The Witch House of Persimmon Point

by Suzanne Palmieri

  Because she didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t even like him. She liked the way his hands and his mouth felt on her body (her body loved him), but other than that, the mere thought of Giancarlo made her want to vomit. She just didn’t understand. How can you not love someone and still want to do all of those things with them? How could you not want to marry someone who you want to force into mortal sin? It just didn’t make sense.

  Their trysts in the barn went on for a month. And then, one evening, it was just too much. They had grown bored with fingers and mouths. “Can I?” he whispered.

  She was wet between her legs, and there was a throbbing so intense she could not catch her breath; an emptiness that needed filling. Her breasts were bared, nipples erect, and his lips and mustache and teeth were on her like an animal and she wanted him to rip them right off of her. “Yes,” she said, and it was done. It was glorious. He entered her and the fit was immediate, the whole world came into focus. They moved together, frantic to finally feel each other from the inside out; they moved as one and came together in unison, holding each other’s mouths to hush the moans. Immediately she knew she had made a horrible mistake. She’d unleashed some deep sorrow inside of her soul. A sadness that nothing, not the blue sky, the green grass, or even her mama’s clean-smelling hands could erase.

  She refused to see him the following week, and the week after that. She had Florencia and Vincent turn him away at the door.

  By the time the morning sickness started, she hated even the thought of him.

  Her mother knew. She didn’t want to know, but she did. She didn’t say much, simply, “Now you have no choice.”

  * * *

  Nan stood in the small room above the butcher shop and surveyed herself in the mirror. Layers of lace could not hide the bulge at her waist. Her face looked older, her hair was brittle. “I don’t make a good bride, Mama. I don’t know why you would inflict this punishment on me. There were other ways.”

  “Do you think I want this for you? I have spent the past months writing letters to everyone I can think of. No one is willing to help us. We are alone, Nan. Tell me, what other ways do you see?”

  “I could run away to Paris and say I was a widow.”

  “With what money? With what skills? You will end up in the streets selling your body and soul just to eat. And what about your brother and sister? Nan, be sensible. Once you are married and the baby comes, there are things we can do. But first we must make things right so these people will begin to accept you as one of them.”

  “I don’t want to be one of them.”

  Ava stopped fussing with the dress. “You do not have to be. I would not want you to be. It is time you hear about our people. Not the fairy tales I’ve spun for you. The real truth. Most humans align themselves with blood. Chart their family tree through mothers and fathers. From as far back as we can recall, our people did not group ourselves by surname or lineage. We grouped ourselves by abilities. At the beginning of any society, people build upon commonality. Ours was not about land, or farming, or fishing, or war. Ours was simply safety. Each of those new societies had rules and beliefs, cultures that had no room for those who were able to do or see things no one understood. One seemed to be fine. A witch doctor, a healer, a soothsayer, a wise man … there was room for one such person, but not for any others. So, we were sent out, or we fled from the fires and the nooses and the stones. Slowly, over generations, we gathered in a stretch of land by the Black Sea. And we were safe. Can you imagine, Nan, a world where all the strengths of sight and alchemy and incantation were united? We were a powerful people, but we were smart, too. We stayed within the confines and waited for the world to catch up with us. Then, the plague. Word spread that there was a community where no one was dying. The irony is that there was nothing mystical in our survival, we simply understood how the virus worked. Many people came for help, and the elders of our clan chose, fatefully, not to share our knowledge. The price of pride, Nan, is death. Remember that. As more and more armies arrived, we were charged with the cause of the illness. And instead of waiting for our slaughter, we scattered. Used their own fear to create a mist that helped us escape to all corners of the world. And we stay that way all these many hundreds of years later. Alone and hiding amongst those that would kill us.”

  “Why didn’t you find each other, band together to build again?”

