The Plumber's Daughter Ch. 03

"Oh well," I replied, sipping and enjoying my wine.

"What do you think of the wine?"

"It is quite good actually. When I do drink wine, I like a dry red."

"Are you saying that to kiss up?"

"Kiss up to you, don't be ridiculous. You asked me what I thought and I told you. Perhaps you don't like my answer. Nevertheless the wine is very good. If it tasted like cleaning fluid, I would have said so."

"Let me top off your glass. Didn't your father teach you that it is good manners to bring something when you are invited to dinner?"

"He did, and..." Mr. Bernardino interrupted me, "Then you show no respect. You come to my home empty handed. You dragged my daughter half way across New York on a motorcycle like some kind of hoodlum. Marie deserves better than that."

I was saved by the doorbell. Shortly after, Father Joseph Sebastian walked into the room carrying an enormous fruit basket, mostly oranges and pears, Marie's father's favorites.

"Dom, where do you want this? They were delivering it when I got here," and seeing me the Priest said, "You must me Patrick, give me a second," as he put it on the floor, and then held out his hand for me to shake, "I'm Father Joseph Sebastian, or as my Parishioners call me, Father Joe."

"I'm pleased to meet you Reverend, I have heard nothing but good about Uncle Joe from Marie."

"Are you Catholic, Patrick?"

"No, the hoodlum is a can't-make-up-his-mind heathen, Joe. He doesn't go to church regular at all."

"My mother was Catholic, Reverend, and I was baptized as such. I never attended any particular church much after my Mother died. I didn't start up again until I joined the Marines. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes.

I go to church when I feel the need. I will attend any mainstream Christian Church, regardless of denomination, including Catholic. I have met some very nice people that way and have had many fine potluck or chicken dinners afterward."

"As I said Joe, he is a damn heathen hayseed, the mamaluke that he is. All he thinks about is his stomach. He doesn't even know how to address a Priest properly."

"I would hardly say Patrick is a heathen, Dom, or a hoodlum because he rides a motorcycle. That's a fine machine Patrick. I saw it when I pulled in the driveway. What year Panhead is it? My best guess would be the early sixties."

"You know your scoots, Reverend. It was made in 1961 and it once belonged to be my father."

"That's Father Joe or Father Sebastian to you, heathen, show some respect!"

"For God's sake, Dom let the young man speak for himself. Make yourself useful and pour me a glass of that bilge water you call wine. He does have a point though, Patrick, the preferred address is Father, or Father Joe."

"No disrespect intended Reverend, but you are not my Father. That is reserved for my Father-God of the Holy Trinity. John Ian Buchanan was my father on earth. Dad is now in Heaven with my Mother, and the Lord God Our Heavenly Father."

"I appreciate your honesty, Patrick. Under the circumstances, no offense is taken. Feel free to call me Joe if you like. Reverend is a proper title, but I am not here in that capacity now. Do you hear that Dom. Let me give you a hypothetical, Patrick. If you were to marry Marie, and came back into the fold, attending Mass every Sunday, would you address me as Father?"

"You're a big help, Joe, siding with him," Mr. Bernardino said, handing the Reverend his wine, "now you have this hayseed married to my Marie."

"No, I wouldn't Joe," I answered, waiting for a chance to speak.

"I have known this big lout since Kindergarten," Joe said, sipping his wine and laughing, "He is not so bad when you get to know him. Dom is even worse. You will soon learn to tolerate him as we all do if only for Marie's sake. By the way, Dom, this wonderful fruit basket is from Patrick and Marie."

"Patrick and I were having a conversation. Since you are not a priest today, if you want to eat, shut your yap and listen."

I was thinking, 'Well, he finally called me by name? This must be Mr. Bernardino's attempt at apologizing. I have to admit he is a strong bastard though. He could certainly give Sam a run for his money.'

"What makes you think that you are good enough for my daughter?"

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"I don't like you. You show no respect."

