Maria Mocerino

So before this…there’s another appetizer section with dancing…

“OLE! OLE OLE OLE!”

We kicked off Christmas Eve on our feet, crying for Diego Maradona. Carmine threw the fabric of us even higher by slamming his hand against the table and drumming really fast as if he just felt through the world that way. He was next to his father who beamed. “HO VISTO MARADONA—HEY OH HEY!” Vico threw his hands in the air from side to side. Angela went into soft focus. Flora was pettilante, I don’t know the word in English, as French is my second language, not Italian. But her bubbles, her effervescence was sharp, hard to pop, damn near impossible. Her ring vibrates so strongly down the line to get to you, it could cut through the seas, knock you off.

“MARIA?”

“DINO DINO DINO…”

Plummeted through but still “MARIA?” rang clear and true. “Dino?”

His name caught like wildfire across the table—Dino. He took over Christmas Eve before we finished appetizers. DINO—my love, or maybe a love interest, everyone had an opinion. I didn’t think we were being serious, and I didn’t want to be that person, so I played along. “Si, si,” not really understanding this.

“DINO DINO DINO…”

Conflict entered the equation. The problems we faced. BAM bam BAM, there was no other MAN for me except DINO. Sure, sure, I had no idea what to say about these people’s attachments to DINO. This was the man with a broken heart that Carmine—silent—had asked me to speak to, so I could cheer him up since he believed, hilariously, that I was someone who had the power to uplift people. And now, I was wrapped up in some love affair made of thin air.

“BUT WHO WHO WHO IS DINO?”

We were off into a fantastical, unreal universe with fried calamari. Franco shook his head in disapproval. Dino, he never heard of such nonsense. What? “Repeat after me,” Franco demanded, upset. “DINO—PIATTE VACANTE.” I gave it to him with a bright face, turning the wheel hard — PIATTE VACANTE — into a crowd favorite: me speaking Neapolitan. I was UNCLEAR as to why we were speaking about DINO. “Love, love? Is it love? Meri?” Emma wanted to plan a big wedding, and what about the girlfriend? Franco was still UPSET. I thought we were joking! I was losing the thread. The truth did not matter here!

“BASTA CON DINO!!”

Carmine announced to the table, eyes wide, that Maria, me, had told him something very interesting. People in America do not listen to lyrics. I did it on purpose. They snapped, in particular, Franco Franzese did. “Excuse me?” Eh, Carmine, in his way, seduced them with his timing…brows raised.

Apparently, adjusting his glasses with owl eyes fixed on me, they do not LISTEN, and everyone jumped, piled in, Franco asking for support — was he HEARING THIS? DO NOT LISTEN? Emma called me Smarix, I was acting like a cartoon again. “IS THIS WHAT SHE SAID?!” Gennaro didn’t say anything. Persephone nodded as if it made sense to her. “Maria,” they urged me to tell them more.

“Si,” I began.

“SIIIIII,” they echoed.

“You,” they made fun of me as a little kid.

“You must do the discipline.”

QUICK CHANGE IN TOPIC, a little match within the match.

“TELL EM MERI!”

“You, you must do the discipline.”

They SLAMMED ME DOWN. SPEAK! WHAT IS THIS? Listen to lyrics? They don’t listen to the words? Flora rang.

“Allora, me,” I pointed to myself, okay?”

“OKAY Maria OKAY…”

“IO, hear the words…” I tapped my ear.

“SI, si SI, si si.”

“I have words…when a person speaks…I, sometimes,” tipping my head around. They got it right away. “HEAR, HEAR SONGS? THE WORDS?”

“SI SI.”

This was normal, speed up your discourse, “yes, you’re hearing lyrics,” and “more than one person say…” Carmine was coming in. “Oh, you know the words to songs…” He looked from side to side. Vico opened his hands.

“AND THEY…” pointing at HIS FACE: CARMINE. “SAY…” the third person plural was now mine. “I don’t listen to the lyrics…”

“Well then what are you listening to?”

“I don’t know…”

“ARE THESE instrumentals Maria?”

“NO!”

“Are there no words in this song?”

“NO!”

It must be. “NO!”

Everyone was baffled, stunned, Carmine found it particularly strange.

“I am agreeing with you.”

They were confused.

“Are they good, Maria, are the lyrics good?”

“I do not know.”

They were disturbed, Franco especially.

Then, I brought up “O Sole Mio.” Clearing my throat, I said, “you know,” as if I were making deals, “O Sole Mio, this song…okay, in America…”

“OKAY O-kay…”

They were getting scared now, this song might…Carmine and I got there. Might be considered “old.” I waited for it which was a full-on attack.

“OLD? Meaning meaningful?”

“Emotional, maria?”

“NO, no,” I wagged my finger.

“Old, in America is not good.”   

“Eh, beh,” they didn’t understand.

“Old is not good. Not in America. You see? Dante. You get the mentality.”

“It is considered this song…maybe…”

They revolted with O Sole Mio.

“It’s in front of you!”

Clinking our effervescent white and yellow Saperle to the promise of love, ice buckets at the four corners stacked, the couches were moved to face the table.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Vico cut across the waves of voices singing.

“Aspette, aspette, aspette,” Emma echoed with Rosa.

“You wanna be an American, listen to me, is it worth it…?”

But was it? We regarded each other.

“You want to be trendy, but if you drink whiskey and soda,” they squeaked at me, “you’ll have a long hangover!” Do you drink whiskey and soda?

The candlesticks were silver. White plates were stacked—many courses— next to crystal dishes. Two wine glasses sat next to water. Napkins of a clay color folded like birds of paradise. Name tags handmade by the Vico girls in gold, red, green down the line. The big screen was now the backdrop for the two Francos. It was time to translate the song, Carmine doing pantomime while everyone else reached for explanations; voices on top of each other.

Franco was upset, shaking his head.

“Dino dino,” since we could switch back to any topic at any point. We were STILL on Dino? You see?

“Jealous,” Emma assured me along with Rosa and Flora that Franco was “jealous…” My stomach started to turn, the word “jealous” was an automatic button in me: no exception, only execution. I could kill a person. Don’t tell me it’s normal, no no no. There’s a line, and that’s it. In a romantic context, I suppose it has its place, but not seriously, do you know what I mean?

 “Jealous” like a father.

I had no idea what anyone was talking about!

“Jealous like a father?”

Uh oh. Oh no. I didn’t want this. He wasn’t my father, I wasn’t looking for one! Gennaro saw I was spiraling fast. No one helped me. I swallowed. Franco demanded to know who was going to walk me down the aisle, banging the table with a fist. Prince Charming raised his brows.

“Who was going to walk me down the aisle?”

I swallowed and looked at him like a dumbbell.

Franco was serious. No one was talking.

Now, women dream of the day that a man proposes, however, I had never even thought about this day let alone a man proposing to walk me down the aisle...especially when no one existed, currently, who I was getting beers with flirtatiously. Dino, I mean, Dino? A man I didn’t even know inspired all of this? I was not one for fantasy. I had never thought about my wedding day in my life, I mean, truly speaking!

