“Got the money?”
Mrs. Ruetheday groaned, as if discussing money were just too gauche, but she rifled through her clutch and pulled out an envelope.
Derringer paused before sliding the information across the table. He could overtake Mrs. Ruetheday if there was nothing inside that envelope and she was trying to skip without paying. The hovering silkworm he could lay out with one punch.
The dame took a sip of her martini, unfolded the paper, scanned the address, and choked on her vodka, coating Derringer in an alcohol mist. “There must be some mistake!” Ruetheday was dumbfounded to see that her crown jewel of a daughter had landed in godforsaken West Virginia. “My Marina would never live there!” Then she read a one-sentence addendum and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Mrs. Ruetheday slumped in her seat, swooning at the indignity of it all, the improbable address, the secret. She might have fallen and melted into a vodka puddle if Cedrick hadn’t leaped forward to catch her, and as he did, Derringer scooped up his payola, bolted to the door, and shot out into the night like a .38 slug.
It was the Wednesday before Christmas, Dad said. He had just come home from work and found Mom in the still-unfurnished living room changing Nicky on the carpet, her mouth full of diaper pins and an overripe secret she was waiting for Christmas morning to deliver. Dad was about to kneel when the phone rang.
Mom handed Nicky to Dad. “I’ll get it.”
She lifted the receiver, my father close beside her blubbering a glut of I love yous into his son’s ear.
“Hello?” Mom said.
“Marina? Is that you, darling?”
Mom swayed backward as if she’d been punched. “Yes, Mother.”
Even Dad could hear Grandma’s rant charging through the phone line, ruffling Mom’s hair.
“Marina! I’ve found you! Why would you shut me out of your life after all I’ve done for you? The best of everything, and you married that—Italian—and moved to West Virginia! You will rue the day, Marina, for making such a colossal mistake. Absolutely rue the day!” Mother held the phone away from her ear as Grandma fumed.
“And I had to learn from a complete stranger that you have a son! We have a Caudhill-Adams-Rutledge-[ad infinitum] heir! A male successor at last!”
Dad would later understand the full import of this. Grandma’s fortune flowed matrilineally and could be traced back to the Mayflower, her bank accounts stuffed with generations’ worth of inheritance, she being the only-child daughter of an only-child daughter of an only-child daughter and having birthed an only-child daughter, my mother. The various husbands’ surnames stacked up like postscripts, but the money was uterally bequeathed.
Grandma jabbered about the deprivation her grandson was surely suffering. “It’s not too late. Come home now. Bring the baby. We’ll say you married a war hero who died in Iwo Jima.” The math was all wrong, since that invented husband would have died four years before Nicky was born. “Come home, Marina. Please. For the sake of your child. Your father would agree. Don’t be melodramatic. Enough of this tantrum. Now, come home!”
Mom, face crimson, finally let loose. “I wouldn’t dare bring up my child in that gilded hellhole! I love my husband”—good news for my father, and at the time it was probably still true—“and besides, I’m pregnant!”
“What?” said Dad.
“What?” said Grandma.
“Don’t call me anymore!” Mom shoved in the last word before slamming the phone down.
That’s right. For three months I had already been stewing in Mom’s uterus. I was probably as pink and spotless then as my brother, and according to evil-eye lore, I might have remained so if Grandma Iris hadn’t gate-crashed my development.
Grandma Iris never let anyone have the last word. Two weeks after her call, a delivery truck backed into our forty-five-degree-angle ice-covered driveway. Before Mom could sputter dissent, two teamsters unloaded a brand-new living room suite. I imagine her noble-poor resolve shriveled as the suite was followed by children’s bedroom furniture, a washer and dryer, seven massive gilt mirrors, and a dozen wooden crates marked FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE. Grandma never would divulge how she knew which home furnishings Mom needed (Dirk Derringer, private eye, no doubt).
Twenty minutes later, an even more prescient delivery arrived in an aquamarine, tail-finned Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Grandma Iris had somehow navigated the hundreds of miles from Charlottesville to arrive at our door. She hustled past my mother—“What in the world are you wearing?”—and ordered the teamsters to pry open one of those FRAGILE crates, the one that held two dozen bottles of vodka, several jars of pearl onions, and a martini-mixing set. Grandma guzzled a cocktail down and hugged her stunned daughter. “Now, where is my grandson?”
