“I’ll call Frankie, she’ll know what’s what.”
In most families, there’s usually one person who is a bottomless well of Intel. For the San Valentino family it’s my mother’s sister, my Aunt Frankie. No one would ever call her a gossip to her face, but if you look in the dictionary for a definition of the word, you’ll find her picture.
Francesca San Valentino is one of those women people love to tell their troubles to. I’ve always thought it’s because she’s so tiny and unassuming. She barely comes to my chin and I’m no giant. It’s easy for people to disregard what a powerful force of humanity she is because of her diminutive stature and the fact she’s very reserved with everyone but family.
Frankie’s got the kind of face that just invites you to share your life story, though. I’ve heard my father say she could get a slab of marble to speak. She concentrates those fair, northern Italian blue, sympathy-filled eyes on you, and before you know it you’ve confessed everything in your soul to her like she’s your parish priest or rabbi.
I had no doubt she would be able to answer every nosy, probing question my mother had about Tony.
My father came into the kitchen as I gulped the last of my tea.
“The boys are leavin’,” he told my mother, referring to my uncles. “Sonny’s got a guy who knows a guy down at the precinct who might be able to tell us when the cops are done with the store so’s we can open again.”
“Don’t hold your breath it’s gonna be anytime this week,” I said. “From what Tony said this investigation might take a while.”
“Let’s hope not, little girl. Christmas is less than a month away and I got dozens of orders I need to get ready. We can’t disappoint our customers. Plus, we got our shut-ins to worry about.”
My mother, our family’s comforter-in-chief, slid her arms around my father’s waist. He returned the hug and the two of them stood together, leaning on one another, like they have every day of their marriage. Not for the first time in my life I gave thanks for having parents who truly stood by one another no matter what came their way. My mother and father were perfect partners, still as in love as the first time they’d laid eyes on one another.
“We can cook for them here,” Mama said, “and you or Donna can deliver to them so they don’t starve to death.”
Daddy nodded. “That’s a good idea, Gracie.”
“It’ll work out okay.” She pulled away from him and asked, “What are you gonna do for the rest of the day? I gotta meeting at St. Rita’s and I can’t get out of it.”
“I been thinking.” My father thrust his chin in my direction. “You got everything stored on the computer, right?”
I knew what he was asking. As the store manager, I catalogued all our orders, supplies, bills and receipts, plus everything relating to our employees in files on my desktop at work and at home. “Of course,” I told him. “Why?”
“Go call everyone again. Tell them what’s going on and that we’re gonna pay’em even though they ain’t working right now.”
“Louie, can you afford to do that?”
“No worries, mi amore. I don’t want anyone jumping ship right before the holidays because they ain’t pullin’ in a paycheck. We got insurance for something like this.” He nodded at me again. “Donna made sure of that.”
With her penciled-in eyebrows rising up her forehead, my mother looked my way.
“It made sense from a business standpoint.” I shrugged, then for the first time all day, smiled. “Even though you fought me tooth and nail on it,” I said to my father. “Okay. I’ll get on home and do that and I’ll call our insurance agent, too. Let him know what happened and to start a claim.” I put my teacup in the sink and then shrugged back into my coat. “I’ll check in later to let you know what he says.”
I bussed both their cheeks. “We’ll weather this, Daddy.”
Before I left, my mother tied the ends of my scarf together. “It’s cold out. I don’t want you getting sick on the way back to your place.”
“Ma, I live on the next block. I’m not gonna have time to catch a cold.”
She gave me the look every Italian mother knows how to do from the moment they find out they’re pregnant. Lips pressed together and pulled downward in a pout resembling an upside down smile, both eyes opened wide and the space between them pinched, chin dropped and head tilted to one side at a slight angle. It’s a look that needs no words. When I’d been younger it could mean anything from a subtle censure, to a wait-until-we-get-home-and-you’re-gonna-get-it threat of punishment. In all honesty, my brothers were more often the ones who received the look. But I’d been known to be on the other end of it a time or two during my moody teen years.
With another kiss and a wave, I left the warmth of their kitchen.
I loved New York at any time of the year, but in winter, with a subtle breeze flowing off the Hudson River at my back, and the sun shining bright, I knew in my heart no matter what came in life, I’d never leave this city.
My apartment was less than a five-minute walk from my parent’s place. Unlike many of my female cousins who lived at home until the day they married, I’d moved into my own place in my twenties, wanting my independence from under my father’s roof. I worked alongside him every single day of the year and felt I needed some alone time living in the house I’d grown up in couldn’t give me.
In truth, I hadn’t gone far – merely a block away. The three-story brownstone was the duplicate of my parent’s home, except there were three different families living in mine – one on each floor, with me on the top level. Uncle Sonny owned the building so my rent was lower than the other two tenants because I got the family discount.
I’m not going to lie: I love this.
In my teens I’d toyed with the idea of being an interior decorator. I never missed a decorating show on the HG channel and had a serious crush on both of the Property Brother twins. I was all set to announce my decision to go to design school when high school graduation rolled around, but my father had other plans.
As the oldest child, and – let’s face it – the most stable one in every way, and because I’d been working in the deli for years, my father had expected me to continue doing so and had appointed me manager effective as soon as I had my diploma in my hands without ever asking if I wanted the job. He’d told me how much he’d grown to depend on me and knew if anything happened to him, the deli would survive. He even told me he’d pay for me to go to a local community business school so I could learn the ins and outs of financial management. Of course I had to attend night school because he needed me during the day in the store.
Without ever asking if this was the path I wanted for my life my father had already mapped out the next few decades for me.
I could have refused.
I’d planned a whole speech about how I wanted to be a decorator, that it was my true passion. I’d never wanted to continue working in the store after graduation after I’d devoted most of my teenaged life to it. It’s not that it was beneath me or anything, I just wanted a different path for the rest of my life other than slicing bologna and stocking shelves until retirement rolled around.