  “We saw what happened to those that refused to let go of their ways. Exiled, persecuted. No, better we scatter … find each other again in a peaceful world. This means we are all lost, on purpose, yes … but lost all the same. Still … when we meet those from our lost world, we know. It’s not by name, or relation. There are many names that can be connected, it’s true. But it’s more of a glow. Or a tether. Yes, like that. The pull you feel that outweighs anything else. That is when we know we’ve found our home. And when enough of us find each other again, we will be free.”

  Vincent and Florencia came in bursting through the door. Vincent looked as if he’d been crying.

  “Mama! Giancarlo is gone. The wedding is canceled. What will we do?”

  “We will go home,” said Ava, defeated. “Nan, take off the dress. I will be downstairs trying to repair what has happened. Come, Vincent.”

  After her mother left, Nan asked Florencia to help her undo the buttons. As they worked together, untying, unfastening, Florencia lectured Nan.

  “All those silly hours daydreaming. You wanted romance … and you got it, on a grand scale, only it wasn’t what you meant, was it?… It was romance between two bodies, not two people. You should have been more specific. I know that no one else is speaking of your sins, but I wanted you to know, as you stand before Christ and the Virgin Mother, that you are my sister no longer. I wanted to be the one to tell you that Giancarlo ran away to America without you. The only reason he agreed to marry you in the first place was that he thought Mama had money to send you both away. Are you surprised? Did you think he loved you? He does not. His father was so distressed by the thought of having you in his home, he went to the Don and begged for the money. And now the whole family is on their way to Palermo with pocketfuls of cash. This is how much they hate us, hate you. I wish you would die so I could restore some decency to our family name.”

  Nan held her tongue as Florencia raged on, but her heart was breaking. She hadn’t meant to break the bonds of family. Never, not once, had she said she wanted to escape them—just see a bit of the world. Feel different air and wear fancy clothes. Dance.

  When her sister finally stopped, Nan took a deep breath and said, “Our family name means love, Florencia. And I will always love you. You are my quiet, pretty, pious baby sister. But hear me when I say, I do not want to marry, I do not want a child, and I do not want to go to America. I am not a bit upset at this turn of events. Besides, isn’t this child punishment enough?”

  “It is not,” Florencia hissed. She would not return home with Ava, Vincent, and Nan. The priest offered her salvation and a home with the nuns a town over. She would be redeemed, and then married. She would have a respectable life.

  1901

  “Nan! What are you doing!” cried her mother as Nan pounded her belly. She bathed inside now, in her tiny room, pouring water from the pitcher into the basin and washing herself roughly with a cloth. Rubbing her skin until it bled. It was no longer a life of roses.

  “I do not want this baby! I do not want this life!” she cried.

  “Hush now, it will all be fine. Please, Nan, I beg you, do not say such things. You will harm the child. And I know you want exactly that, to do harm. But we can not undo what is meant. It is a worse sin than any of the trivial things all these people worry about. You cannot alter fate. If you were fated to lose this child, you would. All you are doing now is summoning all the bad feelings. Do you want her to be a monster?”

  “Her?”

  “She will be a girl. A little girl. You will name her Ava, after me. That way, I can try to protect her. Neither deat
h nor oceans can stop blood, my love. I will be with you, through her.”

  Ava opened up a towel, and Nan stepped out of the tub and into her mother’s embrace the way she did when she was small. She allowed herself to be dried, dressed, and then she sat and rocked in the ancient chair.

  “You will take Vincent to America,” said her mother.

  “What?”

  “Nan, I have raised you with suggestions. I have tried to allow you the luxury of no boundaries and endless possibilities. That has been a mistake. I tried to shelter you from the reality of the world in which you’ve been born. I can not shelter you any longer. I am dying.”

  Nan rocked. She’d sensed for months that the light inside her mother was fading. “There is no cure? No magic?”

  “No. As I said before, we do not argue with fate. An illness, a death, can feel right or wrong. When it is wrong, it can be altered. When it is right, it is our responsibility to let it become part of a bigger plan.”

  “You sound like that disgusting priest. God and plans.”

