Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [48]
“I know.”
“I know you know,” Theodore tells me, and kisses me on the forehead.
The phone rings, at least four times; just as I’m about to yell for someone, anyone, to pick it up, I hear Etta in the hallway.
“Ciao, Nonno!” she says, giggling. Jack takes over carving the turkey and motions for me to take the phone.
“Merry Christmas, Papa.”
“How’s my daughter?”
“I’m great. Just wish you were here.”
“How is Christmas?”
“Hectic. Nuts. How about you?”
“Mama took a little fall, so we—”
“How? Is she all right?”
“Nothing broke. Thank God. She’s bossing everyone from her chair.”
“May I speak with her?” My father gives my grandmother the phone; she sounds hearty and robust and not broken at all. She tells me all the news of Schilpario in a run-on sentence, ending with the news that my father is seeing a woman seriously. Her name is Giacomina, and she’s only forty-four years old! “Put Papa on the phone,” I tell her. I know she must be important to him; my father has always had lots of girlfriends, so to bring home someone special must be a big deal, and for my grandmother to mention it, it’s got to be serious.
“Yes, yes, it’s true. I love this woman,” Papa says to me, and laughs.
“Are you getting married?” I ask him.
“Thinking about it. Yes. I would prefer to only think of it and never do it.”
“Don’t you do a thing until I can be there!” I yell into the phone.
“When are you coming?”
“I don’t know. But don’t do anything until we can be there. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Jack takes the phone and talks to my father. I go into the dining room and catch Theodore up on all the goings-on in Italy as he places serving pieces on the table.
The dining room table, a rustic farm table with thick legs, is dressed with my mother’s china, a pattern I have always loved, which is called “English Ivy.” I have placed crystal plates filled with celery, carrots, and black olives at either end of the table. Sterling silver open-weave baskets are filled with fresh rolls, and pats of butter in the shape of Christmas bells and fluffy buttermilk rolls (thank you, Hope Meade) are placed on each guest’s bread plate. I dim the lights (my mother’s simple crystal chandelier from our Poplar Hill house) and light the twisty red taper candles in their Santa holders (a special from the Mutual’s).
Etta runs in and offers to ring the dinner bell. She grabs it and runs through the house, clanging it in every room as if she’s a goatherd. Jack says good-bye to my father and goes into the kitchen for the turkey. The company drifts in, though they aren’t company at all, really, but family. Iva Lou and Lyle take their places opposite Jack; Etta sits next to Iva Lou; Pearl and Dr. B. sit to one side of me, Theodore to the other; Fleeta, Dorinda, and baby Jeanine sit in the center; Otto and Worley and Leah fill in the rest. In the beauty of the moment, surrounded by my favorite people, I want to cry.
“Don’t, Ma,” Etta whispers.
“No, no. I’m happy. I was just thinking how lucky we are. To have each other. That’s all.”
My friends murmur in reply, no one ’fessing up to their holiday emotions, and maybe not wanting to deal with them, either. I miss my mother terribly; my father is a big ocean away; Mrs. Mac is gone. My son, who loved Christmas, is not here. I wonder if they’re looking down on us, sorry they can’t be with us. I stare into the candle for a second, hoping that the bright white of the flame will center me and help me from having a sobfest right here in the sweet-potato casserole with delicate marshmallow crust. Dr. Bakagese winks at me. Maybe he knows where my thoughts have taken me.
“Honey, why don’t you lead the prayer?”
“Catholic or Baptist?” Etta offers us a choice.
“If we’re goin’ by the numbers, go with Baptist. We got you Cath-licks beat by about six.” Fleeta moves her head around the table, counting Protestants. “ ’Course, Doc, I don’t know what religion you is but I’m perty sure it’s one of them that meditates.”
“Fleeta, with all due respect, my daughter is Catholic,” Jack offers, avoiding