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Eating American

by Jan Groft

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Cecily felt surrounded by the foreign-smelling incense of Sunday mass which had woven itself into her braids. As she inched open the window of Papa’s ‘59 Cadillac to get some fresh air, there marching along Windsor Road was General Matthew B. Ridgway, engrossed in his daily constitutional as Papa called it, poking his walking stick rhythmically against the blacktop as if someone were whispering “left, right, left, right” into his ear.

The General. Papa pronounced the name as reverently as he pledged allegiance to the flag. He had pointed with pride to their neighbor’s name listed in the pages of Cecily’s World Book Encyclopedia. “The first United States Army officer to hold supreme commands in both the Pacific and Atlantic areas,” Papa had read aloud. Now the General marched into Cecily’s view, medium-built and balding, lifting and stomping, left, right, left, right, marking his place in history right on the street where she lived.

“Ah yes, that reminds me,” Papa said. Cecily glanced at Papa in the mirror and saw him pinch his curvy black moustache, then salute the General as they passed. The General nodded in return. “I invited the Ridgways for dinner. The three of them. Next Saturday.”

Cecily zoomed the window back up and leaned over the seat.

“The Ridgways, Joseph?” Mama asked. Her black lace doily still sat flat as a pancake on top of her wavy, brown hair. Mama’s chin quivered, her thin, straight lips moving slowly as if she were breathing near a flame. “For dinner, Joseph?” It wasn’t unusual for Cecily’s grandparents, her Aunt Rosina, Uncle Vinny, Aunt Nunziata, Aunt Cecilia, Uncle Ralphie, Aunt Lenora, plus cousins on both sides to show up for Mama’s homemade lasagna, but never had they invited neighbors, actual neighbors, for dinner!

“They’ll be here at six,” Papa said. His short, thick fingers controlled the steering wheel, swirling it this way, then that way, like the dancers on Lawrence Welk leading their partners around on stage. “It’s time we get to know them. Expand our horizons.”

Cecily imagined meeting Mattie, the Ridgway’s son, who was eleven, a year older than she. Mattie went to boarding school and lived in a dormitory, which seemed worldly to Cecily. A curl of excitement circled around her.

As Papa pulled into the driveway, Cecily caught sight of the blue mirrored globe that decorated their front lawn. She’d watched Papa install the lawn ornament, the reflection of his olive-skinned face sprawled over the globe like the largest continent on all of the earth.

“But Joe,” Mama begged. “We’re not like them, born into roses and trained by Emily Post. We’re . . .” she paused searching for the right word. “We’re Italian.”

Papa pulled on the brakes and laughed. The very reasons that convinced Mama they shouldn’t do certain things were always the exact reasons that convinced Papa they should. Mama hadn’t wanted to move to Windsor Hills in the first place; she didn’t like calling attention to herself that way. But Papa, the son of impoverished immigrants, wouldn’t have it any other way. “My family deserves comforts!” he’d yelled, as he pounded his fist on the table. “I’ve worked hard for this!”

When they moved in, Papa hired a cleaning lady, a colored woman named Dorene, another extravagance which made Mama flinch. Every Friday morning, Dorene clamored up the driveway in her beat-up orange Rambler. She stumbled in through the side door, tall and lean and smelling of Juicy Fruit, winked at Cecily as she pulled on her rubber gloves, then got down on her knees to scrub the kitchen floor. Mama worked alongside Dorene, sweeping and running the floor buffer, so they’d finish twice as fast and she’d only have half a day’s wages to pay.

Now Papa swung open the Cadillac door. Behind him, the morning sun streaked across their modern stone rancher making it appear pink among the neighboring ivy-covered Tudors. Their lawn had no trees yet, just the pudgy plantings of azalea bushes which Papa promised would bloom by Spring. As he stepped out of the car, Papa turned to Mama.

“There’s no need to worry,” he said, smoothing his moustache. “We’ll get Dorene to help, you’ll see.”

When Saturday arrived, fresh flowers appeared at the door, the plastic cover came off the sofa, and as she stood in the bathroom having her hair braided, Cecily dreamed of Mattie’s arrival. Perhaps he’d wear his academy beret. Perhaps his eyes would light up when he saw her long, dark braids and he’d tip the beret toward her. He wore the navy blue beret last Easter vacation when he was home, marching vigorously around his circular driveway, tossing a toy rifle from one arm to the other. She had spied at him from the rhododendron bushes that separated their houses. As he’d marched around the driveway, she’d lifted her knees to the rhythm, longing to march beside him.

