Page 31 of Slap Shot Surprise
“No shit,” I said, impressed.
My mother, still arranging dishes to make room, sent me another scorching look. “Watch your mouth at the dinner table, please.”
“Gigi, we’ve heard the word ‘shit’ before,” Claudia informed her.
“I don’t care,” my mom said. “Is it too much to ask that Sunday dinner be free from profanity? Can’t we at least pretend to be a nice, civilized family?”
My brother Paul burped loudly, which made the kids atthe table burst out laughing before adding belches of their own.
“I don’t think so, Coco,” my dad said. “So just come sit down with the family we’ve got.”
My mom sighed as she took the seat next to my dad. “We raised a pack of animals,” she said.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “But they’re our animals, cupcake.”
Cupcake. I shifted in my chair.
“So Dad, it was your great-grandfather who was a gangster?” my sister Francesca asked. She piled food onto two plates, one for herself and one for her husband, Grant, who was walking their baby around the block in an effort to get her to stop crying. Apparently, she had colic and it had been a rough first month. Both Grant and Francesca looked exhausted—dark shadows under bloodshot eyes, pale faces, nonstop yawning. All reasons why it was better to be an uncle than a dad.
“Yes,” my father said. “But I don’t think he was agangster. He was more of a bootlegger. As the story goes, it was his wife who got him involved.”
“Seriously?” Ellie spread butter on a roll. “That’s pretty cool. What was her name?”
“She was a little Irish spitfire everyone called Tiny,” my dad said. “Five foot nothing with bright red hair. Evidently, her dad ran whiskey from Canada into Detroit during Prohibition, and she helped. They’d bring it across the river in the middle of the night.”
I remembered what Mabel had said and thought how much she’d like this story. I wished I could tell her.
“My noni, who would have been her daughter-in-law, had lots of fun stories about her,” said my dad.
“So she married one of their sons?” Gianni asked.
“Right.”
“Their wedding photo is in the restaurant,” my mother added.
“At Trattoria Lupo?” I tried to recall it and couldn’t. “I’ve never noticed it.”
“Me neither,” Paul said.
“Wait, I’ve seen it,” Alison chimed in excitedly. “Behind the hostess stand, right?”
“Yes,” said my mom. “Nick’s grandmother gave us a copy a long time ago.”
“Oh! I’ve seen that photo too,” said Ellie. “The black and white one! I’ve always wondered who it was.” She turned to Gianni. “I asked you once, and you said you didn’t know.”
“I forgot.” He shrugged.
My mother rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s been there forever, and it’s your family, and you all should know some of your history.”
“Next time I’m in there, I’ll look at it,” I promised.
“My engagement ring is actually a replica of Tiny’s ring,” said my mom, holding out her hand. “It’s got an art deco setting.”
I glanced at the diamond ring I’d seen thousands of times but never really noticed. It did seem sort of old-fashioned, now that I was really looking at it.
“What made you ask about them?” my dad wondered.
I ate a bite of chicken piccata, its lemon flavor reminding me of kissing Mabel in the rain. “I was talking to this girl at the wedding last night who works at a museum, and she’s doing some kind of exhibit about bootlegging. Wait, no—a fundraiser, not an exhibit. Anyway, she was telling me about these guys who ran whiskey from Canada, and it reminded me of your story.”
