The smells of the city, good ones, were coming through the window over the birds carried on the air. Baking bread and cool rain on hot tar. The birds were looking straight at her. Elly got up and put her dress back on. She looked at the birds. Surely they’d fly away? Nope, they were still there. Elly put her hand over her mouth to stifle a delighted giggle. She tucked her hair behind her ears. It was just getting long enough for that now, and she walked slowly to the window with one hand outstretched. She got so close … her fingers reaching out. Would they let her touch them, and then …
* * *
Babygirl was in the park with Uncle George and Aunt Itsy, Liz and Anthony. The birds were everywhere. They played a game. George would sprinkle the bread crumbs, gathering the birds in a huge flock, and then Liz, Babygirl, and Anthony ran at the birds yelling “One, two, three, you and me!!!!!!!!” A sacred cry that Itsy and George taught them from their own childhood. The birds would fly up all around them and for just a second, in the heart of the flock, Babygirl thought she could take flight, too. Soar above the rooftops of this amazing city that was her new home. Fly to the beaches of Far Rockaway and back again in seconds. The three spun together like separate arms of a pinwheel and then, when the birds were gone, they fell to the ground dizzy and laughing.
* * *
Elly shook her hands in front of the birds and stifled another set of giggles as they flew away. She watched them, leaning on the sill, up, up, up they flew. All the way back to the beaches, thought Elly. I should have woken Anthony to show him. He’ll never believe me. They were so close! A feather floated down from the sky on the breeze and in through the window past Elly’s nose. It bounced around a bit before it started its descent. Elly ran to catch it, proof of her incredible moment with the birds. It fell behind a low bookcase. Elly nudged it aside.
“Gotcha,” she whispered as she grabbed the feather that was stuck in the hinge of a small door. “What the…”
Elly pulled the door open and—
This was the real memory. Not the route Mimi’d taken her into the attic to look for maternity clothes. An alternate route. But why was it so important? What was still lurking there, just around the corner?
Elly went through the small door, like Alice into the beautiful garden at the bottom of the rabbit hole.
16
Itsy
At the cottage, Mama held us close on stormy nights. All us girls piled on her iron bed, making the feather mattress dip. Her thick, black braid pulled to one side. George tucked himself like a baby under one arm, Bunny—even though she was the oldest of us—on the other. Fee and Mimi nudged each other trying to get closer … but not me, I found space at the bottom of the bed, by their feet, so I could listen to her voice, like the ocean itself, like the storm outside. Her voice told us the stories that lived inside of them. She spoke of passion, of the summer when she was sixteen and met Papa on the beaches of Far Rockaway. Of a summer romance that showed her stability and love could walk hand in hand. That love wasn’t really what she’d been taught by her own family. It wasn’t supposed to be a Tasmanian devil of insecurity and obsession. “Life gets heavy,” she told us, “like hot summer nights. At first you toss and turn, but slowly you learn that if you keep very, very still your body can capture a random breeze that latches onto you and cools you for a moment. Infinite and blissful, your body soars to greet it and holds onto it, but it leaves. And that’s love. That’s what love does.”
She taught us well. Too well. Because that’s how I knew I loved Henry. I recognized it right away and wasn’t ignorant enough to deny it. And it ruined both of us—that love. And it killed our baby.
* * *
On a hot day, sometime toward the end of the summer of 1944, I was sitting on the back concrete step of the cottage looking over the small square yard. So like the yard in the Bronx, only we called that “The Garden” and this, “The Yard.” The difference being that “The Yard” was enclosed by lengths of picket fence where “The Garden” had high stone walls and iron gates. The pickets were wide and you could see fractions, strips of other people’s lives. I liked it better that way. On 170th Street there was nothing but stone and mortar. Thick ivy. No peeking. I found it suffocating.
