Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Preface
The Legend of Saint Garnet del Vulcano
Mating Habits of the Ferrarus Disgusticus
Nonna’s Mojo Risin’
My Cursed, Cursed Birth
The (Abridged) Life of a Saint
Corpus Christi
Electricity
Doll versus Doll
La Strega
The Saint Brigid’s Day Massacre
Mirror, Mirror
Sibling Rivalries
Portafortuna
SS Edmund Fitzgerald
The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln
Acts of Contrition
Mommy through the Looking Glass
Get Thee to a Nunnery
Three on a Match
Thoroughly Modern Miracle
La Vigilia
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2014 by Marie Manilla
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Manilla, Marie.
The Patron Saint of ugly / Marie Manilla.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-544-14624-2 (pbk.)
1. Catholic Church—Fiction. 2. Mental healing—Fiction. 3. Psychic ability 4. West Virginia. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.A5456P38 2014
813'.6—dc23
2013045658
eISBN 978-0-544-13348-8
v1.0614
The photo of Mount Etna is used by permission of the photographer, Paul Gunning. Original line art of trinacria by the author.
For Concetta Ferrari Lapelle Manilla, my Sicilian grandmother, who has haunted me my entire life
HOTEL SICILIA
SWEETWATER, WEST VIRGINIA
September 9, 1975
I’ve just ordered room service, and though I am exhausted I must commit to paper a sketch of my initial encounter with Garnet Ferrari, the subject of the committee’s current investigation.
I was greeted at Garnet’s door by her aunt Betty, a flustered soul, all chatter and tics, who genuflected deeply and kissed my hand before I could stop her. She deposited me in the library, where Garnet was standing before the lit fireplace, fists clenched as if she were a pugilist in the ring. She was dressed in track shorts and an orange tank top just a shade off from the color of her hair—a voluminous mane that roams at will. Most of her skin was exposed for my benefit, I believe, as if to say: Take a good look!
I did.
The background tone of her flesh is pale, but the birthmarks decorating her skin are varying shades of purple: deep mulberry, magenta, the faintest mauve. It looks as if someone took a map of the world, cut out continents and islands, provinces and cantons, and glued them willy-nilly on Garnet’s body. I distinctly identified Alaska on her right cheek, the Aleutians trailing over her nose; Mongolia on one shoulder; Zaire on the other; Crete on her knee; Chile on her ankle; and many others. There is a kind of beauty in her birthmarks, God’s holy design imprinted on her skin.
Garnet directed me to sit as her Sicilian grandmother pushed in a teacart loaded with cookies and a samovar of coffee. Nonna Diamante is quintessentially Old World with her white bun and orthopedic shoes. When she saw me she began to kneel and reach for my hand, but I forestalled the gesture. Nonna backed out of the room mumbling, “Garney, watch-a you mouth and behave.”
Once we were alone Garnet broadened her shoulders, thrust forward her chest, and jutted out her chin. The display reminded me of that toad in my sister’s garden that doubles its size by inflating with air to deter predators.
Finally Garnet sat, draped her legs over her chair arm, and said, “You know I don’t believe any of this bullshit.”
Given the resistance—and mockery—the committee has been met with thus far, I was prepared. “Perhaps you don’t, but people all over the world do.” I pulled from my briefcase a sampling of the many letters the Vatican has received from people claiming to have been healed by Garnet.
“Don’t these people have anything better to do?” She sat upright, grabbed the letters, and unceremoniously flung them into the fireplace.
I stifled my impulse to rescue them, fearing that any sudden movement might send Garnet running.
I then pulled out a stack of before-and-after pictures of various healed skin disorders. I fanned them out for her perusal, careful to hold on tight. “Are you saying these are fabricated?”
Garnet looked at the photos and sighed. “I’m not denying that people are being healed. I’m just saying that I’m not responsible.”
A sudden roar erupted from the pilgrims keeping vigil outside Garnet’s home. Garnet’s head bowed under the magnitude of their pleas. When she looked up, her eyes betrayed weariness. “How do I put an end to this crap so I can get on with my life?”
It felt as if we were in a confessional, and I wished I had an inspired answer. All I could do was hand over the standard questionnaire and a tape recorder for her use during our inquiry. “Start here.”
Garnet flipped through the onerous document. “Are you kidding me?”
“The Vatican has a duty to investigate, I’m afraid. And we are very thorough.”
For a moment it looked as if the girl might cry, an astonishing notion that made me want to scoop her into my arms and hug her, as a father might. But that would have been inappropriate, and perhaps misconstrued. “The sooner you begin, the sooner it will be over with.”
Garnet nodded, stood, and led me to the front door, the weight of the world heavy upon her neck.
After meeting Garnet I find myself of two minds. Half of me wants to prove that Garnet is the source of the miracles whether she claims responsibility or not. The other half wants to refute the pilgrims’ assertions so that she can live in peace. It is up to God to reveal the truth.
Ah! My veal scaloppine has arrived.
