Authors: Rosemary Fifield
The aunt and uncle arrived, and, after introductions, the conversation
went to their recent trip to Italy.
“Connie’s family is Italian,” Greg’s mother said. “You speak the
language, don’t you, dear? I believe Gregory told me that.”
“I do.”
“It’s such a beautiful language,” Aunt Margaret said, “but they talk so
fast, I could never understand a word they said.”
“Say something in Italian,” Uncle Edward said to Connie.
“Edward, that’s so ridiculous,” Mrs. Fairchild answered before Connie
could respond. “What is the poor girl supposed to say? The word for
‘something?’”
Everyone laughed, and Mrs. Fairchild gave Connie a
we-girls-need-to-stick-together
smile, then reached out and squeezed her arm in a
gesture of solidarity. Aunt Margaret went on to tell everyone about the
magnificence of the Duomo in Florence and the unconscionably forward behavior
of Italian men on the street, and Connie was spared the need to think of
something to say.
They moved into the elegant dining room and settled at predetermined
places along the table. Dinner was an extravaganza of New England bounty, from
the brilliant orange squash sweetened with maple syrup to the roasted parsnips,
fresh cranberry sauce, creamed onions, and succotash that accompanied the
mashed potatoes and turkey with oyster stuffing. Connie had never tasted
anything as delicious as the lobster bisque that started the meal; she would
have been happy with nothing but that.
“What does your family eat on Thanksgiving?” Georgianne asked. She was
seated to Connie’s immediate right.
“It depends on who’s cooking,” Connie said with a smile. “This year, my
parents are going to my grandmother’s house, and she doesn’t like turkey, so I
suspect they’ll just eat Italian. When my sisters and I are there, we do the
traditional dinner, although not quite this fancy.”
“I’m surprised to hear your grandmother doesn’t like turkey,” Uncle
Edward said from his position near the head of the table. “I trust you’ve read
The
Unprejudiced Palate
by Angelo
Pellegrino?”
“Well, anyone can not like turkey, Edward,” Mrs. Fairchild said.
“My point is, the Italians eat songbirds. He writes about coming to
this country from his native Italy and getting in trouble with an American
hostess when he brings her some songbirds to cook.”
Emily, seated directly across from Connie, looked horrified.
“Songbirds?” Her green eyes, wide with alarm, focused on Connie’s face. “Is that
true?”
Connie chuckled and shook her head. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.
No one I know eats songbirds.”
Emily was indignant. “Well, I don’t think it’s funny. That’s terrible.”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “I find it somewhat amusing myself. I
can’t imagine finding anything to eat on a songbird. It sounds like an exercise
in futility.”
“That’s how I feel about squab,” Garrett said without a smile.
Glenn peered down the table at him. “I think you mean Cornish hens.
Squab is pigeon.”
“Pigeon?” Emily looked as though she were about to pass out.
“I think we need to change the subject,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “Gregory,
tell us about your foray to the opera. I’m so glad that Constance is helping
you become more cultured. It is Constance, isn’t it, dear?” she asked, looking
down the table at Connie.
“Actually, it’s Concetta.”
“Oh my. Isn’t that pretty? You’re right, Margaret. Italian is a
beautiful language. So, Gregory?”
The table conversation went from
La Boheme
to the Broadway productions of
Promises,
Promises
which Garrett and Emily had
recently seen. Connie was mildly overwhelmed, being used to silence at the
table. When dinner was over, she rose to help clear the food and place settings
along with the other women, but Mrs. Fairchild waved her back into her seat.
“You are our guest, dear. This is family work. Please. Stay seated.”
Connie settled awkwardly into her seat. The men around her were talking
to each other. Greg and his brother Garrett were comparing their father’s
Lincoln Continental to the Cadillac owned by Emily’s father. Without missing a
beat, Greg slid his hand across Connie’s left leg and found her hand lying in
her lap. As he continued talking across the table to his brother, he squeezed
her hand beneath it to let her know he hadn’t forgotten her, and she squeezed
back gratefully.
Cups of coffee and tea accompanied an array of homemade pies for
dessert.
“Why pumpkin, I wonder?” Georgianne said as they ate. “Isn’t a pumpkin
a vegetable?”
“It’s a squash,” Emily answered. “The Indians brought it to the Pilgrims.”
“It’s one of the three sisters,” Steve said.
Connie looked up at him, unsure of what he meant. His attention was on
Georgianne.
“You know, squash, corn, and beans,” he continued. “The food of
indigenous people. They always grew them together. The corn grew tall and
provided something for the beans to hold onto as they grew. The beans fixed
nitrogen in the soil for the corn. And the squash covered the ground at their
feet to keep the soil cool and moist and weed-free.”
“You make it sound like the Indians knew what they were doing,”
Georgianne said with an air of contempt in her voice.
“What makes you think they didn’t?” Steve asked.
Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “They knew the beans fixed nitrogen?
Come on.”
“They knew things grew well together. They may not have known why.
Nobody did.” Steve said.
“Mexicans did the same thing when they used lime to treat the corn and
get the hulls off so they could make masa,” Glenn said. “The process released
niacin, which made the corn a more complete food. They didn’t know they were
doing it, but it’s why they could survive on a lot of corn while the Italians
got pellagra. They didn’t treat it with lime.”
