Читать книгу It's My Wedding Too - Sharon Naylor - Страница 6

And now we were headed for Carmela’s. Back on the road to Brooklyn, with speedy teenagers in their little red Mustangs zipping through traffic like they’re playing a videogame, SUVs swerving when the ring of an inevitable cell phone calls the driver’s eyes off the road, and the reliable bumps of potholes. Our Starbucks jostled and spilled in the cup holders.

Anthony knew well enough to let me lean my head against the cold window, staring out over the asphalt and bridge landscape, listening to one song after another on the radio as my mind floated from concern to concern, really wanting to back up and stay on the memory of our engagement. Of that amazing night Anthony gave me last night…turning the corner on high heels, flipping my burgundy silk wrap and looking up to see the colors dancing by the fountain at Lincoln Center. It was the ballroom dancers, professionals most but not all, dipping and floating as if on water, dancing clockwise around the blue-lit fountain. An orchestra in tuxedos set up on the square, their music floating around them, and us, captivating like a gentle waft of perfume. The rest of the city just four steps away distanced, retreated, became silent.

And there was that music box scene, the dancers with their long arms emphasizing dramatic dips as the men’s strong arms supported them at their backs. The crisp contrast of black-and-white tuxedos with glittery ball gowns in magenta and cerise, pale lavender, black and gold. Feathered accents in the women’s upswept hair, peaceful smiles on all.

And Anthony took my hand, leading me expertly into a waltz, his hand on the bare small of my back, and that half-grin I fell in love with the first time I saw it as we watched the Fourth of July fireworks from Frank Sinatra Park. We hadn’t danced much in our five years together, but somehow we just knew the steps. He led without leading, and on some turns so did I. Three steps a turn, my hair bouncing over my shoulder with every change of direction, the strong curve of his shoulder under my hand.

At the fountain’s edge, Anthony lifted my hand straight up, signaling me to turn once…then again…then again…and on that last turn, with me turned away for only a split-second, less than a split-second, he had pulled from his coat pocket the little blue box. And he asked me. With that half-smile, with eyes that reflected the water fountain’s motion, and wiping off a tear before I might see it, he asked me….

And not even twenty-four hours later, here I was freshly snubbed by Delilah and on my way to see Anthony’s mother. Carmela. The Smother, my friends and I called her at first. Would you believe that she actually KNOCKED ME OUT OF THE WAY so that Anthony could put sunblock on her back?! And he DID IT, too! I almost broke up with him that day, I remembered, smiling a little out the window and hearing myself breathe out a little laugh. Anthony turned his head and smiled. I smiled in return and patted his hand on the gearshift.

Anthony was a reformed Mama’s Boy. Normally, you can’t reform the true mama’s boys, but he was willing to be reformed. That makes all the difference. There are men who never want to let go of their mothers, who want you to cut the London broil just like their mothers do or make marinara sauce with the same kind of sausage their mothers buy from the same deli. And then there are captive mama’s boys who really want the road out. Their mothers have super-glued the apron strings where the boys cut them. They’re just back-stepping little by little, one grain at a time, so the mother bear won’t notice. How my friends and I tried to figure it out, tried to imagine why my strong, silent-type Anthony, with his strength of character, his smarts, his humor, his independence, would slap SPF30 on his mother’s wrinkled back while she looked way-toocreepily pleased at the massage from her thirty-year-old son. The Smother, my friends and I called her.

But Carmela was kind to me. Kind enough, considering I kept Anthony’s attention away from her, cut his affection in half. She couldn’t avoid the reality of what I was, so that meant I got the first heaping dish of manicotti, the thickest slice of braccioli, the last meatball. She hugged me warmly whenever I arrived, and she offered me coupons she’d clipped for me just because. Coupons for Anthony’s sinus medication in addition to the raspberry jam I adore, but I’ll let that slide. Kindness is kindness, no matter what the motivation. At least she wasn’t dangerous.

“Anthony!” She threw open the door like our arrival was a surprise party, and latched her arms around Anthony’s back, swinging herself from side to side but barely moving him. He kissed her gallantly on the cheek and stepped aside so that I could get my own rib-squeeze. The woman had tremendous upper-body strength.