"Yes, you already said that. Respect goes both ways, Mr. Bernardino."

"Are you after my daughter's money?"

"No."

"I don't believe you."

"You are entitled to your wrong opinion."

"How much money can a farmer possibly make?"

"How much money can a plumber possibly make? I'll put my bank book up against yours and day."

"If I didn't love my wife and daughter as I do, you wouldn't be allowed in my house."

"Don't do me any favors, Mr. Bernardino. I never go where I am not welcome.

"So you are a farmer."

"No, I'm a Blacksmith who knows how to farm.

"Living on a farm in the middle of the sticks can't be much of a life for my daughter. Do you even have indoor plumbing?"

"Why, are you looking for work?"

I almost thought I saw the hint of a smile, but he caught himself and scowled,

"Would you ever consider moving to the City?"

"Our homestead has been passed down from father to son since 1786. The land is in my blood and generations of Buchanan's are buried in the family cemetery."

"So, you are saying from 1786 to the present, nobody in your family had the brains to pick up a skilled trade?"

"You have a big mouth, Mr. Bernardino and you curse like a girl. Marie does a better job swearing at me than you do," I put my wine glass down and stood up. "You are treading on thin ice when you insult my family, do you want to settle up now."

The good Reverend Joe was taking it all in and smiling, "He's got you there, Dom. You just crossed the line. You would have hit Patrick if he insulted your family. Did you forget the way Mary's father treated you? Mary's father didn't want his daughter marrying an Italian, Patrick.

They wanted Mary to marry the doctor she was dating when she first met Dominick. Mary was a Presbyterian when they married, but embraced the Catholic Church after Marie was born."

"Wait a minute, son, Mr. Bernardino said, back-peddling, "Sit down. I'm sure you come from a fine family. I take back everything I said, or inferred about them. It's you I don't like, and I am entitled to my opinion in my own house. Let me fill your wine glass. You told me on the telephone that you love Marie."

"That is true, and I say it again, I love Marie."

"Marie, Mary," Mr. Bernardino called, "would you come in here please?"

***********************

"Marie, do you love this man, this Patrick Buchanan?"

"Of course I do, Dad," I replied, walking over to Patrick and squeezing his hand."

"Did you swear at him? Did you really let him have it? That's my girl."

"I did, but only after Patrick wouldn't let me hit him with a shovel, or punch him in the nose."

"The Saints preserve us! Marie hit you with a shovel, and you still wanted to come here to meet us, Patrick? What did you do to get Marie that angry?"

"Marie didn't hit me with a shovel. Marie tried to hit me a shovel. I took it away from her. At the time I had no idea why Marie was angry. My wife had a temper, it's no big deal. When Marie tried to punch me, I pinned her arms until she stopped struggling and calmed down."

"I can believe that. Why was my daughter angry in the first place?"

"Marie thought I was still married."

"You are divorced then?" Mr. Bernardino asked, thinking that he found an opening, "What did you do to make your wife leave you?"

"My wife, Anne Marie died."

"I'm sure Anne Marie was a fine woman," Mr. Bernardino offered, making The Sign of the Cross, "But in your case the saintly woman could have done better, much better."

Mr. Bernardino then raised his glass in a toast, "In memory of Patrick's saintly wife," We all took a sip, and then Marie and her mother returned to the kitchen, smiling.

*********************

"Are you two still planning on spending the night?" Mom asked.

"Yes, did something change?"

"No, nothing has changed. Thank you for the fruit basket. If you get a bowl down, I'll put the fruit out on the table after dinner. By the way, I made your favorite dessert, cannolis."

"Can I have one now?"

"No, you will have to wait with the rest of us."

"What do you think of Patrick, Mom?"

"I've waited to talk to you face to face, honey," Mom said, taking my hand, "We didn't hear from you for almost a year. Your father and I were so worried. You went back to college, and that was a good thing. But you took a wrong turn.