Hours later Dad arrived and found his house jammed with high-end furniture, a Stonehenge of crates, a mother-in-law snoring away on the sofa, and a martini-hammered wife squiggling nonsense—Hold tight, flyman; bolster the balustrade—on her bedroom wall.
The next day Grandma traipsed from gilt mirror to gilt mirror, one hung in every room now, though they were ridiculously outsize for our walls. Mom began unloading the rest of those crates, likely squealing when she unearthed selected volumes from Grandfather Postscript’s library: Shakespeare, Milton, Austen, the Brontë sisters. Grandma had also had the forethought to include her dead husband’s beloved reference sets: Encyclopaedia Britannicas, various editions of Webster’s, even an OED, which I’m sure Mom and Grandma pored over as they sucked the vodka out of pickled onions.
When Nonna is pickled with her alcohol of choice, she offers an alternative explanation for my condition that has nothing to do with Saint Garnet del Vulcano and everything to do with the rest of those HANDLE WITH CARE crates. According to Nonna, anything the mother is startled or captivated by during her pregnancy can mar the developing fetus. Back in Sicily, Nonna swore, a toad had leaped from a pond and landed in front of her with-child friend Camelia, and her baby was born with a toad-shaped birthmark on his cheek. A meteor shower rained from the sky outside the bedroom where Nonna’s cousin was delivering, and a Leonid shower of freckles speckled the newborn’s shoulder. Abri the bachelor tipped his hat at Leta the milliner, and when Leta’s daughter was born, Abri’s profile was etched on her palm. Leta was soon divorced.
Imagine my mother’s fascination when she tore into the back row of crates to find choice specimens from Grandfather Postscript’s other obsession: globes. Mom hauled out world globes made of leather, globes made of marble, globes inlaid with malachite, mother-of-pearl, lapis lazuli, and bloodstone. There were styles galore: Franklin, Lancaster, Westminster, Queen Anne. Sherbrooke floor globes, desk globes, illuminated globes, globes that dangled from the ceiling with counterweights, globes held up by statues of Atlas, flip-top globes hiding decanters of brandy.
Grandma had calculated wisely. The detritus of her late husband’s passions so entranced my mother that she happily handed over her son. I don’t know how Dad endured the invasion, but I imagine that was the minute he flew to the basement, pulled out a beloved saw with a curlicue-etched handle, and began filling the house, and my prenatal ears, with a rhythmic sound that was sweeter to me than any lullaby.
Grandma found a practical application for Dad’s carpentry skills: she had him build shelves for the reference books that would go into Nicky’s room and for the globes that would go into baby number two’s. Grandma picked up the first volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, A to Anno, and started reading to Nicky pronto so he could catch up to all the well-nurtured aristocratic Virginian babies. When she wasn’t stuffing his gray matter, she held him in front of various mirrors, taming his forelock or centering his bib. “One must always look one’s best, Nicky. You don’t know who might be watching.”
Mom had a love-hate relationship with the mirrors, by turns dodging them like Nonna dodged evil-eye gabbos and peering into them for hours picking at imaginary imperfections. There she goes, Nicky and I used to say whenev
er we caught her diving into herself.
Mom also spent hours in the globe room rearranging planets, spinning a dozen Earths. It was an innocuous distraction, or so everyone thought. Mom was not weakened or nauseated during this pregnancy. In fact, she was ravenous. Nicky said her cravings included slug livers, blue skink tails, turtle eyes, and canine testicles. I question this menu because I have never had a yen for dog balls in my life.
Grandma Iris had been excluded from Mom’s first pregnancy, and the Ferrari mob was barred from her second. Partial blame goes to Grandpa and Uncle Dom, who refused to haul their nondriving wives up Dagowop Hill. The rest goes to Mother, who forbade any visits from her pee-dribbling in-laws.
It would take a miracle—or a calamity—to bring them together. After supper on June twenty-third, 1950, Mom sat in my soon-to-be room palpating a three-inch 1890 Abel-Klinger wooden globe, the varnish shiny with the oils of a thousand caresses, including Grandfather Postscript’s. Then Mom’s inner ocean gurgled.
“It’s time!” she called.
In dashed Dad and Grandma Iris cradling Nicky. Mom held tight to the Abel-Klinger—the one world she could control—and they skedaddled to Scourged Savior, where Dad again kissed Mom’s forehead before they whisked her through the swinging doors to the delivery room.
