“My dad?” I would have expected her to ask for a cup of sugar. Maybe an egg.
“I have a plumbing problem and talk on the hill is that he’s the man when it comes to home repairs.”
My father had been dubbed top handyman? In his world there was no greater honor.
“Just a minute.” I turned around and hollered, “Dad!”
Footsteps pounded up from the basement, and when Dad saw who was requesting his presence, he tucked in his shirt and fluffed up his pompadour. “Well, come in. Come in.”
Annette declined, saying the baby was by herself, and described the leaking catastrophe in her bathroom. “Jake is all thumbs even when he is home.”
Dad said, “I can take a look at it if you like.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” And out they went.
After that, Dad spent as much time tending to Annette’s abode as ours. The rewards were homemade pies and brownies, offerings Dad carted home as carefully as he might the sacred Eucharist. Mom never touched them.
The night of Dad’s poker-party hangover, the telephone rang. Mom answered the wall phone in the kitchen. Her mouth puckered; she let the receiver drop, and it dangled on its yellow cord as she yelled downstairs, “Angelo! It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Guess.” Mom stomped down the hall and I could hear her lifting the sewing machine out of the table model set up in one corner of her room. Whenever Mom’s brain was too frenzied to settle on a book or pen poetry, she worked on the living room drapes she’d been stitching for years.
Dad rushed upstairs and scooped up the phone. “Hello? Well, hi there. Sure, I can take a look at it if you like.”
Ten minutes later, clothes changed, hair combed, he dashed out the door with his toolbox, and this time I clandestinely followed. I wanted to see what Dad and Annette were up to, plus I was hoping to get a peek of a battalion of wooden arms and legs inside Jake’s garage.
I crept up Annette’s front steps and cupped my hands around my eyes to look inside her storm door. Dad and Annette stood in the dining room and I could hear her high-pitched chirp. Dad laughed too, especially when she rested her hand on his forearm. Then baby Mary Ellen bounced in. Annette’s hand still rested on my father’s forearm, an innocent-looking gesture that gained significance when she turned and headed into her kitchen, dragging her finger down his wrist, then the back of his hand, and finally leaving a small gap between their fingertips, like the painting of God creating Adam in the Sistine Chapel.
Dad flipped open his toolbox, which was sitting on the table, reached for a screwdriver, and turned to look down at a wall socket. He knelt before the altar of electricity, and I wondered if he was going to call over his shoulder for Nicky to come and hold the plate and screws, the paten and hosts. He didn’t have the chance because Mary Ellen bounded to him, apple slice in her hand. I expected him to call for Annette to come and fetch her girl child, but he just looked at Mary Ellen’s dimpled knuckles, her unstained face, and proceeded to dismantle the outlet. He slid the rectangle into her palm. The screw he slid into his shirt pocket. My father tucked his finger under Mary Ellen’s chin to make sure she was watching. Boy, was she ever, as he pointed to the exposed wall socket and then wagged his finger in the universal gesture meaning Don’t touch! Mary Ellen mimicked him, wagging her finger, shaking her head. She was a quick learner.
It was a betrayal far worse than I could have imagined. Heat rushed through me from my toes to my scalp. A boiling wave flashed across my face as I gritted my teeth and suddenly sparks flew from that exposed box. Mary Ellen hid behind my father and squealed just as Annette’s porch light exploded overhead; pieces of the shattered bulb rained all over me. I bolted down the porch steps completely oblivious to the Captain Hook arms and pirate peg legs and raced home clutching my chest, where a certain box had also exploded.
Inside, Mom was still in her room wasting thread and time on a ridiculous pair of drapes that she hoped would somehow make her house a home. “Is that you, Angelo?”
“It’s me,” I answered in a voice even I didn’t recognize.
I ran to my room, table lamps and ceiling lights surging in my wake. I dove for my bed and pulled the covers over my head. Though I tried to stopper them, tears slid as the hum of Mom’s sewing machine abruptly stopped, its power supply mysteriously cut, and I was glad.
SANCTUS INTERRUPTUS, UNUS
(Go ahead, Mother Ferrari. Say something.)
(It’s-a on?)
(I pressed the Record button.)
(I speech-a now?)
(Yes, but hurry up, Mother. Holy moly. Garnet will be back any minute.)
(Okay-okay. Hold-a your horses [you evil-eye snake].)