Now she stood still as she could, hoping Mama would braid her hair perfectly. But she could feel Mama’s hands trembling, tying ribbons into bows.

“We’ll be eating American tonight,” Mama whispered, as if they were scheming to break one of the commandments. Another of Papa’s ideas, no doubt. “So don’t ask where’s the pasta.” Then Mama mumbled something about work to do in the kitchen, and she hurried out of the bathroom.

Cecily gazed at herself in the mirror. She wished she were prettier; she wished she were taller; she wished Mama wouldn’t act so nervous. But Papa would smooth things, she decided—he was good at that.

Cecily followed Mama toward the kitchen, but when she reached the dining room she stopped. Everything looked strange, out of place, like a game with a caption: Can you tell what’s wrong with this picture? She glanced from one item to the next, circling them all in her mind with an imaginary pencil: a lace tablecloth with no plastic coating, silver flatware including three different forks at each place-setting, a brass dinner bell, an ornate candelabra that held twelve candles all at once and, last but not least, Dorene, smelling as she always did, of Juicy Fruit, but wearing a gray dress with a white apron and a dainty lace-trimmed kerchief in her curly black hair. Cecily leaned on the swinging door into the kitchen.

“What’s Dorene doing here on a Saturday night?” she asked. Her collar felt scratchy against her neck, and she tugged at it. Mama was leaning over the open oven door, basting a roast. From the back, the curls of Mama’s perm looked tight and forced.

“Take your hands off your dress!” she snapped. Somehow Mama always knew what was going on, even while looking in the opposite direction. “And get your bangs out of your eyes!”

Cecily swiped her bangs to the side. “But what’s Dorene doing here?” she asked. “And why is she wearing that outfit like she works at Eat’n Park?”

“Dorene’s going to serve us dinner.” Mama flinched when she said this, then wiped the back of her hand across her brow.

“Dorene’s our cleaning lady. Why would she serve us dinner?”

“These people are old money,” Mama said. “They expect things a certain way.”

“But isn’t Italian a certain way?” Cecily asked.

Mama laid the baster on the counter. “We’re different, Cecily, that’s all,” she said. “Your papa’s so stubborn, he won’t admit it. But we are; we’re not like those people at all.”

Later, Cecily watched from the hallway as Mama fixed the candles in the candelabra, and Papa coached her. Papa, so warm and eager, so handsome in his black suit and ruby-studded cuff links—how charming their guests would find him!

“Now remember, he took General Douglas MacArthur’s place as Supreme Commander, a five-star general, the highest there is.” Papa explained this like a teacher who would later give a quiz. Mama nodded but her eyes were glazed—obviously she wasn’t paying attention. “Appointed by Eisenhower himself. And the ‘B’ stands for Bunker. Matthew Bunker Ridgway.”

Cecily could feel the importance of the occasion as she watched her parents stand across the table from each other, one minute reciting history, the next debating where to place the butter knife, how to fold the napkins.

“The bell, Joseph, that’s going too far. Let’s not use the bell.” Mama picked it up, but Papa grabbed it by its ringer.

“Put it back, Sofia!” he ordered.

“No!” Mama said. Cecily’s heart started racing.

“Give it here, I said!” Papa tugged at the ringer, and it ripped right out of its shell. It scared Cecily seeing her parents frozen at opposite sides of the table, each holding separate parts of the bell.

“Now see what you’ve done!” shouted Papa. “Get the scotch tape, hurry up and get the stinking tape!”

Cecily shuttered and took a few steps backwards, quietly, toward her room. The Ridgways would be here soon, and for the first time, she would meet Mattie. She had to impress him, she just had to—to show him that her family measured up, too.

Cecily searched her dresser drawers and found the maps she’d collected on their car trip to Florida. They were line-art drawings on placemats that she’d picked up at restaurants along the way. They would be enough to show Mattie that they’d visited other states—Virginia and the Carolinas and Georgia—that they were well-travelled. She taped the maps, as neatly as she could, to her sliding closet doors.