TAPE ONE
The Legend of Saint Garnet del Vulcano
To the Congregation for the Causes of Saints, Archbishop Gormley in particular:
Before we begin, Archie, I want to reiterate that the only reason I’ve granted this intrusion is that the sooner you dispel this sainted nonsense the sooner I can reclaim my life, or perhaps claim it for the first time. Then you and the boys can direct your energies to more urgent matters: rescuing victims of the Banqiao Dam breach, for example, or polishing the papal jewels.
Wait. There’s Nonna at the door.
(Tank-a him for the vis.)
Archie, Nonna wants me to thank you for the visit; a preemptive nicety, since I can hear her spitting even from here with the ptt-ptt-ptt and tocca ferro, touching iron, jangling the five pounds of skeleton keys she routinely hauls around—as do I. She’s using them to ward off the evil-eye germs she’s certain you left in the upholstery. According to Nonna, anyone with eyes as dark as yours surely harbors the malocchio, as they call it in Italy, or the maloicky, as they say in Baaston, your holy turf. Nonna wondered about that, sending a Black Irish potato eater instead of a paesano to do the pope’s bidding.
(I never said-a that.)
(Most certainly did.)
I apologize for her ethnic fussiness, but she’s mistrustful of murky eyes even if they’re ordained, since everyone knows Pius IX was a bad-karma-flinging jettatura, even if it was inadvertent. Tell that to the poor sc
hmucks who fell out of windows or tumbled off scaffolding in his papal wake. After you left, Nonna was a whirling dervish of incantations and phallic hand gestures—manus obscenus: mano fica, mano cornuta—though I insisted she stop at sprinkling urine, that holiest of all holy waters, particularly mine, which is why I lock the bathroom door behind me even after I flush.
If it will speed your inquiry I will confess that there is magic here, and I don’t mean just the practical jokes playing out on my body. Someone or something is responsible for the mysteries I’ve witnessed in Sweetwater, but it’s not me. In addition to environmental factors, in my opinion, the true source is Nonna—
(It’s-a no true! You are the descendant of Saint Garnet! You!)
—It was Nonna who packed anti-malocchio talismans in her valise when she sailed to America, along with her belief in folk magic—the Old Religion—a faith system, however irrational, that I have been unable to banish from my psyche the way I have the Vatican-sanctioned one.
Admittedly, if it is Nonna, her powers are spotty, so perhaps there’s a third alternative neither of us has considered. Hopefully your investigation will discover who the real conjurer is and thus pull the limelight away from me.
(Garney, you play for the Padre.)
(What? Why did you bring my saw in here?)
(Why you face-a so mad? He will like-a you playing. She plays-a the most beautiful saw, Padre! It make-a you weep!)
(Give me that. This isn’t a talent show. And besides, that’s private. Private!)
(Okay, okay. Don’t getta so flust’. Here, have a cannoli.)
Nonna just made two hundred cannolis for the Saint Brigid bake sale. She’s still recovering from carting tray after tray up from the basement kitchen, though at her age she shouldn’t be baking for anyone, not even me. Apparently hiring a chef is out of the question. Such a waste, she says. And besides, no one can match her culinary skills.
(That’s-a true.)
Still, her poor knees—creaking as I speak. I’ve tried valiantly to get her to use the main-floor kitchen, but all those whirring, grinding, icemaking contraptions confound her, especially the Radarange—a complete bafflement. If you really want to unlock a mystery, figure out how that thing works. The added truth is she doesn’t want to muss anything up.
A santa no live in a-squal, she always says.
(No, I don’t.)
(Yes, you do.)
What about Mother Teresa? I always rebut.
That’s a-diff. She’s from Macedonia. You are Sicilian.
Impossible to argue with that, and I certainly no live in a-squal. At times I still can’t believe I’m ensconced up here in our town’s founding father’s estate, but even you had to force yourself through the throng pressed against my fence. I’m a prisoner behind these walls, afraid to ripple the drapes in case I start a maelstrom of seizures. The power of suggestion, I suppose. Or the power of hope. All those appeals speared onto the tips of my fence, taped to my gate. Saint Garnet: Heal my daughter’s bunion. My son’s cauliflower ear. Grandma’s varicose veins. Auntie’s white forelock. Charms of arms and legs, ears and eyes, strung on ribbons and tossed into my yard—which makes for dangerous mowing, those medallions flying up like shrapnel. Laughable stuff if I weren’t afraid the pilgrims’ desperation will have them catapulting over my fence to pluck my eyelashes or yank out my fingernails. They know the power of holy relics, but how I long for the day when they realize that my hair is just hair.
I want to thank you for not grimacing when you first saw me, Padre. I apologize for not being as restrained, but that’s one impressive mole on your cheek. The size of a MoonPie and the color of squid ink. Sun Myung Moon could create a whole new religion around you.
(Garney! Clamp-a you lips.)
Sorry. One might think I would be more sensitive about dermatological oddities. Is that why the Vatican sent you? Were they hoping for some mole-zapping proof of my abilities? Or did you volunteer for the gig because it hits close to home?
(No forget-a the gifties.)
