Taking Tuscany (22 page)

By Tuesday Benji's swelling is nearly all the way down. Late afternoon they take him off all the monitors and say it shouldn't be long before he wakes up. So far I've only seen him when he's sleeping. When he finally opens his eyes, we're all gathered around his bed to welcome him back to the living. The doctor says they want to keep him here for a few more days, but if all goes well, he should be home by the end of the week.

I'm a little confused by this news. Back on the island I saw a guy with a serious head injury on
Marcus Welby, M.D.—
a TV doctor. The guy had to stay in the hospital for a month after surgery, in case his brain swelled back up. They said he wouldn't have time to get to the hospital if it swelled up at home. Now that Benji's surgeon has left, I'm not sure these people really know what they're doing. Following the doctor out to the hall, I try to get his attention. “Sir?”

He turns toward me.

“Are you sure Benji should be coming home so soon? I mean, what if his head swells back up and we can't get him back here fast enough? Shouldn't he stay here a little longer, just to be on the safe side?”

The doctor smiles at me like I'm just a cute little dumb kid. “We'll keep a close watch on him, don't worry. You're brother's a tough little guy. He gave us all a scare when we almost lost him, didn't he? But don't worry, he'll be fine. He's a fighter.” The doctor turns and walks away.

Lost him? … Almost
lost
him?

I return to Benji's room to find Mama and Daddy in the middle of a warm embrace, swaying slowly from side to side. I want to ask them what the doctor meant about almost losing Benji, but I don't think this is a good time to ask. I have a feeling this is the first time Mama and Daddy have stopped holding their breath since this whole thing began. Right now they look like they're just holding on to each other for dear life.
Dear life
…
I've never really thought of that phrase before. But come to think of it, life
is
dear.

21

Il Giorno del Ringraziamento

(Thanksgiving)

Mama has her Thanksgiving feast all planned out and ready to roll for tomorrow. She's invited everyone who sent food, flowers, and cards to join us for the feast. I have been given the honor of rolling out the pasta dough while Nonna stuffs the ravioli squares with meat. This is Nonna's handed-down recipe, which she insists I carry on to future generations. It could take days to make up enough ravioli for so many people. Mama has declared it a Degulio tradition to have ravioli every year for Thanksgiving along with our turkey, just like we did back in America. She expects us to make six raviolis per person, which equals three hundred of these little squares.

So far, we have thirty.

Nonna may not remember who she is half the time, but she sure remembers how to make ravioli. She made the entire batch of meat filling without looking at the recipe. Mama samples it just to be safe. “
Bravissimo
!” she cheers. “You still have the touch.”

Thank goodness for that. I'd hate to think of what we'd do with three hundred of these things if she messed up the recipe.

“There's no such thing as Thanksgiving in Italy,” Nonna says.

“It's okay,” Mama tells her. “We're going to show them what it's all about.”

This should be interesting.
“So, Mama, how are you planning to do that?”

“Well, I thought it might be fun to put on a little dramatization for the guests. You and J. R. can dress up like Pilgrims, and Dino can be an Indian …”

“Oh no.”
I will not be caught dead wearing a Pilgrim costume in front of fifty houseguests. “
We are not in first grade anymore, and there is nothing you can do to get me to wear a Pilgrim costume—nothing.”

Thanksgiving Day, I greet each guest at the front door in my gray and black Pilgrim dress, complete with white apron and pilgrim bonnet. Dino escorts the guests to the dining room, dressed in his fringed suede pants, moccasins, and full feather headdress. Father Pilgrim, played by J. R., is in the kitchen, helping Daddy carve the turkey. All I can say is everybody has their price, and Mama is willing to pay it. Even Benji wanted in on the cut, but Mama said he was in no position to be wearing feathers on his sore little head. She thought about setting his bed up next to the dining room table so he could join us for the feast but decided that would be a little much. Instead he's going to come out and say hello for a few minutes, then will be sent back to his room with a plate of food.

First to arrive—the Sophronia family. “Happy Thanksgiving!” Along with Uncle Nick's traditional bear hug comes, “Let me guess … Florence Nightingale?”

“Um, close. I'm a Pilgrim.”

“I know … but I gotcha, didn't I?”

