The Way Life Should Be (26 page)

“So you’re still in Maine, huh?” he says. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me, since he’s still facing the bed.

“Yep.”

“Must be cold up there.”

“Yep.”

“Tell you the truth, I’m shocked that sailor guy didn’t turn out to be a sleaze. I’d’ve put money on it. But hey. Good for you.”

I just nod. No point in confirming his expectations.

Nonna turns her head from side to side, moaning.
“L’acqua.”
Paul and I knock into each other reaching for the plastic pitcher on her cluttered bedside table. “I’ve got it,” he says, and pours her a cup, holding it gently to her mouth. She sips greedily, reaching her lips toward the water like a horse seeking a treat. Paul recoils a little but holds the cup steady.

Nonna’s eyes flutter open. They roam the room, unfocused, before settling on Paul’s face. “Eh?” she says.

“Hey, Nonna,” Paul says in a hearty radio announcer’s voice. “It’s me, Paul.”

“I know who you are,” she says.

“How’r ya feelin’?” His words contract with false cheer.

“Eh.” She looks at him blankly. Then she says, “You should be at work.”

We all laugh, because we know that Paul is thinking the same thing. My father approaches the bed, straightens the covers, smooths the sheet. “That’s how special you are,
mia madre,
” he says. “Paul took time from his busy day to come and see you.”

She peers up at Paul. “You can go back to work.
Sto bene.
” I’m okay.

It isn’t until this sentence that I actually see that one side of her face is immobile.

Paul pats her hand. “You’re a fighter, Nonna. That’s for sure.”

I wonder what she thinks of this, of being treated like a child by her grandson.

“Not fighting. Just breathing,” she says.

“A strong woman,” says my father.

Nonna doesn’t answer. We stand around awkwardly for a while before, inevitably, Paul glances at his Hermès watch and pantomimes a gasp. Look at the time!

After Paul says his good-byes, I walk him to the elevator. He’ll check in with me tomorrow to see how it’s going, he says. We talk about Christmas, three days from now, and agree to play it by ear. Nonna could still be in the hospital. I mention the possibility of getting together with Kim and the kids, but their schedule is complicated, what with the holiday festival and play dates and indoor soccer games. We make noises about staying in better touch, but we both know we’re only making a gesture.

CHAPTER 25

Two days later, Nonna is home. The paralysis on the left side of her
face is less noticeable; she moves gingerly but without a limp. As soon as we get in the front door, she says she’s ready for a rest. Refusing offers of help, she leans heavily on the banister as she makes her way to the second floor. She seems chastened by her time in the hospital, newly aware of the precariousness of her place in this world.

Christmas, with its rigid rituals, enforced family time, and reflexive, programmed cheer, looms. “Can’t we pretend we’re Jewish this year and order Chinese?” Sharon jokes, but my father isn’t amused. “How hard is it to cook a ham?” he says. “You take it out of the fridge; you stick it in the oven.” I think Sharon is only beginning to realize the double edge of Nonna’s legacy: Her presence in their home has made it easy for Sharon to avoid the kitchen, but it has also stoked my father’s desire for home cooking. Unless he steps up and learns how to make a few dishes himself, Sharon will have to either make it clear that she won’t do it, or face the stove.

“I’ll make Christmas dinner,” I volunteer. “But no ham, all right? Let’s do Nonna’s favorites.” I put together a menu of dishes I know Nonna likes: potato-crusted sole, seared scallops and escarole with orecchiette, veal piccata, baked ziti.

“Fava beans and chicory!” my father requests happily. He gets on the phone and calls Paul, reinviting him and his family. Sharon calls her elderly father in Queens, and I call Lindsay to ask if she wants to join us at six o’clock on Christmas Day.

“I can’t wait,” she says. “You’ll finally meet Peter!”

I hadn’t thought to invite Mr. Hot4U, but the more the merrier—isn’t that what they say?

I review the menu with Nonna,
who is sitting up in her bed draped like a Sherpa with three or four of her colorful afghans. A bit dubious, she suggests I trim the list. I think she’s afraid I won’t pull it off. Perhaps she’s also concerned that her role is being usurped and she won’t have anything to do.

“It’s all in the timing,” she frets. “You must be thinking at every second about what is on the stove and what needs to go in the oven.”