Ever the dutiful, if shrinking, son, Dad phoned his father, and soon the elevator doors clanged open. The Ferrari clan (sans Ray-Ray and Betty, whose walleyed presence had been prohibited) tumbled out and landed at Grandma Iris’s Ferragamo-shod feet. Though Grandma Iris was a towering blonde like my mother, Grandpa would not be suckered by beauty again. I bet Nonna couldn’t help comparing herself to this sparkling rival who was only a decade younger but centuries apart in looks, language, and deportment. Nonna ultimately crept to the shadows in her limp jersey dress, coiled white bun, and swollen feet rammed into sensible shoes.
Dad tried to keep the peace. “It won’t be long. She’s probably delivering right now. Anyone for coffee?”
Finally they took their seats. Nonna hadn’t brought her embroidery kit this time since she assumed I would be as considerate as Nicky and enter the world swiftly on a pain-free wave.
Au contraire. For twenty-one hours, Mom writhed in anguish, sweating and cussing and ruing the day, especially ruing the drugs that did nothing to dull the pain. Her shrieks pierced the waiting room—the expletives, the threats to Dad’s manhood—and then, suddenly, nothing. Not a peep, just a foreboding silence.
I was not presented to the fam-i-ly in the waiting room. Once Mom and I were situated in her room, a nurse brought the fam-i-ly to her, the Abel-Klinger globe resting on a water glass on her bedside table. The mob rushed toward me, filled with anticipation. Mother’s face bore an expression that must have hinted their hopes would be dashed. She peeled back the pink blanket to reveal a port-wine globe of a girl, flaming hair coning up like a volcano.
I imagine Mom looked for a shiny object to dive into, but she couldn’t, so she held me toward them, tears of something in her eyes. “Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she absolutely beautiful?”
Perhaps it was hormones talking; more likely, those were the words of a desperate woman who couldn’t fathom the monster she had knit together in her womb. But I was her monster, and if she didn’t claim me, nobody would.
When the fam-i-ly members caught their first glimpse, a collective gasp erupted, along with a shriek from Grandma Iris. “Nooo!” she bawled before fleeing the room in search of a martini. Grandpa Ferrari and Uncle Dom tiptoed backward out the door to upchuck their gnocchi. Nonna spun around, certain that Aunt Betty had snuck in and cursed me. No Betty, but Nonna soon discovered the Abel-Klinger globe. Her eyes bounced from the orb to me and back as she recognized landmasses.
“Dio mio!” She scooped up the globe and tucked it in her purse. “Why you no let me visit and prevent-a this!” Nonna tugged amulets from around her neck, flashed those hand signs, offered her prayer. “Malocchio che causi tanta miseria, noi ti caviamo l’occhio e ti mandiamo sulla luna!” She lunged out the door and ran home to her arsenal: the rue branches, the blue-eyed glass beads, the spaghetti pots full of pee.
Which left only my father, admirer of fair Nordic traits, choking on the ball of I love yous he’d been gestating just for me, most of which, now, would never be born.
TAPE FIVE
The (Abridged) Life of a Saint
Archie:
I’ve barricaded myself in my bathroom, so I apologize for the sound quality; lovely for saw playing, not so much for tape sessions, but tonight I needed to soak in a hot tub. I’m in hiding because Nonna and Betty are determined to give me a haircut. “You look a bit haggard, dear,” Betty said, but I know what she’s up to. I caught her sobbing over a stack of letters this morning. She is so gullible—she married Uncle Dom, after all. Sometimes I want to insert one of my skeleton keys into Betty’s keyhole eye and unlock the mysteries behind her bad, bad choices. She believes I can fulfill every request I receive. Dear Saint Garnet: Just one strand of your healing locks and my son’s harelip will de-hare, or my daughter will grow an earlobe, or my sister will ungrow a third nipple.
(Garnet! Open up, honey.)
(Go away, Aunt Betty.)
(Just a little trim. I promise.)
(If you don’t leave I’ll shave my head and flush every bit down the toilet. Pubes too!)
(Oh, dear.)
I would never do it, of course. I’ve grown quite fond of my free-spirited tresses. Now when I’m luxuriating in a hot bath, I delight in coifing them into ever grander beehives. I’m a sucker for bubble baths, Padre, where I can add topography to the secret landmasses few ever see. I suppose I shouldn’t detail female anatomy to a celibate man, not that anything about me would inspire a manly twinge, and that’s okay by me. With the help of the only explorer who fully traversed my globe, I have learned to appreciate this earthly vessel: one hundred forty pounds of red Carrara marble. As my intrepid surveyor said, “Imagine what Michelangelo could have sculpted out of you.”
