The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,11

Federico, who also lived on the land in a one-bedroom house. Mom owned the lion’s share, or at least I thought she did. Now, after reading that document, there was no telling what would happen.

“Do you want some help?” I knew it was going to take a lot of cookies to satisfy this crowd.

“No thanks,” she said, and gently squeezed my arm with affection. I was momentarily put off. This simple act of warmth was something Aunt Hetty rarely did. Aunt Babe called her a “cold fish” because Hetty never offered a hug to anyone, and whenever she received one, her arms would be glued to her sides. “You’re such a sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

I wondered if the woman had been drinking, not that she ever did. Hetty was a dry state all the way. A role model if there ever was one. Then it dawned on me. “You’re worried about Babe being around Dickey again, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

I was sure she was playing the dumb card for my benefit. Or she simply couldn’t hear me.

I raised my voice and enunciated my words. “I said, YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT DICKEY AND BABE, RIGHT?”

“Don’t shout Mia, it hurts my ears.”

“Sorry.” She categorically ignored my question, which I let pass thinking perhaps she was preoccupied with her baking.

“I have to get back,” she suddenly announced after an awkward moment of silence. “Babe has two more trays of biscotti to take out of the oven and she won’t be able to handle them on her own. I’ll have to do the slicing before they cool, then get them back into the oven. I don’t have time to chat right now. The relatives are restless.”

Then she hugged me, and it was so shocking my arms never left my sides. As she pulled away she said, “When someone hugs you, Mia, you should hug them back.”

I wanted to say something like, what do you mean? You never hug back. Or, what’s going on with you today? Why are you so friendly? But before I could get the words formulated she turned and walked off toward her pastry shop.

You could have knocked me over with a twig.

I walked into Mom’s kitchen and called out her name, but didn’t get a response. Trays of amaretto, wedding and anisette cookies, cream puffs, torrone—a chewy flavored nougat and hazelnut candy that I absolutely loved—braided egg breads and several varieties of cannoli were piled high on every flat surface. The tiny country kitchen smelled like a bakery, only sweeter. I snitched two slices of orange-flavored torrone, took a delicious bite—Aunt Babe made the best torrone in the world—and made my way into Mom’s dining room through the arched open doorway.

I called out for my mom again.

Still no answer.

I could hear my relatives out in the front yard arguing and laughing, normal behavior for that group. Accordion music rose above the din, which meant Cousin Maryann was in good spirits. Maryann and her traveling accordion never missed a family gathering, no matter what the event. She even played at my mother’s bedside during my delivery, which could account for my abnormal fondness for accordion music. I even took lessons when I was ten, but then realized that playing an accordion was just about the geekiest thing I could do, so I gave it up, but only after I learned to play and sing e’ Gumbad e all the way through, with all the musical instrument sound effects, I might add.

I still harbored a longing to pull out my old accordion whenever Maryann came around. Problem was, if I did, she would never let up and I’d be the one accompanying her at these events instead of Jimmy. I could hear him out there picking on his mandolin. He owned and ran a tavern in North Beach called Labella. If I had our lineage correct (there were so many honorary family members that it was hard to keep up), he was Maryann’s younger brother, both somehow related to me on my father’s side of the family.

My mom’s house was silent except for the ticking of the cuckoo clock she had inherited from Bisnonno Luigiano, which would drive me crazy in my drinking days when I was nursing a particularly bad hangover. Especially when that damn bird popped out to announce the time, boring a hole right through the middle of my skull. My great-grandfather was a masochist and a sadist, I was sure of it.

I checked my mom’s bedroom on the first floor, a romantic shabby-chic