“I know, Nonna, I know,” I say, and pat her hand. “You’ll be my consultant. From bed.”

She slips her hand out from under mine. She will not be appeased. She gives me instructions about where to get the freshest fish, which butcher to approach at the grocery store about the veal, how to grate and store the raw potato for the crust so it won’t brown. “You need help,” she says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. It takes all my wiles to restrain her. “This is my job, Nonna. Think of me as your protégé. You have to let me blunder through.”

Christmas morning I wake
early to the sound of rain tapping on the windows. How can it be warm enough for rain? On the front lawn the snow is melting into soupy piles, revealing ugly patches of rutted earth. Later the rain will likely freeze, making roads and sidewalks slick and treacherous.

I head downstairs to get started on dinner and find Nonna standing at the counter in her bathrobe, draping a damp towel over a mound of dough. Sam, at her feet, stretched out on the linoleum, raises his head and thumps his tail.

I pat his head. “Nonna, what are you doing?”

“I’m making the
ciabatta,
” she says. “Too much for you to do on your own.”

“No, it’s not. And you’re supposed to be resting!”

She flaps her hand. “For me, this is resting.”

I know there’s little point in arguing. “Merry Christmas,” I say, kissing her on the head. “But I want you to go slow.”

“
Buon Natale
. I made coffee for you.”

Before anyone else is up, I give Nonna her present: a book of photographs of the village of Matera. I found a link for it online, at a website dedicated to Basilicata. After unwrapping it and gazing at the glossy cover—a haunting picture of Matera’s maze of white stone dwellings—Nonna clasps the oversize volume to her chest. Thumbing slowly through the pages, she handles the book like a precious artifact, an illuminated manuscript. Here is a wall painting from a church built into the mountain face, here a winding street with ivy and geraniums spilling from balconies, here a group of young women walking, laughing, one pushing a stroller. Nonna examines the photographs closely, as though she is looking for someone, anyone, familiar, but she doesn’t speak a word.

As she closes the book, I see that her eyes are full of tears. “I will treasure it,” she says simply, and clasps my hands. “I have something, too.” She disappears into the dining room and returns with a paper grocery sack in outstreteched hands. I reach inside and pull out a scarf—no, a throw blanket. Clearly Nonna has made it, but this one is utterly unlike her others. Nonna’s throws are usually sensible wool blends, in pastel or primary col
ors. Mine is a dazzling riot of heathered strands—a royal-hued weave of reds and purples, with interlaced threads of gold.

“Nonna,” I gasp, pulling the throw around my shoulders. “It’s gorgeous. And so soft! Is it mohair?”

“Angora, mostly,” she says, caressing the throw like a kitten she is reluctantly giving away, “with some lamb’s wool for shape. I told the girl at the yarn shop—she’s about your age—that I wanted to make a special present for my granddaughter, and she showed me this yarn. I chose the colors. The blend is Tuscany. I liked the name.”

I lift my cloaked arms and engulf her, pulling her in. “I’ll use it every day.”

“You won’t hide it in a drawer?” she asks slyly.

I smile. “I won’t hide it in a drawer.”

She fingers the throw. “Maybe someday you’ll learn to knit.”

“Will you teach me?”

Nudging me in the ribs, she says, “Haven’t I taught you enough?”

Nonna refuses to leave the kitchen.
She sits ensconced at the table, chopping garlic, blending ricotta with eggs and cheese for the baked ziti, forming homemade orecchiette, little ear-shaped pasta, between her palm and thumb. I have given up trying to persuade her to join the others in the living room; I suspect she’d rather wash a heap of dirty dishes than listen to small talk. I catch bits of chatter: Paul’s wife, Kim, fusses over two-year-old Brianna’s curls, admonishes four-year-old Ryan to stop bothering the dog. My father consults Paul about the stock market. Sharon pops in every few minutes to offer assistance, but we understand she’s only being polite.

At five thirty the doorbell rings and I dry my hands and hurry out to the hall. Lindsay spills in with an armful of presents, trail
ing the boyfriend, a wisp of a man with brown hair and glasses. I can only trust that he’s the Clark Kent alter ego of the passionate Hot4U.

She gives me a hug, then stands back and clutches his hand. “Angela, Peter. Finally, you two meet.”

