The Patron Saint of Ugly

by Marie Manilla

  Muddy stood behind us crimping his napkin and trying not to cry.

  Cedrick eased out of his seat and went in search of his queen.

  Within minutes Grandma bustled in to find her daughter eating her way through several countries: English muffins, Belgian waffles, French toast.

  Grandma shook her head back and forth. “But my plans are incomplete!”

  We all gawped at her pronouncement.

  Grandma sat beside Mom and draped a napkin across her daughter’s lap. “Slow down, darling. You’ll make yourself ill.”

  Mother ate for three days, skin pinking up, a little belly bulge forming, purple smears beneath her eyes fading. No one mentioned Dad or Nicky, since Mom still looked like she might collapse in on herself at the slightest sneeze. For weeks she wandered aimlessly, as if she were looking for a book she’d set down, or she lounged on a chaise in the solarium, where Opal and Cookie brought her rice pudding and sweet tea. I often curled up in a chair behind a topiary giraffe. If I were still enough, they forgot I was there and I could eavesdrop as Mom climbed back into the present rung by rung.

  “Nicky and Angelo are gone,” she whispered one day.

  Opal was polishing silver at a table but stopped to look at Mom. “Yes, they are, honey. They surely are.”

  Mom slumped and I thought, there she goes, but she shook it off. “Garnet’s okay in my old room? She’s not . . . going wicky-wacky?”

  “Lord, no. She spends most of her time in your father’s suite or out in the carriage house sawing wood.”

  Mother groaned, but after a pause she asked, “Why did Mother bar all the windows?”

  Opal glanced up into a corner where an intercom lurked. “Why does she ever do anything?”

  Grandma was now in a flurry of clandestine errands, so I shadowed Mother with an imaginary rope I was ready to loop around her waist if she started slipping inside herself again.

  Though Mom gained physical and mental stamina, she spent too much time in Grandfather’s study reading those crazy walls, by turns laughing and crying, as if she recalled the inspiration behind every enigmatic word. One day she unpinned a paper doily and pointed at the scribbles. “Bluster the hatchet man who foils my whims!”

  I must have looked as if I were counting the cartoon nut-birds circling her head.

  “Bluster the hatchet man!” she insisted.

  “Uh-huh. That’s very nice.”

  That afternoon I caught her rifling through Grandfather’s closet, sniffing his shirtsleeves the same way Annette Funicello had inhaled the scent of my father. It nearly split me in two to see my mother aching for her dad. The lid on my heart-shaped box began rattling. I was working up the courage to tell Mom how much I missed Dad. Before I could, she whispered into the shirt, “You would have loved Nicky.”

  A little squeal slid from my mouth.

  “And Garnet!” Mom looked over at me. “I’m sorry. It’s just, the Britannicas, you know.”

  I did know. Just that morning I had seen Mom scanning dog-eared pages to read notes Nicky had jotted in margins, a secret code of his own involving stars and ampersands, dots and dashes, his own SOS.

  Maybe Mom was ready to mourn Nicky, but commiserating with me over the death of my father would have to wait.

  Grandma became suddenly attentive and often joined us in the solarium for lemonade.

  “Have you read any good books lately?” Grandma asked whenever Mom brought up the inevitability of picking up the pieces of our lives on the hill, the untended house, piling-up bills.

  “I’ll handle all of that, darling,” Grandma would say. “You never had a head for business.”

  Grandma hauled in bags and bags of books to occupy—or distract—Mom’s convalescence. One afternoon while delivering her offerings, she planted a seed. “Have you thought about finishing the degree you started at Wellesley?”

  Mom’s head jerked up, as if the largest carrot in the world dangled before her. She shook it off faster than I would have imagined. “I can’t do that. What about Garnet?”

  By the speed of her answer I knew Grandma already had plan B in the hopper. “You could always attend University of Virginia. You and Garnet could live with me until you’re finished. We have plenty of excellent schools for Garnet too.”

  Blast. So she did remember that federal mandate.

  “I brought a course catalog in case you’re interested.” Grandma slid it into Mom’s hands.

  Grandma’s apple of temptation for me was less alluring, though I did take a giant bite.

  I was in my room building a house of cards when Grandma came in with an overnight case.

