Page 10 of Supernova

“That sounds lovely, Josephine.” Grandma reached for the bowl of peeled apples and her jar of cinnamon. “Now, why don’t you go and see if Grandpa wants a bit of whiskey to warm up after being outside. I hear him at the backdoor.”

Jo stops now in front of a house with a pink flamingo staked in the front yard of her new Florida neighborhood. The memory of her grandparents' house evaporates, and in its place, she’s left looking at a teenage boy holding a tangle of Christmas lights as he and his father work quietly to make heads or tails of the decorations that the lady of the house has no doubt sent them outside to conquer.

“Good evening,” Jo says in a friendly voice, smiling at them.

The man turns to her and gives a little salute. “Happy holidays, ma’am,” he says with a disarming smile. Jo recognizes him as one of the astronauts that she’d seen at the party the evening before that NASA had thrown in the giant hangar at Cape Kennedy.

“You too,” Jo says as she walks on.

What is it about these walks that she likes so much? In all her years of being married and raising kids, she’s never taken an evening here or there for herself, walking with friends or doing something that’s only for her. But now that she’s started,she doesn't think that she can stop. In the summer, the evening weather had been hot and thick, but Jo had loved the smell of flowers, of chlorine from the pools of the houses they’d passed, and the way the sun clung to the edges of the sky for so long that it was like night might never fall.

But now, in winter, Jo loves the way the slightest breeze hints at a coolness that doesn’t ever really seem to exist in Florida. She loves the sun disappearing just a bit earlier, and the way she and Frankie can walk under the cloak of darkness, talking, sharing confidences, and laughing about things that they can only laugh about together.

And maybe it’s having the time to think—to be on her own, and to let her mind wander wherever it wants to go. Like to the memories of her grandparents: it’s been years since she’s envisioned these scenes, but here on her solo walk, they come back to her like a movie in her mind, flickering in front of her and making her feel like she’s really there. And her grandmother’s stories! She’d forgotten the fantastical stories that tripped off Grandma’s tongue like real facts. Grandma had never faltered, never stuttered, and each story had been tailor-made on the spot for Jo—she knows that now. There had been a magic to those moments that, as a grown woman, Jo knows existed only because of the way her grandmother had wrapped them both in the colorful quilt of her own imagination. It was a gift that she thought had died with her grandmother, but as she walks now, she wonders whether she herself could ever do something with words; if she could, perhaps weave a tale the way her grandmother had, turning it into a story that invites other people to join her. She loves to read to the children, and Kate in particular always asks her to make up stories, but could she do what Grandma had done? Could she make up characters and situations and perhaps…write them down? Write abook?

As Jo passes Frankie’s still-dark house one more time, she pauses at the end of the driveway. Her life has changed in so many ways this year—not to mention the way the world changed with JFK’s assassination—and it suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched to her to think that she, too, could keep changing. That she could offer something to the world that brings a little fun, a little light, a little hope to the growing feelings of unrest.

Jo catches her own reflection in the front window of Frankie’s dark house, the streetlight overhead casting her in a yellow pool of light. She shivers, though she isn’t cold. For the first time in her life, Jo wants things that are hers and hers alone.Is that wrong? she wonders.To want things for me, right here on the eve of a holiday that’s all about giving? To hope that the year ahead brings me personal growth and change? With a final glance at her own reflection, Jo turns to walk back to her house. All the way home, she thinks of the stories her grandmother used to tell. She could do it, she thinks. She could dust off her typing skills and put some words on paper.

Jo pushes this thought to the back burner so that she can focus on the holiday ahead, but it’s an idea she won’t forget.

FIVE

frankie

“Francesca!”Frankie’s mom exits the tunnel that leads from the airplane to the waiting area holding both of her arms in the air excitedly. She comes as close to running as a five-foot-tall woman carrying a giant purse and wearing high heels can come. “Come here, my love!”

