Very Valentine

5. Forest Hills

THERE ISN’T A SOUL on the E train as Gram and I board at the Eighth Street station to go out to Queens. It’s a quiet Sunday morning, but the evidence of a wild Saturday night is visible as we skirt empty liquor bottles and soda cans. As we push through the turnstile, the subway platform is filled with the pungent scent of motor oil and Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve never understood how the doughnut smell can waft down from street level but the fresh air can’t.

A train pulls into the station, its dull gray doors open wide, and I quickly step in and scan the car to make sure it’s a good one. A good car has no abandoned food on the seats, odd riders, or mysterious moisture on the floor. Gram chooses two seats in the corner and I sit down next to her. As the train lurches out of the station, Gram pulls the Metro section of the New York Times out of her purse and begins to read.

“You know this is a setup,” I tell her. “We’re going for Sunday brunch, but there’s something else brewing. I’m very intuitive about these things.”

“Aren’t we going to see the pictures from Jaclyn’s wedding and watch the video?”

“That’s only part of the agenda.”

Gram folds the newspaper into a square. “Well, what do you think they’re up to?”

“Hard to say. What do you think?”

I attempt to be direct with Gram, who is known to keep important details to herself, only to drop the bomb when there’s a room full of relatives. When she doesn’t answer me, I try another tack. “Alfred called. What did he want?”

“He had a question about quarterly taxes. That’s all.”

“I figured he already sold the building and the Moishe brothers were on their way to pack us up.”

She sets the paper down on her lap. “You know, Valentine, I’m just trying to do the right thing for my family.”

I’d like to tell Gram that this time the right thing for her family is the wrong thing for the two of us. I’ve met with a real estate agent in the village, and there’s simply no place to move the Angelini Shoe Company that we can possibly afford in the vicinity of Perry Street. The real estate agent found an empty loft space way out in Brooklyn, in an industrial area surrounded by auto-repair shops, a steel factory, and a lumberyard. The thought of moving our shop away from the Hudson River and the energy of Greenwich Village made me so sad, I never even went to look at the space.

“You understand why I’m on edge.” I look out the window.

“Nothing has happened yet.”

I nod. This is vintage Gram, and the very attitude that got us into trouble in the first place. And, I’m afraid I’m just like her. Denial provides temporary comfort, cushioned with hope and bound by luck, it’s a neutral, an emotional state that goes with everything. Years may pass as we wait for the other shoe to drop, and in the meantime? Well, we’re fine. We wait in hope. Denial does no damage until the last minute, when it’s too late to salvage a situation. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous, that’s all,” I tell her.

As the train pulls into the Forest Hills station, I help Gram stand. Her grip is strong, but her knees are unreliable, and lately, they’re getting worse. It takes her longer to climb the stairs at night, and she’s all but stopped her walks in the Village. I cut an article out of the New York Times about knee replacement and left it by her morning coffee, but when Gram read that there’s a six-week recuperation period, it killed any possibility that she’d actually go in for the surgery. “My knees are good enough,” she insisted. “They got me this far, they can get me to the finish line.” Then she dropped the article into the recycling bin.

We take the escalator up to the street. I don’t know what we would have done if she had to climb the stairs. I might’ve had to throw her on my back like the shepherd carrying the sheep in our Christmas crèche.

We emerge on the sidewalk facing Our Lady Queen of Martyrs Church where I attended mass every Sunday until I went to college. Gram takes my arm as we walk the two blocks to my family homestead.

“You know, sometimes I can’t believe I grew up here,” I say as I take in the old neighborhood.

“When your mother told me that she was moving to Forest Hills after she got married, I almost died. She said, ‘Ma, the fresh air.’ Now, I’m asking you-is this air any better than our air in Manhattan?”

“Don’t forget her pride and joy-her garden and her very own attached garage.”

“That was your mother’s highest aspiration. To park her car where she lived.” Gram shakes her head sadly. “Where did I go wrong?”

“She’s a good mother, Gram, and a fine member of the Forest Hills bourgeoisie.” I take Gram’s arm as we cross the street. “Did she ever rebel?”

“I wish!” barks Gram. “I hoped she’d become a hippie like all the other kids her age. At least that showed some moxie. I told your mother that every generation should take their culture by the collar and shake it. But the only thing your mother wanted to shake were martinis. To tell you the truth, I don’t know where she came from.”

I know what Gram means. I used to pray for a feminist mother. My friend Cami O’Casey’s mother, Beth, was a lean broomstick of a woman, with gray hair at thirty-six, who wore Jesus sandals and pounded her own oatmeal. She worked in a government agency in Harlem and wore cool buttons that said things like KILL YOUR TV SET and I LOVE YOU WITH ALL MY KIDNEY. Instead, I got Hollywood “Mike,” with her wiglets and her tackle box full of makeup and that damned dressing room mirror surrounded by Greta Garbo lightbulbs. Cami’s mother marched for peace while my mom sat around and waited for fishnet hose to come back in style.

To this day, my mother holds up current fashion trends like barbells. She knows when to shelve lime green because purple is the color of the moment. When big hair was huge in the eighties, Mom went for perms. She’d come home kinked, frizzed, and puffy, and when the curls weren’t big enough, she’d throw her head upside down and spray her hair from the roots out until it stood away from her scalp like the rays over the head of Jesus on the Holy Sacrament tabernacle. Sometimes her hair was so big we worried that she might not fit into the car.

I prayed a novena in 1984 so my mother wouldn’t get emphysema from all the hairspray she used. I did a science project on the devastation caused by aluminum chlorofluorocarbons, the powdery stuff in aerosol cans, especially Aqua Net. I showed my mother scientific proof that her beauty regimen could actually kill her. She just patted me on the head and called me “My little Ralph Nader.”

When I wasn’t praying to God to spare her life, I prayed my father wouldn’t get asthma or worse from the secondhand hairspray inhalation. I imagined the entire family dead from the fumes and the police finding us on the floor like a clump of Lincoln logs. When I told my mother my deepest fear, she said, “But when the authorities find us, I bet my hair looks good.”

