Epiphany
By Michelle Balogh
My breath puffed out in front of me in small clouds of mist as I walked through the quiet streets. It was late afternoon in early January, and everyone seemed to be holed up in their warm, cozy homes. I’d rounded the corner a few blocks from my house when I saw an elderly woman standing on the sidewalk across the street.
She was short with gray hair covered in a silk wrap, and her black coat fell to mid-shin, revealing thin legs and thinner stockings. She was gesturing at something and she appeared to be talking to herself.
I quickened my steps, checked the street for oncoming cars, and hurried over to her.
“Ma’am?” I said.
She turned toward me and her eyes took me in quickly. With a gesture across the street, she started talking in Italian. One of her hands came to my shoulder, urging me to look too.
Across the street was a beautiful old church with brick walls and colorful stained-glass windows. There were bells that were rung each day and the gardens on the property were always well maintained. I wasn’t religious, but I had always appreciated the church on my walks when I went by.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I said, thinking that maybe she was admiring the old building.
The woman tsked and turned to me, holding both of my shoulders now, in a stronger grip than I would have expected her to have. “Bellissima,” she said firmly.
“Do you live around here?” I asked. “Are you lost?”
“Seguimi,” she said, taking my arm and pulling me towards the house behind us. It was two stories with a well-kept yard, albeit frosted with snow, and still strung with lights on the eves.
“Do you live here?” I asked as I let her lead me towards the porch steps.
The woman continued to speak in Italian and gesture with her hands, as if she were telling me about the snow on the ground freezing the flowers, or how the porch steps needed to be repainted. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, but she spoke quickly and conversationally as if I did. She leaned on me as we made our way up the steps, slowly and careful not to slip on any ice.
The front door was cracked and as we arrived on the porch, I could hear what sounded like a raucous party inside. It was a Sunday afternoon, much too early for a party, and I wasn’t sure this was where the woman lived.
“Is this your house?” I asked. “It sounds like there’s a party in there.”
More Italian muttering.
“Ma’am, is there someone I can call for you?”
She put her hand out, as if she were about to push open the front door, so I gently pulled her back, trying to stop her from going inside.
“Maybe the police?” I asked.
I earned myself another tsk and a shake of her head. Before she could push the door open, someone pulled it from the other side. He was older than me, with olive skin and black hair that had a few shakes of salt in it.
“Oh! Mamma!” He threw up his hands and urged the woman inside. He was about to close the door, leaving me on the porch, when she nudged him and spoke harshly in Italian. They exchanged some words and facial expressions before he motioned for me to come inside.
“Oh, no, I really shouldn’t — ”
“Get in here before you freeze your ass off,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument but that was also still friendly somehow.
The woman was already disappearing further into the house, shedding her coat and a scarf that had been underneath. The man followed behind, accepting her clothes as she handed them to him over her shoulder. Hesitantly, I stepped into the small foyer and closed the door gently.
There wasn’t a party, like I’d originally thought. No, it was quite different: a family gathering that was just very busy and very loud. Children shouted and laughed from somewhere inside the house, their delight like the sound of tinkling bells. There were adults shouting, mostly in Italian, but some English, and while it didn’t sound like fighting, it was almost passionate enough to be. Soft music played in the background, a Rat Pack crooner singing about the holidays even though it was past the New Year.
A Christmas tree was in the great room, sparkling and lit up, next to a burning fireplace. Some teenagers were busy with their phone on the couch nearby, and they tossed me a wave and no more than a second glance.
It smelled heavenly, too. A mixture of vanilla and sugar, baked goods, and marinara sauce that had likely been simmering for hours.
The woman I’d met on the street popped her head around the corner, interrupting my slow absorption of the activity inside the house. She spoke to me in Italian, and while I had no idea what she said, her tone implied that I better follow her and do it quickly.
I scurried after her, towards what I could see was the kitchen, packed with people, including the man who had opened the door. They were cooking, standing around the island eating, sitting at a table playing cards, huddled around the room talking and drinking in groups of twos and threes.
“Oh! ‘Zo! Looks like Nonna brought your girlfriend!” someone yelled from somewhere in a teasing voice.
“Statazit, Luca, you know we broke up!” someone else yelled back.
The kitchen became a whirlwind of boisterous chatter, mixed nuts being thrown, and the backs of the food fighters heads being swatted at.
“I should probably go,” I said to no one in particular, taking a step back. With all the commotion, it was clear no one was listening or paying attention to me.