But really, they were the same patches of earth in so many ways. Mama planted the same things on both properties and all us kids learned how to garden just like her. The gardens were plotted identically. Planted by moonlight and using the stars to sort out what went north, south, east, and west. The plants themselves came from Fairview and the gardens of Mama’s people—nowhere else. Witch’s gardens. They came first to The Yard, and then, when Mama married they were split and brought to the Bronx.
The flowers, abundant and hearty: roses, lilac, wisteria, black-eyed Susans, azaleas, rhododendron, hydrangea, simple daisies, phlox, bluebell. And the herbs: echinacea, bee balm, yarrow, feverfew, chamomile, hellborn, foxglove, hemlock, valerian, lovage, lavender, thyme, lemon balm, sage. Oh, yes … and belladonna.
The vegetables took the most work each season because the seeds had to be removed and then dried and sealed. Tomatoes, peppers, peas, and beans. All grown generation after generation in Mama’s family. Who knows where the seeds originated? It was a mystery. All we knew was that the garden was almost as important to Mama as we were, so we took it to heart and made sure the “Green” herbal ancestry stayed alive and viable year after year.
Mama’s garden was magic; we all knew it and she taught us its secrets. We all knew that when Papa was mad he was sure to get her lavender scones. He’d settle down and then get silly. The next morning he’d be sick as a dog and need to sleep the whole day away.
And George with his rages, she made the tea that soothed him and brought down the beast. I made that tea for him every day until that last day. The day he pushed my hand away and said good-bye.
Sitting on the stoop looking out over The Yard, waiting for the sheets to dry on the line. That’s where I was when I saw him through the fence. Henry. It was broad daylight but I didn’t care. He looked like he’d come straight off the train to me. No one else. He was on furlough. Off till Christmas, he said.
I ran to him, the heavy, wet sheets smacking me in the face. He threw down his heavy army bag and lifted me up into the sky so that I blocked out the sun.
“You still my girl, Itsy?”
I couldn’t talk. The tears were choking me. I nodded like a lunatic and cried. He brought me down slow so that our faces met and he kissed me through salty tears. In his kiss I was home. I found my real home. All throughout that fall of 1944 we were reunited, George, Henry, and me. I barely saw the rest of my family at all. I don’t think I went into the Bronx once. Sometimes I wondered if Mama missed me, because I didn’t hear from her. But I also knew Mama favored Bunny and George. We all knew it. Bunny because she looked like a Green. Not one bit of Italian at all. She had Mama’s stormy eyes. “She sees the world the same way,” Mama’d say. And George … well. He came from God. Sometimes I felt like Mama blamed me for being born first. For tricking her into thinking she was done … for ignoring the other pains. Sometimes I really thought I wasn’t meant to be born at all.
I just know that’s the reason why it was so easy for her to push me away when she found out about Henry. So easy for them all to push me away. All of them but George. My sweet, sweet brother.
Anyway, I was glad to be away from her that overlapping time of 1944. None of the real-life magic that occurred would have been possible under Mama’s nose. But now, now that I’m thinking about it, she must have known all about it. It was probably part of the future read to her by Willow Bliss. Ah … things make so much sense when we look at them from far away, hindsight is a wonderful thing. So she knew. She knew all along. And she gave me that gift. Because no matter how it turned out, it was a gift. If I had to look at a life where I’d never known Henry. Never been touched by him. Never to run on the beaches with freedom and sea air blowing all around, holding hands in between George and Henry? I w
ouldn’t want to live that life. I choose the pain. I chose the pain.
Henry had to ship out right after Christmas, so Christmas Eve we spent together, just the two of us in our little world. George was with Mama, of course.
I strung up paper lanterns I’d bought at Woolworths, and I made us a fine dinner. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, red wine. I used up all my rations for that one meal.
Sitting at the table, our favorite song came on the radio. “Dance with me?” he asked.
