“I called San Francisco yesterday,” Uncle John says. This catches Johnny’s attention. It is a big deal in 1955 that someone in the family should make a call to such a distance. Johnny moves, hunches low to the small table, keeps his eyes up, peers below the chunky wrought-iron chandelier with its thick, barely translucent amber glass that casts a yellow glow on the room. Across the main table, through the sparkling china and crystal and colorful platters of antipasto—Nonna calls it ahn-teh-pahst—he watches the elders. He knows that Henry has been sent to the back parlor by the Christmas tree, that Santo is in the front parlor near the piano. He feels cheated, being stuck in the huge, dim dining room with its heavy, dark furnishings with gargoyle feet ready to bite your ankle if you’re bad,