I turned around, ran right into someone, and put my hands up to brace myself, inadvertently touching their chest. He looked like a younger version of the man who had opened the door, and he was strikingly handsome. His dark brown eyes glittered as he looked at me with an amused smile.
“Leaving already?” he asked. I recognized his voice as the one who had yelled at Luca. “What’s your name?”
“Vivienne,” I said, bringing my hands down. We were still standing close, too close, and the kitchen was bustling behind us.
“Lorenzo,” he said, holding up a hand between us. I took his hand in mine and we shook slowly. His skin was warm and soft, and I think I may have stopped breathing. “Sorry about Nonna. She gets confused sometimes.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “I thought she was lost. I was about to call the police.”
“Well then, it sounds like you owe us a favor, Vivienne,” he said. His voice saying my name was like nothing I’d heard before. He only had a slight accent, but it was rich and deep, and I could have listened to it all day.
“A favor?” I found myself smirking back at him. “For finding your grandma?”
“For not calling the Sbirri!” a man behind me yelled. A chorus of ‘ohs!’ and other shouts followed.
Despite carrying on with their own conversations, they had managed to eavesdrop on ours. Lorenzo tilted his head as if to agree, and I wasn’t sure if they were joking or not. I realized I was still holding his hand, so I pulled mine back, immediately mourning the loss of his warmth.
“What’s the favor?” I asked, crossing my arms over my coat.
“Stay for a game or two.”
I made a face as if to say That’s the favor?
He shrugged. “They always pair up and I’m always alone.”
“Oh, poor ‘Zo!” the voice of an older woman teased.
Lorenzo looked like he was holding back a laugh. I inhaled deeply, wondering if it was crazy to consider spending time with a bunch of strangers. Strangers who mostly spoke another language and apparently didn’t like when the police were called. There was nothing that screamed ‘danger’ to me, though. Everyone seemed so friendly, the house was warm and inviting, and I didn’t have other plans for the night.
“Okay,” I finally agreed.
Lorenzo nodded in a way that told me he hadn’t been expecting any other answer from me. He gestured to my coat, and I slipped it off and handed it to him. He hung it in a nearby coat closet before returning to me.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Don’t spoil your dinner,” a woman warned as she walked by, maybe Lorenzo’s mother and maybe not.
There was food everywhere. Cookies, sliced meats, cheeses, crackers, pickled vegetables. Sauce was simmering on the stove, along with a pan of searing meatballs. The oven was on, cooking what smelled like a roast. Everyone was snacking though, so it didn’t appear that anyone was worried about spoiling anything.
“A little,” I admitted, and maybe it was just from smelling all the delicious food.
“Biscot’?” A woman held up a plate of cookies, some with dried fruit, some with nuts, some frosted. I selected what looked like a small chocolate cookie.
“Thank you,” I said politely. “I love chocolate.”
“Viv— ” Lorenzo was cut off by my coughing after I took a bite.
My eyes watered, but I managed to clear my throat enough and chew so I could swallow the spicy cookie. The woman who’d offered it to me pressed her lips together, eyes dancing, as she turned her back on us to tend to the stove.
“Those are Auntie Carrie’s cocoa and pepper cookies,” Lorenzo said, taking the rest of the cookie from me. “Special recipe. A little aggressive if you aren’t expecting it. Let’s get you a drink?”
I nodded and let him lead me around the island to where there were bottles crowding the counter. There were Rolling Rock beers on ice, a punch bowl of what was probably sangria, and various liquors. I recognized the vibrant orangecello and lemoncello, but the others weren’t familiar to me.
Someone shoved a bottle at Lorenzo’s chest as they walked by and disappeared. He held the bottle out to look at the label, showing me it was Sambuca. With a shake of his head, he set it down.
“We’ll give that one a go next time,” he said. “Sangria?”
“I’d love some.”
After filling up a glass for me as well as one for himself, Lorenzo led me over to the kitchen table, where a few other people were in the middle of a card game. We sat and it was an unspoken agreement that we would watch them finish the round before starting another game.
“You live around here?” Lorenzo asked, his voice quiet, only for me.
“Yeah, actually. A couple of blocks away. I was out for a walk when I saw your grandmother. What about you?”
“I live here,” he said before taking a sip of his sangria.
“Oh? This is your house?” It seemed more of a family home than the house of a twenty-something bachelor. “What are you all celebrating? If you don’t mind my asking? Or is this a normal Sunday thing?”
Lorenzo let out a chuckle and shook his head. “No, this isn’t a weekly thing but it’s all pretty normal for us. Loud. Busy. Crazy.”