“Forever,” I said. Henry was a wonderful dancer. He literally swept me off my feet. We danced while Bing crooned:
I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces all day through.…
I stared at him while he twirled me around and hummed along. I could never get enough of his face. The deep brown eyes, lighter than mine. The color of his skin, soft and supple, an invitation to touch like velvet on a bolt. The defined chin, his eyebrows, always arched and playful, guessing I was up to some sort of trick. But it was his mouth. From that first kiss against the Oak tree. From the way his mouth formed my name. Not my nickname. Not Itsy. The way it stretched and caressed out my real name. The name I was born with, the name my love called out that Christmas Eve as we conceived the child that would be born too soon.
“Let me see your palm,” I asked as we lay naked side by side.
He smiled and held out his hand. The cool, smooth underside of his palm, the color of my skin after a long summer. “What are you looking for, baby? My love line belongs to you.”
I was too busy staring at the truth I’d known my whole life. I pulled his hand and put it against my cheek. “Don’t go back, Henry. Let’s run away. Let’s hide. One, two, three, you and me, right?”
He stroked my cheek. “You lookin’ for a lifeline you can’t find? You think I’m gonna die over there?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’m not. I’m not going to die over there, Itsy. I’m a good soldier.”
And I smiled at him. I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do. He was a good soldier … but he wouldn’t die in battle. He’d die in his barracks. Friendly fire from a redneck racist. But my Henry was no coward. He wasn’t going to run away from his duty to his country because of what I saw or didn’t see in his palm. So I had to let him go. I had to make love to him and then let him walk away. He’d die overseas in a world of hate and genocide, far away from me and George. Far away from our beaches on Far Rockaway. In a place where I’d never be on one side and George on the other as we ran and yelled “One, two, three, you and me.”
But he left me a gift. I placed my hands to my belly and knew. I knew she was in there. Her fate? Uncertain. But not defined. There was hope. Yes. For a little while I had hope.
17
Babygirl
She found the hiding place while playing sardines. It was a game Uncle George taught them. Well, he taught Babygirl and Anthony … Liz didn’t like sardines, so she always went home when they wanted to play.
Babygirl was sure Anthony liked to play so he could place tiny kisses on her cheeks while they waited for George to find them. Uncle George was an old man but he sure knew some fun games. Sardines was a backward type of hide-and-seek. In sardines, one person hides and the rest have to find them. When you find the hider you stay in the hiding place and wait for the rest of the people to find you.
A game like sardines is scary, not so much for the hider but for the seekers. It’s scary because you lose your companions and the whole world creeps up quiet and you slowly realize you’re going to stumble upon a secret place where everyone will jump out at you. And then, when you are the very last seeker, you start to wonder if you’re the only person in the world. If the hiding place somehow sucked up the players and the last one has to decide to run away or get sucked up, too.
And the hiders, it’s kind of scary for them, too, because where they decide to hide needs to be very dark and they have to be very quiet. The world can disappear for them, too.
Babygirl was the best hider of all. Anthony always hid in obvious places and Uncle George was quite good at it but he was big. Bigger than his mind thought he ought to be, so parts of him always stuck out, making him easy to find.
The apartment building was a good place to play. It had hallways and closets and room after room. And then, by accident, while hiding under Uncle George’s bed, Babygirl found the door. A small door, just her size.
She pulled it open by its little wooden knob, and there it was in front of her, a small incline and then another larger door. A clandestine entrance to the attic. The supersecret hiding place was behind that larger door. A little dormer made out of the rafters, big enough for a few child-sized people, or one grown-up person. Babygirl hid there when she was tired of the game, because no one ever found her. She’d hide there until she could sense the others had quit out of frustration and moved onto other things.
One day as she climbed out of her supersecret spot, Babygirl noticed a shaft of light illuminating one of the many steamer trunks that lined the back of the attic under the eaves. She went to it and tried lifting the top, but it was locked.
Ready for a treasure, she raced down the stairs to Aunty Fee and Itsy’s apartment. Tiptoeing by Fee who was cooking in the kitchen, she could have stomped but she didn’t (being extra quiet was making the sudden secret even more fun).
