Page 72 of It's Always Sonny

“Men would come by and ogle the women as they exercised, so we painted the insides of the windows to allow for privacy. The other business owners on our block made decisions without our input because we had too many ovaries and not enough—”

“I get the picture.”

Nonna sounds so amused, so delighted to talk to PJ. She can open up, but it’s rare. She has to be in the right mood.

And boy, is she in the right mood now.

“Speaking of which, we had a break in once during the middle of the day. Three men wore balaclavas—those hats that cover the whole face—and they ran in during an aerobics class. They turned around, bent over, and mooned the whole class before stealing some of the women’s gym bags on their way out.”

“WHAT?”

“I called the police, and the next day, Mary and I were standing at the precinct, looking at a lineup of men with face coverings.”

“How were you supposed to identify them with face coverings?” PJ demands.

“That’s what I asked. I told the policemen I never saw their faces, and they said it was a waste of time. They said some other things about Mary and me that aren’t worth repeating. So I told them to have the men turn around and pull down their pants.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. The policemen pushed back, but I said, ‘Do you want a positive ID, or not? I never saw their faces, but I saw more than enough.’ So they told the men to turn around and drop their drawers.”

PJ’s laugh tinkles. “And?”

“I picked them out. One of them needed to get his hernia checked.”

Parker laughs again, and it makes me as giddy as breathing in helium. “Wow. You’re something else, Nonna. I can’t imagine.”

“You can imagine more than you think,” she says. “You’re a tough girl. I bet men haven’t always liked your success.”

“No, not so much. I worked for a huge accounting firm a few years ago—just before my friends and I started our own company—and I was great at it. The best in my department.”

“Good girl for knowing your own value.”

When PJ speaks again, she has a hint of pride in her voice. “I was hired on as an account executive, but my senior manager gave me more and more responsibilities. At first, I was flattered, and then, I realized I was doing his job. After a year, I interviewed for a promotion that I deserved and was the most qualified for. No question. I crushed the interview. And at the end, the senior manager patted me on the head and laughed with the other hiring officers about how adorable I was and how I was the assistant of his dreams.”

What? Outrage roils deep in my belly. Nonna curses in Italian.

“It gets better. After I left, one of them called me snack-sized. And they proceeded to talk about what a tasty snack I’d make until the next candidate walked in.”

“Oh, sis.” Nonna sighs with a familiar weariness I can’t relate to. I’m horrified and furious. I want to find those men and dismantle them.

“I got back at them. After the head-pat and sexist, sizeist comment, I contacted HR. Unfortunately for them, my old job had a policy of recording all interviews. They were too stupid to pause the recording. I sued them for harassment and discrimination, and I won. I won a huge payout.”

“That’s more like it.”

“They wanted me to sign a non-disclosure and said I couldn’t talk about it publicly or work for a marketing firm for one year from the date of the agreement. My mother told me I should ‘shut up and take the money’ or else the ‘stain’ would follow me everywhere. What that really means is she didn’t want to talk about harassment in the country club with her rich friends’ husbands who probably have done the same thing to their employees more than once.”

“Your mother sounds like a scared woman.”

“You can say that again. All she cares about is how people view her, and me, by extension. My existence is a constant threat to her self-image.”

“I’m sorry, sis. No one wants to be a bad parent. Everyone has a driving force—”

“I know,” PJ interrupts, sounding almost apologetic.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Nonna says. “She may have had a driving force, but that’s not your problem. That’s hers. You can’t let someone treat you like that, not even your mother.”

PJ is quiet. I risk a look, and her mouth is pulled to the side, and she’s nodding, trying not to cry. “I know.”

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