Frankie can’t help but smile. Her mother has always been a huge force in her life—tough, opinionated, loving—and Frankie knows she’s only gotten as far as she has in the world because of her mother’s example of womanhood. One moment Allegra Lombardi is singing Frankie’s praises and telling her she’s the best daughter who ever walked the face of the earth, and the next she’s ranting about Frankie wasting her youth on stage in New York, letting men look up her skirt and see herfarfallina. Allegra had been overjoyed to see her youngest daughter settle down with a military man, and while she didn’t understand the need for man to set foot on the moon (“Butwhy, Francesca? We have olive oil and Frank Sinatra and everything a man could ever want right here!” she’d said with wonder, to which Frankie’s brother had added, “Andfarfallina!” which had earned him a swift smack to the back of his neck from their mother). Allegra Lombardi adores her handsome, fair-haired son-in-law, and shenever fails to point out that Frankie could do worse than to give Ed some beautiful babies.

“Oh, Allegra. Leave the girl alone.” Enzo Lombardi is wearing a fedora that’s tipped rakishly to one side, though Frankie knows from looking at him that the choice is less one of style, and more because he’s fallen asleep on the airplane.

“Hi, Papa,” Frankie says, leaning in to put a kiss on her father’s sandpaper cheek. “How was the flight?”

“Unnatural,” Enzo says gruffly. “Man should keep his damn feet on the ground.” He shoots Ed a look. “How are you, son?” He offers a hand to his daughter’s husband. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Ed says as he gives Enzo a hearty handshake. “Flying isn’t for everyone.”

Frankie takes her mother’s giant purse and they make their way to baggage claim.

The Lombardis have chosen to fly into Fort Lauderdale from Laguardia in New York, so they still have a long drive ahead of them that evening, but Frankie hadn’t been able to convince her parents to let her pay the difference for them to fly into a smaller airport closer to Cape Kennedy. “Too much waste,” Enzo had said over the phone. “You’ll come get us, we’ll tell you everything that’s going on with the family on the car ride back.”

And that’s what they did, regaling Frankie and Ed with stories about Frankie’s brother David in Los Angeles. (“How is a man that beautiful still a bachelor?” Allegra wails, sounding as if she’s clutching a rosary and begging God for mercy. Frankie has some ideas about why her brother hasn’t yet settled down and married, but she holds her tongue.) They fill them in on their other two daughters, Rosalie and Ana, alternately shaking their heads at the fact that Rosalie married a bum (“Moron,” Enzo says from the backseat), and that Ana is always pregnant (“Doesn’t she know how that happens?” Enzo asks facetiously. Allegra whacks his arm loudly and mutters to herself in Italian).

The moment the Lombardis step into Ed and Frankie's home, Allegra drops her bags. "Well," she says, her chest puffing up as she takes in the modern furniture, the sloping ceilings, and the thick, plush carpet. "This place needs...something."

"What, Mama?" Frankie asks tiredly, only half-listening as she watches Ed take their bags back to the guest room for them. Enzo Lombardi is standing in front of the giant picture window that looks out onto the street in front of the house.

"I don't know yet, Francesca. But I'm going to start by filling it with the smell of good cooking and we'll go from there."

Frankie can't help but laugh at this. "Okay," she says amiably. It's been too long since she's had her mother's hand-rolled pastas, rich minestrone soup, and homemade bread, and she'll be the last person to complain about Allegra standing in the middle of her sunny kitchen, preparing sauces and freezing pastas for later.

Allegra looks around her daughter's house with both fists on her hips. "Tomorrow you'll take me to the butcher," she commands, "and then I'll make dinner for us. I'm cooking for Christmas, too."

Any other woman might have been offended by her mother sweeping in and taking over the cooking for a holiday like Christmas, but again, Frankie is happy to hand over the reins to a woman who can cook the way Allegra Lombardi can.

"I'm tired," Enzo says, finally turning away from the picture window. "I want to sleep, Francesca. Tomorrow I'll see your town, and then we'll discuss your life."

At this, Frankie wants to respond or protest, but she knows better. Discussing her life is one of her father's favorite pastimes, and there's no way she's having them stay for a month and getting out of a recap of her choices and mistakes.

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