Mr. Hot shakes my hand and smiles shyly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Lindsay really misses you.”

“I miss Lindsay, too,” I say, putting my arm around her middle. “Did you know you’re the reason I left? After meeting you, she was so jazzed about online dating she convinced me to try. That’s how I ended up going to Maine.”

“You shouldn’t have told her about the ‘extend search’ option,” he tells Lindsay.

“She discovered that all on her own,” Lindsay says.

Scarves, hats, mittens.
Thermal underwear. A theme is apparent in the gifts I receive this year. Lindsay gives me black Emus, laced sheepskin boots with a fluffy lamb’s wool lining that, she tells me, will be warm in Maine and stylish in New York—“so they’ll still be useful when you come to your senses.”

“They’re perfect,” I tell her. “Did you get a pair for yourself?”

She nods.

“You’ll have to bring them when you visit.”

“You really think I’ll need them in August?” she says.

Unfortunately, Nonna is more skilled
than I at making potato-crusted sole. My first fillet is gummy and undercooked; the second is dry. Ignoring my protests, Nonna gets up from chatting with Lindsay at the table and inspects the butter (too hot), then smoothly works her way through the steps of coating and recoating the fish as I watch at her elbow. With a flick of her wrist, Nonna dips the fish in flour and egg, leaving just enough mois
ture for the shredded potato to adhere. As she works, Nonna instructs. “You see,” she says softly, “the lightness. Always the lightness. Just so. The balance of dry and wet, cool and hot. You improve only with practice; you make this dish again and again. How many times, in my lifetime, have I made this?”

Mr. Hot is on all fours
on the living room floor with a jump rope between his teeth. Ryan and Brianna have sized him up, in the shrewd way that children do, and determined that he is perfect horsey material.

“Go, go,
go!
” Brianna squeals, kicking his flanks with her heels and pulling on the rope.

Paul leans against the door frame between the kitchen and living room, an open wine bottle in one hand and a stem glass in the other. “Looks like Lindsay won’t have any trouble with that one. He’s already broken,” he says under his breath.

“Hush.”

“I should hire him as a nanny.”

“Paul,” I warn him. “Enough.”

“So,” he says, filling his glass from the bottle and surveying the kitchen. “Who taught you to cook?”

“Why do you have to be such a bastard?”

“Hey, watch it. Nonna’s sitting right here,” he says, cutting his eyes over at her.

“
Non sia un tal asino
,” she says without looking up from the orecchiette.

Paul looks at me questioningly. He learned little Italian from our father, and was gone by the time Nonna moved in.

“‘Don’t be such an ass,’” I translate.

We both burst out laughing.

“Going into the office later?” I ask him.

He shifts uncomfortably. “How’d you guess?”

“Thomas Pink shirt, okay,” I say. “It’s kind of festive. But I can’t imagine you’d wear those five-hundred-dollar shoes to Nutley otherwise, even for Christmas.”

“I’ll only check in for an hour or two after this shindig is over. The international markets don’t care if it’s Christmas, you know.”

“I’m sure Santa feels the same way about the international markets,” I say.

Watching me sprinkle mozzarella on the half-baked ziti and slide it back in the oven, he takes a long sip of wine. “You’re a funny girl,” he says. “I should take the time to get to know you better.”

This is classic Paul-speak—a biting aside with a nugget of genuine feeling buried deep within.

“At this point, why bother?” I say.

Paul looks at me for a long moment. Then he says, “You’re not with that sailor guy anymore, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I don’t know whether it’s the stuffy kitchen or the pressure of having all these dishes in the oven at once or whether I’m just deeply angry at Paul’s generally dismissive attitude, but I am suddenly incapable of banter. “Why? Because I knew you’d ridicule me. As usual. And frankly, I wasn’t up for it.”

“Hey,” he says, and there’s a different note in his voice. “I never really mean it, you know.”

“Come on.”

“I don’t.” He sets down his wineglass.

I brush the grated cheese off the cutting board and into the sink. “Yes. You do mean it. You think I should be settled down. You can’t understand why I’m not. You think that going to Maine was the most idiotic thing anybody could ever do.”

“Augh.” He puts the heels of his palms over his eyes. “You want to know, really, what I think?”