Chapter Twelve: A Good Pot of Red Sauce

Thanksgiving is usually spent with my father’s side of the family. The bigger holidays like Christmas, New Year, and Easter are all reserved for celebrating with my mother’s side of the family. Plus, none of the D’arco’s like to eat turkey they complain that it gives them indigestion and makes them sleepy. Like, my Papa needs an excuse to fall asleep on the couch right after dinner.
It’s not like I don’t like my father’s side of the family. In fact, I do more than I let on. They are just not your lovely dove types, unlike the D’Arco’s, the Lester’s hold tight to their feelings. No hugs, no sloppy kisses, no intrusion into one’s personal life. No one ever asks if I have gotten my period or about my little problem up top. No it is just the regular chit-chat about current events or what book I am reading, or how I am doing in school.
I was told in no uncertain terms by my mother that I was not to wear my waiter’s outfit—that’s what she liked to call my John Taylor look.
“You won’t be embarrassing me with your current fashion tastes” she said as she blindly grabbed one of Nanna’s Marshal’s discount outfits out of my closet. This turned out to be a red and black velour dress which she made me wear with black patent leather dress shoes. Great, I am now officially a dork! Anna got to wear pants and a dress top!
We were an hour late to my uncle’s house. He lives somewhere on the Southside of Chicago to the chagrin of my paternal grandmother… Southside of Chicago! It was unthinkable to her. But, he had married an Irish Catholic woman who was born and raised in the neighborhood of Beverly.
They didn’t have any children on account that they married late in life. Well, that’s what my mother likes to say. I think it has due to with the fact that they know something my parents don’t know. Something about less stress in life and living longer without the mayhem that goes along with rearing children.
The Southside of Chicago is a foreign land to us North-Sider folk. We never venture that far out of our neighborhood. My paternal grandmother lives on the Northwest side of Chicago, a place called Jefferson Park, and even that seems like another State to me!
This time I really can’t blame my mother for getting lost and being late. No one in my father’s family knows how to drive a car, including my father, so my mother has to pick every one up, and drive them to my uncle’s house. First stop was my Aunt Laverne, who lives on Clark and Diversy. She was waiting for us outside dressed in a very stylish blue silk dress and a cashmere winter coat. Draped over the coat was an elegant wool scarf. She only shops at Marshal Fields never would she be caught dead at a discount store.
Of course, we were a half hour late to pick her up and she was upset and in true Lester style, instead of telling us she was upset she just sulked in the backseat of our station wagon, and only answered in one word responds. She gave us the double dose of the Lester silent treatment. We then headed west on Diversy to pick up my grandmother. Despite not being able to drive my father knows his way around Chicago better than my mother, and in his professorial tone suggested to my mother to first pick up my grandmother and then pick up my aunt because it would have been more logical to just get on the Dan Ryan. My mother insisted on doing the opposite, only to get us stuck in the holiday brunch traffic. We were going to have a family dinner and my stomach was already growling at 2pm because I had forgotten to eat breakfast. I snapped on my Walkman to break up the chilly silence in the car. By this time, nobody was speaking to anyone. After an hour in traffic we finally arrive at my grandmother’s to find that she has undressed and was ready to go to bed. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and she said that she had gotten bored waiting on the front porch and had already made herself a ham sandwich and was now ready for bed.
My Aunt was really fuming now like a kettle on the stove little sounds squeaking sounds were coming out of her as she glared at the back of my mother’s red curls. By now, my father was whispering with clenched lips at my mother to do something to convince my grandmother to get dressed again and to hurry up because everyone was starving. After it seemed like an hour my grandmother finally got in the car before we made our way back to the Dan Ryan heading south to my Uncles. I had already listened to three tapes by this time and was getting bored with the cold stark urban scenery— I was squeezed up against the window to make room for my grandmother Lester, who is a little round in the gut. My sister was lying flat on her back, in the way back of the station wagon, in the hatch-back. I remarked to my mother that it was illegal and highly dangerous to have my sister in the far back. She just glared at me via the rear view mirror, and mouthed me to be quiet. If we were alone in the car she would have given me the finger.
Typical of my mother, she had forgotten the directions on the kitchen table and had missed the exit to Beverly. We pulled into a sleazy gas station (somewhere on the Southside of Chicago) to call my uncle who told my mother to just forget it. I over hear her saying that we can’t just forget it we are all starving and if he would have helped with picking up some of the family members maybe we wouldn’t have been so late and gotten so lost! I found out later that he told my mother that if she had left a little earlier maybe we would have been on time. My uncle and his wife are still mad at us for being an hour late to their wedding.
I am standing outside the phone booth freezing my ass off when I over hear my mother say “Just give me the fucking directions” and with that we are speeding off down through the foreign south –side streets hoping, to god that there is still some turkey left.
When we got there my uncle and aunt were all smiles pretending that nothing was wrong and that thank god we were safe. Safe from what I wondered? My uncle’s wife, a pudgy woman, kept on smiling the whole time as we passed her and handed her our winter coats and rushed to the dinner table. Dinner was eaten in silence and to tell you the truth the food was bland due to the fact that my uncle does not use any butter or salt in any of his cooking. How anyone can eat food with out butter, I thought as I looked around the table. My mother pretended as if the food was edible with a fake grin on her face that looked more like a grimace as she forked more cold bland turkey in her mouth. I have to admit, on the way home I did suffer from indigestion. But, I don’t really know if it was from the turkey or from the chill in the car.