by Ann Hood
“You know I don’t like seeds,” Cody was crying. “Or skin on fruit. Or fuzzy fruit like kiwi and peaches.”
The car behind us squeezed past, and the driver swore at my mother.
“Have you ever heard of Persephone?” my mother asked me.
“Uh, no,” I said. I was starting to feel a little nervous. Also, I didn’t like not knowing something.
“Persephone was a Greek goddess and she got kidnapped by the god of the underworld. Her mother, whose name I can’t remember, was devastated, and eventually Zeus sent someone to rescue Persephone. But she ate these three pomegranate seeds and that forced her to return to the underworld every year for one month for each seed she ate. Three seeds. Three months. That’s winter.”
More cars were honking now.
My mother looked at me, satisfied. “That is an allegory for what is going on in this car, Madeline,” she said, and she started to drive again.
I wanted to ask her what an allegory was. In Humanities we had just covered onomatopoeia and similes, not allegories. But I knew what she’d say. Look it up.
Ever since my father married Ava and went on to have a real life, I have had to do a lot of thinking. In science, Mr. Renault calls that developing the power of observation: watching something and drawing conclusions from what you see. Like we watched snails for weeks in science class. You would be amazed what you can learn from watching a bunch of snails. I had the misfortune of being paired up with Michael Montana, who smells like a wet sweater even when he’s not wearing a sweater. His powers of observation, however, are incredible. He can tell snail poop from gravel in a nanosecond. I let him take the notes so that I could better my own powers of observation.
“Once you have developed your powers of observation here in the laboratory,” Mr. Renault told us, “you can use them anywhere in the outside world.” He seemed to be talking to me when he said, “Use them in your own habitat, for example.” The most important thing I observed about my own habitat was that my mother was not living a real life. She was all alone and wrote stuff that people read in doctors’ offices months late and only then out of boredom. She wrote things she didn’t even believe in herself. In essence, she lied.
Take that stupid article about strawberries and Easy-Make Jelly, Strawberry Shortcake, and a snack of Strawberries Dipped in Yogurt and Brown Sugar. It was true that she dragged us to a strawberry patch one blistering hot summer afternoon. Bees and mosquitoes buzzed all around us, annoying me and scaring Cody. We picked and picked, a boring few hours spent awkwardly bent over, getting dirt in our fingernails. Then we had to go home and eat so many strawberries and strawberry pies, cakes, waffles, and preserves that Cody broke out in hives and had to take oatmeal baths for a week.
But did the article mention any of that? Of course not. It talked about the joys of being outdoors picking stupid strawberries. It never mentioned the bees or the hot sun or any of the true things. In it, a phony family sits in a field somewhere surrounded by strawberries, every one of them grinning like a bunch of idiots. My mother works so hard at making up a life, she never spends time on the one she really has. I used to think her articles were kind of cute. Corny, but cute. That was when we were a happy family. Now I feel like we’re no different than the phony family in the pictures.
However, my powers of observation revealed that my father’s life really was like something out of a magazine. He had a beautiful wife who smelled like something exotic and romantic and took me to shops in the East Village to try on platform shoes and black miniskirts. He had a real career where he could write about true things that mattered to the world.
When I told my father that I was going to come and live with him if Mom didn’t let me take the bus to Boston like Mai Mai Fan, he said, “Madeline, I will convince your mother to let you take that bus. Don’t worry.”
“But if she says no, absolutely not, I can come and live with you, right?” I said.
“This may not be the most opportune time for that,” he said.
My stomach got that queasy feeling again. “You mean I can’t live with you?” I said.
“This is a moot point, because you will be on that bus and back at Madame’s in no time.”
“A what?” I said, wondering how I would ever learn all of these vocabulary words.
“Look it up,” he said.
I know that ballerinas and saints have to sacrifice a lot and suffer both physically and mentally. Maybe I would become the Patron Saint of Ballerinas and ballerinas from all over the world would leave me offerings of toe shoes and leg warmers.
I decided to write another letter to the Pope. I told him about my idea. I told him I would be in Italy in June. I signed the letter, The Future Patron Saint of Ballerinas. Then, because that sounded a little too smug, I added a question mark. Then an exclamation point. Then I mailed it and waited for him to answer.