  “All religion comes from the same place, child. The same pool of knowledge at the edge of a connected understanding. But it does not matter what you think right now. Right now you must act. I have saved enough money to last you and your brother and sister a lifetime if you were to stay here. But it is only enough to secure passage for you and Vincent on a ship to America. Tomorrow we go to Palermo. The boat sails in one week.”

  “Mama! I will not go! I will stay here and take your place. I will take care of Vincent. And when he is older I will travel. Please, Mama. Don’t make me leave you now. You still have time to teach me your ways.… The village will approve. How will they get by without a healer?”

  “You are forgetting something, love. These people would have forgiven a widow. And, had my original plan worked out, that is exactly what you would have been, once everything had settled. But, no matter, we need a new plan. They will not forgive a whore who consorts with the devil. Don’t look so shocked. I do not say that to be mean. And it is not something I believe. But once I’m dead, you will be marked, and they will blame each bad thing that happens on you. Each stillborn child. Each drought. Each flood. Each illness. This is a matter of life and death, Nan. You do not have a choice. Vincent deserves a future, and Florencia will be returning from her stay with the Catholics to take care of me. She’s protected by her stupidity and the need for those who hate us to feel they’ve done their Christian duty. There’s not an interesting bone in her body. There, I’ve said it. Now, go collect your things. We leave at first light. When you get to America there will be people waiting for you. A family who left years ago. They owe me a great debt. Vincent will find a home with them. And you must find Giancarlo.”

  “Why? I could simply tell everyone I’m widowed. Then I can be free. It’s very American to be free.”

  “No woman is ever free, not even in America. You will have a baby who will need you. You have no true skills and no money. I don’t care whether you stay with that man or not, all I care about is that you stay safe and you bring your child into a safe world. You must be with people who already know the truth. I thought I was free. Now look at this mess. You will be better than me. Smarter. I demand it.”

  Nan packed her things and got ready for her voyage across the sea.

  * * *

  Afraid people would notice her belly, Nan was forced to layer her clothes. Afraid that Vincent would be considered an orphan, Nan was forced to become his mother. Afraid that her mother would haunt her forever, Nan was forced to love her unborn child. She would not look at her mother as they stood in line at the teeming docks in Palermo. Sweating hot with hormones and too many clothes, as she boarded the boat with her brother weeping at her side, a steamer trunk, and the rocking chair, everything seemed impossible. Be careful what you wish for, her mother always said. She’d wished for adventure, for a life away from everything she knew. But she never once thought to add her own joy into that incantation. The devil is in the details.

  7

  Lady Liberty on the Hudson with a Torch

  1901–1902

  The voyage wasn’t colorful or full of interesting people. It was long, uncomfortable. She didn’t make any friends or find any true kindred spirits. She’d had one fleeting moment of hope that maybe a handsome American returning from a European tour would see her on the lower decks and fall in love at first sight. Then she wouldn’t have to find Giancarlo at all. She looked for him, this handsome fiction she’d created, for days. But all she found was loneliness, deep hunger, and physical pain. The hate grew. Vomiting and mad with a homesickness she never imagined she could feel, she began to starve herself, and the baby inside. “I don’t care if we both die,” she said. And then, hearing how some were sent back home if they arrived with illness, she ate everything in sight trying to gain back her strength. And then there was Vincent, who didn’t speak a word. He stared silently out at sea. He slept. He ate. He hid in Nan’s skirts.

  “Get off of me you little sissy,” growled Nan, trying to at least make him angry. All he did was move closer to her, and by the time the Statue of Liberty rose above Nan and Vincent Amore, she admitted defeat. When they arrived at Ellis Island (Isola delle Lacrime: the island of tears), she was in labor and flushed with a high fever. Waiting in line, her hands gripping documents and dragging her trunk, her stomach contracting, she thought she would die. She hoped she would die. As they disembarked they were herded, like cattle, up a wide pitched staircase that was dizzying.