  “I have a surprise for you.” She dashed to my bathroom, the breeze of her entrance collapsing my unfinished house. I followed as she turned on the lights over the vanity.

  She pulled out the cushioned chair. “Sit, sit.”

  I obeyed and faced my reflection in the mirror.

  Grandma charted the red map of my face and neck with her eyes, then opened the overnight case to reveal rows of foundations, concealers, and powders.

  “I’ve never worn makeup.” I wasn’t necessarily opposed. I was thirteen, after all.

  “You’re a young lady now. Your mother wore cosmetics when she was your age.”

  “She did?”

  “Indeed.” Grandma opened a bottle and dabbed beige liquid onto a cotton ball. “And this isn’t just any makeup, dear. This was specially ordered to help with your . . . condition.”

  Ah. There it was. Before I could rebut, Grandma gripped my face in her hands and began patting the liquid onto my cheek. I don’t know if I was more mesmerized by Grandma Iris actually touching me or by watching the landmasses disappear. It was astonishing to see whole continents and archipelagoes vanish. All those grade-school taunts erupted in my head: Polka-Dot Mary, Map Face, Plague Hag. As my geography faded, so did the jeers, and I lost control over my eyes, tears carving mulberry riverbeds in my now-porcelain flesh.

  “Don’t cry, darling.” Grandma daubed on fresh foundation and dusted me with powder. “You’ll ruin the effect.”

  I certainly didn’t want to do that, especially since for the first time in my life, Grandma was ministering to me, not with red Pergusa water, but with makeup. I luxuriated in her attention. Like my brother and mother in La Strega days, I, so easily, succumbed.

  After Grandma left I gaped at myself in the mirror, but it wasn’t with the same flaw-checking madness my mother engaged in. It was as if a new nonsainted, nonstained world had opened up to me—except for one thing: my volcano hair. But Grandma left a potion for that too. After hours of practice, I could tame most of it into a ponytail if I used enough Dippity-do.

  I didn’t reveal my new persona to Mom. Both Grandma and I knew that might be dicey, so, like Nicky playing dress-up with his La Strega duds, I furtively morphed into a spotless girl in my room.

  One night Mom and I lounged by the pool, me perusing a Britannica, Mom underlining classes in the college catalog. She periodically closed her eyes and moaned. When I asked what was wrong she said, “Nothing.”

  Finally Mom closed her book and looked at me. “I got a letter today from Aunt Betty.”

  The cork in Iceland started quivering, and I clamped my hand over it.

  “She misses us.”

  I swallowed hard. “What about Nonna?” The cork battered my palm.

  Mom shook her head. “I don’t know, honey. But I think that given time . . .”

  I wondered if there was enough time left in the universe.

  “Our life back home isn’t much, and it’s horribly complicated,” Mom admitted, “but those women are your fam-i-ly.”

  This was a tremendous confession, or concession, though I noticed she didn’t say our fam-i-ly.

  She opened her mouth and by the look in her eyes, I could tell she was about to spill something significant. Just then Grandma rushed out with a shopping bag, dissipating Mom’s clarity and stilling the cork on my arm.

&nbs
p; “I got your books!” Grandma said, breathless.

  Mom had recently begun compiling her own grocery lists of titles. She pulled out a stack of the books and shuffled through them. “Where’s Ginsberg?” Her tastes had shifted from English lit-ra-toor to Beat poets.

  Grandma pursed her lips. “I will not allow that obscenity in my house.” She looked at me and set into motion a plan that we had been working on for days. “Marina, I want to throw a belated birthday party for Garnet.”

  Mom gasped. “Oh my God, Garnet. I can’t believe I forgot!”

  Mother had slept through my pivotal teenage birthday, as had everyone else.

  “Tut-tut, darling,” Grandma said. “Water under the bridge. Let’s make up for it by having a soiree for our girl. She’s all we have left now.”

  That was a dangerous maneuver, and Mom’s eyes filmed over as she tallied up her losses. Grandma’s eyes glazed briefly too, and I caught a glimpse of her own private mourning that she’d bathed in alcohol. She had lost her male heir. Her golden boy.

  Mother sniffed and looked at me. “Would you like a party, Garnet?”