Mille grazie for the package that arrived yesterday, especially the forty-two-pack of tapes to use with the recorder, but I’ll hurl myself into Aceldama if it takes that many tapes to work through your questionnaire. Nonna loves the rosary, which she’ll treasure because it has Pope Paul VI’s blessing, though she’s still pining after Pius XII, her holy heartthrob.
(That’s-a no true!)
(It positively is!)
I also appreciate the box of Italian candies. Nonna tittered over the Golia Nera, Rossana, Galatine, Pastiglie Leone. You should know that I have an aversion to penny candy; makes me gag whenever I see it, and with good reason. I am, however, intrigued by The Newly Revised and Illustrated Encyclopedia of Saints. When I was a child, before the fish scales fell from my eyes, I used to fawn over the much older Lives of the Saints Nonna kept on her bedside table with the red Pergusa blossom pressed inside. Her book was in Italian, so mostly I shivered over the four-color paintings of Saint Bernadette shrouded in hair and of Saint Lucy holding that tray of eyeballs. Often I imagined what my painting would look like when it finally graced those pages: a benevolent prodigy holding a palm full of shriveled skin tags and warts.
When I’m finished with your book I’ll catalog it in the library with Nicky’s reference sets. Perhaps you noticed my brother’s original collection, his passion that I adopted and expanded.
You want the legend of Saint Garnet del Vulcano—my supposed predecessor—so I’ll oblige. I was weaned on that baloney even before my umbilical nub withered, and for many years I believed it. In all my phone calls and letters to Catholic saint societies and Sicilian-lore collectors, no one has been able to verify or disprove Saint Garnet’s existence. I would think one of your Roman padres could hobble down the boot, pole-vault over to Sicily, and find out once and for all. Though yesterday I got a letter from a lady in Palermo who claims to be a descendant of the original Garnet and thus a long-lost cousin of mine. She wanted five thousand bucks for a down payment on a Rolls-Royce. I did not oblige.
So this is the story Nonna first shared and that my mother told me every night of my childhood. The legend evolved and expanded over the years, the details more explicit depending on my age and how much Marsala Nonna had been drinking.
(I no drink-a too much.)
I don’t begrudge Nonna her Marsala. (I don’t, Nonna.) I would overimbibe too if I had to sleep with Grandpa Ferrari—riposi in pace, as Nonna would say, and is mumbling even now, though I don’t know why he deserves restful peace, or her loyalty, the mean-fisted tyrant.
Last summer I wrote the fable down with a calligraphy pen, even illuminated it using the Book of Kildare as my guide. It’s quite beautiful, Archie—those elaborate Os and gilded Gs. I’ll send it to you along with this tape as exhibit A.
Now, picture me sitting in that leather chair by the back window in the library, the one you sat in, with the worn armrests and dragon-claw feet. A regular Alistair Cooke ready to introduce Masterpiece Theatre.
Once upon a time there was a village named Sughero tucked in a high crag in the Nebrodi Mountains on the eastern side of Sicily. On June twenty-fourth, 1550, at three thirty-eight P.M., a red-haired girl was born to goat-herding peasants. (Coincidentally, that’s my birthday and birth time—exactly four hundred years later. The added weirdness is that Nonna was born on June twenty-fourth too.) The mother christened her daughter Garnet because of her hair. With pale skin and blue eyes, Garnet was the sprung seed planted centuries earlier by a Viking who swept across the island wearing his antlered helmet and furry leggings. Garnet was an only child, as it turned out, who not only helped her mother make goat cheese but harvested chestnuts and sheared cork bark with her father.
Garnet’s mother fed her daughter enough figs for ten sons—the exact number she dreamed of birthing, when she dreamed of such things. The girl budded into a maiden so alluring that morally deficient boys hid behind bushes hoping to rob her of her virtue. Fortunately, Mother n
ever let her daughter out of her sight, and she kept her apron pocket filled with obsidian shards to fling at the rogues.
The noble village boys were smitten too, but they tried to impress Garnet with feats of strength and endurance.
“I can stand on one leg for three days.”
“That’s nothing. I can ride a hewn log down the mountain and into the sea.”
“Yeah? Well, I can throw rocks into Mount Etna from here.”
They would all gaze at the volcano in the distance belching a gray plume and wonder when it would erupt again and clog their fountains with ash, spew lava balls onto their roofs and goats.
But Garnet was not interested in boys. She was in love with God. Every morning when the church bells pealed, Garnet raced to the church, scooted into the front pew, and knelt with her head bent as she hummed an E note that accompanied her prayers. Garnet claimed she was only mimicking the hum she perpetually heard, but though dozens of villagers tipped their ears, no one else could hear it.
When Garnet was thirteen, the family sauntered down the mountain to the shore of the Strait of Messina to trade goods with the Calabrian merchants who had made the three-kilometer voyage.
Mother and Father spread out a blanket to exhibit their wares. Garnet meandered from merchant to merchant eyeing baskets of lemons and olives, sheepskins and coiled rope, and exotic spices: juniper berries, coriander, and sea salt, a tightly controlled government commodity that Calabrian women secretly harvested from salt flats and smuggled out under their skirts to sell to bootleggers.
The Patron Saint of Ugly Page 1
