Essay 3 Rough Draft

My Unanswered Questions


The photo is 3 ½ x 5, matte finish in a gold plaited frame. Pictured are my grandparents, Maryann, Rosario, Marlene, and John in that order, and myself in front, age eight in my Communion dress. It’s the only picture in existence of the five of us together; the past and the future, my extraction and their legacy- sixty years of rich history and few opportunities taken to explore it. We are standing in my backyard which looks uncharacteristically groomed and luscious, in the spring of 1995.
The order my grandparents are standing in has always held an eerie significance for me. My maternal grandparents, Maryann and John, are separated like bookends on either side. Divorced for many years (how many I can’t say, but I do know that I had never known them while they were still married), they remained close friends. Why they decided to stand apart like this is a mystery. Maybe it sends the wrong message if a man and a woman, once married, having five children together, stand beside one another as if they are still partners. I always wondered if they felt a twinge of longing or regret as they stood there, framing a marriage still intact, their in- laws in each other’s embrace. I don’t know and I never asked. Such things were not discussed.
I remember the exact moment this was shot, my aunt, the self appointed family photographer poised with her camera, exclaiming, “Kimberly, go stand by the birdhouse, I want a picture of you and all four grandparents.” Cooing approvingly as we made our way to the center of the yard to pose, ”Perfect now smile, that looks great, hold it..” Click. Hold it, I want to go back.


Maryann, my mother’s namesake, beams first in line, forever looking like a posh catalogue model. A smartly tailored white jacket with black lapel and buttons hugs her still curvaceous figure. A stiff white hat with an upturned brim and large ribbon dangles gently from her hand, exposing her teased light ash blonde hair. Not a hint of gray because she wouldn’t allow it. I can still conjure her scent, a pleasant mixture of flowery perfume and used makeup sponges, clean yet worn. The same smell as her bedroom, with the deep closet overflowing with tasteful, expensive garments and vanity table laden with miscellaneous broaches and coral press on nails.
She was a tough, independent woman, the kind I think who would have burned a brassier in protest if she had been from that generation. After the divorce she went back to school to earn an M.A. in Business, working as Director of Physician Affairs in a hospital. I kept her photo I.D. all these years along with a pin that rested on her uniform jacket asking “how can I help you?” I was never told about the betrayal by my mom, and to this day we have never spoken about it. My older cousin Lyndsay stared at me incredulously one day, “You mean you don’t know what happened? Haven’t you ever heard them talk about Jack Sweeney? Grandma had an affair with him and that’s why she and Grandpa divorced.”
I felt ashamed, like a voyeur peering at someone’s most intimate moments. I stopped seeing Grandma as only a source of love and kindness, Thanksgiving dinner and beautiful Christmas gifts, a house near the woods that smelled of scented soap and burning wood and a piano I loved fumble on-she was a woman; a woman with fear and passion and anger and love and remorse. I want to hear her story, the whole story. I want to turn around and ask her, what happened that you fell out of love with Grandpa? How did you raise five energetic children without pulling out your hair? Help me please to fill in the blanks. What was it like to grow up as the mischievous “Biddy” in a tiny Bronx apartment? Did boys say you were as beautiful as I think you were?