  “Vincent, the baby is coming,” she said. “You’ll need to talk. Not for me, but for you. There is no way I can help you if you don’t stop this nonsense.”

  Nan held the rail and slid down onto a stair. She was sure she’d be trampled and Vincent would be lost. People were everywhere, a woman pushed her. A man pulled at Vincent. Someone’s hard suitcase fell from their hands and the pitch of the stairs gave it momentum. It hit Nan’s head.

  “Nan!” Vincent cried, as he fought his way back to her and tried to shield her from the masses.

  “Help!” he screamed in perfect English. “Help me, my mother is having a baby!”

  Good boy, she thought as she lost consciousness. Good boy.

  * * *

  When Nan woke up, a nurse was standing over her, holding a swaddled baby in the crook of one arm and a clipboard in the other. “Where is your husband?” she asked, roughly tucking the infant into Nan’s arms.

  “Where is my br … my son? Where is Vincent?”

  “He was sent along with the people who came to get you because he had papers that allowed it. You’re very lucky. He made such a fuss about leaving you, he assaulted an officer. He could have been sent to jail. Not to mention your baby—she’s an ugly thing, but she’s alive. Now, where is your husband? The family…? Yes. It states here that when they claimed your boy they said you would be claimed by your husband. We need this bed. Where is he? Do you have an address?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nan looked at her baby. And looked away. She was skinny, and too small.

  “We will contact the family. What will you name the child?”

  “I will not name her.”

  “We’ll just put Baby Girl on the paperwork. You and your people are backwards. Not even naming your children. Missing husbands. Sons you’d have to have been a child yourself to bear. I hope you find what you are looking for and then get out of this city. You drag us all to sin. You are a stain,” said the nurse.

  * * *

  The baby, because she was born in America, helped her mother bypass the paperwork, and concessions were made that were not normally accepted.

  She walked out of the gates with the baby in her arms, a baby for which she, barely an adult, would now be the sole caretaker for, and she scanned the skyline of the city. She was not impressed. There was no color here. No beauty. Everything was gray. Gray like her life had become, gray like the dingy blanket they gave her for her infant. Just gray.
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br />   The man sent to get her was named Marco. He was kind but also in a hurry. Everyone seemed to be in such a hurry. “Okay, ah! A baby! Nice. How will you work? Never mind.… But you will work, no?”

  “I will figure it out. Is Vincent safe? Do you know?” she asked. Then she asked again, this time in Italian. The language skills are strong, Mama, she thought.

  “You speak good both ways! English, Italian, Italian, English. Brava. That will help you. Yes, Vincent. He is good boy. He already found work. Two days. Very good boy.”

  Marco brought her to a section of New York that seemed just like the steerage on the boat. It was crammed tight with people, everyone seeking to satisfy their own comforts. She understood she would have to find a way out of this place, find Giancarlo and get money. Extort it, or whatever she had to do. At that moment she felt she could explode into one big scream that would take down the whole island of Manhattan.

  “You will have to work for your living until you find the father of that child,” said Marco, helping her out of the car. He grew serious, whispering in her ear. “You seem like a nice girl. You hold your head high. They do not want you here. They will try to make it hard. I will pray for you.” Then, smiling again, he pointed at a building, a row house teeming with people.

  “Right there, five flights up. They are waiting for you.”

  Nan looked around her at the world she was trying to become a part of. She walked up the stoop and into the building without saying a word. She walked up the stairs, peering into the open doorways. Everything was alien. She went to sleep listening to her mother sing, smelling sunshine and garlic, and woke up in hell with an ugly infant sucking on her breast. A nightmare, that’s it. She looked at the life from above it. She saw the yellow-stained wife beaters on the men, the sweat, sweet cheap wine in jelly jars, and women smelling of sour breast milk waiting on the men hand and foot. Crowded rooms, sometimes ten people to a room. She looked down at her strange baby and wanted nothing more than to wake up. How can I live here? she thought. I will not be afraid. I am weak to be afraid.