How to Love an American Man by Kristine Gasbarre Page A

how the day might shake her. She didn’t want cake—no way, too emotional—but she did want spaghetti and family. That, we all agreed, we could manage. Grandma and I attend afternoon Mass in the chapel at the nursing home across the road from her house. Because Grandpa had worked closely in community organizations with some of the administrators there, they informed us that they’d be dedicating the ser vice to him to commemorate his birthday.
    When I pick Grandma up in the afternoon, I see that she’s gone to have her hair done. Her lipstick is a deep shade of Victorian rose, and the aquamarine sweater set she wears lights up her eyes. She appears luminescent and perfectly prepared, as though she’s seeing Grandpa for their first date in a long time. In a way I feel the same, and I’ve even slipped on a dress and patent leather heels. I get the sensation that the three of us—Grandpa, Grandma, and I—are all headed to the same place for the same purpose, like when we’d go to Mass at their church in Florida. For just a moment I allow myself to pretend that when Grandma and I arrive in the vestibule, Grandpa will be there waiting for us with a seat already picked out. She and I take the spot where we sit together every Sunday, on the left-hand side in the middle. The chapel was added onto the building at the same time Grandma and Grandpa’s house was built three years ago, but somehow, despite its newness, the smell of incense and the stained-glass reflections give it an ancient feel. As Grandma and I settle into our pew and release the kneeler to pray, a tender, familiar solace creeps upon me and I’m reminded how I always feel at home in a church. I am protected, my worries lifted . . . and so it’s true, Grandpa is here. As I rest my head on my knuckles, Grandma releases a loud sigh. This isn’t going to be easy for her. The priest takes the altar, and right away I grow so immersed following the liturgy that I forget why we’re here.
    Two-thirds of the way through the Mass the priest leads, “And now for our petitions and the intentions in our hearts. Our response is, ‘Lord hear our prayer.’ ” He runs through the usual suspects: world peace, wisdom for our leaders, the upcoming national election, the fulfillment of needs for the poor. Obediently I respond to all of these with such concentration that my eyebrows have furrowed. Then he says, “For the beloved George Gasbarre, to whom this Mass is dedicated.” Grandma and I both respond— Lord, hear our prayer —but the reminder that Grand-pa’s left us takes the wind out of me. When we turn around for the sign of peace, a friend from Grandma’s bridge group takes our hands and grips us tightly, as though she feels our pain as well. The way she attempts to comfort us with her eyes reminds me of the never-ending line of people at Grandpa’s funeral viewing—how many of them shared stories about him that most of us never knew: he’d hired them when no one in town had work to spare; he bought a share of a colleague’s ailing business and months later their orders were on fire; in the early seventies he borrowed a Ford truck for a business trip from a friend who was a car dealer and afterward the friend let him keep it and make payments when he could afford to. Grandpa stayed loyal by driving Fords for decades.
    Just glancing around this tiny chapel, I can count half a dozen people whom my grandpa impacted with his kindness, his persistence, and his integrity. As the priest steps down from the podium, Grandma and I dab silently at our eyes, trying to maintain our composure. But a few minutes later when I allow her into the aisle before me for communion, I feel both of us raise our chests and walk tall toward the altar. The moment of mourning has passed. Now it’s time to be proud for having been his happiness. Grandma lifts up her glasses and blots under her