Then she kneeled beside her bed and felt underneath for her scrapbook. From it, she lifted two of her favorite photos. One photo showed Papa with Cecily’s little cousin Theresa sitting on his lap, the day he’d jumped into Conneaut Lake and saved her from drowning. The other photo showed Papa holding a watermelon, surrounded by her five uncles, all dressed in muscle shirts and baggy trousers, right after their team had won the watermelon race at their family picnic. The photos would prove how brave and athletic her papa was. She propped them against the cylinders of talcum powder on top of her dresser for Mattie to see.

Then she scoured her jewelry box for the button from the spaghetti dinner at St. Anthony’s Church. It said Mangia, mangia! She clipped it to the clown doll near her pillow, a souvenir Papa had brought her from Cincinnati. She hoped that Mattie would notice them and ask about them—both the clown doll and the button. Then she would tell him about Papa’s important business trip. She’d mention, too, that her mama was in charge of that spaghetti dinner which raised over $550 to give the Christian Mothers a headstart on the Christmas bazaar. The doorbell rang, and she closed her eyes, excited now. She heard Mama approaching her room, her crinoline slip rustling against her dress.

“Cecily, they’re here!” As Mama poked her face into the room, Cecily noticed a glint of light reflecting on Mama’s rhinestone necklace. She thought how pretty Mama looked in her full-skirted dress. She was as pretty as a glamorous movie star, yet there was pain in her eyes.

In the foyer, Papa flung open the door, and just as Cecily caught her breath, in walked Mattie. He was taller than she’d remembered, which made her feel far too short. Taller, with no beret over his neat blond crewcut. He wore a navy blue blazer with anchors on the buttons and tortoise shell glasses. Cecily touched her braid, trying to catch Mattie’s attention, but he stared blankly into space appearing bored—very, very bored.

Mrs. Ridgway looked twice as tall as Mama. Her coal black hair was swept up and tied in a knot. Poked straight through the knot was what looked like a giant pick-up stick. Mrs. Ridgway stooped down and squeezed Cecily’s hand on her braid.

“What pretty hair,” she said. “You’re lucky to have such shiny hair.”

Then she stood and turned toward Mama. “How nice of you to invite us,” she said. Mama forced a smile, as if admitting she hadn’t had anything to do with the inviting.

“Nice to see you, General,” Papa said as he shook the General’s hand.

“Matthew—please,” said the General. Hut, two, three, four. The words took Cecily by surprise—hut, two, three, four—but when she looked at him, the General was just standing there grinning. No walking stick, no combat boots, no badges or medals of honor.

“Matthew, then,” said Papa.

“Your home is lovely,” the General said. This seemed to Cecily a nice thing to say considering all he’d seen of it so far was a bust of the Blessed Virgin Mary holding a bouquet of ceramic roses. But just the same, the compliment made Papa smile.

“Beautiful evening,” said Papa.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” said the General.

Then they all smiled except for Mattie who kept his hands in his pockets and stared at the ceiling. No one spoke a word, then Papa and Mrs. Ridgway said “well” right at the same time. In unison, the four adults let out a one-syllable laugh. Cecily wished that somehow they could all be magically lifted to their seats at the dinner table. It felt awkward to her—six of them standing there, glued in a small semi-circle not far from the front door like the Jetsons and the Flintstones pondering how they ended up on the same planet, let alone in the same neighborhood.

“More potatoes, General?” Papa asked. He offered the bowl to the General, but to Cecily it seemed that it was Papa who had hunger in his eyes. “Had this bowl since our wedding day. Sofia’s cousin Millie bought it for us.”

The General raised his hand to a halt. “No, no, can’t eat another bite. Bowl is very handsome though.”

Then like a tour guide at work, Papa pointed out the other pieces on the table—the candelabra, the sterling gravy boat, the fancy Carnivalware—and offered a story on each. The General, a quiet man, nodded and mumbled an occasional hut-two-three-four under his breath, tapping his feet rhythmically under the table.

There was no help from Mama at all. She sat silently, creasing her linen napkin, folding it back and forth as if into cootie catchers. Cecily wished she herself could help Papa to keep things moving. She tried to think of something interesting to say, something that might impress Mattie.