She went into Itsy’s bedroom and took a hairpin off the porcelain jewelry tray on the bureau. She crept back past Fee and ran back up the stairs to the attic. She closed the door behind her. The sun was brighter and thicker now, the trunk practically glowed and throbbed in the light.
She placed the pin in the lock, felt for the catch and turned … click, it released. A trunk full of linens. The air that came out was at first stale, then lovely … earth and lavender. The smell of a well-tended garden in the springtime. Babygirl lifted the heavy sheet on top. As her hands touched the solid, cool cotton she felt a memory come. Babygirl knew this feeling. It was that dizzy wonderful feeling when she was going to see a story that didn’t belong to her. Only this story wasn’t a nice one. It was awful.
She saw a beautiful young woman cradling a small swollen belly with one hand as the other hand gathered the skirts between her legs. She was making her way through the halls of 170th Street, stopping to switch hands and leaving red, five-finger stars on the white walls.
* * *
Itsy, who was in the garden, looked up into the cloudless summer sky. Her jaw opened as if God himself held the crowbar. A horrible sound began to come out, a groaning rasp. And then, it was gone. Someone had found her secret … and what? Closed it up again? How odd. Or maybe it was an old woman’s head playing tricks on her in the hot sun.
* * *
Babygirl shook her head clear of the disturbing scene. And went in for a deeper look, but then, Anthony was at the other doorway of the attic.
“Found you!” he said, and then ran away saying, “Betcha can’t catch me.”
Babygirl let the heavy trunk slam shut and dropped the hairpin onto the floor to run, squealing with delight, outside. Treasure forgotten.
18
Elly
“It must be that apartment. I swear, Mimi, I can’t get her to leave it,” said Anthony, eating an apple and leaning against the counter as Mimi cooked.
“There’s nothing wrong with the apartment. Don’t be foolish. She’s finding herself. Piecing it all together. It’s a good thing.”
“But should I bother her? Or leave her alone?”
Mimi stopped stirring her pot and turned to face Anthony. “Do you love her?” she asked him.
“Always have,” he said.
“Then why in the world would you leave her alone?” She turned back to the stove and stirred furiously, splashing bright red sauce over most of the stove. “I mean, what kind of a crazy person with mush for brains would look into the eyes of love and ignore it? Who could do such a thing? If you love her you m
ust go to her, you must.…”
Anthony left Mimi there making a mess. It was obvious to him that she was in some other world entirely. He had the advice he needed, anyway.
He banged on the door of 2B. “Coming!” Elly yelled.
She was covered in all sorts of paint. Her hair, pulled back under a red bandana, had paint in it, too.
“I thought you’d never come!” she said, dragging him into the apartment. “Come see!”
“I thought you didn’t want me.”
“I’ve always wanted you. Remember? Don’t be silly. Look. Look at what I’ve done! No one’s seen. Well, Liz. Lizzy’s been here almost every day! Such a love, really. Some of it was hard to remember, but some of it is wonderful! Oh Anthony … she loved me. Carmen. She really loved me. No wonder she was always so upset I didn’t remember these things. They’re fantastic.”
Anthony looked at the woman he loved. In overalls stretched tight over her growing belly. Her eyes on fire, and then, he looked at the pictures hanging on the walls. They were hung in succession, beginning at what must have been Elly’s earliest memories. She was so excited to show him she was practically jumping up and down behind him as he took a tour through her dreamlike childhood. All painted in Elly’s style, bold colors and heavy sunset skies. Carmen depicted as a goddess with silver glitter instead of paint for her eyes.
“The paintings end where my memory of her ends. When the aunts and Mimi picked me up at the hospital in Fairview. Then snippets of other things from the time being here. So I have almost everything up until the end of that summer. Those are the memories I need back.”
The Witch of Little Italy Page 12