At that moment, some kids ran through the kitchen, a golden retriever at their heels. The grandmothers and grandfathers who were trying to cook let out what sounded like Italian curses, and they waved their sauce covered spoons at the kids.
“Celebrating the Epiphany. And the Befana,” Lorenzo explained. My blank face must have given away my ignorance, but his eyes were warm when he smiled at me. “It’s an Italian tradition, with a few different theories. Some think the Befana is a witch who was loosely tied to the wise men, asking for directions to get to Jesus. She didn’t want to go with them, but later regretted it, hence the Epiphany. There are stories that say she flies around on her broom and fills up kids’ stockings.”
“An Italian witch?” I mused.
Lorenzo nodded. “Yeah. The kids like it because we celebrate it along with Christmas, so it means they get more presents. Kind of like when your parents are divorced and you get double holidays… except no one’s divorced.”
“And Santa is a witch.”
“Right.” He laughed. “I feel like you’re hung up on the witch part.”
“Usually witches aren’t celebrated.”
“Befana is different,” a man across from us said.
The game ended, and the cards were shuffled and dealt out again as more lore was shared about the Epiphany and Befana. It was clear the game was to be played in pairs, and I was with Lorenzo. He set down his sangria to hold the cards between us so we could both see.
“How do you play?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Lorenzo whispered in my ear, causing me to giggle.
As the game was played, we sat close, shoulder to shoulder, and I found I didn’t mind the close contact.
“So, is that what you believe then, too?” I asked, looking at Lorenzo instead of the cards. He had a nice profile: a strong brow, straight nose that didn’t scream ‘Italian,’ and a defined, clean-shaven jaw.
“What?” he asked, tossing a card into the middle of the table on our turn.
“The buffalo? The Italian witch?” I wasn’t drunk, but I couldn’t remember the word and, okay, I was maybe a little warm and looser from the sangria.
“Befana,” the woman across from us corrected, her tone friendly. Despite all the noise in the room, and my near whisper, it was like someone else was always listening in and nothing was private. I smiled at her and she winked, tossing a card on top of ours.
“Befana,” I said, quieter, to Lorenzo.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, but I could tell there was more he was holding back.
The game played through with no clear winner, but there were a few grumbles and groans at the end. The table started to clear, with people getting up to refill their drinks or grab a snack. Lorenzo and I sat comfortably together, as if we did this all the time.
Nonna appeared almost from nowhere, talking animatedly in Italian to him. He smiled, nodded, responded back in Italian, and they continued to talk with both their words and hand gestures. It seemed friendly enough until his tone became firmer, she threw up her hands, gave him a tsk and a head shake, and shuffled away.
“Everything okay?” I asked, now feeling like I was intruding.
“Yeah,” Lorenzo sighed.
“I can go,” I said, starting to slide out of my seat.
“No,” he said quickly, placing his hand on my knee. I stilled and we both looked down at his hand. The warmth of his hand permeated my jeans. After clearing his throat, he took his hand back, leaving me with chills. “Don’t leave.”
“What did she say?” I asked. “Is she upset?”
“She thought you were my girlfriend. So, I had to explain to her – again – that I broke up with my girlfriend some time ago, and that I’d just met you.”
As if listening in, three older women in the kitchen, including Nonna, started talking at once to Lorenzo. They were gesturing with their hands, repeating each other, taking a moment to stir a pot. The only word I could pick out and understand was ‘bella,’ and I felt myself blushing.
“Why did you break up?” I asked, thinking it would distract from the upset women.
“She got a job offer on the other coast.”
“And you didn’t want to go with her?”
“Not really. All my family is here.” Lorenzo put out his hands, palms up, gesturing around at everyone. “She understood; family is important to me. How about you? Dating anyone?”
“Oh,” I said, thinking of the last guy I’d been with. I inhaled deeply to steady myself. “No, I dated someone for a while but… it just didn’t work out.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, he was a bad gift giver,” I said. Lorenzo chuckled. I took a sip of sangria with a smile, happy to have made him laugh. “No, really. One day I had mentioned I needed to go to the library to print something out. Well, for my next birthday, he got me a printer. I hardly ever print anything though.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. And another time, he just gave me this hand drawn coupon ‘good for one night out.’ He wanted me to plan the whole thing,” I said. We both laughed at that, and I shook my head. “It wasn’t just the bad gifts, but that’s how he was about everything: not very thoughtful.”