Insalata di Rinforzo was sharp on the nose, marinated cauliflower, escarole, green olives, anchovies, platters of them already on the table. Sweet red and yellow peppers stuffed with anchovies, black olives, garlic and fresh breadcrumbs. Escarole pizza, one of Flora’s specialties of bitter greens packed in between crust. I was feeling conflicted, full, unable to continue.

“You,” I said, that’s what I was supposed to say.

“Si,” he said full of pride.

Here we go, again. The objective was to not get adopted. It’s easy to say “oh, what a nice gesture” and leave it at that but that’s me ten years later. At the time, why are people getting possessive? One my NONEXISTENT marriage. This is FANTASY! I cannot handle FANTASY!

He’s jealous like a father—with me. Jealousy must be eliminated— crazy. So he considers me to be like his daughter. That’s the language we skated into. I suppose now, as an adult, I could be embraced that way, I don’t know, but how many cousins come over (with my story, too) and get parents and brothers on top of what I’m already saying? I needed to end it — end this match.

“The problem,” I began, taking the feet out of ALL of them in one sentence.

“I need find a Neapolitan…”

No? Ah si. We all agreed. Of course.

I ENDED it.

A GIANT POT of vongole was steaming, hitting the kitchen table. Flora and Angela were tag-teaming—the two sisters. “Secondo me,” Emma said. Slippery spaghetti covered in tiny cockles cracked open with white plates everywhere. “Did you control the number?” Flora asked, I think. Rosa twisted dripping fresh pasta expertly with spoon and wooden spatula placing a mound in each plate.

Carmine sprinkled a little fresh parsley on top. He felt my eyes on him. 

“Penso,” I heard.

“Si, si, no no.”

The table was singing again, Carmine leading the way, the song that Ignazo put on during the first dancing round. “Cha cha cha…cha cha cha cha…” Gennaro was discussing with friends from Brazil or wherever they were from. Carmine stuck his fork in it, pulling up a delicious, steaming, pasta and putting in it on Emilio’s plate. Boom, boom. We clapped on the arrival of the vongole. We were speaking amongst ourselves, “what’s happening,” Franco asked. Emma passed me the pepper—crack, crack. Emma called us. Ignazo said something and Hades hurled a deep response, laughing, and opening up wine with beefy arms. Ignazo was clapping.

“Woo!”

I cried.

Our glasses were in the air again to la Traviata…but we didn’t know which song to sing and no one took the lead.

Rosa took a big bite of vongole.

Carmine was leaning back—addressing someone—stroking himself. Emilio’s face was in his pasta bowl. Once again, our glass hit the roof—now, a slow clap, we were building. We were clinking glasses. Carmine held up a knife.

“Allora,” he was conducting, tapping his glass.

Ignazo was clinking his knife against the wine bottle to give his brother’s sound some depth. With hands, this was an important song, the “oh” vowel” particularly prideful and nasal. We getting swashy, swirly in our delivery, the melody unclear. We were feeling slippery.  Ignazo’s head was hitting the beat, correctly (?).

One lone, little shell was on my plate, facing down.

Ignazo was on his feet. We were chanting another name. Emma rose and we all did. “Fravola.”

We were clinking glasses, Persephone was cracking up, embracing one another.

Angela remained seated.

Franco now rose. 

It was Rosa that broke the news to me in a Santa hat and tight white turtleneck.

“You will play Santa,” for the baby dragons.

Ivana was on the other side of me.

I was turning my pasta, sucking the tender bulb from its shell, tasting sweet waves. “IO?”

I pointed at myself like Dino.

It was a deal to be made, tradition.

“It’s your first time, so there is nothing that can be done…it is obligatory.”

There was already an organization in place for the safe and unseen exit of Maria and the magical entrance of Santa Claus. Emma made enormous faces, got the boys on chairs in their sweaters, and led us in a marching song. “VICTORY.” Frankie was sort of rough and dismissive about it. The middle baby dragon complacent, the baby smiling with baby blues and dark curly hair.

The Santa costume was in Franco’s office.

“Later,” Rosa would give me the signal.

Ignazo was speaking like a presenter—fast.

He said “paddle.”

“Is there one?”

“One,” Carmine said.

One, is there? One? Across the table.

Turning his pointer finger around, Gennaro said “one?” When Gennaro spoke (Hades), it rattled the table without trying—booming.

I stopped into the kitchen where Franco and Flora were wondering whether or not I was planning on calling my mother for Christmas as I was helping Rosa and Emma and Carmine with a team of people getting clean plates out, stacking dirty plates, bringing more wine, throwing some out—glass clanking—Gennaro snapping with his ringed finger out the patio.

I was breathing, the food, we hadn’t even reached the Baccala round.

Call my mother?

I looked at them. Were they joking?

“But what are you talking about?”

This is what I mean. I thought, okay, I said enough, and they kept on…bringing it up. Am I going to call my mother? What? Scratching the back of his ear, Franco was trying to make amends, for me. It threw me off so completely. I had never called my mother on Christmas in my entire life. I was smelling the pots in their faces, gesturing instead to the deliciousness of the combination of nuts, salt, and a little bitter leaf. We laughed. I heard SMARIX, clapping, songs taking off again.

“It’s Christmas…”

“And will you call your mother?”

“Which one, Franco?”

“What do you mean which one,” he put up a finger.

“The one, your Mama.”

Did I ever see this person on Christmas? Talk, get a phone call? I was full, so full. I was churning, maybe wine, maybe food.

Flicking my hand—stop complimenting my gesturing—she didn’t give a shit about me; this was an edge that started to feel satisfying, satisfaction, is telling people after weeks that she didn’t give a shit about me, like I could really dig in a knife into them with a smile, sort of. I wasn’t harsh, but this wasn’t about me.

I tried to communicate the story…and some of the responses I could get could throw me. I existed on a line where I had to consider their side because maybe they were right? I was wrong. I was in this space.

I had to fight against people’s superior frameworks of thinking (I laugh) but I didn’t have solid ground enough to just say no without going into a spiral, defaulting to “the other” person being more right because it was puzzling to me, coming from the story that I did.

I didn’t need that, you see, the emotion coming at me from “the jealous father” and Flora, the sturdy, solid, mother wanting me to make amends, a reach. You see? All these goddamn signals. Except, except, except, what do I say? Do I let go of all that? Would you? If you were treated so basely, would you encourage someone to call that person?

Yes, she was sick. She didn’t give a damn. She had money for a while and just bounced and put on some freak show, sort of, calling this woman on the phone all the time, accussing her husband of being a child molester.

Sort of. At the time, I was wheeling, as this story unraveled. This happened. What the fuck is wrong with me? Getting caught up in x, y, z. Who gives a shit who is walking me down the aisle, right now. Here I could have exploded but I didn’t want to hurt anyone, besides, I held affection for these two people. They abandoned me at my worst hour, actually, though they still showed up with champagne. People talk like that—you abandoned me, just please, I could throw tables at this ridiculous talk.