“Yeah, you sure did.” Next I receive Aunt Gen's lipstick kisses and don't even bother to wipe them off. I even hug Cousin Nicky. If there is any such thing as a likable dweeb, Cousin Nicky takes the cake. Interesting how something as small as building a fire for someone can change your whole impression of a person.

Before long fifty of our closest friends and relatives show up on our doorstep. Some have even come from Greece on the train and will be staying either with Uncle Nick's family, or at the Ritz—wherever there's room.

Just when I think everyone in the free world is here, the doorbell rings again. “I'll get it,” I yell and swing the door open.

“… A-Annalisa?” I'm speechless. I'm in a Pilgrim costume. With all of my
weird Greek relatives
,
as she calls them.

“Annalisa!” Mama exclaims, suddenly beside me. “I'm so pleased you could join us. Please, come in.” Mama nudges me to move my shocked little self out of the doorway. “I thought the Tartini family might like to enjoy an authentic American Thanksgiving,” Mama says.

“My parents are in Paris right now, so it's just me, but thank you for inviting me.”

Mama nudges me again, hinting that I might find myself some manners. “Great,” I say, “I'm glad you came. Come on, I'll show you where we're sitting and introduce you.” I offer Annalisa a seat right next to me and introduce her to some of the younger generation. Surprisingly Annalisa knows Greek and strikes up a conversation with Damon and Arturo. She appears much friendlier than when she's at school.

Kemo Sabe, the little moccasin brave, continues to escort the guests to the table. Mama announces it's time for the feast to begin and helps usher everyone toward the dining room. Once everyone is finally seated around our rectangular “Round Table,” Daddy sends Kemo Sabe to fetch Benji. No one but our family has seen him since the accident.

As Benji enters the room in his flannel pajamas, a great cheer goes up from the crowd. “
Salute
, Benji,
salute
!”

Daddy puts his arm around Benji at the head of the table and bows his head to give thanks. “Lord, we thank You today for our family and friends who have made our lives so rich. We thank You especially for sparing our son's life. Thank You foremost for Your Son, whose life You did not spare, for our sakes. Be with us today as we give You our thanks. Amen.”

“Thank You, Lord, for giving me hard-headed children,” Mama adds.
Amen.

All of the kids and teens have gravitated to our end of the table, thanks mostly to Annalisa, who is carrying on engaging conversations with everyone between ages ten to twenty—and Nonna. Nonna is dressed to the nines, wearing every necklace and bracelet she owns—and to top it all off, a hat with a feather in it. “I made the ravioli,” she says, every three minutes.

Annalisa leans toward Nonna. “I like your hat,” she says.

Nonna turns, giving Annalisa a suspicious eye.

“Who are
you
?”

“I'm Annalisa Tartini. I go to school with Angelina.”

“My granddaughter, Angelina
Juliana
?”

Annalisa looks over at me and smiles. “Yes, Angelina Juliana.”

“She's named after me, of course.”

Oh boy, here we go.

“Angelina Juliana and I just went to France to visit Sainte Foy. She was beheaded, you know.”

Thanks for that, Nonna.

“Really?”

Yes, really. I realize most people, including your family, say things like, “We've been to France to visit Paris.” Not my family. We tell people we've been to France to visit beheaded saints …

“I wish I had a grandmother I could do things with, but
both of my grandmothers have passed away.”

Nonna reaches over and sets her hand on top of Annalisa's. “You call me Nonna,” she says.

“Nonna,” Annalisa replies.

Everyone is busy passing ravioli, polenta, turkey, potatoes, gravy—the works. There is no language barrier when it comes to a feast—somehow, between smiles and gestures, we're all getting through it.

Somewhere between the turkey and the pumpkin pie, Mama decides she's going to get her money's worth out of Dino, J. R., and me. She calls the three of us into the kitchen and hands us our scripts. “Okay, now, I want you to go out there and show them how it all happened.”

“I can't speak Greek. What if they don't know English?” Dino asks.

“Most of them do, and for those who don't, just use dramatic hand motions—between that and your costumes, they'll get the picture.”

Normally I wouldn't be caught dead doing something like this in front of Annalisa, knowing the rumors she could spread, but at this point, what can I do? Besides, Annalisa is keeping the same company I am today and appears to be enjoying it.

