Sunday Brunch - 1. Dressing for Dinner

The Moretti house was its normal chaos for Sunday brunch; kids screaming and squealing, toys are strewn about. Momma Rosie had the house smelling delicious as always, her homemade meat gravy simmering on the stove, the aroma of roasted garlic to lingering in throughout the house tantalizing everybody’s tastebuds. The pasta she’d made from scratch, as any respectable Italian woman would attest is the only way it should be given to their family, waiting for its turn to be brought to life.

“Momma,” Antonia moved through the kitchen with familiar movement as it was her childhood home, she searched the drawers, opening and slamming them shut with a tsk each time.

“What are you looking for?” Momma Rosie said with an irritated huff shooing her daughter away from her domain. The kitchen. Nobody, but nobody messes with her kitchen.

Antonia reached for a cupboard as her mother slapped her arm away.

“Out, out of my kitchen. You are in the way child.” Her mother hissed.

“Where is the corkscrew thingy? Vinnie’s,” she whispered the next, “‘friend,’ brought a nice bottle of wine, momma. You want a glass?” Antonia asked her eyelashes fluttering to soften her mother’s incoming tantrum.

“What friend?”

Shrugging her shoulders not caring at the least she answered with the same impatience bestilled upon all the Moretti women.

“I don’t know, a friend. It’s good wine momma, who cares.”

The matriarch threw her hands in the air with exasperation at her eldest daughter, gravy from the stirrer flying to leave a strip of red sauce across two cupboard doors. “No, no, no, Antonia. Wine is to have with dinner, but if it is a red wine,” Rosie opened the second drawer aggressively whipping out the corkscrew, slamming it on the counter, “let it breathe.” Wagging a finger in her daughter’s face. “No drinking.”

Rolling her eyes, Antonia snatched the apparatus glaring at her mother as she stormed out of the kitchen, yelling as she went.

“Luke, climb down from there right now. Silly boy!”

Davide yelled, “Luke, you forgot your cape you can’t fly without it watch me!” The boy sailed down the banister. “See that’s how you fly.”

“No, that’s how you end up in the hospital. Both of you get down from there now, listen to your mother,” Antonia’s husband’s voice boomed from where he sat lazily on the couch watching football. “Honey, stop him,” Keiran said to his wife with disinterest before turning back to the game.

“Old people,” Davide shook his head. “How do you deal with them, Luke?”

The kid shrugged his shoulder at his uncle, who is only a couple of years his senior before walking off to sit with his dad.

Marco strolled in the front door slamming it shut behind him, his neck marked with love bites from his boyfriend. “Momma, I’m home. Gregory said to tell you hello,” the sixteen-year-old kicked his shoes off before making his way to the kitchen. “He can’t make it to brunch he’s goin’ to see his grandma at the old folks home,” the boy snatched a piece of dinner roll out of the basket on the counter popping it in his mouth. “Mmm… delicious Momma,” he said before kissing her on the cheek, before heading into the living room to watch television with the ‘men.’

Vincenzo Moretti being the typical outspoken Patriarch of the family noticed the mark on his son’s neck. “What in the holy hell happened to you boy? Did you lose the battle with a vacuum cleaner? Lord knows that is woman’s work…”

“God, Poppa,” Marco chuckled running his fingers over the love bite. “How old are you? What century were you born in?” He egged his dad on, knowing just how to push his buttons.

“Boy you keep it up, and I’ll take you out to the tool shed,” Vincenzo barked, “now shush, that Brady character is about to throw an interception.”

“What?” Keiran barked back. “He’s not even playing, you crazy old goat.”

“Don’t you have some spuds to pick?” Vincenzo grumbled at his son-in-law.

Keiran waved his hand dismissively at his father-in-law as he sunk back into the couch to watch his game. “Whatever,” he muttered.

Marco chuckled, “Keiran at least he isn’t asking where your pot-o-gold is today.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe you should get one of them derby hat things and wear it each time you guys come over to yank the old man’s chain over you bein’ Irish.”

Keiran popped his middle finger up so it was visible over the back of the lounge.

“Keiran!” Antonia yelled admonishing her husband, “the kids.”

He poked his head up this time looking around for the kids, who were sitting in the craft corner quietly doing whatever kids do. “What about them? They’re not doing anything, leave them alone.”

Antonia shook her head at her clueless husband muttering, “Cazzo!”

“Dickhead, huh? I love you too.” Keiran grumbled.

“Perché non succhiare il mio dado sinistro!” Antonia sniped, with a gasp from her son, she narrowed her eyes at him. “How did you know what I said?”

He shook his head quickly, but Antonia saw Marco swiping a finger across his throat at Luke.

“Marco,” she yelled as her younger brother ran up the stairs to his bedroom avoiding the wrath of a Moretti woman.

Matteo clambered down the stairs, “who lit the fire under Marco’s ass? He doesn’t move that fast unless Gregory is offering something up for him.” The eighteen-year-old found his comment amusing chuckling at himself. “Oh, Poppa, I need you to mail in the rest of my papers to the college tomorrow.”

“What a waste of good money,” Poppa called from his comfy spot on the couch. “Why can’t you just get a job down at the factory-like me, and be a responsible adult?”

“I don’t want to build furniture Pop,” Matteo stated as he made Keiran sit up on the couch and flopped in the newly liberated space. “I’m going for criminal justice.”