Gennaro was rushing with raw fish—saving me from whatever this was—the baby dragons flying in as backup, directing me outside. I had to be polite, grateful, give them the hand, the diplomatic hand. I couldn’t snap at them, though now, I probably would, but the wine, the food, I was seeing double. We’ve barely eaten anything.

WITH A POP, it was effervescent white Saperle.

“Dante.”

Green eyes like laser beams, Gennaro was in the darkened shadows of leaves drenched in black, the moon visible between the trees, awaiting to give the signal for the first batch of cod to hit the crackling oil, the burners turned up—and so was his accent. Paper, plastic opened, piles of raw cod were covering the table, glistening like moonlight, oil on water, yellow, magenta, teal. An aroma fresh from the ocean.  Marco was smiling—the baby dragons discussing matters seriously with me in English, Italian, French, Hungarian, and Spanish.

The cod hit the oil, sizzling, crackling, Gennaro was keeping himself agile on his feet. Sparks of oil were popping—Rosa, Emma, Flora, and Angela were ready in the shadows to swoop in, Persephone enjoying the show.

“There are two similar but distinct forms: baccala or stoccafisso.”

The paper towels had been prepared.

The baked cod with tomato sauce was in the oven stewing in black olives Angela cured. There was a dish on top of the fried fish? One was experimental, Genaro was pleased.  “This brings together,” he thought, “cultures also involved in Napolitano culture…Portugal, Spain…”

The oils, but the oils used, yes. What makes a perfect fried item, this was Genaro’s motivation, “they must sit…but only for a moment…” He specified, “it was crispy, remember, not cold,” giving way to hunky yet tender cod.

“The flour is important,” he believed.

“Maria,” he could tell I was a little distracted.

“They want me to call my mother…”

 “Why not?”

“Why would I?”

“No, I asked you in the opposite,” he had prongs.

“Yes, and I am asking you the opposite.”

I wasn’t anticipating to find myself near tears in Gennaro’s face having said. There was no time, and I knew it. I was a contender like Genaro thought I was. In and out, Flora and Angela, Emma and Rosa were scooping sizzling baccala out of the fryers, setting them on napkins, Persephone surveying. We were laughing in the shadows of the usual dining area, because upon sight of a Cassata, I said, “I cannot do this.”

All he could say was why not?

 He pinched his fingers, emboldened somehow, hands lifting a little like his father.

“We’re all blowing up this Christmas…”

“Why do I do this…you, I mean, ‘you' in the plural!”

Why were they doing this for me, but he misunderstood.

“We do this out of…devotion…”

He didn’t know what else to say.

“For our ancestors…what is Christmas if not for this?” 

“It’s not the first time…”

He shrugged at me.

“Of this I am not so sure.”

I raised a fist to Gennaro’s back.

“Sensa sord!”

He took in the expression, the table erupting in delight, yelling the next line to me—breaking up into applause—GO MERI!”

“No one sings in church.”

The baccalà fried cod steaming, fingers shining, mouths crunching down on the course that seemed to inebriate everyone, laughing, who knew what we were talking about? 

IGNAZO LED THE charge with fist.

We transitioned to a happy, peppy number: our clapping.  “Da da da da da,” we were waving our hands from side to side, passing Baccalà down the table.

“Woo!” I cried.

“Wooo,” I said it again, sexy. 

“Freedom,” Emilio said with plate.

The lights went out, and Carmine was feeling the spirit.

We were singing and saying auguri—Ignazo’s glass swinging in the dark.

“Woo!”

Emilio clicked at me.

He was going to slip into the night after this function.

Fried cod was steaming and I was seeing double which made my plate quadruple. Rosa put down four more bottle of white Portuguese wines. The table voiced concern, curiosity, wanting to know the meaning of Christmas in America. Is this not for ancestors? What was this for?

“Speak,” Franco insisted, sharply.

“If it’s not for the ancestors,” Gennaro insisted.

Persephone, mid-chew, swallowed.

We all enjoyed my manner of speaking; they spoke amongst themselves.

“Santa Maria, the hour has arrived.”

Gennaro got his soccer feet warmed up that held the grace of a dancer down the table. Persephone on the other side of the table sparkled at me. “Maria,” she made a sweet gesture to ask if I was doing alright with the language. “Is this hard for you?” She bit into fried cod. We were getting boisterous now, ho! Baccala! The Neapolitans were eating bits fried baccalà with fork and knife, which to me, well, I wasn’t sure what to do. It was fatty, fleshy, crispy—just perfect, Gennaro. After refreshing his palette with effervescent flute, Emilio clapped at me in sly tones that it was time to make my exit. He waited. Rosa appeared from Franco’s sliding door, the baby dragons on the floor.

 “Have you seen Maria?”

“Oh!” Flora said.

“She went to auguri a friend….”

“Ah, okay,” she shrugged. “Va bene, okay okay…she’ll return later…no?”

Rosa played the part well.

Meanwhile, Emilio had slipped me out the front door, already open, and Emilio made sure Ivana in Santa hat, nodding at him, didn’t close it—not yet. The crescent window of the stairwell behind her, an icy blue glow on white and grey marble, her greens were still.

Picking up his pants, he said, “Andiamo, Santa Claus.”

At the steps up to Franco’s home office, Emilio with a hand reminded me that the walls were thin and we must move in silence. Through the front door, Rosa was ready in Santa hat and a plate of Baccalà. Lifting it, not knowing the words, “if eh, you, want. Si si,” she was serious. “Santa Claus,” she giggled in my throat. Every single family member had taken turns, every new person must perform Santa Claus.

In the small waiting room with dust rose leather love seat and magazines on a coffee table, Rosa, like a pro, nodded and started getting my Santa suit ready. She took it across to his small office. “Not bad.” She showed me the cushions to place to further disguise my body. With ok signs, she told me not to worry that there was time, “don’t worry.” Into the red velvet suit, I fit into it, with puffage in areas of disguise myself completely. Rosa was as sharp as she was with the cards, she adjusted my belt. She handed me my mustache, beard, and hat. I started waddling forward and backward, feeling out the weight of my invisible belly. “Lower back problems,” and I said and laughed wondering why a comment like that was funny. I froze in fear. They were singing so loud, “impossible, Merí,” and she pinched her fingers at me. I was scared, to be frank. I had no idea how to play Santa Claus for Italian children. Were their dreams resting in my hands? What if they were to ask me questions? I didn’t speak Italian. Someone put on— “Renato Carosone!”—“Mo vene natale,” with fast keys and sultry band. Rosa and I began to dance together in the room, telling me she had to make an appearance, for the babies not to be suspicious, “Santa Claus.”