“Ugh, polenta,” Aunt Margaret said. “One of several things I couldn’t
tolerate in Italy.” She rolled her eyes. “No offense to our guest. The art is
wonderful, but the food really isn’t all it’s reported to be.”
“Can anyone name the three fruits native to North America?” Glenn asked.
Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes traveled to Connie. “He’s our chef-in-training,”
she said with an affectionate smile.
“Apples, ” Georgianne answered.
“Nope.”
She frowned at her brother. “’As American as apple pie?’ Johnny
Appleseed?”
Glenn shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. They originated in Asia.”
“Cranberries,” Greg volunteered.
“That’s one. What else? Anybody? They grow wild in Maine.”
“Blueberries,” Mr. Fairchild answered.
“Yup. One more.” Glenn’s brown eyes focused on Connie. “Americans use
it to make a poor imitation of your country’s favorite beverage.”
Connie gave him a tight smile. “America is my country.”
“Of course it is,” he answered, returning her smile. “I meant that of
your ancestors.”
“Grapes!” Emily said with a proud grin.
“Concord grapes.” Glenn’s gaze was still on Connie, but his smile was
gone. “My apologies if I offended you.”
“One should never be offended by references to one’s ancestry,” Mrs.
Fairchild said. “We certainly appreciate our roots in American history, don’t
we? Now, everyone, let’s finish our pie and retire to the sitting room.”
Connie and Greg lagged behind while the others filed into the front
room. His hand gripped hers as he looked into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Connie gave him a smile for reassurance. “Of course.”
“I know they’re kind of intense.” He leaned forward and gently kissed
the bridge of her nose.
“They’re a little intimidating.”
“Just don’t let them get to you. It’s not deliberate.”
Connie wasn’t sure she believed that, but she kept the thought to
herself. “We’d better go before they wonder what we’re doing.”
They entered the room where the others were seated.
“Gregory,” Mrs. Fairchild said, looking up at him, “I was just saying
that we saw the Wellbournes when we were at the fundraiser for Mount Holyoke
last week.”
Connie sensed a slight tightening of Greg’s hand around hers.
“Cynthia was in the class before mine, if you remember,” his mother
continued with a smile. “She told me that Candy’s going abroad next semester.
France, I believe. You never told me that.”
“I didn’t know.” His words were clipped, his voice disinterested.
“She is such an amazing girl,” Georgianne said, her back to Greg and
Connie as she sat beside Steve on the sofa. “So talented.”
Emily, seated in an armchair across from her, looked confused. “Do I
know her?”
“The pretty redhead? The budding actress? She was at your wedding…
remember
?” Georgianne emphasized the last word just a tad too
much, and Connie stiffened.
Greg tightened his grip on her perceptibly this time. “I think we’re
going to head out,” he said, looking from his mother to his father. “I hope you
don’t mind, but we promised some friends we would drop in for an after-dinner
drink, so I think we should probably go.”
Mr. Fairchild rose to his feet, as did the other men in the room.
“Well, Connie, it was a pleasure. I hope you enjoyed yourself,” he said, offering
her his hand once more.
“Yes, dear, we enjoyed meeting you,” Mrs. Fairchild said, rising from
her chair, as well. “I’m sorry you have to leave early, but I understand how
social obligations go.”
The others murmured their good-byes, and Connie and Greg left the room.
They slipped on their coats and were outdoors in the early November dark, holding
hands as they headed down the stone stairs when Connie asked, “Which friends
are waiting to offer us an after-dinner drink?”
“I’m not sure.” Greg grinned as he glanced at her. “There must be
somebody.” He guided her into his car, then hurried around it to slip in behind
the steering wheel. His gaze settled on her face, his expression serious. “Are
we still okay?”
Connie smiled into his eyes. “Of course. Why?”
“Because now you know where I come from.”
Connie frowned at him in confusion. “I should be asking you that
question. I was so out of place in there. And you already know where I come
from. I will never fit in.”
“You don’t need to fit in. We don’t need to fit in.”
“They’re your family. No matter what, family is important. They’re the
people who are always there for you.”
“A man shall leave his mother and father and cleave onto his wife,”
Greg said, his eyes searching her face. “Or however it goes.”
Connie stared at him, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m not your wife.”
“I want you to be.”
Her heart thumped uncomfortably. “Greg, you don’t know that. We haven’t
been going out that long.”
His eyes held hers. “How long do we have to go out? Are there rules? I love
you. You know that.”
“And I love you. But that doesn’t mean we’re ready to get married.”
“Why not? We’ve been riding together for months, five days a week.
That’s the equivalent of lots of going out. It’s better than going out. I’ve
seen you as you really are, not just on a date where people always act like
somebody else. I’ve seen you cranky and tired, and I love you no matter what.
I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with you.“
Connie couldn’t believe her ears. They had never approached this
subject before. “Is this because of your family’s reaction to me?”
Greg frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are you trying to get back at them for something by choosing the girl
they obviously don’t see as a permanent fixture in their lives?”
“What? Are you serious?”
Connie glanced toward the illuminated front windows of the house. “Can
we leave? They’re going to think we’re sitting here arguing or that I’m crying
or something.”
Greg started the car and drove out of the driveway onto the street, then
turned the first corner and drove another block to park in front of a darkened,
unfamiliar house on a dead end road. He turned off the Mustang’s motor and
lights, and they sat side by side, staring out into blackness.