Yours, mine, ours, and them ,” Feen said. “We don’t believe in divorce.”
“I don’t either,” Gianluca said.
“But you’re divorced.”
“Sometimes we learn from our mistakes.”
“She dumped you?”
“In a way.” Gianluca smiled.
“Seriously. What happened?” Aunt Feen demanded.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Gianluca said.
It was fine with me that Gianluca avoided an autopsy on his first marriage with Aunt Feen, but I wanted to know what had happened. He had always been vague about his divorce, and when pressed, had said the distance that led to their split was about geography not emotions. She wanted to live in Florence, and he wanted to stay in Arezzo. But as much as I wanted to believe him, I wondered if that was the truth. I wondered what went wrong.
The GPS lady said, “Turn right onto Watchung Avenue.” Gianluca took the curve quickly.
“Whoa there, Mario Andretti.” Aunt Feen steadied herself by placing her hands on the dashboard. She chuckled. “I guess I hit a nerve. How do you say that in Italian?” The spaces between Aunt Feen’s dentures whistled as she exhaled.
“Che vecchia ottusa,” Gianluca mumbled.
“I’m sure you did your best with what Fate, God, and your first wife handed you. No matter what you do, sometimes you can’t avoid failure. There’s no way to protect yourself. You can’t duck from the asteroid or hide from the bomb. Heartbreak will rain down on you as sure as you live and breathe free in the United States of America. Or Italy, Giancarlo.”
“Gian luca ,” I corrected her softly.
Aunt Feen didn’t hear me. She kept talking. “Someday, and you will not know the day or the hour, heartache will return. It’s a bastard. It always comes back. It shows up unannounced like our cousins from Jersey.”
“Auntie, do you mind? I just got engaged, and I’d like to end the evening on a happy note.”
Feen was undeterred. “You can’t count on people. You fall in love, you take a shot, you hope for the best. But the truth is, you never really know what the other person is thinking. There is no wall between you and certain trauma. There is no way to stay safe. You try to dodge the bullet, but just like in the cartoons, it follows you around sharp corners and through doors until it lands like a bull’s-eye in your heart and kills your joy.”
“Continue onto Bloomfield Avenue,” the GPS lady said.
“I got a black cloud over me. And it has a stench. I stored the crèche from Italy in the basement—and it flooded. I put the family photo albums in the attic, and an electrical fire torched them. Everything ever given to me that was supposed to last forever hasn’t. Dollhouse, Christmas 1939: dry rot. Timex wristwatch, June 1950: stopped. Evidently I was given the only one in America that could not keep on ticking. I hid cash in books, and they went to the yard sale by accident. I had mammograms every year and missed the lump by one day. I fell in love for real on a Tuesday, and by the following Thursday he was shipped off to fight, and four months later he died in a blow-up raft in the Pacific Ocean. Can’t find him or his remains. Gone, baby. Gone .”
“But you bounced back,” I reminded her.
“Not really. It was all an act. I got no support. The things that were said to me in my darkest hours. ‘Take it on the chin, Feen,’ and ‘Don’t cry. Look at Nancy Lou down the street, who lost three sons and her daughter in the war. You lost one man. Buck up. You’re young. Love will come your way again, if it even was love.’ Oh yeah, cruel and stupid things were said, as if I didn’t know what I felt. ‘Stop crying,’ they said. ‘You’re wearing out your tear glands.’ Yeah, yeah, that’s the kind of sympathy I got in my hour of need. Those were the things said to me in my bleak nights of agony. So if you want to know about life, if you’re looking for the truth, you ask me . Remain unaware. Stay stupid. Pretend the worst
“I don’t either,” Gianluca said.
“But you’re divorced.”
“Sometimes we learn from our mistakes.”
“She dumped you?”
“In a way.” Gianluca smiled.
“Seriously. What happened?” Aunt Feen demanded.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Gianluca said.
It was fine with me that Gianluca avoided an autopsy on his first marriage with Aunt Feen, but I wanted to know what had happened. He had always been vague about his divorce, and when pressed, had said the distance that led to their split was about geography not emotions. She wanted to live in Florence, and he wanted to stay in Arezzo. But as much as I wanted to believe him, I wondered if that was the truth. I wondered what went wrong.
The GPS lady said, “Turn right onto Watchung Avenue.” Gianluca took the curve quickly.
“Whoa there, Mario Andretti.” Aunt Feen steadied herself by placing her hands on the dashboard. She chuckled. “I guess I hit a nerve. How do you say that in Italian?” The spaces between Aunt Feen’s dentures whistled as she exhaled.
“Che vecchia ottusa,” Gianluca mumbled.
“I’m sure you did your best with what Fate, God, and your first wife handed you. No matter what you do, sometimes you can’t avoid failure. There’s no way to protect yourself. You can’t duck from the asteroid or hide from the bomb. Heartbreak will rain down on you as sure as you live and breathe free in the United States of America. Or Italy, Giancarlo.”
“Gian luca ,” I corrected her softly.
Aunt Feen didn’t hear me. She kept talking. “Someday, and you will not know the day or the hour, heartache will return. It’s a bastard. It always comes back. It shows up unannounced like our cousins from Jersey.”
“Auntie, do you mind? I just got engaged, and I’d like to end the evening on a happy note.”
Feen was undeterred. “You can’t count on people. You fall in love, you take a shot, you hope for the best. But the truth is, you never really know what the other person is thinking. There is no wall between you and certain trauma. There is no way to stay safe. You try to dodge the bullet, but just like in the cartoons, it follows you around sharp corners and through doors until it lands like a bull’s-eye in your heart and kills your joy.”
“Continue onto Bloomfield Avenue,” the GPS lady said.
“I got a black cloud over me. And it has a stench. I stored the crèche from Italy in the basement—and it flooded. I put the family photo albums in the attic, and an electrical fire torched them. Everything ever given to me that was supposed to last forever hasn’t. Dollhouse, Christmas 1939: dry rot. Timex wristwatch, June 1950: stopped. Evidently I was given the only one in America that could not keep on ticking. I hid cash in books, and they went to the yard sale by accident. I had mammograms every year and missed the lump by one day. I fell in love for real on a Tuesday, and by the following Thursday he was shipped off to fight, and four months later he died in a blow-up raft in the Pacific Ocean. Can’t find him or his remains. Gone, baby. Gone .”
“But you bounced back,” I reminded her.
“Not really. It was all an act. I got no support. The things that were said to me in my darkest hours. ‘Take it on the chin, Feen,’ and ‘Don’t cry. Look at Nancy Lou down the street, who lost three sons and her daughter in the war. You lost one man. Buck up. You’re young. Love will come your way again, if it even was love.’ Oh yeah, cruel and stupid things were said, as if I didn’t know what I felt. ‘Stop crying,’ they said. ‘You’re wearing out your tear glands.’ Yeah, yeah, that’s the kind of sympathy I got in my hour of need. Those were the things said to me in my bleak nights of agony. So if you want to know about life, if you’re looking for the truth, you ask me . Remain unaware. Stay stupid. Pretend the worst
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