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 14th 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.
Chapter 3
Normally, Anthony and I disagree about the term “fashionably late.” He thinks it’s fine to show up to any event a half hour later than promised, while I think of that as inconsiderate of others and just generally bad taste. But tonight he’s switched over to my side of the coin. I’ve never seen him dress and groom and grab his coat and keys so quickly. I’ve never seen him look with such wide eyes at his watch, then at the clock on the wall, as if expecting one of them to give us fifteen minutes extra. So shifty. So nervous. Dropping things. Imploring me with a raised eyebrow to hurry up and get that last earring in so we can go. I had to suppress a smile, because this was no time to get into that argument again. Especially because I knew exactly why he’d thrown his previous position out the window and now resembled me urging him to get a move on so we can make the 9:15 movie.
“Ready yet?” he asks again, probably thinking I’m deliberately fumbling with my necklace clasp now just to annoy him.
“Just about,” I sing, a little too happy and casual for his tastes tonight.
“Come