“Meglio cosi!” he said, raising his glass to me. I of course didn’t understand, but I clinked my glass with his. He tapped the bottom of his cup on the table before drinking, and I did the same.
After more cards, another glass of sangria, and buffet-style dinner, I felt like one of the family, like I’d known Lorenzo, Nonna, and everyone else for ages. I was glad I had found Nonna and stuck around, rather than heading home to read quietly by myself and spend another night alone.
My stomach was fuller than it had ever been, with the most delicious food: spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, and pizza. The kids cleared the dishes from the table without being asked, as if it were another unspoken tradition. Lorenzo’s mother, Marie, explained to me that the men were on clean up duty because ‘as women, we’ve birthed them all, and haven’t we done enough?’
As I watched the men pack up leftovers and clean the dishes, I wondered if Lorenzo and I would talk after this. Would I be on another walk around the neighborhood and see him outside washing his car or mowing his lawn? Or would he want to exchange phone numbers and see me again after this?
I sipped my sangria, pondering the potential and various scenarios, watching Lorenzo over the rim of my glass. He was drying dishes that his uncle had washed and then was passing them to one of his cousins to put away. He must have sensed me watching, because his eyes rose to mine across the busy kitchen, and he winked at me. Flustered, I nearly choked on my wine before blinking rapidly and looking away. I could hear his soft, friendly chuckle, and I felt my heart warm in response.
Once the kitchen was cleaned up, save for the alcohol and sweets, people started to disappear. They headed out of the kitchen and down a hallway, and I couldn’t tell where it led to from where I was sitting. The room quieted and I could once again hear the speakers in the great room playing Rat Pack holiday music.
“Where’s everyone going?” I asked, standing up and bringing my glass with me.
Lorenzo was alone in the kitchen now, leaning against the counter with a towel slung over his shoulder. His arms were crossed over his gray sweater, the sleeves pulled up past his forearms.
“Downstairs. To sing,” he said.
“To sing?” I asked, feeling myself sway a little.
“To sing,” he confirmed with a nod. He pulled the towel off his shoulder and folded it neatly before placing it on the counter, his movements slow and measured. “Would you like to sing with us, Vivienne?”
Piano music wafted up from the basement, along with a practically perfect operatic female voice.
“Will everyone make fun of my voice?” I was only partly joking.
“Only in Italian, so you don’t know what they’re saying.”
I laughed. “Are we singing Rat Pack greatest hits?”
Lorenzo feigned seriousness. “Don’t let Aunt Isabella hear you say that. She loves Dean Martin.”
I smiled. “Will I know the songs?”
“Maybe. You’ll at least know the first one. We always start with a round of ‘Twelve Days of Christmas.’”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I said, putting my hands up in surrender. I could already feel embarrassed for my future self, singing out of tune round after round.
Lorenzo pulled two clean shot glasses from a cabinet, set them on the counter, and poured Galliano in each.
“It will be fine, and you still owe me the rest of that favor, so you can be paired with me. We drew numbers earlier; I got day ten, so we barely have to sing at all,” he promised, capping the bottle of the golden liquid. He held one shot glass up to me but then pulled it back before I could take it. “Based on how you handled the pepper cookie, I feel like I need to warn you: Italians do not do shots. You need to sip this. Capice?”
“Capice,” I repeated with a nod, trading my sangria for the shot glass. The Galliano smelled divine, and after we clinked glasses, I took a small sip. It was sweet and citrusy, and even if Lorenzo hadn’t told me not to shoot it, I still would have savored it.
When I looked up, I found Lorenzo watching me, his eyes glittering again. I smiled back, my guard down after spending hours with him and his family. Most people think it’s easiest to get to know someone one-on-one, but I think the quickest way to find out who someone is, is to see them with their family. There’s no room for pretending or secrets, everyone is just who they are. And I had to admit I really liked this family, and Lorenzo especially.
“I’m still not sure how it is that I owe you the favor,” I teased.
“I fed you dinner, didn’t I?” he teased back.
“Oh, so it was a trap?”
Lorenzo shrugged and we gazed at each other until we heard our names being shouted from the basement by his waiting family.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice low.
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. We headed out of the kitchen towards the hallway everyone else went to, Lorenzo’s warm hand resting gently on the small of my back, and I didn’t mind one bit.
Michelle Balogh is a regular contributor of nonfiction articles to the ABQ Mom site. She has published several short stories, with additional work forthcoming. She was also a top ten finalist in Wingless Dreamer’s Lipstick & Gunpowder issue.