ROSA SLID THE MIRRORED DOOR, and the lights had been dimmed to better assist my camouflage. Aguilia imperial fritte; spearfish, alici fritte; anchovies, Anguilla with chicory, and capitone; the female eel was received by the table in cheers and songs. I bumped their soccer ball with my belly and Flora, out of the kitchen, kicked it back into Franco’s office through my open legs. 

“AUGURI!”

All the adults freaked out—Santa! We were freaking out.

“NAPOLI! WINS! WE HOPE!”

To cheers, the family dancing, the baby dragons frozen at me, I pumped with fists.

“Auguri auguri, auguri!

Flora applauded me.

“Babbo Natale! How are you?”

As Santa, I slapped my leg at the eel, and said—“woman!” I gestured with reverence. No one knew that the El Capitone was the female eel. As Santa, it was awkward. “Si.”

I showed the path for the presents through the front door and nodded with mustache and beard to the effort of my helpers. Gennaro and Persephone were watching me, chewing, playing this part with the sincere interest in being as truthful as possible with my physicality. In the arms of Persephone, the youngest baby dragon burst into tears. He was not expecting this, for Santa to actually show up. The two others started ripping increasingly large presents open, so Angela came in and helped them.

The shiny paper went to bits.

Rosa took a photo of us in her Santa hat and posted it on Facebook:

“I met Santa Claus.”

THE NEXT THING I remember was waking up on the couch in a Santa costume confused as I don’t take naps, and the whole table was still eating. Rosa in Santa hat caught me first in mid-bite of stewed octopus stewed with my red tomatoes and Angela’s olives. The table erupted in applause as I droopily got back to my seat. My beard was still on.

“Santa Claus!” 

We were on our feet—Santa!! He woke up!!

“BRAVO!”

BRAV.

Sautéed greens were exiting from the kitchen. Rosa was putting down like seven bottles of red—Primi Passi with two little baby feet on its ticket. The table booed. She knew, but why? With taps at the table, everyone understood a nap, everyone took them during this period. It was time to get back to it, my magical ride through the sky, of course. I tapped the table. I took sparkling, first. 

Angela arrived and informed me that we had had a conversation, and she indicated, “oy lan,” about your work. “Santa,” with cookies. I didn’t want to talk too much, given that I couldn’t. I was terrified to ruin Santa, so it was “ho, ho, ho,” time to leave, reindeer, red nose, the lights were still dim, candles glowing.

“Was it going to be ok, Santa? Was I going to be late for my next appearance?”

I waved goodbye, clapping them on, with curves of a finger, I’ll see you next year. They sang songs, children’s songs, and Ivana was waving me off as Santa Claus.

“Good night! Good night Santa! Maria! Maria! Look it’s Santa Claus!”

“Ho ho ho, si si si…”

Emilio gave me a thumb’s up at the door.

I had to wait a few minutes.

Family was lonely, too., the sounds of this closeknit group of people partying along. It took some time for it to not feel like that. I was always a solo person in these contexts—I got my family elsewhere, in a sense, coming to terms with that. It wasn’t in my narrative; my parents, it wasn’t exactly in my grasp yet either that they weren’t there. The way I navigated around them, that took me beginning to write to understand. This was step one.

I WAS STARING at the phone on Franco’s pink couches in his waiting room. My mother didn’t even have my number. But I could be swayed by other peoples’ feelings, and it was hard because my story endeared people to me, in a way, as you can see, and they kept hitting me — boom, Franco, with twists and turns like what are you doing? Like I, me, I don’t know what I’m talking about?

“Don’t do it.”

“Put down the phone.”

I was having a panic, I ended up calling my sister, so I hung up instead.

Gennaro was so confused. “If you don’t want to call her, you don’t have to.”

“Lie,” he suggested. Which I couldn’t do, and he said I could do it. Lie to them. He knew I could do it. “Don’t get…” entangled. That’s what I needed. Like, this ruined Christmas, for me.

Gennaro found me still in the Santa suit, mask off.

I got up and he squinted at me, clocking all my quick, volatile reactions, wondering what was going on. There’s another course.

I hesitated; he didn’t understand the shakiness around taking a seat or not.

“What are you doing?”

Genaro gestured to the party outside the door.

I was deep breathing, drowning, the food, I collapsed on the pink leather couches, trying to pray, just praying for a little more room in my stomach.

“Santa Claus,” Genaro said, looking at the phone.

Persephone put down her glass, at the door, sneaking away a moment from the game outside. She poured us a glass of some of their favorite wine from Portugal.

Why did you do that, Persephone said.

There was no reason to listen to Franco.

Gennaro and Persephone had no attachments to either one of my parents, obviously, but even my father. They were quite disturbed, actually, by what they were hearing. It was odd, to them, how utterly unreal my story was, in material that also looked like money, and exactly. They couldn’t place themselves

Emma came in marching like a merry soldier rallying the troops in her boots with buckles, and said, “noh, noh, noh,” I winced for a moment, maybe I did something wrong, to find out the opposite.

“The lambada, Smarix, later, no? With scampi, I don’t know, Smarix, a little early?” She was laughing.

“Smarix!”

She was pointing at me to do La Brasiliane, the kicking across the floor, while Emma played bringing scampi to the table, “here’s your scampi.”

Who is Smarix? Gennaro asked.

“What is Smarix?” 

“Maria’s cartoon name.”

I clapped my hands, “pay attention.”

Yelling with a peppy gravelly voice, her cheeks flushed, her eyes clear but not clear, Franco was wincing, pretending to be upset, pinching his fingers.

“What are we doing in this office?”

“I did it, I called her…”

Brava, he said. I was a show, it was true, it was really true, but then, it wasn’t always the case, obviously. I was a very real person, down to earth, but around my story, it was a lot of things at once, which I think most people could relate to, actually.

SHRIMP BAKED ON LEMON LEAVES wafted. I was seeing double, triple, I couldn’t believe it, and I got more el captione because I had slept through the eel round. I had to inform them—really—that it’s the female not male.

I might have missed a round who knew, I could barely function, wanting to rip off my tights, put on large pants, and be done with this, but how delightful it was. This was family. It was an aroma, very subtle and tingly, herbal on the nose, the scampi plump and pink, and the fire moved waves of silk tapping on our door. 

The red was effervescent now—Saperle!

We were singing La Traviata again. We discussed the wine from Vesuvius. Emma said you can feel, taste the lava, no Ignazo? We sang a song for Saperle, led by Vico with a wine bottle empty already.

All eyes fell on me, the Neapolitans deskinning their scampi with fork and knife, cracking, the flesh wafting with aromas of citrus. The broccoli di natale was cooked in dark green olive oil, rustic and delicious. But what was this expression? Defeat, surrender, I could not—anymore! I slammed my fist on the table and we cheered. “I cannot anymore! Auguri!”

“AUGURI!!” We lost it.

“What happened to your mother?”

Gennaro asked, looking at Franco.

“The first,” Persephone said. “No, no,” Gennaro gave me a hand, “from what I understand…there are,” he gave me a signal to go through the mothers.

