This is an excerpt from my memoir, Marriage, Kidneys, and Other Dark Organs
ANTIPASTI SERVED with HEARTBURN
I had numerous nightmares about this day.
Following our fiery elopement in 1951, I knew if I were ever to see my parents again, there would have to be much bowing and scraping to heal this bitter relationship. It would not be easy to accept this first invitation to dine at their home. Ed and I were continuously on rocky terrain with the senior Italians. Since our marriage, the entire four years were sprinkled with tense adjustments. The hardest part was the unspoken words.
Our first year in Northern California was spent without contact from Mom and Dad and other than distorted words through the grapevine of their whereabouts, the information was slim. My father's disdain and hostility were constant enemies. After several months, we drove to Los Angeles to visit Ed's mother. We decided to check my old Hollywood neighborhood, secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of my parents in their garden. I could hardly go on the street without raking up old fears. There was no sign of them.
We stopped to get information from an elderly neighbor who was watering her flowers. "Well, I'm surprised,” she said. “Don’t you know what's happened? Your father and little brother moved away to Italy after your mother died. Anyway, that's what he told us."
My shock was profound. What happened? The lady gave no further details.
Oh my God no! Mom is dead. How? And they’re gone. Why didn't you let me know Salvatore? How could you? You're teaching me another one of your many cruel lessons. Why are you so hateful and filled with spite?
We checked obituaries and city records and found nothing. It was a week of horror.
I can't recall how I discovered the truth, but in due course, I learned that Mother was still alive and well. My family had, indeed, moved to Italy, leaving lies for me to digest.
I was being punished for my independent thoughts and ways as a grown woman. At every turn my heart grieved. I seemed to be continuously swallowed by their wake.
After a considerable time, we carefully began to correspond, but I was on constant vigil for trickery from my parents. We gingerly avoided anything that might upset the plans as we played the game with as much fake politeness that we could muster.
Ah yes, make believe.
The letters were endlessly bittersweet and revealed the hostility when I didn’t comply with my father's demands. In Salvatore’s need for power and superiority, he took many opportunities to jab at my husband Ed’s background.
By now it was no mystery why my father would take his ostentatious 1949 Buick to Italy. In one of the earliest pieces of mail, we received a photo of the car after it was damaged. He had been trying to avoid hitting a child on a small village road, and instead smashed into a stone-wall. The instructions on the photograph were in great detail. He directed us to mail to him a long one piece of chrome strip, the length of the car and parts for the grill. The logistics of the deed were too difficult to accomplish. After much thought, I decided to scrap the impossible job. Once again I fall out of grace with my troublesome parent.
There are always too many ups and downs. I will never be able to make him happy.
Ed and I worked diligently towards the same goals and with his veteran loan we finally purchased our first home. Thankfully, no children as yet, except a one year-old rescued pound pup, a wirehair fox terrier named Toby. But now, with the new house, we had fresh concerns and responsibilities; lawns and gardens to dig in, fences to build, car and furniture to buy. Daily, the list grew longer. My young spouse, raised in apartment houses in the Bronx, would now have to contend with unfamiliar things. No more banging on the pipes for the Super to come and take care of repairs.
Before long, Salvatore and Antonietta, my parents, returned to the United States, and we moved back to Southern California and into our new tract house in Garden Grove. My twelve-year-old brother, Nick, who also worked hard for his father's approval, was placed in a military academy in Albany, New York. I couldn’t help but think of how much I had missed not seeing him grow up. I wanted so much for my parents to approve of the life we had made for ourselves, but I lived on pins, always fearful of what might go wrong. The price was high for my choices.
I was immobilized with anxiety and sheer terror with the anticipation of the initial meeting with Mother and Father. They were to come to our home, and I would have to prepare the inaugural meal for them. I agonized over each detail of this important dinner. Finally, after five years, Salvatore and Antonietta were to meet my husband for the first time.
Why do I feel so utterly useless? What can I feed them? I know I'll do it wrong. How did this happen to me?
Ed helped with the decision. "Listen, Vin”, he said. “Why don't we just take them to that nice Italian restaurant in town, instead of breaking your back trying to please them with a home cooked meal? That way we'll be on neutral ground."
"Oh I can't. I can just hear him say, 'She can't even cook us a dinner'. But it sure does sound tempting."
We did. Salvatore sulked without direct words.
I was right. I know what he's thinking. What kind of people are we? His daughter can't even make food for them. Great start. Once again, Venera fails.
After some penance, a phone invitation was arranged--a first time invitation for dinner at their home.