“Miami Beach!” she said at last. “Ever been to Miami Beach?”

Mrs. Ridgway smiled at Cecily, her mouth bulging with food, then nodded, bobbing her pick-up stick up and down.

“That’s where we go every summer for our vacation,” Cecily continued. She felt proud of herself now, proud to start a new topic just like a grown-up, proud to know all about Miami Beach. “We go in August when the rates are the lowest.”

“We go to Manitoba,” Mattie said. Cecily had never heard of Manitoba. She glanced at Papa for help.

“Pass the string beans, please,” Papa said.

Cecily reached for the bowl. “It’s empty,” she said.

Mama started to stand, but Papa crossed his eyebrows at her and cleared his throat loudly. He picked up the bell and shook it. The bell made an awkward sound, brass clinking against scotch tape. Mama sunk back into her chair. She picked her napkin off her lap. The napkin was wrinkled now which everyone could see. Delicately, she wiped the corners of her mouth.

“Where’s Manitoba?” Cecily asked, trying to keep up the momentum. Manitoba interested Mattie, she could see by the way his eyes lit up when he mentioned it. Now perhaps he would feel glad he came.

Just then, Dorene pushed her way from the kitchen through the swinging door. As she was naturally more inclined toward cleaning house than serving food, she shook her head and brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth onto her hand.

“The beans, Dorene,” Papa said sternly. “Please fill the string beans.”

“You don’t even know where Manitoba is?” Mattie said.

“Mattie, your manners,” Mrs. Ridgway said.

“Hut-two-three-four,” agreed the General.

“Ain’t that the place where they go to shoot elk? Or is it moose?” Dorene asked.

“Dorene!” Papa said.

Dorene leaned over and whispered to Cecily. “Canada, Honey. Manitoba’s up in Canada.”

“Dorene, the beans,” Papa said.

“Why don’t I just get the beans?” Mama offered at last.

“Sofia, sit down,” Papa said. He was talking through his teeth now. “Dorene will get the beans.”

Cecily had never seen Papa so concerned about who should fill a bowl with beans. In fact, she had never before seen him get involved in the logistics of mealtime at all. He had always been content enough to just finish his spumoni, then leave the table to watch The Jack Benny Show or play canasta with her uncles.

Dorene picked up the empty bowl without looking at Papa, and turned toward the kitchen. When she returned, Papa lifted the bowl as if making a toast.

“Beans anyone?” he offered.

Nobody wanted the beans, so Papa scooped a pile onto his own plate. Then he picked up his fork and dug in. Cecily looked around the table, first at their guests and then at Mama. Everyone was looking at objects like the crystal salt shaker or the sterling silver gravy boat and not at each other.

“Delicious!” Papa said as he finished chewing. “Best darned string beans I’ve ever tasted. Yessiree, gotta tell Dorene. Fine job, darned fine job.”

Cecily glanced at Mama and saw that she looked lost and alone. Then Cecily’s eyes met Papa’s, but he looked away. She tried to read the expression on his face to see if he was playing a joke. It wasn’t like him to use the word darned or to take credit away from his own family and give it to someone else.

“Mama cooked the beans,” Cecily said. At first, she spoke softly, then she felt her voice growing loud and angry. “She cooked the beans and the beef and the potatoes, too. All Dorene did was carry them in here!”

The room went silent and the silence pressed its massive weight against Cecily. She felt like a toddler ruining her uncles’ game of canasta, scattering the cards all over the table so everyone could see the jokers. She imagined irrate voices sending her to stand alone in the corner. She remembered Mama’s words, we’re Italian, we’re different and she was so filled with shame that she felt it oozing from her blood, clinging to her skin. She thought of the Mangia, mangia! button, the childish clown doll from Cincinnati. Mattie was laughing now. He was laughing, she knew it, at her.

“Dessert, Joe,” she heard Mama whisper. “Maybe we should have dessert.”

Papa picked up the tattered bell. As the ringer clinked against the scotch tape, Cecily slipped away from the table. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom, and quietly shut the door. Her hands trembled, unable to move quickly enough, as she unclipped the Mangia, mangia! button from the clown doll. She wrapped the button inside a scarf and carefully hid it far in the back of her dresser drawer where no one would ever find it.