“Brasiliane,” we all said.

“Mexican?”

“Not yet.”

“AND, Jewish,” I emphasized, holding back my sneering at these Catholics, with all due respect. I had major shade for the Catholics. “Hebrew,” in Italian. They didn’t know about my epic childhood investigation into the Catholic Church in the name of God! I was this person. I wasn’t casual about God, there was nothing casual about this subject to me. Yes, Gennaro said.

“Jesus was?” I lifted my glass? What?

“He, this man,” I said, “was Jewish…”

I was getting heated because I had the freedom to be.

“Do you see? I was saved by a Jewish family!”

Jesus was born Jewish and died Jewish! I cheered Jesus on, the man, the son of God, however it was….you wanted to…classify him. No issues here.

“Did we know, did anyone ask what happened to…what’s your mother’s name…”

“Joy,” I said.

Franco looked at me. “Her name is Joy?!”

The family took that in. Yeah, they got the connection even with me. This would be, Franco Franzese bringing in others, you, a little. “Puro,” I said. “Pure.” We all agreed. “I do not know what to say,” but just say it, “si,” I do not know if this is “buono.” In the turning of my hands, “complicated,” they said, “it’s complicated,” they went down a list. “Si,” I rubbed my fingers together, “a quality that,” and I shook my hand like “I do not know the reaction…” But “the my mom’s name is Joy…the first.”

“Doctor Joy, I use,” I air-wrote, “this name when I write.” I was unable to use her real name at the time, Dr. J was her real nickname but I hadn’t assume that as her title. I didn’t use her real name—I said well, in the story I was writing, I said I call her Dr. Joy. I could’nt even use her real name—what was I supposed to say about this woman? What “positive” setnences? I cannot even stomach that I use dthe word “fabulous” because of her attire. She wasn’t easy to digest, Dr. J. It goes to show what a different person I was then the one I am today. “Joy,” it was, all the same, her fundamental theme.

Talk about a show, mine was charming, but who knows, I don’t know what to say about her, but I do have a feeling that she was really wired differently, I think. She could have very well been a prodigy, I don’t know, but I also don’t care. That obsession of hers didn’t do her a lick of good, in my opinion. I was fascinated with her and I could have used someone, when I was young, who told me to put it aside except I didn’t really tell anyone; it’s all useful, it’s not that.

I didn’t know how to use my knife and fork in this regard, so I didn’t. Using knives to deshell a shrimp? It became entertaining, which was part of the problem, my personality on a small scale. I don’t know why this is, but some people tended to watch me just be. I’m just trying to eat shrimp. And under a gaze like that, would you feel a little nervous—now I don’t give a shit. I’m going in. 

I’m a very bold, honest, upfront person, so I am fine using myself, obviously, as material—I really am not the same person, but sure, I can slip into areas. And they very well might have entertainment value, so I can play a little, but it’s really around the sensation of being seen…what are people “seeing?”

“She never called you…” This question. “After these…four years…”

“No,” I said, again. She really didn’t care, though her display was outlandish. She had problems, major. I didn’t need to be there, she was untettered, disconnected from all reality. She had a relationship with me—blah blah blah, she, I’m sure, talks of nothing else but me, and she doesn’t even have my number.

I showed a couple handfuls, with some grease, cleaning my fingers with napkin. I never had much contact with her. Dr. J was hysterical, in the words of a wise screenwriter. “Hysterical.” I was “funny,” wasn’t I? Again, there’s nothing wrong with being funny, it was just, at a certain point, was I going to stop the show?

In my personal life. This family also embraced me for my show, which did make a difference. They delighted in it, too, laughed, it was all loving. My story was too confusing to me, I didn’t want to speak the real words of what happened. I was inside of this story, turning in circles, beginning to understand that, but not able to just “move onto something else,” it was my life. That takes time and real work, actually, so I had a friend once belittled “the work” if you would, when in my case it really was.

So, not that sad. It just was. It was the projection that I fought back on—because you should not wrap someone up in “lack” and “scarcity.” It isn’t positive, even if the intention is. Shocking, to find that your intention is not positive even if you mean it to be. Dr. J was positive in that her character could do a lot of good—I would rather talk about her psychology, frankly.

Elbows on the table, it was time to huddle in.

I took a sip of Saperle, preparing to tell them this story in response to Franco and Flora’s kind and thoughtful suggestion, pushy, to call my mother.

“A man saved my mother…”

“Cosi,” he poofed.

We all knew what my gesture meant now.

“From where?”

I looked around. I did not know from where this man came…ma he operated, in gesture, Gennaro shaking his head at me, like he had always been there.

“I was home, suddenly, I do not know why…”

I woke up suddenly, in front of them, not knowing why I was home—I did not have a room in this house.

“Eat, eat, eat…”

I cannot do this story and eat at the same time, I got angry.

“Why are you so obsessed with her eating?”

Here here.

Had the woman not eaten enough?

Look at Paola, she’s a slender woman, who cares?

Did I want more, all the same?

“No, listen me.” I said.

“When I see this man…before I see this man…an image came to my mind.”

Secret spy, the words.

“A secret spy?”

Gennaro asked with fourteen people who sounded like forty needing a translation.

What? Maria, Ignazo dove in. “A secret spy? This man or your mother?”

“Very good,” Franco was cracking up, throwing me for sport to the crowd.

“This is the question, okay?”

“No that he is a secret spy, ma he was making, acting, like he was one…”

I showed how the image of the text flooded my face.

He saved Dr. J.

I got up showed how his slacks came peppy down the steps. 

“Why?”

Because she was a genius. “He said this to me.”

“I never see my mother alone again.”

“Only with this person?” They asked me in five different ways, it was the case with every step of my story. Was it fun? No, not particularly, but understandable. This was my mother.

“No, first, where comes this man?”

I put up a hand, ready to defend Iran.

“Iran,” stop. These people have seen enough.

“No, you will see the use in the story about America.”

Please, wait me. No, no, no, I gave a strong finger. You will see, enough.

“But, scusa, scusa, scusa, wait me.”

“The last time,” I was in prayer, hitting the point in the past on the table.

“I see my mother…Christmas. Christmas,” I said it in English in an Italian accent.

“I realized it was the first Christmas I had with her…after four.”

Throwing my hands around, “in public, okay?”

I went to their hotel, and this man tells me that he worked for the government.

“Do you see?”

I tapped my head from which the thought popped. 

“I saw this at eight,” my hands in prayer, “and then, he tells me this.”

“No, no,” I wagged my hand, since we were sort of laughing.

“I imagined it,” at Carmine, since he sees images too, “no is spy…Jason Bourne IS? “A film, no occupation, profession, lavoro Carmine!” “A spy!” Si, and wow Carmine was truly gifted. “I see these words…no is a spy ma is like one…” And Carmine said “he acts like a spy?” I shook my hand, superstitiously, like Carmen would. “A little.”

