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“Sure, Bobby. You can help me with the dishes.”

He tries to smile but his mouth turns into a squiggle. He’s not going to help me with the dishes later. I know that expression; it’s a firm no. Evidently, we didn’t cement our future friendship in New Jersey in Italy.

“No presh, Bobby Bilancia. Thank you for being here.”

Bobby follows me out of the kitchen and back into the dining room as the front door blows open. A blast of frigid-cold air peels through the house, which hopefully will cool off my mother, who descends the stairs with a fresh schmear of bright red lipstick and a dusting of face powder so thick, she looks like a powdered doughnut. The bulbs must be out on her makeup mirror.

My mother, along with every guest in the room, turns toward the front door. The dull chatter in the room suddenly fades, as sound will do when you slip into a coma or pull the lid shut on a tanning bed or two unexpected guests arrive at a funeral reception in a small town in New Jersey.

In the fading silver afternoon light stand two tall men, appearing like Randolph Scott and Joel McCrea on the horizon in a Western I watched a hundred times with Grandma Cap, except these are not cowboys. They’re Italians from the other side.

23

Surprise, Surprise

The mourners fallsilent at the first glimpse of the men. Mauro LaFortezza enters the house first, wearing a well-cut blazer, tie, and slacks. Angelo Strazza follows him in a bespoke suit; the tie is loosened. Sometimes when you take a man out of his habitat and place him in a new one, he fizzles. Not Angelo. A gold Tuscan coin just rolled in. Desire peels through the loins of every woman in the room at the sight of him. You can hear the gentle snaps of their shapewear and bra straps as they make adjustments to look their best for the handsome strangers. In Bilancia Land, the incoming are known as fresh meat.

As for me? I’m having an out-of-body experience that is a combination of déjà vu and lust. My family, both sides, and our friends and neighbors recede like the outgoing tide on Lake Como beach to make room to ogle at the strangers.

“Is Giuseppina here?” Angelo asks, looking out over the crowd.

“She’s back by the coffee server,” my mother answers loudly. “And who might you be?” she asks suspiciously.

“Angelo Strazza.” He extends his hand to her. “And who are you,signora?”

“I’m her mother.” Mom takes Angelo’s hand. “And this is?” She cocks her head toward Mauro.

I push through the mourners, but I can’t get to my mother fast enough.

“I am Mauro LaFortezza. I am your nephew.”

A second hush falls over the crowd, as though a tarp has been dropped on them and they are slowly suffocating under the weight of it. In my family, we have no unknown relatives. We don’t have to spit in a cup and send it to a lab in Texas to know who we’re related to—we can spot our DNA from fifty feet like a blue flare on the turnpike in the dead of night. We identify our people by their physiques. We clock shoulder span, high waists, low hips, strong yet sturdy legs, good hands, and suspicious natures as proof of blood ties.

“Joe?” My mother calls out for her husband. “There’s a man here to see you from the Baratta side. Says he’s our nephew.”

“Why does he have to be a Baratta?” My father overheard the exchange.

“You’re part of that crew up in Toronto,” Mom says to Mauro as she forces a smile before turning to Dad. “Your people to the north.” She snaps her fingers. “You know who I mean.”

“The Roccafortes?”

“Of course,the Roccafortes. Your cousins with the big heads. Physically big I mean, not snobbish, though there are a couple of them who are borderline.” My mother addresses my father as though there’s no one else in the room. She goes on. “Who knows where the Barattas have blood relatives lurking? Your family has a rogue member pop up from time to time. You have that cousin in Philly. Pasquale?”

“Patsy.He’s not rogue,” my father fires back. “We’re just not close.”

“I don’t think this fella is from Pennsylvania.” My mother makes a judgment call as she looks at Mauro from head to toe. “He has an Italian accent as thick as my compression stockings.”

“Signora, you don’t understand. I am related toyouon the Capodimonte side,” Mauro says.

“I don’t knowhow,” my mother says dramatically. “My brother and his wife, may she rest in peace, didn’t have children. We buried her this morning.”

I finally make it to my mother by plowing through three of her Sodality members; luckily, they’re tipsy and fold like two one-eyed jacks and the Man with the Axe. “Mom, we have to talk.”

“Now you want to talk? After months abroad, you’re ready to talk? Well, Giuseppina, guess what? We’re in mourning. I don’t feel like talking.”

“Mom.”

“I don’t like the look on your face. Joe?” She looks at my father. “Giuseppina has lost all color. She’s crestfallen. Look at her.”