You were spending money recklessly and dressing like a tramp. I couldn't believe it when you cut your hair, but I'm glad you are back to your God given color. You weren't the same after your divorce, Marie. You were distant and you were bitter. You stopped attending Mass.

We are your parents, Marie. We love you. You will always be our baby. And then there is Joe, your surrogate uncle, your Priest; the man who Baptized you, from whom you received your First Holy Communion.

When we heard that those bad friends of yours died of an overdose, we were frantic. We went to your house and nobody was home. Nobody at the college has heard from you. Joe called in a favor and no stone was left unturned. They tracked you down to a private nightclub. The trail went cold there.

You have no idea how relieved we all were when you telephoned. We had a telephone number, Patrick's name and an address. Joe did some further checking. All Joe would tell us was that you were in good hands and not to worry. You were safe. Do I like Patrick? How can I not like him? Patrick brought our baby back to us."

****************************

When dinner was ready, I went in to tell the men, and then we all sat down to eat, and Uncle Joe said grace. I noticed that Patrick made the Sign of the Cross during the prayer.

My father didn't fail to notice, "I heard you say you weren't a Catholic anymore, heathen. Is it appropriate for you using the Sign of the Cross."

"Don't call me a heathen, again, Mr. Bernardino," Patrick said firmly, "The Sign of the Cross is a beautiful and holy gesture. I was baptized a Catholic. My Mother was a Catholic and I attended Mass with her every Sunday until she died.

Mom taught me how to pray as soon as I was old enough to speak, and that is how a prayer begins and ends. I carry my Mother's memory in the Sign of the Cross. All Catholics are Christians, although not all Christians are Catholic."

I looked around the table. Dad looked very uncomfortable, and my Mother was giving Dad dirty looks. Uncle Joe had a very thoughtful and knowing look on his face, as took a sip of wine, smiling.

Patrick was taking everything in stride. He made himself very comfortable in our family, as if my Father's behavior was the just part of the way things were with us.

Patrick continued, "One meaning of the word, Catholic, found in any good dictionary, is universal. But I'll stop; I don't want to beat the subject of Catholics verses Christianity to death."

"The Church's position is that you are Catholic from the minute that you are baptized Catholic, Patrick," Uncle Joe offered, "and therefore logic dictates you will die a Catholic, as well as a Christian. Would you not find comfort in the Last Rites?"

"With all due respect, Joe, you are not the first Priest to tell me that.

"Then you agree?" was the follow up question."

"I am open to that idea; it would certainly please my Mother."

"Was your wife, Catholic, Patrick, Uncle Joe, asked.

"She was a Methodist, the same as my Father-in-law, Sam. Anne Marie's mother was a medicine woman and held with the teachings of her Native American heritage.

"I concede you are a Christian, Patrick," My Dad offered, trying to save face, "As a Universal Christian and sometimes Catholic, don't you find it hypocritical not to practice the faith you were baptized in?"

"You and I could argue that point forever, Mr. Bernardino, or until both of us are dead and gone. I promise to save you a seat in Purgatory if I go first."

'Wow,' I thought, 'Patrick, plays the part of a simple blacksmith so well. Dad is no dummy, but Patrick keeps catching him off guard and Uncle Joe doesn't seem the least bit surprised. The really amazing thing is that Dad seems to be enjoying himself now.'

**************************

Marie's father seems to be easing up a bit. He not a bad sort, and is just looking out for Marie. The good Reverend plays the part well as the referee. There is more to Joe Sebastian than meets the eye.

**********************

Mother and I took control of the dinner conversation after the Purgatory zinger. Dad and Uncle Joe sat back and ate, listening while the three of did most of the talking. Mother peppered Patrick with questions about his family and background, but mostly about his reenactments.

Patrick answered with great enthusiasm on that subject. My Blue Knight has a great deal of knowledge about American History of that period of time. Mother and I cleared the table and started the dishes while they stayed in the dining room with their wine to digest their meal and to make room for dessert.

