Page 13

“Sorry.” I hug my nieces. “You are curliewhirlies and I love you.”

“Who wants a tarelle?” Dad holds the platter.

“They need more salt,” Diego says thoughtfully as he chews. “Texture? Perfect.”

“Diego, you’re practically Italian,” Mom observes.

“Why can’t the Italians be practically Colombian? Italians think they’re the best,” Diego jokes.

“Because we are.” Uncle Louie smiles.

I hand Diego a cocktail before he attempts to take on Uncle Louie. The highball will take the edge off, and there are plenty of edges around here in need of filing and polishing, like a slab of marble, starting with in-law relations. Connie and Diego have been married for twelve years, yet he remains on probation. This is how it goes with in-laws in my family; there’s an assimilation period for everyone who marries in, except, of course, for Bobby Bilancia, who was revered because he was the catch of Lake Como.

Diego raises his glass. “To the Italians!” Diego runs a small hedge fund; he’s not rich yet, but he will be someday, and then everything he says in this house will have clout.

My brother Joe calls out, “Ma, we’re here,” as he comes through the front door. The King of Clout has entered the building. Katie—his wife, the interior designer—and their children remove their shoes in an orderly fashion and line them up neatly under the upholstered bench. My brother, however, defies the house rule and remains in his polished Tod’s loafers because he can.

“Put the ravs in,” my mother orders. “Your brother is here.” Joseph Baratta Jr.’s arrival is announced as though NASA has found a star in the heavens that burns hotter and brighter than the sun.

Joe wears a jacket and tie and always has, except for the times he played on the Saint Rose baseball team and wore the uniform. He favors the Cap side, with the large, straight nose, full lips, and flinty brown eyes. His wife, Katie, is a petite redhead, with a smattering of freckles on her nose, electric-blue eyes, and a slim, athletic build.Their son and daughter are blue-eyed redheads, a coordinated set of lit matches. They look nothing like my brother or our side of the family.

“Which one are you?” Uncle Louie asks my brother’s son, who climbs into the booth next to him. “Rattigan?”

“Rafferty.” My seven-year-old nephew giggles.

“And who are you?” Uncle Louie points to Joe and Katie’s six-year-old daughter, who hides behind her mother.

“That’s my sister,” Rafferty shouts. “She’s scared.”

“What’s her name? MacDougal?” Uncle Louie asks, genuinely forgetful.

“Mackenzie!” Rafferty and Mackenzie say in unison.

“Mackenzie is a family name on Katie’s side, Uncle Louie,” Joe says impatiently.

“Come on, Joey. I tease. You know me, just looking for the Italian. Evidently, I gotta dig deep in the dirt with a fork with your crew until I hit an Etruscan tomb.”

Katie jumps in. “No need to dig, Uncle Louie. They’re Barattas; the Italian side is represented in the surname.”

“True enough,” Uncle Louie says pleasantly. “Forgive me. The Italians of my generation are named for dead people we never met. Such was the custom. You name your kids for Irish pubs. That’s progress.”

I place a tray of crostini on the kitchen table. The hands go toward the platter like it’s betting time on a blackjack table in Vegas. Soon, all the kids stampede through, throw open the basement door, and go down to the cellar.

“Don’t touch anything down there!” Mom calls after them. “There’s all kinds of equipment down there with wires.”

“It’s fine, Ma,” I assure her. Later, I’ll think about why it’s okay for me to live in a potential electrocution situation with all those wires, but not safe for the kids to play down there.

“In all sincerity, Katie, Joe. They’re beautiful kids. After dinner, we’ll have some fun,” Uncle Louie says. “I brought a roll of quarters.”

“Kids don’t want quarters anymore, Lou,” Aunt Lil scolds. “They have video games and iPhones.”

“Can a phone do magic tricks?” Uncle Louie pulls a shiny quarter out of Aunt Lil’s ear.

The kids come up from the basement apartment. Alexa holds my therapy exercise high over her head. “What’s this, Aunt Jess?”

My family turns to look at a collage I created on a flat board with inspiring words and images from magazines.

“What is that?” Ma squints. “It looks like a knee-length boot.”