Then I cranked the wheel of time forward with my finger to land on twenty years later. “He says I work for the government…” and in the style of Franco, fatigued, “there are tante tante jobs in the government…” and I gestured “why this…” si, si, they got it. I imitated him as if “they could be watching” like who is “they.” What’s this paranoia about? A little like this.

“But what did you do for the government?”

“He didn’t…want to talk of this.”

He, I got up. “But where is he going?”

“Bathroom.”

My arms extended towards the loo and I came back to the table.

I impersonated my mother floating in the ether, I snapped.

“What is this?”

“My mother tells me he is…”

I rubbed my index fingers together.

“Double life,” I said with her wide, clear, hungry eyes.

“A secret spy.”

Genaro held himself back.

“Allor,” I said pointing with two fingers, pinky too.

“Jason Bourne, secret…”

I began.

“If he is spy, I do not care. This is not my problem,” I made a pinch pointing directly to myself. He was losing it! Telling some girl through a crazy attorney, like who was she? The attorney for the CIA or some criminal international organization? Well, excuse me, to drive home reality…hold, please. Whoever was involved here—I wasn’t, I do not go shooting my mouth off to some chick at the Continental Hotel in Paris, France. This was completely unprofessional, first thing, with thumb. Second, there was no reason to do this.

“Osama,” just to drive it home.

The last Christmas I spent with Dr. J—her escort who I knew nothing about was searching for Osama Bin Laden, according to Dr. J, and I impersonated her which always incited laughter or knocked people like a baseball to left field if not out of the stadium. Now, I say that a friend of mine is writing a television show called Drama Majors, I inspired one of the characters, and out of everything in my life, my personhood to showcase—it’s me dealing with reality or unreality of my spy identity, along with my mothers. Very real, for me, and I’m sure it will make many laugh. But in her opinion, is she? Is she a secret spy?

“I am not Jason Bourne!!!”

“Si, si,” Franco explained that “Jason Bourne wakes up and he discovered he is a spy…” “Si,” I said. “Matt Damon,” I said in an Italian accent.

Please, listen me. I diplomatically gave conflict resolution hands, Ignazo nodded, towards Franco. Gennaro had to translate this. We are speaking espionage, man, OBAMA, I called Ignazo, who didn’t really want “Obame” being put on him. How offensive, no? Secret spies, spies, are real, no? Who cares?

You see? So, I didn’t, I couldn’t, not for a long time—though I cared deeply for things, but in the space of action, I didn’t necessarily put myself first, and I was stuck in a storyline for a long time.

No, you see, my friends made up “spy movies” around Dr. J and Mr. G.

Yes, this is his name. It was part of the allure—she ignited and inspired, and so did he, that kind of reaction. I had a friend call me from Istanbul, giving me the scene of the script: a high-speed getaway.

“Jet-skis.”

Now, I said, “the Iran” element here, I looked at Obame.

When I said “Iran,” the superstitious energy came back into the room. SI, si si si si. I didn’t have enough context to penetrate what Iran meant to these people. But “Iran,” in the United States, in some contexts, the superstitious energy would enter the room.

Now, it is true that the words “secret spy” flooded my senses upon first contact with his energy, I hadn’t seen him yet, he was coming down the stairs. Not that he was a secret spy, this man who acted as if he had always been there, but that he was acting like one. Then, years later, he tells me he used to work for the government and that he would rather not talk about it—please.

“Double life,” this woman said.

“Dr. J was a buffoon.” 

“Yes,” she nodded very seriously. 

“A buffoon is an alien-like creature who comes to earth and like a child, innocently mocks to the point of disgust what humans hold to be their most selfless ideals…this is what she is saying. This was her mother…the first,” she did not blink.

Exactly—in your face. It’s like this. “Picture perfect grotesque.”

Ahead of her time, in a sense. IRSHELP, her license plate.

“IRSHELP?” Yes, Persephone knew this was the tax organization, branch, in the United States. “Her mother is a buffoon in the real,” and I impersonated the shaman when I said “classico,” yes. “The strict definition,” Persephone said. 

“It is very important,” I impersonated my Russian mother.

“What did she say to me?”

“Me, the message, to the people in their language.

“Their language,” Carmine said because I didn’t say it right.

Their language, I repeated it, “watch out.” 

This was also clown, it was my Russian mother who said it—to make it very clear, who taught me and lifted me from this place. Very important.

Calling secret spies on Christmas?

Hey, sure, hi, how are you? Let’s pretend like nothing ever happened, since that’s the way it always was.

“I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you,” at least.

These words were her daggers. Sure, I could have “showed up” differently, but Jesus Christ, that was royally not my issue.  at this point, this woman wanted nothing to do with me in the real. It was that aggressive—her joy. Her lies. Her love for me. I, actually, had no desire to talk to her, interact, to take her friggin’ money, when she’d come around to bounce again. I would have sued this woman, called the cops, gotten her professional help.

“She was asking for it,” that’s what my Brazilian Mama person said.

This is a buffoon—picture-perfect grostesque.

“This is a psychological device,” and he was correct. He was one of the inspirations behind that character. I would give this family credit, I suppose, though none is needed, but it was really the Wise Screenwriter; I’m obviously here because of myself, but he is the reason why I am here today. He came from a psychology family, a genius family, quite frankly, and I don’t even want to put that on him, but it’s true. He ruined me. Eh shattered me harder than my own family did.

Energy, he spoke to me in terms of that. So did his brother, the hypnotherapist—I was his “guinea pig,” he showed me diagrams, spoke to me in terms of molecules, which made sense to me, sensationally.

“Here,” he pointed, “this is what happened when you come into contact with someone’s energy field,” I was someone who navigated primarily in that way.

“Let’s say they are red, and you are yellow. Do you see where the two fields overlap? See that space? “

“You are not seeing yellow, they aren’t seeing red, it’s orange,” to be simple about it.

“She has dreams she does not understand,” yeah big time.

Energy is real, I can discuss it on that level, because we can all agree it is the case. I would hope so, because it’s a basic scientific principle, isn’t it? Who knows, I had dreams of the Neapolitans talking about me, and then, I had a message from Angela this morning. Oh, yes.

Persephone, Genaro, Carmine, Emilio, and Rosa and I went for a walk to the only commerce in this cluster of condominiums—Dr. Toys with Fernet Branca. Franco judged me because I like it. “You like that?” It was a necessary medicinal elixir, according to Genaro and a laughing Persephone, to deal with the content of this meal.

I felt weird about what I just did, and no one understood why. They never did.

“Don’t worry,” Carmine furrowed his brow. “No,” he pushed up his glasses accustomed to my insecure flashes, which were really much more than that, rubbing his fingers together, not interested in the digestif.

“Maria gets worried that it’s too much,” Emilio blurted in my face.

“MERI.” Ignazo clicked at me, tapping my shoulders.

“The best,” he got goofy. “Singer in Ottaviano…”

“Grande, Meri, grande.”