I tried to sneak a cannoli from the refrigerator and Mom caught me and made we put it back. I got scolded, and then we hugged....I still had to wait to have it with coffee, later.

Dad and Patrick were at it again; ding-ding, round three. Dad started telling jokes to get under Patrick's skin. Ethnic jokes were allowed, as long as they were not mean spirited. Political correctness was left at the threshold in the Bernardino residence, and our dinner conversations were not for the faint of heart.

Dad started telling every Scottish joke that he knew, most of them funny, many insulting. Uncle Joe even got into the act; maybe it was the wine that loosened his tongue. They were both testing Patrick, feeling him out. Mother and I were listening from the kitchen.

Patrick laughed along with them, taking everything in stride until they ran out of Scottish jokes.

Patrick stood up and announced, "My turn, Gentlemen. But first let me pour the next round of drinks, and after he poured them, Patrick didn't sit down but walked around the table, circling them as he spoke.

"How do you know you are Italian?" Patrick walked over and put his hand on Dad's shoulder, answering, "You can bench press 325 pounds, shave twice a day, and still cry when your mother yells at you.

You carry your lunch in a produce bag because you can't fit two cappicola sandwiches, 4 oranges," Patrick took four oranges out of the bowl, two in each hand, and started juggling them, "2 bananas and pizzelles into a regular lunch bag," and then Patrick tossed them one at a time to my laughing Uncle Joe, while continuing to rattle them off more Italian jokes.

He stopped circling and put his hand on Uncle Joe's shoulder, asking, "How do you tell you are a true Italian? "

To which Uncle Joe, replied smiling, "Your mechanic, plumber, electrician, accountant, travel agent, lawyer, and Priest are all friends or cousins." Which got them laughing all over again, and Patrick continued,

"You have at least 5 cousins living in the same town or street.

All five of those cousins are named after your grandfather or grandmother.

You only get one good shave from a disposable razor.

You netted more than $50,000 on your first communion."

Patrick had them both of them laughing and slapping the table now. Mom and I were in dining room table hugging one another and laughing near to tears; neither of us expected anything like this.

Patrick must have heard us because he paused to listen and took a sip of wine before calling out, "Would you ladies like to join us and not strain your hearing?" Mom and came out of the kitchen and sat at the dining room table to join them. When we sat, Patrick refilled all our wine glasses.

"You know you are Italian if someone in your family grows beyond 5'9", it is presumed his Mother had an affair.

There are more than 28 people in your bridal party," and Patrick took my hand and kissed it.

"And you REALLY, REALLY know you're Italian when, pointing to my father, "Your grandfather has a fig tree," Dad replied, and then to me, "You eat Sunday dinner at 2:00, and on Christmas Eve . . . only fish," and then to my Mom, who pointed to my Dad, "You think your mom's meatballs are the best. Don't tell your wife."

All eyes were on him as Patrick gave his finale, as he spun Mom's good china a dinner plate on the tip of his index finger as he circled us.

"You know you are Italian because you've been hit with a wooden spoon or had a shoe thrown at you.

Plastic on the furniture is normal.

You know how to pronounce manicotti and mozzarella.

You fight over whether it's called," and then he quickly pointed to each of us one at a time, the plate still spinning on his finger, before putting his free hand to his ear, and we all answered at the same time, "Gravy or sauce."

You know you are Italian because you've called someone a mamaluke. Perhaps even your daughter's future husband, who you don't like. Think fast Mr. Bernardino." Patrick pretended to fling the plate at him, startling Dad, but then carefully put it back on the table instead.

"And finally, you know you are Italian because you understand what bada-bing means? What does bada-bing mean? Patrick asked, throwing up his hands, and looking at each of us in turn.

Patrick then bowed to all of us and then raised his wine glass in a toast, "Per la salute."

(THE END OF CHAPTER 3)