“Your mother’s been landscaping again,” Gram says as we stand at the foot of the front walk of 162 Austin Street. “It looks like Babylon came to Queens.”

The Roncalli Tudor is freshly painted and shellacked with chocolate brown and off-white trim over the entry porch. There are three brand-new, glossy holly bushes on either side of the entrance. There are two small English-style flower beds where plain grass would ordinarily grow. The plots are crammed with decorative pumpkins, squat autumn cabbages, and the last of the purple impatiens, hemmed in by a slanting brick border on either side of the walk. Three hanging baskets spilling with shiny green leaves are suspended from the portico like the chickens in Chinatown. Over the front windows there’s a United States flag unfurled next to the flag of Italy. The window boxes beneath them are stuffed with red, white, and green foil pinwheels that spin in the breeze. Cars are to Queens Boulevard what flora, fauna, and foil are to my mother’s front yard. Everywhere you look, something is growing or spinning or swaying. My father may be a retired urban park ranger, but my mother has yet to allow him to put down his trowel.

“She doesn’t know when to stop.” Gram takes a step onto the walkway. “I wonder what she spends a year on Miracle-Gro.”

“A lot. The Burpee seed catalog is my mother’s porn.”

“Hi, kids!” Mom pushes the front door open and runs down the sidewalk to greet us. “Ma, you look like a jillion.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Gram gives Mom a kiss on the cheek. “Your garden looks-”

“You know I hate grass. It’s too country.”

Mom wears a long, white, raw-silk tunic with matching white slacks. The deep V neckline of the tunic is studded with flat turquoise beads. Her brown hair is blown straight to her shoulders, revealing extra large, silver hoop earrings. Her shoes, winter white suede mules with four-inch chunky heels, show off her slim ankles. Her left arm, from wrist to elbow, is covered in silver bangle bracelets. She jingles them. “Very Jennifer Lopez, don’t you think?”

“Very,” I tell her.

“I’m making custom omelets. Daddy is doing the French toast thing,” Mom tells us as we climb the stairs. “Everybody is here.”

The interior design of my parents’ home is an homage to the glory of the British Empire and a direct poaching of every room ever depicted in the Tudor style in Architectural Digest since 1968. Anything English is coveted by Italian Americans, because we respect whoever got there first. As a result, my mother adores cheery chintz, braided rugs, ceramic lamps, and oil paintings of the British countryside, which she has yet to visit.

Gram and I follow Mom to the kitchen, with its mod white appliances and white marble counters trimmed in black. Mom calls the color scheme “licorice and marshmallow,” as nothing in Mom’s life could ever be referred to as black and white.

Jaclyn has spread the photos from her wedding on the kitchen table. Alfred sits at the head of the table, but it’s Tess, who sits on his right, who captures my attention. Her nose is red; she’s been crying.

“Come on, you can’t look that bad in the photos,” I tease Tess, but she looks away.

Amid the commotion of double cheek kisses and hellos, I motion to Tess to meet me in the bathroom. We stuff ourselves into the half bath, off the kitchen, that used to be a pantry. The floor-to-ceiling wallpaper in pink, green, and yellow polka dots in this tiny space makes me feel as though I’ve landed in a bottle of pills. “What’s the matter?”

Tess shakes her head, unable to get the words out.

“Come on. What is it?”

“Dad has cancer!” Tess begins to wail. My mother opens the door to the powder room, revealing Dad, Mom, Gram, Alfred, and Jaclyn crammed in the doorway as though we are in a moving train and they’re on the platform saying good-bye.

One look at Dad’s face tells me it’s true.

“Air, I need air!” I shout. They disperse as we fan out into the kitchen. Dad grabs me and hugs me hard. Soon, Tess and Jaclyn are embracing him, too. Alfred stands back and away from it all with a grim expression on his already pinched face. Mom has her arm around Gram, big tears rolling down her face, yet miraculously, her mascara doesn’t run.

“Dad, what happened?”

“I don’t want you to worry. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? It’s cancer!” Tess fights to regain her composure, but she can’t. The tears continue to flow.

“What kind?” I manage to call out over the weeping.

“Prostate,” Mom answers.

“I’m so sorry, Dutch.” Gram takes my father’s arm. “What does the doctor say?”

“They caught it early. So, I’m weighing my options. I think I’m going to go with the seeds implanted in the nuts scenario.”

“Dad, do you have to call them…nuts?” Big tears roll down Jaclyn’s face.

“I didn’t want to say scrotum in front of your grandmother.”

“It’s better than nuts,” Mom says.

“Anyway, evidently about seventy-five percent of men who reach my age have prostrate issues.”

“Prostate, honey.” From the tone of my mother’s voice, I can tell she’s been correcting Dad’s phonics since the diagnosis.

“Prostate, prostrate, what’s the damn difference? I’m sixty-eight years old and something’s gonna get me. If it isn’t a shit ticker,” Dad says, thumping his chest, “it’s gonna be cancer. That’s the truth. I wanted you, my progeny, to know what I’m up against. And I wanted to tell you all in person, without spouses or the kids, so you could ingest the information firsthand. Naturally, I was also worried I’d scare the kids talking about my private areas. How the hell could I tell them that Grandpop has a problem in his pee-pee? It didn’t seem right.”

“No, it wouldn’t be right,” I whisper. I look at my father, who is the funniest person I know but doesn’t have any idea he’s funny. He’s worked all his life as head of the parks department here in Forest Hills, until he retired three years ago and went to work for my mother as the family gardener/dustman. He scrimped and saved and put us all through college. He’s been a willing costar to my mother, the lead, in the movie of their marriage. I never imagined anything bad happening to him because he was so stable. He wasn’t a saint, but he was solid.