My grandfather, dark skinned with salt and pepper hair in a crisp white collar is smiling jovially, the same wrinkles forming around his eyes and mouth as when he laughed. He made the stone birdhouse that sits high above our heads, on a pole stuck in my mother’s blue hyacinth plant not yet in bloom. It was one of the many creations he labored over in his tool shed throughout the years. A master craftsman; I always told him he should start his own business, but he said it was just for fun. His left arm is wrapped protectively around his wife, Marlene; his good hand I think. Years later he would remark, at the kitchen table over a bowl of ziti and gravy, “When Grandpa dies, remember he always made you laugh” speaking about himself in the third person as if already gone. I didn’t like when he talked like that.
I will my nine year old self to obey. Turn around and take his hand, lead him to a chair and say “let’s talk”. Ask him about growing up in Elizabeth as a first generation American. Greedily absorb every detail before the camera blinks its ominous eye and the moment is lost. Tell me please, what you felt as a child. Did you play in the snow on a frosty December morning, gliding through the air on a wooden sleigh? Did you run through the geyser of a red hydrant with the other kids in the muggy August dusk? Where you embarrassed when little grandma and grandpa, in their thick Sicilian tongue said “bacchaus” referring to the “back house” when they went to the rest room? Why didn’t you ever learn to speak their language and pass it on to me? Mi manchi tanto, ti voglio bene. Not perfect, but coming along; are you proud?
Grandpa worked in a factory in the 60’s and 70’s, an era where safety was an afterthought. One day when he was operating a metal press, his hand got caught under it and he lost the top of his thumb. I remember the little stub wiggling, comical yet sad, as he wiped a ring of red wine from around his mouth. I repeatedly asked him what happened to his thumb. “I got in a fight with Grandma and she bit it off”, he replied smirking. I tumbled to the floor laughing.

My grandmother Marlene, named after Marlena Dietrich, smiles sweetly, knowingly; her blonde hair styled in what our family fondly named the “beehive doo”, eyes shaded with dark prescription lenses. She possessed an understated elegance, never over the top and never sloppy; Grandma always made a point to curl her hair for company, even during a bad spell. Her gold wristwatch catches the afternoon light and on her hand wedding bands sparkle, both diamond, beautifully durable. She loved my grandfather more than I have ever seen a wife love a husband. Sometimes I feel I am most like her, although capable of many things, sensitive, at times fragile and in need of a partner, a lifelong friend to carry me along.
I asked her once why her parents never insisted that she marry a Polish man, as it was the custom in those days to marry within your own circle. “I dated a Polish boy once, and he tried to do bad things to me”, she replied, in a way that makes a small child content with information otherwise not meant for her ears. What was it like when you fell in love with Grandpa? Did you feel as if you had found your other half, someone to provide comfort and fortitude? Can you tell me what it was like losing your mother at such a young age, and why you were sick for most of your adult life? I am convinced that once her husband passed away, Marlene slowly lost the will to continue; it was just too lonely and she was too weak.

Oddly enough, they are standing in the order of death, Maryann of cancer, Rosario a heart attack in Home Depot, Marlene of complications triggered by a lifetime of poor health. My Grandfather is left, standing tall and sturdy on the end in a striped polo and slacks, “golf attire”. He is a proud and private man; he sends me a birthday card every year and I give him the obligatory thank you phone call, short and thoroughly awkward. I find myself hoping to catch his answering machine. If not then it goes something like this, How’s the weather down there Grandpa? Oh really that much rain, wow. And your cats, how are they doing? Great, great, well it was good to hear from you. Love you. Buh Bye. I scold myself while replacing the receiver, what the hell was that? Why didn’t you talk to him? An incredibly knowledgeable man, he talks about the weather and the trees, nothing heavy. Our family doesn’t like to squirm.
I realize that I know very little about his life. He is a good, hard working man who took the subway to the bank for over thirty years to support his family. He gave his wife their house when the marriage was over, and moved to a rural town down south. He never stopped loving his wife, convinced she was the only woman for him. One night when the cancer had nearly completed its insidious work on my grandmother, he came in from the porch after sitting for hours. His eyes were teary and he looked away from me quickly. It was the only time I have ever seen my grandfather cry. He is not a one dimensional image like the others though, a feeling I carry in my chest; he is a real person still with me. Why don’t I ask? A little voice chides, don’t squander the time you have.


I am a miniature bride standing with palms kissing and feet, covered in white flats positioned elegantly, resembling a non committal fourth ballet pose. My head is cocked slightly to the side, a purposeful maneuver to look cute and innocent. What a ham. I remember trying to keep my balance as the camera captured us, secretly coveting the gifts and money envelopes waiting for me to devour. I was the maiden of honor and I reveled in the spotlight; chasséing around the yard, greeting guests with giggles and the lacey flourish of my clean white gown. It’s okay, keep twirling little one. You know enough for now.