(What’s that, Mother?)
(Nulla, nulla, but you go now. I need private time in my Barkyloungy with the holy man.)
(Oh! Of course! I’ll be in the solarium, Mother. Just call when you’re finished.)
(Okeydokey. Bye-bye a-now [you key-eyed wicked a-witch].)
So here goes, Padre, and I hope it still counts if I sit in-a my chair. My feet are a-swoll up like salamis. So many stairs in this house. I keep asking Garney to get the elevator a-fix, but she no want any more workers in-a here. They keep snapping her picture and steal-a the silver.
Now we begin-a for sure:
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Bless-a me, Padre, for I have-a sin. It’s been a long-a time since I make-a confess. I have been a bad suocera, uh, mamma-in-law. I harbor ill will in my heart for Walleye Betty. I pray so hard to have it remove, but it’s still there, like a nail in-a my lung. I never ask for such a daughter-in-law. Yesterday I tole-a her there was no more Mallo Cups, but I hid the last one in-a my purse. Why she need the last Mallo Cup when she bring-a so much misery into our fam-i-ly with her jettatura jealousy and her—well, I no speech about all that-a now. Garney will tell you better than-a me.
I also must-a confess to easy-drop on Garney when she make-a her tapes. I no understand why she deny her gift, but now I’m-a gonna set the record straight. It is-a not me performing the miracoli. Okay, so maybe some funny things happen when I was-a growing up, but I never make-a the freckles or eye sties disappear like Garney do. Never. But here’s some of-a the strangeness that happen to me if it help-a the cause.
Maybe you already know that my father was a poor goat herder who lived in the Nebrodi Mountains. When I was a bambina my mamma would put me in one of the goat pens to keep-a me safe while she do her chores. I keep her company with-a my humming, matching the sound I hear since-a birth that no one else seem to hear. I would dig-a the holes just like our little dog, and with every scoop, out pop the seashells. Mamma saw this and marveled, not only because we lived on a mountain but because when she and Papà dig-a the holes they only getta the dirt. Mamma say it’s a sign of-a something, but she never say a sign of-a what.
My papà work-a so hard to keep food on our table, and I work right-a beside him since I was his only child even if, as he say, I was only a girl. My mother make magic when she cook since she know so many ways to prepare the goat, stambecco brasato still-a my favorite. When I’m just a girl Papà ask me to help him plant an almond tree as a surprise for Mamma. He hand me a shovel and when I jab in the blade, this time instead of seashells, the ground start-a to bleed. I drop the shovel and scream and Papà kneel and put his finger in-a the puddle to taste it, but I no think that’s such a good idea. He look at-a me and say, “It taste like the red water of Lake Pergusa!” He would know since he make the trip to Siena when he was a boy to see that bloody water for himself. Again Mamma say it’s a sign of-a something, but she never say a sign of-a what.
I also hear Garney tell-a you about the light bulbs she make-a go pop-pop-pop, but I tell you the truth, some of it’s-a my fault. In Sicilia I also have the bad time with electric. I remember the night when I was-a twelve and all the people in Sughero gather at the center piazza at dusk to watch the mayor screw the first light
bulb into the first street lamp. Everyone ooo and ahhh like it’s a miracolo, even thirteen-year-old Angelo Ferrari, the boy who I—oh, I guess I need to tell-a you about him, but it’s-a no easy for me to speech about this. I never even tell this to my parish-a priest. But you are holier since you are the archbishop, so I trust you will keep-a my secret, except from God. It’s okay now if you tell this-a to Him.
Our landlords, the Ciaffagliones, lived next door to us in the big-a house and they owned the finest vineyard for miles which produce Orgoglio della Sicilia, the best of Sicilia grapes which make-a the best-best wine. Signore Ciaffaglione was not-a so sweet as his grapes, however. We rent-a not only the land from him but the little falling-down house, which was just a stone’s throw from the main one. My father had to give Ciaffaglione all our best-best goats, plus make sure the stone wall that kept our goats from the vineyard was always in-a good repair or we might get a stone through the window that conk one of us on-a the head.