My mother puts her hands in the First Communion position. “Look. We are facing this as a family, and we will beat it as a family.” The expression on her face is pure Joanna Kerns in the climax of My Husband, My Life, a TV weeper running in the repeat cycle on Lifetime. Mom takes a breath, hands still in the prayer position. She continues, “The doctor tells us it’s stage two…”

“…on a sliding scale of four,” Dad adds.

Mom continues, “…which is very good news. It means at his age, your father could easily outlive the cancer.”

I have no idea what my mother’s explanation means, and neither does anyone else, but she forges on.

“I am galvanized. He is equally galvanized. And thank God for Alfred, who is on top of getting Daddy the top medical care in the country. Alfred is going to call his friend at Sloan-Kettering to get your father the A team.”

Alfred nods that he will make the call.

“We have magnificent children…grandchildren”-Mom waves her arms around-“a lovely state-of-the-art home, and a beautiful life.” She breaks down and weeps. “We’re young and we’re gonna beat this thing. And that’s that.”

“Good deal, Mike.” Dad claps his hands together. “Who wants French toast?”

I drank way too much of the autumn-blend hazelnut coffee Mom served in the ornate sterling-silver urn with the spigot shaped like a bird’s head. (Heirloom, anyone?) There’s something about Mom’s delicate Spode teacups and the bottomless urn that tricks you into believing you’re consuming less caffeine than you really are. Or maybe I drank so much coffee because I was looking for an excuse to get up from the table from time to time, so I wouldn’t cry in front of my father.

We managed to keep the patter light through breakfast, but occasional silences descended on us as our thoughts wandered back to Dad’s terrible news. Conversation did not flow, it ricocheted around the room, exhausting us. Attempting to be chipper in the face of my father’s illness, a man who has never been sick a day in his life, is a tall order even for Funnyone.

The girls have cleared the brunch dishes from the table and are now sorting through the wedding pictures. Dad and Alfred are watching a football game in the den. The male bonding is evidently necessary after viewing wedding photos.

I’ve escaped to the backyard for air, but it’s actually claustrophobic because the only open space is on the stone footpath that leads to an outdoor living suite of English cottage furniture. And that’s not all. Artfully placed amid the dense landscaping is a clutter of traditional lawn ornaments including a sundial, a birdbath, and statuary of three Renaissance angels playing flutes. The reflection of my face in the blue medicine ball on a pedestal looks like a Modigliani, long and horsey and sad.

“Hey, kid,” Dad says from behind me.

“Why does Mom overdecorate everything?” I ask. “Does she think if she keeps landscaping in the English style, Colin Firth is going to come over that wall and take a dip in the birdbath?”

I sit down on the love seat. Dad squeezes in next to me. We are sharing rear-end space the size of a single subway seat. “This is the original Agony in the Garden.”

Dad laughs and puts his arm around me. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I’m sorry, Dad, but I do.”

“I’ve been very blessed, Valentine. Besides, the big C ain’t what it used to be. People walk around with cancer like good bridgework. It becomes a part of you, the doctors tell me. Remission can last until you’re dead, for God’s sake.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you have a positive attitude.”

“Besides, I haven’t been a saint, Val. I probably had this coming.”

“What?” I turn and face my father, which, on this Barbie dream house of a love seat is not easy.

“Mezzo-mezzo.” He makes his hand into a flat wing and tips it. “I mean I’ve tried to be a good father and a decent husband. But I’m human and sometimes I failed.”

“You’re a good man, Dad. You failed very little.”

“Ah…enough for the marker to come due.”

“You didn’t get cancer because you made mistakes in your life.”

“Of course I did. Look at the evidence. I didn’t get lung cancer because God was mad I smoked. I get the cancer down below because I…you know.”

The mention of you know leaves us to our separate silences and memories. My dad remembers 1986 one way, and I remember it as a time when the very core of our family was shaken by my father’s midlife crisis, and my mother’s ability to negotiate it.

“I don’t believe in a vengeful God,” I tell him.

“I do. I’m an old-fashioned Catholic. I believed everything the nuns taught me. They said that God was watching me every second of every day, and that I’d better examine my conscience and beg God to forgive my sins before I went to sleep because if I accidentally suffocated during the night, without cleansing my soul, I’d go straight to hell. Then, when I became a teenager, they told me if I was even going to think about sex, I’d better marry her. And I did. But somewhere along the way, I started to think about God, and who He really is, and I came to the conclusion that He wasn’t watching me, day in and day out, like the nuns said.”

“So what was He doing?”

“I figured He gave me life and then waved sayonara, saying, ‘You’re on your own, Dutch.’ The rest was up to me. It was my job to live a good life and do the right thing. A soul is like an Etch A Sketch. When you screw up, it’s like you’re writing on it. But you have a chance to say you’re sorry, turn it over, and shake it until the bad thing disappears. That’s the notion of confession in a nutshell. The trick is to hit the finish line without a mark on your soul. I mean, you could say cancer is a good thing because it’s giving me a chance to prepare. At least I’m being given the gift of a set time period. Most people get a lot less.”

My eyes fill with tears. “I never want you to die, Dad.”

“But I’m gonna.”

“But not now. It’s too soon.”

“I want to be ready, though. Then, if there’s actually a judgment day like the nuns promised, I’ll have minded my p’s and q’s. God will show up at the end as He did in the beginning, and check to see if I’ve done okay. What more can a man ask for? I wouldn’t mind seeing the face of God. What the hell.”

“Dad, I think you’re a Buddhist.”

My father has never been eloquent, especially where his feelings are concerned. But no matter what he didn’t say, I knew he loved us, and he loved us deeply. But I never knew that he had a spiritual philosophy. I figured he didn’t need one because he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. “Dad, you’ve never talked about God to me.”

“I left that up to the church. We hauled you to mass every week for a reason. Those people are in the redemption business. Let’s face it,” he says, crossing his hands on his lap and continuing, “I’m not a holy man by a long shot, but I did have to ask myself the big question: What about me, Dutch Roncalli, is eternal?”