  My head bobbled up and down.

  “Okay, then.”

  Grandma flung off her gloom. “Goody!” She rushed toward the house to order elephants and trapeze artists or whatever she had in store.

  “Nothing fancy,” Mom called. “A simple party with the staff. Cake and ice cream.”

  “Cake! I must call François!”

  Later that night I slipped downstairs for the bag of coconut marshmallows I had eyeballed in the pantry during lunch. Grandma was yelling in the kitchen, so I eased open the swinging door half an inch and saw her jabbing her finger into Opal’s shoulder.

  “I told you to destroy any letters from that woman. How could you let one slip by you? How? You must be more vigilant, Opal. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I slunk upstairs marshmallow-less, saddened to think of Betty writing stacks of apologetic letters that Mom and I would never see.

  During the following weeks Grandma was a dictator: concocting menus with Cookie; auditioning musicians, florists, and house polishers. Mom became increasingly agitated, her “Nothing too fancy! And just with the staff!” appeals completely ignored as evidenced by the RSVPs that arrived daily from Mom’s old chums: Bunny and Bowler, Chompers and Skiff.

  Mom groaned when she scanned the names, particularly Skiff’s, a former beau who had never married, according to Grandma, though “what he’ll do with his father’s shipping money I don’t know.” Skiff was the prearranged mate Mom had been dodging when she ran off with my father, a man Mom had barely mentioned since she’d awakened. As Mom read and reread Skiff’s name, she muttered, “Slipknot the Skiff slot.” A bad omen.

  The day of the party Cookie whipped up canapés and shrimp cocktails and oysters Rockefeller, directing the three sous-chefs hired for the occasion. Her gloved and ungloved hands blurred like hummingbird wings. Opal was in charge of the coat-check girl, the bartender, and the three waiters, all black. She instructed them on where to place the flowers, set up the bar, and arrange the rented tables and chairs in the Hall of Mirrors. A table for the three-tiered cake that was topped with real flowers but no birthday candles. I asked Opal why the rest of the table was bare.

  “Why, honey, that’s where the guests will put your presents.”

  Presents! I couldn’t fathom what types of gifts these people would bring: bags of loose diamonds, barrels of oil, gold bars.

  Also steered to the hall was a jazz combo; the musicians set up under that painting of Mom resting her arm on a horse, though I swear I saw her two-dimensional, oil-painted eyes roll at the intemperance of it all.

  Mom tried to sidestep all the busyness. “It’s all too much. It’s just too much.” Finally she escaped to Grandpa’s bedroom and crawled into bed. I nestled beside her with my imaginary rope and watched her stare at her image in the silver bowl on the bedside table, a reflective pose I hadn’t seen since we’d moved there.

  An hour before the shindig, Grandma swooped in with two garment bags. She draped one over my mother’s lap, the other over mine. “I took the liberty of buying you both dresses.”

  Mom stood and handed her bag back. “I’ll manage.”

  “But look.” Grandma tugged down the zipper and pulled out a pink suit. “It’s not fancy.”

  “No, thank you.” Mom inspected the fabric. “And besides, it’s wool. You want me to wear wool in August?”

  “But Jackie Kennedy just ordered the same suit! It’s Chanel, Marina. Sometimes one has to suffer for fashion.”

  “Let Jackie suffer.”

  Grandma stepped toward Mom and held the jacket against her torso. “It’ll look so pretty with your hair.” She undraped the jacket from the hanger. “Just try it on.” She tried to slip Mom’s balled-up fist into one of the sleeves.

  “Goddamn it, Mother.” Mom grabbed the jacket, tossed it on the floor, and left.

  “I just don’t understand,” Grandma muttered. “She would have looked so pretty.”

  Padre, three months later I saw that pink suit again. Not on Mom, but on Jackie Kennedy, who was wearing it on a monumental November day in Dallas. She must have been itchy in that wool suit in the Texas sun in that open convertible, but she was one who knew how to suffer.

  Grandma zippered Mom’s suit back into the bag and turned her eyes on me. “Certainly Marina couldn’t object if you wore your new dress.”

  Certainly she could, but I shrugged.