Maybe it’s because Signore Ciaffaglione was so bitter that he could produce-a no children. During harvest time he hired all his male relatives, including the two sons of Signora Ciaffaglione’s sister who lived across the Strait of Messina in Villa San Giovanni: Dominick (the oldest) and Angelo Ferrari. The first time I met the brothers was the day Mamma take me to the strait for our weekly trading. I see the blue boat that brings the boys to Sicilia, and as soon as they disembark, Dominick rush up like he knows me all his-a life. He reach for my hair though we are just kids and said, “The Pining Nereid!” I think he’s cuckoo for sure, even more because over the years I see he has it in-a his head that when-a we grow up we are destined to marry. I no understand where this fantasia came from. I never gave him any special favors, especially since he hated Sicilia, my beloved homeland, where he kicked the dirt and spit curses as if the soil had stolen his favorite sling-a-shot or his newsie cap that he wore even a-then. He hated picking the Orgoglio della Sicilia grapes, which, according to him, were no match to the Gaglioppo grapes from Calabria that his own-a father grew.
But he no want to live in-a Calabria either. So many times I hear him-a rant, “As soon as I save up enough money I’m going to America where I no have-a to pick the Orgoglio della Sicilia grape-a no more!” More than once he looked at-a me and say, “And you come with-a me, Diamante, and we build a beautiful life!” I know it’s-a hard to believe he could say such-a prettiness, but he did, even if I always, always clamped my hands over my ears and ran away screaming, “Noooo!” Besides, Dominick lose all his money playing dice with the other pickers, so I don’t think he will ever see the Liberty Statue. And double-double besides, my heart-a belong to his brother, Angelo, who was always such a sweet-a boy. He loved Sicilia and picking the grapes and popping them in-a his mouth and I loved watching him do it.
I loved watching Angelo even more when he served as altar boy at church during harvest season even though his brother make-a the big fun. But Angelo loved-a God as much as I did. Even when it was-a no harvest time I was often kneeling in-a that church with the pretty blue ceiling with the clouds painted on. I knew God lived on-a my mountain, in-a my church, even before I could crawl. I think Angelo knew that too because his face beam like an angel when he helped Padre Ponzo serve Communion.
When his work was-a done in the vineyard Angelo would climb up the trellis beside-a my bedroom window and whisper, “Diamante. Let’s go make a picnic.”
I would quick-quick grab a loaf of-a bread and some goat cheese, a handful of chestnuts, and race outside to our favorite a-spot, which was a flat rock in the woods at the far edge of the property. Someone—not Ciaffaglione, that’s-a for sure—had placed a statue of La Vergine Maria in her own grotto on-a the rock. I love-a this statue, especially the braid that spill from Maria’s head and dangle all the way to her feet. I remember the first time I see her I run-a my hand through my own hair that never grows more than-a six inches no matter what I do.
I even say to Angelo, “I hope one day my hair grows so long as La Vergine’s.”
Angelo reach over and touch the piece of my bang that always falls in-a my eyes. “It will. I know it will.”
And you know, from that day my hair she grow and grow and I never cut it except for the ends when-a they get all frizzy.
We also love-a this spot because it is surrounded by a patch of wildflowers neither of us had seen-a before. The five-petal blooms smelled of roasted almonds and nutmeg and were the exact-a color of the Lake Pergusa blood water. I tell Angelo this and he name the plant Fiore Pergusa. Whenever we make-a the picnic I would inhale the aroma as he told me about life in Calabria, his apprenticeship as a stonemason, a trade both he and Dominick were learning from-a their father. Though Angelo wanted to master the skill that would provide a good-a life, his dream was to own a vineyard and develop a new grape that he would name after me. The day he confessed his heart’s desire he asked, “Do you think it will happen?”
I stare into his eyes and could-a see a lush vineyard rolling across his hazel irises. “I do. I have-a the profezia. I see it.”
I confess. I love-a this boy and his dreams but in a holy and innocent kind-a way. Of course we keep all this a secret from our parents, and especially from Dominick, since if I break-a his heart he might break-a Angelo’s arm. I asked Angelo one-a time why he was so devoted to his brother who was-a so mean to everyone but me—at least back-a then. Angelo shook his head and lifted his shirt to show me his bony ribs and skinny-skinny waist.
“You see these bruises?”
I lean in close, but I no see the bruises. “No.”
“Exactly. Dominick takes not only his beatings from our father but the ones meant for me too.”
I am-a stunned. “Why would he do that?”
“He says that’s what older brothers should-a do.”