“And what’s the answer?”

“The acre forest at park 134. When I was made an urban park ranger in 1977, I was given the responsibility of planting and maintaining a two-acre green space in the center of the park with a natural pond and a surrounding grove of fir trees. It can never be sold, just like the land in Central Park. By law, the natural habitat must be maintained in perpetuity. So, it’s my little gift to the future generations of the borough of Queens. Small stuff, but to me, eternal.”

“That’s great, Dad.” I take a deep breath. “But don’t you think your children are your legacy?”

“I can’t take credit for what you and Tess and Jaclyn and Alfred have become. You kids are like those hamsters you had to raise in the second grade. You’re strictly loaners. I just took care of you until you could take care of yourselves.”

“But you loved us, too.”

“Absolutely. And, as fathers go, I look damn good on paper. None of you on drugs, none of you gamblers or bookies. Nobody with a tic. But that’s to your mother’s credit. All of you are successful in your fields. And you, taking up the shoemaking and taking care of your grandmother. That says a lot about you. You will be repaid, Valentina.”

My father is the only person in my life who puts an a on the end of my name, and to hear him say it brings me great comfort.

Then he says, “Somebody’s gonna take care of you when you’re old. Payback.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Some guy would do the Watusi for a shot at such a good wife.”

“Me?”

“You. You’ve got a big heart. Of all the kids, you’re the most like me. You didn’t spring out of the womb knowing all the answers, like Alfred. You didn’t have a master plan, like Tess. And you never relied on your pretty face, like Jaclyn. You’ve worked hard for everything you’ve ever gotten. That’s why you’re funny. You needed a sense of humor when things didn’t work out the way you hoped. And the same is true for me. Things didn’t always go my way. But I never gave up. And I don’t want you to give up.”

“I won’t.” I squeeze my dad’s hand.

“I want you to find a nice guy.”

“Know anybody?”

Dad puts his hands in the air. “That’s up to you. I don’t get involved in those matters.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve met somebody.”

“Really?” Now it’s Dad’s turn to shift in the tiny seat and get a jab in the hips. I adjust to make room for his 360 degrees. “What does he do?”

“He’s a chef. Italian.”

“Real Italian? Or is he Albanian or Czech? You know, nowadays they come over here with an accent and open pizza parlors like they’re authentic sons of Mama Leone when us real Italians know the truth.”

“No, no, he’s real Italian, Pop, from Chicago.”

“So, what do you think about this paisano?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You know what? You don’t have to know everything. Sometimes, it’s better not to.”

A Forest Hills Sunday-afternoon quiet descends on the garden, like old fog. The arm of the love seat pinches my thigh, but I don’t shift. I want to sit next to my father as long as I can, just the two of us, he with his theories of religion, love, and the eternal nature of trees, and me, hoping that he’ll be around for the turns my story will take.

I reach out for my father’s hand, something I haven’t done since I was ten years old. He grips it tightly, as though he will never let go. Dad looks off into the Buzzacaccos’ yard, with its fire engine red picnic table, shriveled hedges, and crumbling statue of the Venus de Milo (with arms). I look up at the house. My mother stands in the kitchen window watching us with a face so sad, now she’s the Modigliani.

The wheels on the brush machine whirl as I crank the pedal. I put my hand in a cotton mitt and then place a soft pink leather pump over the mitt. I brace the heel with my free hand and place the shoe between the round brushes. I buff the vamp of the shoe until the leather looks like an iridescent pink seashell.

One of the joys of working with leather is finding the patina. Sheets of new leather from the tanners are lovely, but new leather without a cobbler’s expertise is just a hide. In the hands of a craftsman, the same animal flank becomes art. Hand-tooled leather develops its own personality; etching and embossing give it a pattern, while buffing gives it character. And character makes it one of a kind.

Sometimes it takes days of resaturating the leather with dye, letting it dry, then polishing and buffing for hours to acquire a shade that pleases the eye and is appropriate for the shoe. Then I give the leather a pearlized depth by manual brushing. I can see grades and tones in the surface that change in the light; deep veins in the fiber give a look of age, and the sheen provides a layer of energy for the final product. My grandmother has taught me that the palette for leather and suede is limitless, like musical notes. One persnickety bride wanted her shoes dyed Tiffany blue to match the box her engagement ring came in. It took me a month to get the right saturation of color, but I did it.

I place the second shoe on my left hand, guiding it under the brushes with my right. I hear a tapping on the front window of the shop. Bret waves to me and I motion for him to meet me at the entrance.

“You’re up early,” he says as I hold the door open and usher him in.

“That’s the shoemaker’s life. And evidently the same is true for the barons of Wall Street.” I check the clock. It’s 6:30 A.M. I’ve been working in the shop since 5:00.

“I’ve got some information for you.” Bret sits down on the rolling stool at the cutting table. I sit down next to him. He opens a file. “I’ve done some digging. Let me start out by saying that you’re in the worst possible profession to get investors.”

“Great.”

“Fashion is a wild card. Many more failures than successes. Completely dependent upon the whims of the marketplace and individual spending habits. Designers are artists, and therefore considered unreliable in the business world. In a word, handcrafted anything is on shaky ground for investment purposes.” I find it odd that anything as necessary to human beings as shoes could be viewed as risky, but Bret continues, “Unless you’re Prada, or some other venerable family company that the conglomerates are looking to buy.”

“Does it matter that the business has been here since 1903?” I ask.

“It helps. It shows a level of quality and craftsmanship. That’s good. But it also says rarified to the investor.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that your name has exposure to a very small audience, and that wedding shoes are luxury items. Given the current economy, investors aren’t looking at luxury goods for a return on their money. Right now, in fashion, it’s all about trends and a low sticker price. That’s why you see so many celebrities with clothing lines. Target, H & M, even Wal-Mart, all have a stake in low-priced high fashion. They’re the guys financing the trend.”

“Well, we don’t do what they do.”

