Selective Integration 501: Dom, Tony, and… Wait. What?

I just came home from my statistics class at junior college to find Dad and his friend, Dom Pesci, a fisherman by trade, swapping stories about their families. It was part of a 20-minute Italian ritual required before saying arrivederci, followed by another 10 minutes standing at the doorway before exiting. Dom was a loud, burly man, built like a linebacker, with a pitch black, greased-back, wavy mane, and a five o’clock shadow appearing daily by 9 am. He sported a fisherman’s tan, and unruly, curly black chest hair popped out of every shirt he owned no matter how he tried to cover it. His arms were reminiscent of a Popeye-Brutus hybrid. Six-foot-two Dom and Dad, a rotund five-foot-six balding figure, spoke loudly in Italian as if both were battling rough Alaskan high seas from the living room. Mom was present, too, more than the men realized, as she pretended not to listen intently from the adjacent kitchen.

“Salvo, I don’t know what to do. My sons. My sons,” bemoaned the fisherman. “My wife is beside herself with these boys. Madone! My sons. I don’t know what to do. Those two are a mess. Lost. They need to settle down.”

My keen teen side-eye scans the room to catch a sympathetic look pan across my father’s face as the conversation swung interchangeably between English and Italian. “Salvo, Antonio needs a woman. And Zeppo, he needs a woman - a wife is what they both need. They need to settle down, those two boys, and have a family. I don’t know what to do. Dio mio, my poor wife.”

“Don’t give up on the ragazzi, Dom,” comforted Dad. “Those boys will come around. I’ll do what I can to help you and Marie through this phase. Let me know how I can help. Things will get better.”

“Tony needs to settle down, Salvo. He needs to marry a good woman, settle down, and raise a family. He’s a good kid; he’s just lost. He needs a good woman to understand what’s important in life.” Dom breaks out a large square white handkerchief, wipes his brow, and blows his nose.

I grabbed my car keys, feigning an urgent errand to run. I hear the conversation continue in uncharacteristic hushed voices until….

“Hey, Angie, come here for a minute, dear,” my father says. As he spoke, I saw Mom spin around from the kitchen sink to observe like a court reporter.

I carefully approach.

“Angie, Angie, Angie,” bellowed Dom, “Bella signorina, come stai? Will you help me? You’d be perfect.”

“Perfect for what, Mr. Pesci?” daring him to say it out loud.

Dad’s empathy turned to panic for a fleeting second. Maybe he caught my verbal warning shot.

Dom moved two steps towards me, leaving my Dad standing slightly behind him, off to the side and still in my sight.

“Please, Angie, my sons.” He repeated everything as if I couldn’t hear him the first time, standing just a few feet away, but now he was looking right at me with tears in his eyes. And then, he said it. Out loud.

”Please, Angie, I promise to help you. You take your pick of my sons- either one- and straighten him out. In return, I’ll set you up with a house, a car, and a boat.” And that’s when my tax accountant father looked like he won the lottery. At that “a house, a car, and a boat” moment, my father’s eyes lit up like a slot machine jackpot. Amid this arranged marriage proposal, my wide-eyed father in the background silently, rigorously nods affirmatively to convey his approval and coax me into saying yes.

This wide-eyed wonder was the same man who, one week earlier, insisted I not learn to speak Italian because, “You’re in America now, and Americans speak English.” That same instructional head of the household man is now advocating, in English, my accepting an arranged marriage with another immigrant family. For a minute, my ears lost all audio connectivity while the visuals hijacked my speech. Mr. Pesci was still pitching his idea. I looked over to Mom, my only allied witness, to see her sharpening an assortment of knives, waiting for my response, and ready to launch against ‘them’ if I’m misunderstood.

I interrupted Dom’s stream of consciousness to object, directing my ire at my father. “Dad, are you kidding me? What happened to ‘You’re in America now’ and ‘When in America, do as the Americans do.’ Arranged marriages aren’t a thing here!”

“You don’t have to answer now, dear,” was Dad’s idea of a strategic reply, “but think about it. It’s a good offer.”

“A good offer?! Wait. WHAT!? For who?! I don’t know anything about his sons. And I’m not sure I even know you right now.”

“Well, now, calm down, dear. Just think about it. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know one another. And you don’t need to answer today, right Dom?”

“Si, si. Take a few days- certo!”

“So let me get this straight. Learning your native language is old school, un-American, even. But arranged marriages are still in? I don’t think so, Dad! NO! No! And No!”

Dad turns to Dom, “So, Dom, you see my daughter needs a little time. You know how these things go. Eh, Dom, would you really give my daughter - and your son- a house, a car, and a fishing vessel?”

“Dad. I’m right here,” I said.

“Yeah, I see you, Angie. Dom, did you mean it?”

Domenic bellowed out, “Yes, I have done so for my other married sons. I will do so for these last two. When Tony - or Zeppo- is at sea, my wife Marie will treat Angie like her own daughter.”

Butcher knives dropped in the kitchen sink seconds before Mom appeared, glowering eyes locked and loaded on her husband, her one hand twitching as if still holding on to something she could wield. She was the model of restraint. And I knew Dad would be sleeping on the couch that night. Maybe longer.

Dom was placidly unfazed by Mom’s entrance or my answer. Dad knew it was time to reel it in, but Dom had more to say.

“I promise you, with God as my witness, you’ll have a car to get around with, and you can eat dinner with us every night,” vowed the sincere fisherman. “Once you marry, you’ll be living on the same block as the rest of my family, so when your children are born, your kids will have lots of cousins to play with. I did the same for my older sons, and look how good they turned out! Please, Angie. Will you think about it?”

“Well, let’s not think about this anymore for today, ok, Angie?” interrupted Dad.

“That’s the first good idea either of you had,” quipped Mom.

“Maybe later, eh?” said Dad to me. “Looks like you are going somewhere- do you need any gasoline money?”

“I’m not going anywhere now, and this conversation is etched deep in my memory already.”

Dad and Dom started speaking in Italian, with uncharacteristically lowered voices, so I could only understand bits and pieces. Mom understood every word, unfolded her arms to put her right arm around me, walked me into the kitchen, and handed me three knives to sharpen. Genius. Best therapy ever. She looked at me. I looked at her, and as soon as the front door closed behind Mr. Pesci, Mom and I yelled in unison, “Over my dead body,” laughed out loud, and had a mother-daughter talk like no other.

Dad went outside on the deck to smoke a cigar. And do some math.

The following week, Mr. Pesci called to ask me for my answer. It hadn’t changed. The friendship between families remained intact and grew even stronger, due primarily to the two matriarchs, accustomed to clean-ups on Aisle 9. In two weeks, Dad returned to sleeping in the same room as his wife, and dinner-time conversation returned. Arranged marriages were never spoken of again.

Over the years, an entire residential block was owned by the extended Pesci family, surrounded by their five grown sons and five daughters-in-law, each with their own house, car, and boat-- and enough grandchildren to fill a school bus.