“Ah, my Emilie!” she sang, rocking the same way and nearly toppling me off my heeled boots. Anthony put a hand to my shoulder to steady me.

And this was just hello.

As soon as she saw that rock on my finger, I’d need protective padding, shin guards and maybe a helmet.

“Skinny little thing,” she said, though admiringly, and stepped aside to let us into her warm and always-scented home. Anthony’s father Vic was, as expected, lounged out on the couch, reading the paper at arm’s length with his neck craned back trying to make out the small print. Wordlessly, he lifted his hand in greeting and went back to the sports pages.

Their home was immaculate, but in a human way. With pictures on the walls in a nonstyled, haphazard way—not lined up with a level like my mother’s—solemn religious icons in the window frame, thick fluffy pillows on the couches, coats on the chairs, and always something bubbling on the stove in the kitchen. Always fresh bread baking in the oven—for the family, and for the birds outside if no family shows up in time. Coffee always ready on the counter, the little TV always on and turned to the Food Network. Looks like Emeril would be bamming in the background when we broke the news to Carmela.

“Hey, Ma,” Anthony patted her on the waist. “We have something to tell you.”

Carmela crossed herself and looked to the ceiling, her automatic response to anything in preparation for both good and bad. She had a dot of flour on her jaw, which I smoothed away from her.

“Calm down, it’s good,” Anthony assured her, and stepped back to lean against the counter. Protecting himself, no doubt. “Show her, Em.”

And proudly, I held out my left hand, with my fingers poised in a gentle ballerina lilt, middle finger pointed down further than the rest of my graceful hand gesture. (Ironic, I think now that things have gotten this bad.)

She looked at it. Then up at me.

Nothing.

She looked at it again, then looked at Anthony, who was beaming.

Nothing.

Both our faces fell. What the hell was wrong with this woman? Did she not see the two-carat, three-stone ring? Was she checking out my manicure?

Then she held out her hand, shaking as it was, to touch my fingers, then walk her grip up to touch the ring itself, to push on the diamond like it was a gag toy that would shoot water into her face. I looked over with concern at Anthony and shrugged. He was just blinking and pulling his crossed arms a little tighter over his stomach.

“Ma?” he ventured.

Carmela jumped a little, woken out of a daze, pulled back from some reverie.

“Ma, what do you think?” he tried again. “Emilie said Yes. We’re getting married.”

Carmela actually worked at forming a smile. Her lips quivered, her cheek flinched, tears came to her eyes.

Is she having a stroke?

And after a moment of this silence, this facial contortion, what looked like a short in her wiring, she burst out into a cry and flung herself against me, knocking me against the table so that my legs shot out from under me and I only remained upright because of her weight against me. Was that a hug or a tackle? I kicked my legs a few times to get some traction with my boots, caught my weight on one leg and tried to stand straight again. But her weight was against me and I couldn’t rise. Anthony laughed later in the car about the look on my face, like I was being mugged, how my arms flailed for a second before I patted her on the back, and how I slumped into a chair seat when she finally unclamped and delivered her fullback love to her son, who could handle the body weight.

“But she was crying,” I argued as we drove through the tunnel, home to our place on 14^th Street in Hoboken, the moderate income annex to Manhattan.

“Tears of joy,” he nodded, hypnotized by the yellow lines on the road and the green lights spaced on the tunnel ceiling ahead of us.

“That wasn’t happy crying. That was panic with a smile.”

“She was happy, trust me.”

“Didn’t sound happy.”

Anthony patted my leg. “Did she cut you a piece of coffee cake?”

“Yes.”

“Then she was happy.”

I just shrugged and looked for the blue and red sign on the tunnel wall, announcing the precise moment you crossed the boundary from New York to New Jersey somewhere under the Hudson River. My ribs hurt and my brain hurt. I had been snubbed by one and mugged by the other, and neither reacted as I expected.

I looked at my own rock and smiled, making it dance with light with just the slightest adjustment of my hand. Even underwater, practically, it was the brightest thing imaginable. I leaned over as far as my seat belt would let me go, and I thanked Anthony with a kiss on his neck.