“What you could do, and what all major designers do eventually, is lease your name and your designs. You get them mass-produced and you get a portion of the revenue stream. But even then, somebody has to believe there’s a market for you.”

“All the major wedding designers have used us from time to time. Vera Wang used to send girls down here regularly until she started manufacturing shoes with her own name on them.”

“That proves my point exactly. Traditional designers are getting the portion of the business you should be getting when they start their own affordable secondary lines. Val, if we’re going to get Angelini Shoes back in the black by finding a team of investors to make you more liquid, then you need a product that is stylish but can be mass-produced for maximum sales and profit.”

“I don’t even know if Gram would let me sell our designs. I mean, they’re my great-grandfather’s.”

“Then you’ll have to design something new. Something that reflects the Angelini brand, but is your own creation. Then you wouldn’t even need Gram’s permission. The hard truth is that nobody is interested in a shoe shop that can produce three thousand pairs a year. The profit margin is too small. But your classic wedding shoes can become the flagship items in a broader portfolio. You can continue to make one-of-a-kind shoes. As a matter of fact, you have to-that’s the Angelini hook. But you also need a product that can be mass-merchandised to pay off your existing debt, meet your balloon mortgage payments, and allow you to maintain a living and working space in one of Manhattan’s fastest gentrifying neighborhoods. This is a tall order, Val, but if Angelini Shoes is going to make it in the twenty-first century, there’s no other way.”

Bret leaves a file behind, full of research about luxury goods made by long-standing family businesses and how they work in the new century. There are spreadsheets filled with figures, and columns with comparisons, and graphs showing the growth of certain products in the last twenty years, as well as a chronicle of failed ventures. Family-owned businesses like Hermès, Vuitton, and Prada are cited. There is a section about buyouts of small enterprises by conglomerates (which seems to be the way of the world in fashion). I look around our shop, with its machinery from the turn of the last century, and our hand-drawn patterns on butcher paper, and wonder if it’s even possible to make the Angelini Shoe Company a viable name in the age of mass-produced, machine-made goods. And even if it is, am I the one to do it?

The November sky over the Hudson River is a menacing lilac with a low row of Jasper Johns-style charcoal clouds threatening rain. Occasionally, the pumpkin-colored sun peeks through to throw light on the choppy river, its whitecaps showing teeth like the edge of a serrated knife. I pull the belt on my wool coat tight, yank the brim of my baseball cap down, and tuck my long chenille scarf inside my collar.

“Here.” Roman gives me a cup of hot coffee from the deli as he sits down on the park bench, propping his vintage black leather Doc Martens on the railing in front of us. He wears faded jeans and a chocolate brown leather motorcycle jacket that looks to be at least twenty years old, and on him, it’s twenty years of sexy. Roman leans back on the bench as a runner with a chapped pink face jogs by. Roman puts his arm around me.

“It was nice of you to call,” I tell him.

“Between your shoes and my gnocchi, I only see you about half as often as I would like to.”

Roman came over when I told him I was taking a coffee break on the river. He could tell something was bothering me when I went over to the restaurant and helped him prep a supply of eggplant, and today, while we were talking on the phone, I finally told him about my father’s diagnosis. I hadn’t wanted to tell him because there’s nothing worse than bad news when a romance is in full bloom. One of us (him) would wind up being in charge of cheering up the other one (me). Who needs that?

Roman sips his coffee. “What kind of man is your father?”

I look across the river as though the answer lies somewhere on the shores of lower Tenafly. Finally, I say, “He’s Tuscan leather.”

Roman laughs. “What does that mean?”

“Tough hide, soft underside. Not glamorous. Durable. But very versatile. A lot like me. When he learns a lesson, he learns it the hard way.”

“Give me an example.” Roman pulls me closer, partly for warmth and partly because when we’re together, we can’t hold each other enough.

“Dad was an urban park ranger in Queens and he went to a convention in upstate New York in the summer of 1986. When he was there, he met a woman named Mary from Pottsville, Pennsylvania.”

“Seriously?”

“I know. Pottsville. My mother would have much preferred he fool around with a woman from fancy Franklin Lakes or ultraglam Tuxedo Park, but when you’re the wife, you don’t get to choose. Anyhow, my dad came home from the convention and everything seemed normal, except he suddenly grew a mustache and got contact lenses. I was only a kid but I kept looking at him and thinking, ‘That mustache looks like a mask. What’s Dad hiding?’”

“How did your mom find out?”

“She got an anonymous phone call one day while he was at work. When she hung up, she turned the color of iceberg lettuce, went into her bedroom, closed the door, and called Gram. But even as kids, we knew that my mother would never share bad news with us. So Tess, my older sister, wisely listened on the extension. When Mom hung up the phone, she put a plan in place. She very quietly packed us up and moved us right here to Perry Street with Gram and Grandpop. Of course, Mom never said she was leaving Dad. She simply invented a whole story about taking the summer to ‘rewire the Tudor,’ leaving Dad in Queens to ‘oversee the electricians.’”

“So everyone was pretending.”

“Exactly. Mom told Gram she needed time to think. But no one ever addressed with us kids what was actually going on, so we just lived in a total fog.”

“Did your father ever explain what was happening?”

“He came into the city every Sunday to have dinner with us, but Mom would disappear somehow, you know, make an excuse about running an errand or meeting a friend or something. Now I know she couldn’t bear to see him. I found out recently that she went to the movies every time Dad came to see us. She saw Flash-dance nine times that summer. It spawned her lifetime love of off-the-shoulder sweaters.”

“I really can’t wait to meet your mother,” he says wryly.

“Then, after a couple of months, Mom regrouped. She pulled a George Patton and began to strategize how to save our family. It turns out Dad is a security junkie. He’s all about safety. He checks every single window and door before he goes to bed. Mom was the adventuress. Dad was the responsible one. Mom knew that he would never give up the security of a wife for the unknowns of Mistress Mary in Pottsville.”