Dino has the opening line. He runs out in front of the fireplace, peering through a paper towel roll—his makeshift telescope. “Ahoy, I see a ship in the harbor! It says
Mayflower
on the bow and it is full of white people wearing funny hats.”

J. R. and I go out together. “Look!” I shout. “I see land—it must be America, the land of the free, where we can worship our God without being persecuted, put in prison camps, tortured, or beheaded.”

“Hooray!” J. R. yells. “Hooray for America! I see a rock. Let's land there and name it Plymouth Rock, after the car manufacturer.”

“Let us prepare a feast and invite the Indians, since it's all their food anyway, and we will give thanks to our God for bringing us here alive—most of us, anyway,” I say. “No more stale bread and gruel. We will have roasted corn, and ravioli, and kill some turkeys and have stuffing and cranberry sauce with gravy; and for dessert, pumpkin pie and ice cream.”
I should be sainted for having to humiliate myself like this.

J. R., Dino, and I gather in a little circle and pretend to eat a meal together. Then we stand up, face the guests, hold hands, and belt out, “God bless America, land that I love …”

When we finish, we all take a bow. The cheers go up, and the three of us smile, knowing how much we soaked Mama for to do this ridiculous skit.

When I return to the table, Annalisa takes a break from engaging the guests and looks at me.
Here it comes. She's going to tell me she took a photo of me doing that and will use it to ruin me.

“Angelina, you are so lucky to have such a big family. My family is so spread out, I never get to see them all at one time. It was nice of you to invite me.”

Okay, God, I'm sorry it took me so long to be nice.
Actually I wasn't nice … it was my mother who was nice. Why couldn't I have been the noble one?

I glance around the table trying to picture this through Annalisa's eyes. All of these loud, obnoxious people—with joyful faces, warm smiles and laughter all around. The Lacolucci family and their six small kids have joined us as well.

Then there's my own family … whooping it up, full of relief, thankful to still have each other. The three of us kids in our goofy Pilgrim and Indian costumes. Adriana has outgrown us, and has graduated to the adult end of the table now. She's engaged in conversation with some of the Greek women who are trying to match her up with their sons. Mama, always the gracious hostess, making sure everyone is stuffing themselves silly. Daddy seems happiest just watching Mama. And Nonna … placing her feathered hat on Annalisa.
I love my Nonna.

There really is something to be said for belonging to a big, loving family. In a sense Annalisa has a right to feel jealous. Family is not something you can come by on your own. It is a gift, a true gift from God. A gift that should never be taken for granted.

Taking all of this in, from where I'm sitting, I am thankful. After all of the shake-ups and heartaches life throws at us, there are moments when everything goes right, and for a split second, time stands still as in a perfect picture. This is one of those moments.

When the good-byes come, I prop myself at the front door like a hospitable little pilgrim. “You sure made a great
Mayflower
,” Uncle Nick says and roars with laughter.

Aunt Gen squishes my face and leaves her Rigatoni Red lipstick on my cheek. “Bye, dollface. Love you bunches.”

Okay, so some things will never change, but I can change how I see things.

Even Annalisa gives me a hug. “I'll see you at school,” she says. She turns around before climbing into the car that has been sent for her. She looks great in Nonna's hat. “Thank you for sharing your Thanksgiving with me, Angelina Juliana,” she calls back, and laughs. But it's a nice laugh. This time she's laughing
with
me. “Now I know what Thanksgiving is all about,” she adds.

Yeah, me, too.

As soon as the last of the guests head out the door, my brothers and I corner Mama in the kitchen with our hands out. She lays the equivalent of ten dollars in lira in each of our greedy little hands. Then I produce my bonus papers:

CONTRACT TO AMERICA

I, Sophia Degulio, on Thanksgiving Day 1972, do solemnly swear, in exchange for forcing my children to perform in a ridiculous play, “The Pilgrims and Indians,” in front of fifty guests, to purchase for my daughter, Angelina Juliana Degulio, a one-way airline ticket to Squawkomish, Idaho, upon or before, but no later than, her eighteenth birthday, where she will return for veterinary school—which I also agree to pay for. IN FULL. This is a NON-NEGOTIABLE contract.