2

There were only a few trips to the suburbs of New York City to visit his grandparents, though others were always planned but never actually realized. The drives were often pleasant yet they were the largest windows into the insight of his family that I generally ignored, much like everything else. In one instance, his mother lauded my intelligence and high level of education as a means to home-school my children one day and save them from the liberal indoctrination of the current school systems in place. The implication of "our children" was not as accidental as either he or I liked to believe. The dialogue on the way home was often concentrated on our relationship but always beat around the bush in hopes to avoid any more overt pressure.

There was always something comforting about visiting the home of immigrants. The minimal decor reminded me of Poland and the homes of old spinsters, widows and relatives that took care of my parents in their past lives. A number of photographs hung next to relics and there was a spot, they said, beckoning my smiling face. The food diverted my attention from the six pairs of eyes eagerly watching me devour lasagna. Polite table conversation began with asking the status of school or work. My answer was always dissatisfying to some measure; I was yet another youth without any direction. The three adults aired their grievances about the law profession and inevitably politics. It was not until the meal was over that I was always confronted with how awkward these visits were. The women got up to clean the table and the dishes and talk about things women talk about while the conversation among the men undoubtedly began with, "So how about them Yankees?" Neither a domestic nor a sports enthusiast, I merely wanted to melt into the carpet while my lack of contribution was made perfectly aware to me by stares and half-handed attempts to include me. I felt as if I was in a late-70's era film about a mismatched couple, a Polish-American and an Italian-American, trying to make it work after coming from similar yet widely different backgrounds. Perhaps it was and Francis Ford Coppola was behind a door somewhere.

Eventually the women reemerged from the kitchen and the the men plus me moved to the couch to watch either football or baseball, depending on the season. Heavy with the meal and exhausted from performing, I generally nodded off on his shoulder, triggering his grandmother to make blatant hand gestures and loud-enough whispers prophesying our inevitable marriage. It would seem grandmothers from the old country are always endowed with these supernatural powers. They always knew who would get married to whom and how their children would turn out. This one would marry that nice one from that nice family and produce a nice healthy litter and so on. Their success rate was remarkable when there always was an endless supply of rugs to sweep life under. We were told on the way back that she had predicted his parents marriage. It was an omen.