I take a sip of coffee before continuing. “She never mentioned the affair. Ever. She just removed herself from Dad’s world and let him experience life without her for a while. Believe me, if you knew my mom and suddenly she was gone, you’d miss the sheer force of her. She was deeply hurt, but she also knew that if she disappeared from his life, he would remember why he fell in love with her in the first place.”

“Did it work?”

“Absolutely. And I got to watch my parents fall in love for the second time. Trust me. There’s a reason parents are romantic figures before their children are born-it’s because the children can’t take it. I’d catch my mother on my father’s lap when I came home from school. Once I even caught them making out in the kitchen. My mother was so adorable and easygoing and present in the relationship that Dad couldn’t resist her. Suddenly, Mary from Pottsville was, well, Mary from Pottsville. She could never be Mike from Manhattan.”

“I never saw my parents romantic with each other.”

“Why would you? Your poor mother was exhausted from the family restaurant. Who feels romantic after twelve hours of making meatballs, frying smelts, and baking bread? I wouldn’t.”

“And Mom is still killing herself in that kitchen, while my dad wears a suit and chats up the customers. He’s the old-school restaurateur. But it works for them.”

“You know what Gram said to my mother after she got back with my father?”

“What?”

“She said, ‘Keep him on a long leash, Mike.’ In other words, don’t make him pay for a mistake for the rest of his life. Let him go, trust him. And Mom did.”

“You know what?” Roman says. “I like the idea of a long leash.”

“I figured you would.” I put my arms around his neck. As we kiss, I think about the many times I’ve walked the riverfront alone and seen couples kiss on these benches, and turned away because I wondered when and if I’d ever find someone to share a kiss and a coffee break with on a cloudy day. Now he’s here, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

“I’m marinating a flank-steak special,” he says as he stands.

I throw my head back and laugh. He pulls me up from the bench. “What is so funny?”

“I must be some kisser for you to be dreaming of marination.”

He pulls me close and kisses me again. “You have no idea what I’m dreaming about,” he says, taking my hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

“What’d I miss?” I hang up my coat in the entry and enter the workshop, which is in full shipping mode. Gram is tucking peau de soie pumps into our signature red-and-white-striped shoeboxes. June covers the shoes in a rectangle of red-and-white-striped tissue paper, places the lid on top, and affixes our logo, a gold crown with simple foil letters stamped ANGELINI SHOE COMPANY.

“Seventy-five pairs of eggshell beige pumps to Harlen Levine at Picardy Footwear in Milwaukee,” June says as she loads a box into a crate. “And now, I could use a beer.”

“Autosuggestion.” I pull my work apron on.

“We’re expecting the Palamara girl any minute,” Gram reminds me. “I’m going to have you measure her for the pattern.”

“Okay.” This is a first. Gram usually does the measurements. I look at June, who gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

There’s a knock on the entrance door. The wind off the river is so strong, the bride-to-be practically blows into the shop when I open the door for her.

Rosaria is twenty-five years old, with a full face, black eyes, a small pink smile, and straight blond hair. Her mother had her wedding shoes made here, and Rosaria is carrying on the tradition. “I’m so excited.” She rummages in her purse. “Hi, everybody,” she says without looking up. Then she pulls a magazine article, stapled to a larger sheet of paper with a hand-drawn sketch of the dress, out of her purse.

“Here’s my gown. I copied an Amsale.”

“Lovely.” Gram hands the picture and sketch to me. “Valentine is going to make your shoes from start to finish.”

“Great.” Rosaria smiles. The sketch shows a simple empire-waist gown in silk faille. It has a square neck and a sheer cap sleeve. “What do you think?”

“It’s very Camelot,” I tell her. “Have you ever seen Camelot?”

She shakes her head that she hasn’t.

“Don’t you watch old movies with your grandmother?”

“Nope.”

June laughs. “Camelot is not an old movie.”

“It’s old to them. It’s forty years ago,” Gram says, continuing to pack shoes into the boxes.

“You’re getting married next July. Were you thinking of a sandal?”

“I’d love a sandal.”

I pull a book off the desk to show her the variations of the Lola design. She shrieks and points to a sleek linen sandal piped in pale pink with crisscross straps. “Oh God, that one!” she says, pointing.

“You got it. Take off your shoes and we’ll take the measurements.”

Rosaria sits down on a stool and removes her shoes and socks. I take two precut pieces of butcher paper off the shelf and write her name in the upper-right corner of both pieces. I place them on the floor in front of Rosaria, then help her step onto the center of each piece of paper. I trace around her right foot, making a pencil mark between each toe. I do the same for the left foot. She steps off the paper. I cut two pieces of thin twine off the wheel on the desk and measure the strap length for the top of her foot. I do the same for the ankle strap. I mark the string and put it in an envelope with her name on it. “Okay, now the fun part.” I open the closet of embellishments for Rosaria, who looks at the shelves and the clear plastic bins like a little girl who has landed in a treasure chest full of jewels and can choose anything she wishes.

We are very proud of the components we use to make shoes. Gram travels to Italy every year to buy supplies. When you cook, it’s all about quality ingredients, and the same is true for making shoes. Sumptuous fabrics, fine leather, and hand-tooled embellishments make all the difference and define our brand. Loyalty plays into Gram’s work ethic also. She buys our leather and suede from the Vechiarelli family of Arezzo, Italy, the descendants of the same tanner my great-grandfather used.

Most cobblers have farming in their background. The Angelinis were farmers who became butchers. Butchers often got into the tanning business because it was more profitable to sell the prepared leather instead of selling the skins. My great-grandfather made the leap from butcher to shoemaker as a result of timing.

Early in the twentieth century, a movement occurred in Italy in which artisans (shoemakers, jewelers, tailors, potters, silver-and goldsmiths, glass makers) taught young men who desperately needed work the trade of their choice. The masters would go into small villages and teach classes in their area of expertise. The apprentice system is a mainstay in the working life of Italians, but this particular movement was as political as it was artistic, born of the need to lift the Italians out of poverty after the war. The movement spread, thus the proliferation of handcrafted Italian goods, some of which still exist today. For the families who trained together, and opened their own businesses, branding was born.

