The blacker the better. Any pink would send it back to the frying pan before Mom cut it into bite-size pieces for me. Mix that with the bloody clump of Jesus stewing in my belly and you’ll understand my alarm.
Dad emerged bearing his weighty offering as if he were going through the Stations of the Cross, his first stop in front of Grandpa, who eyed the meat with great approval. Dad’s second stop was Nonna, who pronounced, “Magnifico.”
When the dish was centered, Grandpa leaned in to claim the choicest one. Dom helped himself next, then plunked one on Betty’s plate and one on Ray-Ray’s. Then it was a mad scramble as hands reached for rolls and potatoes and butter. The steak pile was dwindling and I couldn’t tell which was the well-done one; I kept looking at Dad, wanting to ask: Which one’s mine? Someone tossed a baked potato on my plate, a spoonful of green beans, then a whole steak landed on my split-top roll. I had been gifted not only an entire steak, but a sharp knife as well; it lay atop my folded napkin. I had to kneel on my stool for better leverage, and when I stuck the knife in, blood seeped from the wound. “It’s bleeding!”
“It’s perfetto .” Grandpa eyed the breathing cow on my plate. “It’ll make you strong like me, see?” He speared a hunk of rare steak and rammed it into his mouth. I didn’t appreciate at the time what a gift this was, Grandpa trying to placate me.
Still, watching him chew that bleeding bolus made me want to puke. Nearly. What I really wanted was my own well-done steak. “Where’s mine?”
Mom jumped up and started to lift my plate. “I’ll just throw it on the grill a few minutes.”
“No!” Grandpa said, the magnanimous moment over. “You don’t make a fuss for this child.” He looked at me. “You eat what’s on-a you plate.”
“But Dad always cooks one special for me.”
Grandpa glowered at Dad. “You coddle this child?”
“No!” Dad said, and that was the truth in everything except how I liked my meat.
And then I saw it, my nearly burnt offering on Nonna’s plate, half eaten already. “That’s mine! There’s my steak!”
Everyone looked at Nonna chewing the food that should have been in my mouth. Nonna looked at me in horror as if she’d robbed the globe piggy bank in the back of my closet.
She lifted her plate and I reached out my hand, but Grandpa slapped it. “Don’t you dare.” He pointed at my plate. “You no take-a the food from your elder’s mouth! Eat!”
Mom tried to intervene. “It won’t take but a minute—”
Grandpa slammed his hand on the table, rattling all those glasses. “I said eat! Angelo, this is your house and you are her father. You make this child eat.”
Dad looked at his father, and then at Uncle Dom, who wore a look not of sympathy but of contempt. Dad’s eyes slowly found their way to me. “Just a couple bites.”
I looked at Mom, now leaning against the sink, arms crossed over her stomach. She looked disgusted too. And outnumbered. Nicky began listing Neanderthal weaponry.
I don’t know where the inspiration came from, desperation perhaps, but I pressed one hand over the relic beneath my bodice and the other over the mooing steak, closed my eyes, and recited my Sancta Maria prayer in my head so that Mary would elbow God to cook the steak to at least medium.
Ray-Ray said, “What the hell is she doing?”
I heard Uncle Dom smack the back of Ray-Ray’s head. “Don’t cuss!”
When I opened my eyes and lifted my hand, the steak was still a bloody mess, as was my hand. In desperation I prayed for Jesus to save me, for God to send a hurricane to end this horror, because I figured God owed me twice over: He hadn’t removed my birthmarks and He had made me be born into this fam-i-ly. God did not save me, so I looked at Dad, hoping that whatever paternal drive had kicked in the day Eleanor Sweeney had doused me at the water fountain would again power up. But Dad stared at his lap, and
Dad emerged bearing his weighty offering as if he were going through the Stations of the Cross, his first stop in front of Grandpa, who eyed the meat with great approval. Dad’s second stop was Nonna, who pronounced, “Magnifico.”
When the dish was centered, Grandpa leaned in to claim the choicest one. Dom helped himself next, then plunked one on Betty’s plate and one on Ray-Ray’s. Then it was a mad scramble as hands reached for rolls and potatoes and butter. The steak pile was dwindling and I couldn’t tell which was the well-done one; I kept looking at Dad, wanting to ask: Which one’s mine? Someone tossed a baked potato on my plate, a spoonful of green beans, then a whole steak landed on my split-top roll. I had been gifted not only an entire steak, but a sharp knife as well; it lay atop my folded napkin. I had to kneel on my stool for better leverage, and when I stuck the knife in, blood seeped from the wound. “It’s bleeding!”
“It’s perfetto .” Grandpa eyed the breathing cow on my plate. “It’ll make you strong like me, see?” He speared a hunk of rare steak and rammed it into his mouth. I didn’t appreciate at the time what a gift this was, Grandpa trying to placate me.
Still, watching him chew that bleeding bolus made me want to puke. Nearly. What I really wanted was my own well-done steak. “Where’s mine?”
Mom jumped up and started to lift my plate. “I’ll just throw it on the grill a few minutes.”
“No!” Grandpa said, the magnanimous moment over. “You don’t make a fuss for this child.” He looked at me. “You eat what’s on-a you plate.”
“But Dad always cooks one special for me.”
Grandpa glowered at Dad. “You coddle this child?”
“No!” Dad said, and that was the truth in everything except how I liked my meat.
And then I saw it, my nearly burnt offering on Nonna’s plate, half eaten already. “That’s mine! There’s my steak!”
Everyone looked at Nonna chewing the food that should have been in my mouth. Nonna looked at me in horror as if she’d robbed the globe piggy bank in the back of my closet.
She lifted her plate and I reached out my hand, but Grandpa slapped it. “Don’t you dare.” He pointed at my plate. “You no take-a the food from your elder’s mouth! Eat!”
Mom tried to intervene. “It won’t take but a minute—”
Grandpa slammed his hand on the table, rattling all those glasses. “I said eat! Angelo, this is your house and you are her father. You make this child eat.”
Dad looked at his father, and then at Uncle Dom, who wore a look not of sympathy but of contempt. Dad’s eyes slowly found their way to me. “Just a couple bites.”
I looked at Mom, now leaning against the sink, arms crossed over her stomach. She looked disgusted too. And outnumbered. Nicky began listing Neanderthal weaponry.
I don’t know where the inspiration came from, desperation perhaps, but I pressed one hand over the relic beneath my bodice and the other over the mooing steak, closed my eyes, and recited my Sancta Maria prayer in my head so that Mary would elbow God to cook the steak to at least medium.
Ray-Ray said, “What the hell is she doing?”
I heard Uncle Dom smack the back of Ray-Ray’s head. “Don’t cuss!”
When I opened my eyes and lifted my hand, the steak was still a bloody mess, as was my hand. In desperation I prayed for Jesus to save me, for God to send a hurricane to end this horror, because I figured God owed me twice over: He hadn’t removed my birthmarks and He had made me be born into this fam-i-ly. God did not save me, so I looked at Dad, hoping that whatever paternal drive had kicked in the day Eleanor Sweeney had doused me at the water fountain would again power up. But Dad stared at his lap, and
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