Chapter 6: Sunday Dinner

On Sunday the whole family came to look at me.

Paola warned me at breakfast.

"Four aunts, three cousins, five of my brother's guys and their wives," she said. "They'll eat everything and judge you on all of it."

"What do I do?"

"Wear the green dress I put on your bed. Don't touch the gravy. Laugh at Uncle's jokes even though he's not our uncle."

By two o'clock the long table had nineteen chairs and every one was full.

The aunts sat together.

The oldest one wore purple and a brooch the size of a cookie. She watched me pass the bread like I might steal it.

"So," she said. "City Hall."

"Yes."

"No church."

"Not yet."

"A Kittering girl." She said Kittering like it was a disease. "From the lawyers."

"Whitsett," I said. "From New Hampshire. The Kittering part's over."

One of the capos laughed into his wine.

He was a big grey man with a cigar in his shirt pocket that he wasn't allowed to light indoors.

"She talks back, Valerio."

"She does," Valerio said.

He was at the head of the table. I was at his right hand, where Paola had put my name card.

Tito sat on my other side in his navy suit, eating only meatballs.

The aunt in purple leaned forward.

"My cousin's girl works at City Hall. She says he kissed you on the cheek." She smiled with all her teeth. "On the cheek. Like a priest."

The whole table went quiet.

Somebody's fork clinked.

"Married people kiss," said another aunt. "We'd like to see."

"Zia," Paola said.

"What? It's a wedding lunch. It's a reasonable request."

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