what she likes.”

  “You spoiled her, and this is the result.”

  “No, you moved us here against our will from Rhode Island when Peachy was getting traction with some very nice young men, and she had to start over and then there was the war and here we are.”

  “What does all that have to do with anything now?”

  “There were more marriageable young men in North Providence. Look around. Philly is a dustbin.”

  “Your opinion. I like it here. At least we didn’t wind up in the internment camp.”

  “That’s because of me and my connections. Your people are a bunch of followers. The DePinos put their hands in the air and marched right into the coops. If it weren’t for my family and Joe Peters and his quick thinking . . . ”

  “I am not going to kiss your cousin Joe’s coolie for the rest of my life.”

  “It wouldn’t kill you. He kept us out of the camps.”

  “I send him a bottle every Christmas, what more do you want from me?” Al scratched an itch on his rear end.

  “Not near the food, Al!” Connie pushed her husband away from the dining room table. “Please behave yourself. I can handle your glares and grunts and gas, but other people aren’t obligated. You look like you could kill someone with your black-eyed stare. It’s off-putting. It’s ill-mannered.”

  “I’m not changing to impress people. You didn’t marry Serge Obolensky.”

  “No, I did not. But you could have a little class. Show a little effort. Some couth! If not for me, for your daughter.” Concetta went around the dining room table and straightened the chairs and adjusted the place mats and napkins. “I don’t understand you, Alessio.”

  “What’s to understand? I love my kid,” Al said, his eyes filling with tears. He grabbed a paper napkin.

  “Not my party napkins!” Concetta fished into her dress and under her bra strap, producing a pressed handkerchief, and handed it to her husband, grabbing the paper napkin out of his hand.

  “Always with the decorations.” Al dabbed his eyes with her handkerchief.

  “It’s what women do.” Concetta fanned the paper napkin next to the cookie tier. “We get tired of looking at the same old thing, so we decorate. Now go upstairs and put on your pants. And would it kill you to put on a tie?”

  “It would.”

  “Do it for Peachy.”

  “Do what for Peachy?” Peachy entered the dining room, wearing a pink wool skirt and a pale green sweater. She had placed a small pink velvet bow and a matching green one in her hair.

  “Whatever you want!” Concetta took her daughter’s face in her hands and kissed her forehead. She reached down to her daughter’s skirt and pulled at the loose waistband. “You’re too thin.”

  “I’m all right, Ma.”

  “You’re my Peachy Piccina, Skinny Minnie, Fattie Boom-ba-lattie, I don’t care about your size. You’re getting married and I’m so happy for you.”

  “The only time I’ve ever seen your mother this happy is never.” Al popped a coconut cookie into his mouth.

  “Al. Stop poaching the refreshments. Your pants.”

  “I mean it, Peach,” Al said, hiking up his briefs to cover his belly button. “This wedding is your mother’s life.”

  “Peachy is my life. So what? She will have the most beautiful wedding South Philly has ever seen.”

  The doorbell rang, sending Concetta across the dining room, arms akimbo, to shove her husband out of it. “Pants, Al! Pants!”

  Peachy laughed and slipped a C cookie from the tier on her way through the living room to the front door. She chewed and swallowed quickly before throwing the door open to greet her wedding party. “Aunt Jo!” Peachy embraced Nicky’s aunt, standing in for the mother of the groom.

  Jo Palazzini had a small, muscular build and a chic, cropped hairstyle that showed off her thick black hair streaked with white. “Ma!” Peachy called out. “The girls are here!”

  Jo’s daughters-in-law filed on to the porch carrying gifts. Peachy welcomed them inside as her mother emerged from the living room carrying a polished silver bowl, which she shook as she greeted the women. “Prizes! I’ve got prizes!”

  “This is going to be fun!” Lena said and clapped her hands together. Still young and newly married, she couldn’t get enough of wedding hoopla. Lena was Sicilian, petite, and shapely, with almond-shaped Cleopatra eyes.

  “Where can I sit? I’ve got a varicose vein in my left leg that’s throbbing like a sump pump clearing out a root cellar after a flash flood.” Mabel was bloated that afternoon, her wedding ring lodged on her finger, more a tiny gold tourniquet than an article of jewelry.

  “Elsa, you’re simply regal,” Concetta said as she took in Elsa’s crisp linen day shift.

  “Thank you.”

  “Very Mainbocher.”

  “I’m afraid not. My mother-in-law made this dress for me.”

  “How I wish I was handy with the needle and thread,” Concetta lamented.

  “But you do all right, Ma. You don’t have to sew as long as I work at Wanamaker’s. You get a discount at the store off the rack,” Peachy reminded her.

  “Hey, do we get the discount once we’re family?” Mabel barked.