“Oh, god if your great-great-grandfather could hear that,” Vincenzo said sarcastically. “He’s probably rolling over in his grave. Back then a good hard-working job was working for the mob.”

“Betta watch out then Poppa when I graduate I’ll be able to throw your ass in jail.”

“There’s a hole that needs to be dug, out in the back garden,” Vincenzo snarkily said glancing at his son. “It needs to be about six foot two inches long and three feet wide and at least six feet deep. I don’t need no stink in the house, Matteo.”

“Then have a shower, old man. MOMMA! POPPA IS THREATENING ME AGAIN!” he called for back up. Momma Rosie loves her boys. The rotund woman barreled into the living room berating her husband in true Italian form, with her hands and language full of threats and consequences. Even if you didn’t speak Italian, you’d know what was coming to the man. Cover your privates people momma is on a mission.

“Rosanna put the rolling-pin down,” Vincenzo pleaded with his wife. “I was just havin’ some fun with the boy. Gotta tuffin’ him up, don’t need two of them pansies in the house.”

“HEY! Watch it Poppa,” Vinnie said to his father warningly, he quickly glanced at a crestfallen Marco who had caught the end of his poppa’s comment. The boy ran through the house and out the back door.

Vinnie stood angrily. “Are you happy now!” he motioned for his friend to follow him as they went after Marco. He felt for his younger brother, a usually happy and strong kid. A better person than himself because he refused to hide who he was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when their father said hateful things.

“Mother, you coddled these boys too much,” Vincenzo sniped. “I bet all these boys sit to pee now too,” the elder man stated in a huff, “Do you Irish coddle your children too?” He stared at his son-in-law expectantly. Momma Rosa scoffed a growl marching back to the kitchen, hands thrown in the air as she muttered to herself in Italian the whole way.

Keiran glared at his wife’s father and shook his head. “Nope, we don’t coddle them. I do know that if my father said something like you just did, he’d be sleeping in a homeless shelter the same night.” He stood to follow in the same path as Vinnie. As he passed the stairs he started laughing, not meanly or arrogantly but knew Vincenzo was about to get what he deserved if he didn’t react correctly when his next son reached the bottom of the staircase. He was in two minds whether to stay or go. Meh. His wife would fill him in on what happens next, so he kept going to help Marco.

Donatello, Davide’s twin, reached the bottom of the stairs wearing Francesca’s princess gown from Halloween. Francesca two steps behind him grinning like a Cheshire cat. The boy walked through the archway into the living room and curtseyed. “I’m beautiful ain’t I, Poppa?” the little boy batted his eyes.

“What in the ever-loving hell are you wearing?” Vincenzo roared at the sight of the young boy.

“I’m a beautiful princess,” Donatello’s lip quivered and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Don’t I look pretty?”

“Pretty? Oh for fuck sakes,” Vincenzo stood up kicking the coffee table as he began to walk toward the boy. “Let’s see what your mother has to say about this,” he grabbed Donatello by the arm dragging him to the kitchen. “Mother, how did you raise a houseful of these?” he motioned with his hand toward the boy.

She glanced quickly to one of her youngest as she pulled roasted vegetables from the oven putting them on the counter. Putting her hands together she smiled affectionately at the boy. “Don’t you look pretty, Donny.” Walking toward the grief-stricken kid she threw her husband a look that promised retribution for upsetting her baby.

“You run and wash up, tell the others the food is ready. Off you go, and don’t run in my heels on the stairs piuttosto uno, they are too big. You might get hurt.” Momma Rosie kissed the top of the boys head which was jammed right between her ample bosom.

Matteo who was hovering behind his father and little brother brushed by his father to go check on Marco outside, “you can be really cruel Poppa. What are they hurting being who they are?”

“I… you…” Vincenzo didn’t get a chance to finish his comment to Matteo as the boy didn’t wait to hear him out. “Well, how rude,” he mumbled.

Momma Rosie turned on her husband jabbing a finger into his chest. “You. You better find a way to accept these boys or you won’t be living under this roof any longer. Times are different to when we grew up, this boys with boys, girls with girls, evolving to sexualities. It’s normal now, more accepted. I know it’s not what we pictured, but it is the way for these kids. There are people who are going to hurt my babies just because of who they are. I won’t have it at home. Get on board or get out.” She fumed, smoke coming out of her ears. She waved her hand harshly at the door. “Go to your brothers, you are not having brunch with the family today.” Momma Rosie panting with anger by the time she finished. She did not want this for her children but no way on God’s green earth would she let them see her fear for them. They are who they are and it was to be accepted or get the hell out of her house.

Marco stormed through the door furious after hearing what had happened with Donatello. “How dare you,” he boldly stood face to face with his father. “I can handle you putting me down for liking dick,” the teen ranted. “But to belittle Donny? That’s so messed up, I’m ashamed to admit you’re my Poppa.” The boy went to walk away but had second thoughts and faced his father once again, “What’s wrong with us loving who we love and dressing however we want?”

Vincenzo looked at his son who was shaking with anger, “I’m old and set in my ways.” The man held up his hand to stop the ensuing argument he was sure would follow, “Momma already set me straight. I’m goin’ to Uncle Gio’s for the day and try to figure out you kids.”