Today I’m going to tackle question twenty-three: Earliest manifestation of miraculous signs? My quote-unquote powers didn’t surface until I was four, though I suppose I did perform one trick just by being born: I made Grandma Iris disappear.
What Dad and Grandma had in common was an appreciation for corporeal beauty, and while Dad could retreat to his saw in the basement indefinitely, Grandma could stew in her vodka for only so long. After just three days she slurred, “I’m leaving.”
Mom probably said, “Thank God.” A similar sentiment rose from the basement, Dad’s “About time!” wafting with sawdust through the heater vents.
Grandma packed everything into the car herself, except for one Vuitton valise, which she protectively clutched during the farewells at the door.
Dad was suddenly solicitous. “Allow me.”
“No, no. I’ll carry it.” Grandma held on tight, rushing outside and down the steps. “No need to see me off. Get back inside now.” She was anxious to make a clean getaway and might have succeeded if she hadn’t dropped her Vuitton. Out spilled Nicky’s Roy Rogers pajamas and math flash cards.
“What the hell?” Dad rushed down the steps to the car and found his son wiggling in the passenger foot well.
Dad lifted Nicky out. “How dare you kidnap my boy, you son-ama-beetch!”
Grandma jumped in her car, rolled down her window, and squealed away, yelling, “You will rue the day, Marina! Absolutely rue the day!”
I think maybe, years later, Mom did.
After Grandma skedaddled, Mom warped under the weight of two infants at once and a husband who worked all day and fussed over only his son. Mom reluctantly allowed Nonna to help so that she could continue to compose the weird verse she’d taken to taping to her bedroom walls: Err well, wellborn heir, cast off your forebear’s fate.
Delighted, five days a week, Nonna schlepped her valise of incantations to our doorstep so that while Mom tended to Nicky or wrote, Nonna could work
her magic on me. Day after day, she sat in my room surrounded by globes she could do nothing about because Mom refused to let Nonna haul them to the curb.
During those crucial months, my pre-sentient eyes scoured globes lining shelves, standing on pedestals, dangling from the ceiling; a solar-system mobile spinning over my crib matched the tiny system swirling on the underside of my right wrist—the only celestial masses I sported, Pluto barely a pinprick. Nonna scattered her own talismans around, all those ankhs and horseshoes. That four-tooth chisel that once protected Nicky’s prenatal room was now hidden beneath my bassinet. She burned rue—a slightly better kind than Grandma Iris’s—smeared me with ashes and salt, practiced her olive-oil arts, embroidered my diapers with red crosses, and even broke out the ceremonial pee, though in much smaller doses. Nothing worked. Finally she held me to her bosom, illuminated globes casting eerie shadows on the walls, and cried rivulets of tears that may have washed away my original sin but wouldn’t rinse away my geography. Nor would they soften my father’s heart, because he still refused to even tuck his finger under my chin.
Nonna swiped the wetness from her cheeks and started spinning the fable that she hoped would earn me favor with Dad, the golden threads coiling me in a cocoon that I was swaddled in—and believed—for far too long:
Once upon a time in the village of Sughero a baby girl was born. With pale skin and blue eyes, Garnet was destined for greatness . . .
I picture Mom ducked down outside the door as Nonna spouted her fable, Mom muttering, Sainted lobes budding amidst globes.
In my infancy, I was introduced to the sound of Dad’s sawing and to a comforting hum that would be the soundtrack of my life. It was more distinct when Nonna held me in her arms but present even when I was on the hill and she was down in her village kitchen. Eventually I understood that Nonna heard the note too: all her humming perfectly matched the vibrating mmmmmm in my head. Apparently no one else heard it, though as I grew, I asked whoever was in proximity time and again, “Don’t you hear that?,” a question Nonna had been asking all her life. Over the years I tried to find an instrument that duplicated the noise and finally heard it on The Ed Sullivan Show. A man in a tuxedo played a theremin, or, more specifically, his fingers stroked the air between two perpendicular antennas. His hands acted as grounding plates, producing a woeful sound that eventually included our note, which I would later identify as a low E.
The Patron Saint of Ugly Page 5