“Do you think he’s really a spy?”

“I can’t.”

The squat street was quiet.

Balconies of hunter and mint green with matching closed shutters hovered over the streets with lines clipped with brightly colored clothespins. There was hardly a person, walking, or anything like that, at any time.

On the property wall of an olive grow at the end of the block, it was graffitied:

“My Christmas is you…” 

A few lone lights were on, shutters of pink stripes on decrepit grey façade. The fluorescent sign was troubling, eerie on the tiny, desolate block with three quarters moon above it, clouds ominous.

Dr. Toys.

”MAMA,” Emma tipped herself back at the top of the little street.

Rosa gave her a look, her nose the stance, her shoulders, about the volume of her voice. She was pursing her lips, amused but distant, shaking her head at her boisterous sister.

But then, in lapping, voluptuous tones, she was speaking, she couldn’t even breathe. She was tired, but really, full-bodied, tired. It was “really true,” picking at her mascara, Rosa was spiraling fast, though at every single point any one of these people said it, the end was never near, nor did they seem to truly fatigue.

In very precise gestures, Emma began breaking down whatever argument she had.

“Scusa.”

“OH!” I didn’t know she was here? Smarix! Emma was splitting at the seams.

Her frown line said she was at maximum capacity.

What were we doing, Smarix, she was a little drunk, it was wondrous, did you want to go for a walk? Really? She thought that was interesting—Smarix, she wanted to know what I thought about most things. Emilio with dinner jacket was pinching both his fingers. “What is happening right now?” He cracked up, dismissed it. What are we doing in this street? Meri, he didn’t trill the r.

“Dance,” he said. He was getting himself ready.

I was regarding the graffiti on the wall—my Christmas in you…Brava Smarix. My Christmas is YOU! OH! Emma head-butted. “Is this what it says, Smarix,” she was turning to the rest, not able to make steps forward, she was on the brink.

Carmine was analyzing it, “what is this person referring to,” he shrugged, “for a person, his girlfriend, I don’t know, but I guess,” we had all decided. “In the sense, you, you know, my Christmas is you. You are my present, the reason why my Christmas has…a meaning?”

He wasn’t sure what he was saying.

“I declare,” Genaro said.

“Si, si, my Christmas is you.”

Emma and I got into a tit for tat—NOH! My Christmas is you. NOH!

She pointed at me as if she knew the truth.

“YOU.”

“My Christmas is you.”

“Si, si, it’s here,” Emilio confirmed, “also in the summer.”

“How did you father have Alzheimer’s?”

I promise you Franco asked me nine years later after I had spoken about it for nine years—it was a blow that hurt me beyond, in that, I walked through the door with this information to be told “no, that’s not true” when I dsappeared. It was beyond me what people appeared to understand and then it was as if I had never spoken at all. I try to keep a person in mind when I deal with them? Just basically speaking. Did I ever think about being sensitive to the trauma that I went through, not to appear to make it a national tragedy, but I, now, have been able to get to that place. I had to do that for myself since no one got that. Beginning when I was four. And it’s probably not that uncommon.

Sense, I was reaching for real sense—not there yet. My Christmas is you. 

Someone once suggest that I make less sense.

But then, in writing, I knew most, if not all, of my story would land. There are stories like that. I remember in theater hearing “it’s too real,” the audience doesn’t know how to react. It was my real story. So, my mother is a secret spy working for some man who is going to risk his identity and his life in a public place to some girl he never saw. It was offensive to me.

Through the white gate, with Gennaro and Persephone, I said that Dr. J was a pathological victim. She told the tales, not Mr. G. She was like that; a pure narratist. There were many government jobs. He could have just not wanted to talk about it, though his manner was paranoid.

Then, I could tell, not wanting to talk about the time I busted into her office coming to realize that I was here, which is part of why I came back to Naples, that she made up a sob story around the time we spent together in this stupid hotel. She told lies about her husband being a child molester, yet the memories I have of my early life—I don’t know what to do with them. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

She was unique—a dead word brought back to life—and from my perspective, I heard “no filters between realities” come into my head at twelve years old while I was contemplating Dr. J’s psychology. This is what I did with my time.

DESSERTS WERE EVERYWHERE. Frankie was quick on the field, eating a mustache of nobles—a dark chocolate diamond with soft nougat inside. Find me Here.

“In the US,” I stared at the table—the family cheering, Franco getting contrarian for fun, though he might not realize it’s his pastime. Being a concerned father, it was his natural way, and I didn’t know how to play this. I wasn’t his child. I was never adopted, until a woman did, okay? That’s it. But we didn’t go through an official process, that, it’s a story in itself.

My sister did the paperwork, but I wouldn’t place my health in her hands, actually, I would, which I wouldn’tI don’t know what to say about “a derective,” but I would not want my mother, the first, called under any circumstances. So, maybe I will eventually take some steps to ensure that wouldn’t be the case, but that wouldn’t be my problem, she’ll die. Not me. Not yet.

Everything flows, Vico said, as in, nothing stays the same. Not even family.

I do not know where my mother came from, I don’t know what that lineage is, but it was real, that I can tell you. It was a real doozy working through that. Lineage is a real, real thing. I don’t know anything about her, not really. Neither did my father. Not one thing. Never thought to ask her a question. I might be feeling inclined, energetically wired, but there’s the real. Where did this woman come from with her German name? Rebhun? Is that a Jewish name? For real, people.

Now, in really considering what Hannah Arendt would say to me—okay, which helped me greatly, regardless of what the truth was, all these elements in my story had value, even as a reflection. At least. Having her in my head made me smarter; I could talk about my life from the perspective of appearances, and this, her work in my head, obviously penetrated a lot–a real prodigy, no? That’s Arendt. And I can really feel it, I can tell you that. I would have greatly enjoyed talking to her. And I have. She was a real source of strength.

Rosa was unwrapping a panettone with whole pecans and sugar pellets. A yellow box from Scaturchio—mine—was popping open with Pastiera; a ricotta tart with bits of candied citrus and cinnamon. It was invented by nuns as they were the innovators, the true stars of pastry in these parts.

“Wow,” Emilio said.

I rather be interrupted. It was easy to switch and change directions in topics, but it wasn’t smooth for me. Platters of milk, dark, and white chocolate truffles with lemon sprinkles with the crispy thin hazelnut cookies from Torino hit the table.

Rosa crumpled the plastic, “wow,” Flora said.

Gennaro was on the mic. 

This was a serious panettone. I’d never seen such large sugar crystals. Then, a plain bum of a panettone was revealed; golden, sloping. Bright green with candied limes—it was a, not the for there were more than one, Cassata with a candied strawberry rising from chocolate chips. This was not a cake, a Neapolitan would cut you, this was the ricotta with fluffy cake swirling in chocolate chips with a thick sugar shell—crush it.