Gram buys the leather for our shoes in Arezzo, and the nails and binding from La Mondiale, the oldest cobbler supplier in Italy. For embellishments, she goes down to Naples, where she works with a young, creative team, Carolina and Elisabetta D’Amico, who create handmade jeweled ornaments for shoes. Gram often provides a rough sketch of what she wants, as well as choosing from their extensive stock. The D’Amicos make buckles and ornaments inlaid with gleaming crystals-white-hot rhinestones; dazzling faux emeralds, rubies, and cabochons. Their costume-jewel embellishments are so opulent, we call them Verdura for the feet, as they could easily be mistaken for the real thing.

We also carry a wide selection of handmade fabric ornaments, including velvet bows so delicate we position them on the thin leather straps with tweezers before sewing them on. We carry silk-flower embellishments, bold calla lilies made of raw silk, innocent daisies of organza and tulle, and silk rosettes in every color combination, from ruby red to deep purple spiked with moss green velvet leaves. We have a selection of tiny numbers and letters, cut out of metallic gold, silver, and copper leather, which we often sew into the shaft of the shoe. We often place the bride and groom’s initials or the date of the wedding inside the shoe for an heirloom touch.

Rosaria looks with wonder at the clear plastic trays of rosettes. First she picks up the cornflower blue roses, because that’s the color her bridesmaids are wearing. She is intrigued by the strips of round-cut clear crystals on satin streamers, but decides they are too disco for her taste. After much deliberation, she settles on the antique cream rosettes. Then she calls her mother for her approval.

I give the sketches of Rosaria’s feet to June, who places the patterns in her bin. I pull an index card from the desk drawer and make notes. I put all of the dimensions of Rosaria’s feet on the card, then staple the fabric swatch and bin number of the rosettes. I staple the envelope with the string measurements to the card as Rosaria, giddy with delight, tells her mom every detail. She is as excited about the shoes as she is about her gown. Rosaria hangs up with her mother and turns to Gram. “I feel so proud that I’m carrying on my mom’s tradition.”

“When is your final fitting?” I ask.

“May tenth, at Frances Spencer’s, in the Bronx.”

“I know it well. Best knock-off seamstress in the five boroughs. I’ll be there with your shoes so they can do the final hem with the heel you’ll be wearing.”

“Thank you.” Rosaria gives me a hug, takes her purse, and goes.

I jot down Rosaria’s fitting date on the card and then open the file case on the desk.

“I’m giving Rosaria the shoes as my gift,” Gram says, not looking up from her work. “No charge.”

“Okay.” I mark the receipt. This is a bad time to be giving away shoes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Gram takes the shoes she has been working on and wraps them in cotton.

“You know, with Alfred checking our numbers…”

“I know. But Alfred isn’t running this business. I am.”

June looks at me and raises her eyebrow as if to say, Don’t argue with her.

I tack up the order. On the bulletin board, I see a note in Gram’s handwriting. It says: “Meeting with Rhedd Lewis at Bergdorf’s, on December 5, 10 A.M. Bring V.”

“Gram, what’s this?”

“You remember that costume lady from the movie? Debra McGuire? Well, she may have been prickly, but she liked us. So she recommended us to Rhedd Lewis at Bergdorf’s, who asked to meet with us.”

“Did she say why?” I can hardly contain my excitement.

“She didn’t. Maybe she’s getting married and needs shoes.”

“Or maybe she wants to put our shoes in the store!” My mind reels with the possibilities of supplying the most elegant department store in New York City with our shoes. This is exactly the kind of break Bret was hoping we would get. We need the big guns to recognize and support our brand. “Can you imagine? Our shoes in Bergdorf’s?”

“I hope not.” June puts her hands on her hips and turns to Gram. “Remember when your husband put the shoes in Bonwit Teller’s? It was a disaster. We hardly sold any stock. The word came back that brides didn’t want to spend on their shoes when they had spent a pretty penny on their gowns.”

“That turned us off to department stores,” Gram admits. “That was our first and last foray into big business.”

“Maybe it will be different this time. Look in any fashion magazine. Upscale shoppers are spending two grand on a purse without batting an eye. That makes our shoes look like a bargain. Maybe there’s an opportunity here.”

“Or maybe you just go to the meeting, see what she says, and then go to the Bergdorf café and have the deviled eggs,” June says practically as she takes her shears and cuts a pair of size-eight soles from the pattern paper. June looks at me and smiles supportively, but she’s been around this company long enough to know that it is highly unlikely Gram will change a thing about the way she conducts her business, even if it means she could lose the entire operation.

“Gram, I think we should go to the meeting with an open mind. Right?”

She doesn’t answer me as a long, black limousine pulls up in front of the shop. It seems to stretch from the corner to the lobby door of the Richard Meier building. As it parallel-parks, I see BUILDBIZ on the license plate.

A man in a crisp navy blue suit with a red tie hops out the back door followed by my brother. The wind kicks up their silk ties like kite tails as they head for our entrance.

“What’s Alfred doing here?” I ask.

“He called while you were out with Roman. He’s bringing a broker by to see the building.”

I look at June. Our eyes meet but she looks away quickly.

“Hello, ladies,” Alfred says as he comes into the shop. He goes to Gram and kisses her on the cheek. Gram beams with pride as Alfred turns to the man and introduces her. “This is my grandmother Teodora Angelini. Gram, this is the broker I told you about, Scott Hatcher. We went to Cornell together.”

Gram shakes his hand. Alfred puts his hands on his hips and looks around the shop as though June and I aren’t there. It’s a wonder to me how gregarious my brother is when he is around his peers. With family, he’s morose. But at work, when he’s on his game and personality plus is required, he’s a pistol.