  The dress was pretty enough, but a little young for my teenage self. Pale rose with an oversize Battenberg lace collar. Grandma led me to my bathroom, where she daubed makeup on not only my face and neck but my ears. She fashioned my hair into an over-gelled ponytail and secured it with a velvet rose. I squeezed into lacy tights before stepping into the dress.

  “You look very sweet.” Grandma yanked down the long sleeves, eyeballing my midsection, until she caught sight of Cyprus on the back of my hand. “I almost forgot!”

  She strutted out and returned with a pair of gloves with satin bows and cultured pearls sewn at each wrist. “They’re highly fashionable.”

  I slid on the gloves, and my right pinkie extended, though I hadn’t commanded it to.

  “Don’t get messed up before the guests arrive,” Grandma said as she left.

  I posed before the mirror, scrutinizing the geography-less girl staring back at me. She could walk the streets of Sweetwater or Charlottesville without drawing undue attention. Inside my gut, a clown juggled balls of both sadness and joy.

  Soon I heard Mom thumping down the hall. “Garnet, are you getting ready?” I instinctively closed my bathroom door. “Yes!” I turned on faucets, flushed the toilet. I think I already knew how Mom would feel about my getup.

  My room faced the circular drive in front of the house so I was able to watch the cars pulling in. Convertibles and glossy numbers with leather roofs circled the three-tiered fountain now spewing aquamarine water. Not a station wagon among them. I thought about Dad, who couldn’t even afford to buy us a used set of wheels. I thought of him even more as young couples unfolded from their vehicles, the women with upswept hair and pastel dresses carrying beautifully wrapped presents. Every husband was taller than his wife and dressed in a pricey suit and polished shoes. I could identify a few by their nicknames: the big-toothed one had to be Chompers. The one who refused to relinquish his hat, Bowler. They handed their keys to Cedrick, who passed them to Muddy, who parked cars beside the tennis court. Only one man arrived without a companion. Judging from the way he primped in his rearview, I knew it was Skiff. He was also taller than my father, but the hair on his crown was thinning, a satisfying defect.

  Mom called from the other side of my door: “They’re here!”

  “I’ll be down in a second!”

  “Oh God,” she said before padding away. I rushed to my door, peeked out, and was disappointed to see her wearing her same skin
ny pants and an aqua shell, her hair in a ponytail without a velvet rose. She headed not to the grand staircase but to the steps that led down to the kitchen and the back door.

  I crouched behind one of the two vases that flanked the top of the stairway and looked through the railing into the Hall of Mirrors. A black version of Radisson led guest after guest to Grandma, who was standing beneath the chandelier that Fanny Brice had swung from. “Zelda!” They offered hugs and kissy-kissy. Grandma didn’t look offended by the nickname.

  Opal directed her staff from a corner, sending envoys with trays of champagne and canapés. The women clustered around Zelda asking sensitive questions. “How is she doing really? No, really?” The men migrated to the jazz combo, tapping their feet, looking at my mother’s painting. Chompers said, “She was a beauty.” The rest of them sighed, particularly Skiff, who positioned himself at the back of the pack, a lone dinghy facing Zelda, who kept scanning the room for her truant daughter.

  “Wonder what Zelda’s got cooked up over there.” Bowler nodded across the room at what I assumed was another portrait, hung directly opposite Mom’s but covered in a white sheet with a pink bow at the top, a dangling cord at the ready for the grand unveiling. My heart ka-thunked and I was actually moved by the notion that Grandma clandestinely had had my portrait painted so that Mom and I could wink back and forth at each other in perpetuity. Then I wondered which version of me Grandma had commissioned: the au naturel me or the Kabuki one. The Kabuki one, no doubt, or at least—at that moment—I hoped.

  Mom didn’t come, and she didn’t come, even as more guests arrived and my legs began to cramp. I wasn’t about to go down there without her to hide behind, and besides, it didn’t look as if any necks were craning in search of a birthday girl. Regardless of the presents now heaped on the table, I understood then that this party wasn’t for me.

  The men swapped champagne for bourbon and sat at the tables, where they pulled cigarettes from cases and tapped ashes into crystal bowls. Soon they began making blunt inquiries.

  “I heard she flunked out of Wellesley and has been living in West Virginia. Why in the world would anyone live there, for God’s sake?”