I ponder this thing that makes me look at Dominick different, but not different enough.
So now I get back to the night when our town, she gets the electric. It was the last night of the harvest so Angelo and I stood side by side in the piazza, but not too close since we were in-a public. We watched the mayor and other village officials prop a ladder against the streetlight pole. Mayor climbed up with the bulb in his hand as the brass band, she played. Once he screwed the bulb in and it glowed I was enchanted (but not in the evil-eye way) since it look-a like the bright heat I see bubbling so many times from Mount Etna. Angelo brushed his arm against mine and I felt a different type of electric. He must have felt it too, because he look at me and his eyes are so warm, but just then Dominick appeared with two gelatos in-a his hands. When he saw the sparks bouncing between his brother and me, he drop the gelatos and shove Angelo’s shoulder so hard he stumble backwards. I was furioso, and that streetlight hum and buzz.
Then Dominick look at-a me. “You!” His face was filled with something, but it wasn’t anger, at least I didn’t think so until I saw him make-a the fist like he’s gonna clock me for sure. But Dominick crack his brother in the jaw so hard Angelo flew five-a feet in the air and crashed into an ox cart.
I open my mouth to yell, my blood boiling like a pot of ragù on-a the stove, but before any words fly from my lips the street lamp blow up. The town is-a thrown into darkness and I hear Dominick’s footsteps running away.
Eventually they fix-a the streetlight and string wires all over town. Ciaffaglione got a light bulb dangling from the ceiling in every room of-a his house, but he no put electric in our falling-down house.
The next harvest season the brothers return. Angelo and me continue to wink at each other during Mass and make-a the picnic by La Vergine in her own grotto. Angelo talk about learning to sculpt gargoyle drain spouts and how much money he’d have to save-a to buy the vineyard. This was also when I getta my seni, or, how you say it, breasts, and Dominick begin-a to stare at me in a funny way.
One night I’m in-a my bedroom making the sponge bath, so I’m-a strip to the waist, and I feel someone watching. I’m afraid someone has climbed up my trellis to spy
, so I slip back on-a my dress. When I look out no one is-a there. Still, I feel the staring eyeballs, so I look over at the Ciaffagliones’ house and see in an upstairs window a boy in a newsie cap holding a telescope to his eyes, the ceiling light bulb burning behind him. I hear Dominick calling in the distance, “Why you no love me and let me bury my face in those beautiful pillows!” My face, she boils, and soon that light bulb sputters and pop! outta she blows. In-a the distance I hear Dominick cuss. “Son-ama-beetch! I can no wait to move to America where the lights never go out!”
When I turn-a sixteen Mamma finally allow me to hike down to Messina by myself to watch for the boat that bring in the Calabrese harvesters for the season, including my Angelo. I take a blanket to sit on-a the beach so the sun can pink up-a my cheeks. I also like to comb my hair there because the salty air give me the nice-a curls. As I’m-a brushing and brushing I see the blue boat that I know will bring Angelo to me. I get up and run to the water and squint at the men in the bow. I look for Angelo’s bushy hair, but I no see it, and I no see it even as the boat comes closer and closer and pulls up to the shore. I watch as the men disembark one-a by one, but there is no Angelo, only Dominick, who is lugging not only his own suitcase but Angelo’s. Dominick laughs when he looks at-a me. “Stupid bastardo miss-a the boat, so now you’re left with only a-me.” He try to grab my hand but I yank it away.
“Cretino shouldn’t be so gullible,” one of the other pickers say.
The two men start the long hike up-a the hill, but when Dominick look over his shoulder at-a me, I only huff and stomp off.
I wonder what meanness Dominick do to make his brother miss-a the boat, the whole harvest season, and especially me! My heart sink as I think about having to wait another year to see Angelo. I trudge to the blanket and collapse, crying like the gulls that are hovering over me like kites in-a the wind.
When I can weep-a no more I dab the tears from my cheek with my hair. As I sit there coddling my sadness I stare across the water at Calabria in the distance, hoping that maybe Angelo is standing on-a the beach looking across at me. And then I see something bob in-a the water and I squint to make out if it’s a dolphin or albacore or even the Pining Nereid. It looks more like a cantaloupe bobbling, but with arms and legs a-kicking behind as it swim toward shore.
The Patron Saint of Ugly Page 10