Here we go again. The rollercoaster starts. Now I will learn how to really treat guests.
And again, I was miserable with the tension and dread.
We asked if we might bring our well-mannered dog, Toby, even though I knew my mother was not fond of animals. I never did find out what she liked. Reluctantly they agreed.
My parents had moved back into one of several duplexes they had owned and rented out while in Italy. I was sixteen when I lived in this house. It was filled with memories.
As Ed and I entered the house, the only furniture in the living room was the large carved European spinet my father bought for me years before. After selling all of their furnishings in 1951, here they were again reduced to a cloth covered card table with place settings for four, two Bentwood chairs and two crates in the middle of the uncarpeted living room. The bedrooms and bath were on the second level.
When I saw the stairway going to the top floor, I remembered the awful day my father and I drove to a "yellow-page doctor" for him to have hemorrhoids removed. He was operated on in the doctor’s office. I was shaken to the bone when he came out of the door ashen and practically incoherent. He had been given Morphine. Dad insisted on driving the long distance, but it was an insane decision. As the car neared the house I could see he was about to pass out. I dragged him out of the Buick to the front steps. Mom was hysterical as we pulled him bit by bit up the stairway to the bedroom. That night was one of the most frightening of my young life. Dad began to hemorrhage profusely and Mom was utterly helpless. He wouldn’t allow me to call anyone. His delirium was dramatic and I feared he would die. It felt strange to hold my father's life in my care. I could not even break his hold on me to make a life-threatening decision. How crippled I was.
I walked further into the house and into the familiar smells of my childhood. Everyone was polite and stiff. Small talk prevailed between my father and Ed. Mom was quietly somber. A behavior I well understood and remembered, and as usual, I took the lead to engage her in conversation. She answered in cautious child-like monotone monosyllables.
How much does she hate me for leaving her? Maybe she was glad. She never has had much to talk to me about. How much easier her life would have been had I not been born. There would have been no competition.
Dad lead us outdoors to show us his garden, it helped to ease the heavy air. Again, memories jumped into view when I saw the homemade aluminum trailer in the corner of the yard.
Oh how I remember that summer and year. It is still fresh in my mind. Living in this tin tomb after our cross-country trip from the East coast--crossing the divide, so to speak. Still another reminder of some of the stifling and smothering years spent with my parents.
My father announced dinner. We were directed to take our seats around the card table. Even Toby sat-up straight sensing a call to order. He seemed to perceive the nervous tension. Antonietta remained quiet and aloof. She was in a state of suspended thinking avoiding any interaction that might set-off her spouse. I saw she was focused solely on serving the wonderful homemade ravioli. Ed and I looked forward to the food to further break the pressure. It was as I remembered. The flavor. For a while I recalled the good memories. Despite all the heartache of these past years, I was home. I did not think I would ever taste my mother's cooking again.
Oh that this day be the beginning of always!
Toby sat calmly watching us. We started our salad and antipasto. Occasionally my eyes met my father's and quickly I looked away. Talk lessened. They never called for an explanation of our past choices. All our topics had been used. Keats must have known this room, 'noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness'. Suddenly a great bang punctured the silence.
“A gunshot ?”, I thought?
In unison we cried. "Oh my God. What’s that?"
Amidst the frantic spill of words, Salvatore jumped to his full five feet and with wild piercing eyes, ran up the stairs, two at time, to check the source of the loud sound. Meanwhile, Ed looked down to his lap, checking where he had been shot. Surely the blood would surface at any moment. Toby ran in circles. Antonietta heaved loud fearful sighs; her high heels clicked on the hardwood floors as she hastened to the kitchen. Down the steps came Salvatore, saliva hanging like an ornament from the edge of his mouth, screaming in any language that would work. Ed and I stood frozen. We followed my hysterical father into the kitchen. At the door we discovered the origin of the big boom. Salvatore, crowing like a rooster whose pinfeathers had just been seared off, wildly pointed with his palsied hand to the cabinet above the stove.
"Ann, what the hella hoppen?" he yelled to my mother.
As we discovered, the pasta boiling beneath, heated the overhead space where the alcohol was stored and the warmed Galiano liqueur bottle popped its cork. Like the lava of Mt. Etna, the sweet yellow liquid flowed slowly down the walls, into every crevice and down the back of the white Wedgewood gas range. Ed and I held each other as a little nervous laugh escaped our lips. Normal tension was restored, and no one had, as yet, been shot.
It was one of those days that had forty-eight hours and we still had forty-five remaining.