The broker is about six feet tall, a better-looking version of Prince Albert of Monaco, with a full head of hair. His eyes are wide and green, and he has the warm, fixed smile of a salesman.

“We’re going to take a look around, Gram.” Alfred flashes her the fake businessman smile.

“Go right ahead,” she says.

“Let’s start on the roof.” Alfred leads Scott up the stairs.

I sit down on my work stool. “Well, the day I dreaded is here.”

“Now, don’t be this way,” Gram says softly.

“How should I be?” I pick up the laces for my boot and take them to the ironing board. I plug in the iron and bury my hands deep in my pockets as I wait for it to heat.

June puts down her shears and says, “I need a coffee. Can I bring you girls anything?”

“No thank you,” I tell her.

June slips on her coat and dashes out the door.

“June can smell a fight,” Gram says quietly.

“I’m not going to fight with you. I just wish you’d get your game on.”

“Bergdorf’s isn’t going to save us. The one thing I’m certain of is that there’s no magic solution in business. You’re climbing a mountain here, pick, step, pick, step.”

Suddenly, Gram’s old aphorisms sound ancient and irrelevant. Now I’m angry. “You don’t even know what the meeting is about. You didn’t ask. Why don’t we just put a Closed sign on the door and give up?”

“Look, I’ve been down every road with this business. We’ve been on the brink of closing more times than I can count. Your grandfather and I almost lost it after his father died in 1950. But we held on. We survived the sixties, when our sales dipped to nothing because the hippie brides went barefoot. We made it through the seventies, when manufacturing overseas quadrupled, and then we rode the wave of the Princess Di years in the eighties when everybody went formal with their weddings and required custom gowns and shoes. We brought the business out of debt, and went into profit-and I designed the ballet flat to hang on to the market share we were losing to Capezio.” She raises her voice. “Don’t you dare imply that I’m a quitter. I’ve fought and fought and fought. And I’m tired.”

“I get it!”

“No, you don’t. Until you’ve worked here every day for fifty years, you can’t possibly know how I feel!”

I raise my voice and say, “Let me buy the business.”

“With what?” Gram throws her hands in the air. “I pay your salary. I know what you make!”

“I’ll find the money!” I shout.

“How?”

“I need time to figure it out.”

“We don’t have time!” Gram counters.

“Maybe you could give me the same courtesy you show your grandson and give me time to counter-offer whatever he comes up with.”

Alfred comes into the shop. “What the hell is going on?” he says sharply as he motions toward the hallway where Hatcher is inspecting the stairs.

“I want to buy the business and the building,” I tell my brother.

He laughs.

The sound of his cruel laughter goes through me, devastating my self-confidence, as it has all my life. Then he says, “With what? You’re dreaming!” He waves his arms around like he already owns the Angelini Shoe Company and 166 Perry Street. “How could you possibly afford-this? You couldn’t even buy the iron.”

I close my eyes and fight back the tears. I will not cry in front of my brother. I won’t. I open my eyes. Instead of buckling, as I always do, I find the deepest register of my voice and say definitively, “I am working on it.”

Scott Hatcher appears in the entry, puts his hands in his pockets, and looks at Gram. “I’m prepared to make you an offer. A cash offer. I’d like to buy 166 Perry Street, Mrs. Angelini.”

I pull my knit hat down tightly over my ears, which sting from the cold. As I walk through Little Italy on this Tuesday night, the streets are empty, and the twinkling arbor over Grand Street looks like the last tent pole left to strike before the traveling circus leaves town. I turn onto Mott Street. I push the door to Ca’ d’Oro open. The restaurant is about half full. I wave to Celeste, behind the bar, and go back to the kitchen.

“Hi,” I say, standing in the doorway.

Roman is garnishing two dishes of osso buco with fresh parsley. The waiter picks them up and pushes past me to go into the dining room. Roman smiles and comes over to me, kissing me on both cheeks before pulling the hat off my head. “You’re frozen.”

“It’s gonna get worse when I’m jobless and homeless.”

“What happened?”

“Gram got an offer on the building.”

“Want to come and work with me?”

“My gnocchi is like Play-Doh and you can’t count on my veal. It’s rubbery.”

“I take back my offer then.”

“How do you do it, Roman? How do you buy a building?”

“You need a banker.”

“I have one. My ex-boyfriend.”

“I hope you ended it nicely.”

“I did. I’m not one for drama in my personal life. Which is a good thing given how much drama there is in my professional life.”

“What did your grandmother say?”

“Nothing. She heard the offer, put down her work, went upstairs, got dressed, and went to the theater.”

“Did she actually tell the guy she’d sell him the building?”

“No.”

“So maybe she’s not going to do it.”

“You don’t know my grandmother. She never gambles. She goes with the sure thing.”

Roman kisses me. My face warms from his touch, it’s as though the warm Italian sun has come out on this bitter-cold night. I feel a draft from the back door, propped open with an industrial-size can of San Marzano crushed and peeled tomatoes. I put my arms around him.

“Have you noticed that since our first date, I’ve brought nothing to the table but bad news? My father got cancer and I have business problems?”

“What does that have to do with us?”

“It doesn’t seem to you like I’m walking bad luck?”

“No.”

“I’m just standing here braced for more bad news. Come on. Lay it on me. Maybe you’re married and have seven screaming kids in Tenafly.”

He laughs. “I don’t.”

“I hope you’re careful when you cross the street.”

“I am very careful.”

The waiter enters the kitchen. “Table two. Truffle ravioli.” He looks right through me, and then, impatiently, at his boss.

“I should go,” I say, taking a step back.

“No, no, just sit while I work.”

I look around the kitchen. “I’m good at dishes.”

“Well, get to it then.” He grins and turns back to the stove. I take off my coat and hang it on the hook. I pull a clean apron from the back of the door and slip it over my head, tying it around my waist. “I might like you more than Bruna,” he says.

I catch my reflection in the chrome of the refrigerator; for the first time today, I smile.