Rosa was confident was a large knife through the panettone, her gold cuff large and attractive, catching the candlelight. Flora put her wrist into it—the cassata. “Sweet wine?” Gennaro asked. The liquor bottles—frosty and tepid—were flying in: Amaro forte, , orange, lemon, blueberry, melon…More cakes were arriving wrapped in plastic—with deep grooves.

“ROSA,” Flora said. “For the Cassata…”

Rococo; the donut as hard as rock were on dished in plenty in the hands of Rosa along with almond biscotti and dates and another round, blond cookie of some kind; crunchy but not a rock like Rococo, my favorite. Emilio held up a bottle covered in straw, “Vin cote!” He poured it. Someone handed me limoncello and frosty blueberry. Then, an Amaro. Emilio shook a wrapped gift. Gennaro wanted the vino coto. Angela cut a heart slice of the smooth panettone; good and yellow and fresh with raisins trying to give it to Emma who pointed to her Cassata. Carmine had a cookie.

Emilio shook his new Adidas shirt; grey. Rosa thanked Carmine profusely with a stack of books or something. Behind Angela at the head of the table was a heart hanging from the keyhole on the armoire. Ignazo was wearing his new hiking backpack; grey, over his bright blue Adidas zip-up, eating a crunchy cookie. The Cassata: the ricotta is stuffed between cake encased in shell, now sliced.

Candies wrappers were everywhere; that plate destroyed. The pecan and sugar panettone stuffed with cherries and other dried fruits was getting decimated quickly. Flora got me “nomad” perfume. Hands were grabbing panettone, falling apart.

Hands were turning liquor bottles.

“Here I am! The love that you love!”

Gennaro and I sang, Carmine eating chocolates.

Persephone was pointing, Emma clapping us on—“ragazzi!”

Suddenly, I had a glass of limoncello in a boxy glass.

The middle dragon began putting on a magic show in a Lisbon t-shirt.

“E CUI,” Emma emphasized on her feet.

“TROVA, duh, uh…” She couldn’t, face bright, put together the words, the panettone wrapping now in the shape of a star, one single piece left in the center. Ignazo’s voice shot up an octave—high-pitched, cupping a pinched hand. Emilio was up, pinching. “Grande torneo?” Emma had the punch line. Gennaro was amused. The baby dragons were tapping toys with magic wands—woooo, wow, the audience responding sincerely.

There was clapping.

Vico yelled.

“5 euros!”

He was beginning to shuffle gambling cards with pictures on them next to “cooked wine” I supposed, not my interest. Cognac? No rhubard, Ivana said. Eyeing me, sexy, she wanted to go running with me tomorrow.

Before…I turned to her.

I got nervous. I didn’t want to assume how much she trained. I didn’t jog, not back then. I didn’t “chit chat.” I had just run a half-marathon in under two hours without training, just to say, with my Mexican family and Black sister.

Vico was getting warmed up—the crowd getting punchy, sneaky, crafty, the cookies still on the table with the lone slice of panettone. I got a chain necklace. Very gently, Angela came with platters of fruits, pushing them, turning them: clementines, pineapple, kumquats, and physalis.

“FIVE CARDS, in my opinion,” Emma said.

Franco clapped. “Five euros, three cards!”

“You gotta,” Emma pointing, her inebriation a delicious play, “put it over there.”

Vico was shuffling, dealing cards with a bright cartoon print of blue and red balloons. Balloons, I was moved, actually. Naples just embraced all my symbols, imagery. This was one of my mother’s symbols, a fun gamble indeed.

People were yelling different versions of “cards.”

Carmine clapped, perky.

Rosa was ready to rumble—“5 euros—what? How much? How many cards?!”

“Two,” Emilio said.

“5 euros, two cards,” Vico said.

Little cocktail glasses were on standby, Emma pointing to places.

Clementine rinds on the table, liquor in rose-colored and clear glasses, we were still on the five euro mark, Frankie slapping a twenty on the table. In the middle of the family, Vico was on—pointing, who was doing it, who wasn’t, everyone was, but we were making deals—Carmine particularly talkative. Fingers were pointing. Rosa took her place next to her father. The middle child squealed, “5 blue.” In a white box, there were a few twenty bills. “Ok 5?” Huh, was it? Blue or red balloon card?

“Ohhhhhh,” we began. “Ohhhhhh.”

Vico was slipping the card.

“Yes!” Woo!

Frankie got it, but what?

These cards had pictures on them—a sleeping baby, a tiger, a prince or pauper, a man on a horse. More money was hitting the table next to soft clementine rinds in piles. Frankie was in, his brother advised against ten euros. Frankie didn’t listen. Rosa was counting money.

“Ohhh oh!” Vico cried—slipping Rosa a card.

“Blue 5 euros!” Carmine cried, digging into his wallet front and center. 

“No red! Blue!”

And he slammed a bill on the table with flair—”blue, 5 euros.”

Emilio’s face was cupped in his hands, smiling at Vico.

We were discussing “5 euros, for what card.”

Vico was in—listening—head going back and forth.

Angela leaned on the table, getting up.

“OOHHHHHHHHH!”

Emma roughly checked out what was inside a little gift bag.

Vico showed the card, facing down, played with it a little. Frankie snatched it.

Carmine was making his point clear over his wallet—this was the game he was playing.

Deck in hand, Vico was proper in his seduction techniques—who wanted this, who didn’t, who was up? He had a deck. Persephone asked Frankie—Francesco, please. His brother chimed, “stop, stop.”

“Four!”

“Five!” Gennaro cried.

The blue balloons were on display in the palm of his hand.

“Six…” the baby said.

There were murmurs of disagreement.

“Seven, three,” Vico said.

“Seven,” Carmine judged against it.

Ignazo’s face was in his hands over clementine rinds.

Vico was dealing blue balloon cards—“woo!”

He was settling accounts, the sounds of change clinking.

It was time to focus, according to him, flanked by his two daughters and tulip shaped after-dinner glasses. To the sounds of cheering,”"go go go,” Ignazo wrestling with the reigns, I collapsed in the resting area, filming a video for my mother, the Mexican one. “Watch these people.”

Hair in my squished face, “I cannot…” to cheering.

“I just can’t,” I began rolling around, “I have to sleep. I have to nap. I have…they are starting to gamble,” their voices getting rowdy, “I have to,” I was losing the thread of sanity in a chain necklace. She sent me a video of her, sneaker tucked behind her. In a red v-neck sweater, wearing a crown of large Christmas bulbs and a hanging matching necklace, she said “Feliz Navidad” with a blessing in Spanish, my sister speaking to her in fluent Spanish.

“Wee.”

Our mother giggled. I didn’t participate in the gambling games this evening. I was settling with all that I had said, and to be frank, the first year was mostly focused on me, though the event of Christmas itself was what I concentrated on, for as years went on, my story began to fade. I would deal with it in my own time. It was too confusing, with all I came to learn while writing it, to deal with “these characters” who helped me through the bodily reactions I began to go through versus the real people and what happened.