  “I’ll ask,” Peachy said, clenching her molars.

  “Follow me, girls.” Concetta led them into the dining room.

  Concetta had made place cards for the ladies. As they found their names and took their seats, the Palazzini women fussed and commented about the lovely decorations and bridal spread.

  Peachy took the seat of honor at the head of the table. Concetta poured tea as the ladies filled their plates.

  Mabel didn’t bother to use her plate as a way station between the cookie tier and her mouth, she simply popped the coconut snowballs like pep pills. “These are delicious,” she said through a mouthful of icing. “I have such a sweet tooth now that I’m expecting.”

  “I’m sure the weight will come right off after the baby,” Concetta
assured her.

  “It doesn’t matter if I get as big as a coal truck,” Mabel articulated through her second cookie. “I can’t be in the wedding anyway in my condition.”

  “Can you keep the bride’s book?” Peachy asked Mabel.

  “Sure. Why not?” Mabel replied less than enthusiastically. “Historically that’s what they do with the fat girls. They give them the recording secretary position behind a table, practically out of the public eye. It makes sense. In the official wedding album, you never see their bodies, because they’re sitting collecting signatures. You just see their floating heads.”

  “Noooo!” Peachy, Jo, and Concetta cried.

  “You don’t want to flaunt the fatties. Trust me. I remember when my shape opened doors and when the same ones got slammed in my face when I put on a couple of pounds. Just show me where the book and pen are, and I’ll get every signature in the hall.” Mabel sampled the caviar tea sandwich. “I’m switching to savory, if that’s all right.”

  “Fine, fine.” Concetta began to worry whether she had made enough food.

  “What are we wearing?” Lena was unable to contain her enthusiasm.

  “Pink,” Peachy said definitively. “Ma, what color are you wearing?”

  “Chartreuse silk with leaf-green piping. It’s a dress-and-coat ensemble.”

  “Aunt Jo?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I thought yellow would be nice,” Peachy suggested.

  “Fine.” Jo hated yellow, but she would do whatever her nephew’s bride wanted.

  “What dress did you pick out for us?” Lena relished being a bridesmaid. It was a job with a uniform.

  “It’s in the bridal shop at Wanamaker’s. It’s a Susan Poster design. Scrumptious! It’s pink velvet, full circle skirt, square neckline. On your heads, a calot hat in matching pink with pink seed pearls.”

  “That’s a lot of pink.” Mabel helped herself to another sandwich. “You girls are gonna look like a box of candy cigars.”

  “Do you have a problem with pink?” Peachy asked Mabel.

  “Not at all. I don’t have to wear it. I can wear hedgehog brown, for all anyone cares. I’m just keeping the book.”

  “Pink is lovely,” Jo said with a smile, defusing the situation.

  Lena nodded. “You’ve thought this through.”

  “Since she was seven years old,” Concetta said proudly.

  “I was hoping you could do the altar flowers.” Peachy looked at Elsa. “Father says no one does a more beautiful job with the flowers than you.”

  “I will be happy to.” Elsa patted Peachy’s hand to reassure her.

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t get a thank-you in advance for keeping the book?” Mabel asked, reaching for the cream for her tea. “You know I’ll completely miss the cocktail hour waiting around for the latecomers and stragglers and men who couldn’t find parking. No Swedish meatballs for me.”

  “Thank you for your sacrifice, Mabel,” Peachy said tersely.

  “Elsa has a way with flower arranging—better than the florist. Our garden has never looked better.” Aunt Jo smiled at Elsa. “And the May crowns were lovely.”

  “What are you wearing, Peachy?” Mabel asked.

  “Well . . .” Peachy placed her hands on the table and closed her eyes, conjuring the image of her glorious gown on the most important day of her life. “Duchesse satin. Illusion sleeve . . .”

  “I love an illusion sleeve,” Concetta said wistfully. “My side of the family has arms less than Greek, which Peachy did not inherit so she can show a little flesh.”

  “Most of those ancient statues don’t have hands. You’re lucky to have an arm at all. Forget two of them.” Mabel reached across the table for a handful of bridge mix.

  “You wouldn’t want ours,” Concetta assured her. “We have the flap up top and elbows like walnuts.”

  “That’s why God invented the bishop sleeve,” Jo commented.

  Peachy continued, “Illusion lace over a sweetheart neckline, pointed cuff, buttons up the back, seventy-seven cut glass Venetian buttons—”

  “We’ll have to get a third-grader in here to button her into the dress. We need tiny fingers and hands. The buttons are minuscule!” Concetta said with delight.

  “Tiara, lace veil . . . Mr. Da Ponte is creating the veil from lace—”

  “That’s been in the family since Torre del Greco,” Concetta confirmed.

