Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [53]
Jack is snoring when I crawl into bed; I give him a gentle nudge, and he turns over. I am looking forward to sleeping long and late since Theodore is taking Etta spelunking. I sink down into the soft flannel sheets like a spoon in gravy. Jack turns over and opens his eyes.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I have an idea,” Jack says, and lies back on the pillow.
“Yeah?”
“I think we should take Etta to Italy next summer to see your dad.”
“Really?”
“Don’t you think she’s old enough?”
“I do!”
“They accepted our bid for the rec-center job in Appalachia. I think we’ll be in pretty good shape financially. If we buy tickets now, we could get a good deal.”
“Okay. I’ll get on it.”
“Does that make you happy?” he asks me.
“Oh my God, yes!” I kiss him good night.
Jack rolls over onto his side and yawns. Soon he’ll be snoring again. I’ve never seen anyone fall asleep more quickly than my husband. Italy. Next summer. It seems so far away. And I’m happy that he got the job in Appalachia. But it’s odd, he hasn’t mentioned my partnership with Pearl since our argument about it. I thought it was best to leave it alone. No matter how well I think I know Jack MacChesney, he can still surprise me. His reactions to things. The things that hurt his feelings. Things I haven’t counted on. There seems to be this gap between us sometimes; he doesn’t know what I’m thinking, and I don’t always know what he’s feeling. I never would have thought that the family finances would be a problem for us. Both of us were so eager to share everything equally in the beginning. And when I had the babies, it seemed natural to work part-time; after all, we own this house, and his paycheck was enough. Maybe he felt empowered in an old-fashioned way when he was the chief breadwinner. Maybe he liked being the only one taking care of us in that way. Is Iva Lou right? Is this all about the male ego? Or are our fights about money really about something else—something both of us are afraid of, so we use the finances as an excuse? Sometimes there’s a stranger in this bed, and I think it’s me.
My post-Christmas present to myself is a call to Gala Nuccio, our travel agent. Gala became a big part of our lives after Jack found her in the New York paper years ago and she planned the trip that brought my dad and nonna to me for the first time.
Gala’s tours are now the gold standard of Italian-American bus tours; she recently shot her first TV commercial (which airs in New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania). She sent us a videotape: there she was, an Italian goddess with golden skin, a beautiful teased bubble of black curls with red highlights, full, shiny maroon lips, arched black eyebrows, and a killer pale blue Chanel suit with gold chains on the pockets. Her perfectly manicured nails with French tips pointed out vistas of Mighty Italia in the background: Rome, Florence, Capri, and Milan whizzed by, a supersonic slide show of adventure. Then, at the end, Gala sat on a suitcase and pointed down to her 800 number, which pulsed in red, white, and green.
“Gala Tours,” the receptionist says when she answers the phone.
“Is Gala in?”
“Who shall I say is calling for Mizz Nuccio?”
“Tell her it’s Mario da Schilpario’s daughter.”
“Hold, please.” I am on hold for barely ten seconds, then Gala bursts through the wires.
“Holy Mother, is that you, sister?” Gala barks into the phone.
“It’s me. You dropped Nuccio? Now you’re a one-name star like Cher or Liberace?”
“Or God.” Gala cracks herself up.
“How are you?”
“I am fan-tab-you-luss.” Then Gala lowers her voice and growls, “Yesss ma’am.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Toot Ruggerio. He lives in Manhattan. Little Italy. He’s busy. And he’s thrifty. He lives in the same apartment he grew up in. Rent control, you know. He’s very close to the senator up there. Senator Pothole, they call him.”
“Oh, Toot’s in government.”
“Nope. Construction. Honey, they call it politics, but honest to God, it’s all construction.”
I tell Gala all about Jack’s new business.
“I cannot