  “And a train.” Peachy stood up and modeled the imaginary train. “Like a princess of an Italian province, I will wear a train that will extend from the first pew to the last, just yards and yards of cut Italian lace, I don’t know how many centuries old, worn by every bride in the Cuccamorsina family since the first girl was born.”

  “And one day your daughter will wear it, too,” Aunt Jo commented.

  “Of course. We are traditional,” Peachy promised.

  “And evidently excellent at avoiding silkworm and moth problems. Old lace is candy to bugs.” Mabel cut a slab of coffee cake from the ring. “My grandmother’s gown was eaten by boll weevils during the potato famine.”

  “That’s too bad.” Peachy cut her mother a look.

  “Your dress sounds beautiful. We’ll be sure to come over and help you dress the morning of the wedding,” Lena said supportively.

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely.” The Palazzini wives all nodded.

  “With that train, you’ll need the help.” Lena smiled.

  Peachy’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m an only child and I wanted sisters all my life, and now I have them. I can’t believe I’ve waited seven years for this day. I’ll plan plenty of time to dress.”

  “You might want to start now. With that train, those buttons, and that veil, you’ll need a fleet of Carmelites to put you together. I hear they farm out the postulates for a donation.” Mabel cut a forkful of coffee cake and ate it.

  Concetta clapped her hands. “I thought it would be fun to assemble some confetti bags. At each of your place settings are the tulle squares, the ribbons, and the Jordan almonds.”

  “My father broke a molar on the Jordan almonds at my wedding. Bit down. Howled in pain. They should come with a warning,” Mabel commented.

  The ladies filled the tulle with the almonds. Elsa tied a ribbon around the netting, making the pouch.

  “Who is doing the dolls for the cars?” Lena asked. “It’s my favorite wedding tradition in South Philly. I love to come out of the church and see the cars decorated for the wedding party with dolls dressed like the bridesmaids, and then of course, the doll dressed as the bride on the limousine. You’ll have to be careful with your replica, though—that long train could flap in the breeze and blind the driver.”

  “Mabel, I was hoping you could make the dolls. The ones you created for your wedding were so pretty.”

  “Yeah. I can do them. How many cars?”

  “Twelve.”

  “But you only have two girls in the wedding party.”

  “The family is coming from Canada,” Peachy explained.

  “Nooo. Out-of-town guests don’t get dolls. You’ll start a trend that will never be reversed. Dolls on the hoods of wedding party only.”

  “I thought it would be nice. Something special. Something different. They’re coming from so far away.”

  “Why don’t we just put dolls on all the cars? Including the ones for sale at Dotta’s car dealership, while I’m at it?” Mabel complained.

  “They wouldn’t be special then.”

  “Exactly. They’re not going to be very special when you see twelve pink dolls driving by on various hoods hauling a bunch of Canadians around.”

  Peachy looked as though she might cry.

  “Just do the dolls,” Jo said quietly to Mabel.

  “We thought we’d have the bridal shower at Tarello’s—” Lena began.

  “Why Tarello’s?” Concetta asked nervously.

  “They have the nice garden in the back.??
?

  “Daddy choked on the squid there,” Peachy blurted.

  “But the shower is women only. Your dad won’t be coming,” Lena reminded her.

  “How about Victor’s Café?” Mabel suggested.

  “I suppose,” Peachy mused.

  “Well, why don’t you pick? Think about it.” Lena forced a smile.

  “I had mine at Echo Lake. Vacation Valley Inn,” Mabel offered.

  “The Poconos? That’s a long drive.” Concetta put her foot down.

  “Not as long as it’s going to take me to dress a fleet of dolls.” Mabel sighed.

  * * *

  Elsa took the wheel of the sedan parked in front of the DePino home. Mabel sat next to her in the front seat. Lena gave a final wave to Peachy and her parents from the sidewalk before climbing into the back seat with Aunt Jo.

  Elsa started the car and pulled out onto the street. After a few moments, Lena said, “Poor Nicky.”

  “They’re all right,” Aunt Jo said optimistically. “Peachy knows what she likes. Concetta is eager, and she’s a hard worker. It will be fine.”

  “If you say so.” Mabel sighed.

  Lena searched for something positive to say. “They are very thorough and organized. I’m scared of Mr. DePino, though. He’s a black bowling ball.”

  “Stay out of his way,” Mabel advised.

  “And not one word about Nicky,” Elsa sighed.

  “Yeah, that’s not good, but you won the tongs when we played guess the jelly beans,” Mabel said.

  “You won a prize, too,” Lena commented.

  “Forgive me if I don’t get excited about a can of foot powder.”

  “You guessed how many chocolate-covered raisins there were in the bridge mix. That’s a talent,” Aunt Jo said.