When we lived in Boston, I had three best friends—the girls with flower names—and eight regular friends, which made eleven friends total. Eleven friends was the perfect amount. But when we moved to Providence I had exactly no best friends. Sometimes I got invited to someone’s house after school, but it never worked out. I would tell them about my miracles and they would want to watch reruns of Friends. I would discuss various saints; they would discuss Teen Vogue.
For a while I thought Eliza Harrison would be my best friend. Her mother is my mother’s best friend—read: only friend—here. While our mothers sit in the Harrisons’ basement drinking white wine, Eliza and I go up to her room on the third floor. She has the whole floor, which sounds very fancy, but it’s really the attic of their house, so it’s just a big open space covered with stuff from Target. She pronounces it Tar-jay, which is really annoying. Eliza should go and work at Target because she loves it so much.
One day she said, “Have you seen the dollar bins at Tar-jay? I got all this stuff for pedicures there and it only cost thirteen dollars.”
When I didn’t answer because I didn’t really know what to say to that ridiculous piece of information, Eliza said, “Duh, all of these things were only a dollar each.”
I said, “I hate Target.” This wasn’t actually true. I am neutral about Target.
“Madeline,” Eliza said, “why do you have to be so weird?”
This was from a girl who wore peds with her sneakers, those strange little socks they make you use in shoe stores to try on shoes. Eliza also only read books on the summer reading list; she had no imagination. Also, she played field hockey all the time. In the summer she went away to field hockey camp and during the school year she played field hockey on about a thousand different teams. Her thighs looked like tree trunks. I could have told her that. I could have pointed out my own delicate legs, how ballet gave you grace and poise while field hockey only allowed you to run around with a stick and get thick thighs. But I didn’t. Instead, I acted saintly.
I said, “Eliza, when I am a saint we’ll see who’s weird,” which made no sense but it was the only thing I could say without crying from frustration.
When my mother finally finished drinking wine with Mrs. Harrison and we went home, instead of giving me sympathy, she said, “Maybe she’s giving you a helpful hint.”
“Not everything fits under a magazine headline,” I told her. “You can’t buy a personality at Tar-jay.” Then I said, “I bet Daddy would understand.”
“Your father,” my mother said, shaking her head, “has ruined everything for everybody.”
I started to go to church every Sunday. My mother thought I was just getting some fresh air, something she put far too much value in. My research revealed that even though I hated to admit it, she had been right about something: Saints were all Catholic. So Catholic that they died defending the religion. These were called martyrs. I liked the idea of martyrdom, but I didn’t want to die. So I started giving up little things: Twizzlers, for one. Sleeping late on Sundays, for another. Instead of staying in my bed, piled up with blankets the way I liked, I got up and put on a
nice skirt, and went to church.
One day in spring, with everything draped in purple for Lent and somber white lilies up on the altar, I found myself sitting next to Antoinetta Calabro. The first thing I noticed about her was that she was alone, too, like me. Most kids our age were squeezed into pews with their parents and little sisters and brothers. The next thing I noticed was how different she looked from anyone else I knew.
Antoinetta had long dark hair that fell in about a million curls all around her head. Her nose had a bump on the bridge, smack in the middle, and her eyebrows were dark and heavy. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Much more beautiful than the pale blond Sophie from next door, or Eliza Harrison with her short bob and perky smile. Antoinetta had an air of tragedy around her, like she had already suffered a great deal. Like she was a martyr.
During the Lamb of God part, Antoinetta finally noticed me looking at her and she frowned. Another good thing: She took church seriously. I watched her solemnly walk up to get her communion. If only I were Catholic, I could go up there, too, walking as slow and steady as this girl, head bowed, my mind preparing to receive the body of Christ.
When the mass ended, Antoinetta slid out of the pew so quickly that I had to run to catch her.
“Hey!” I said at the front. “I’m Madeline. Do you want to go get a hot chocolate or something?”
“I’m Antoinetta Calabro,” she said, shaking her head. “My father’s out in the car waiting. He doesn’t come in anymore.”
“He just sits in the car?”
“Ever since my mother died he says he doesn’t believe in church anymore. After he went to San Giovanni Rotundo and made an offering for her to get better and she died, anyway, he says he doesn’t believe in anything anymore.” She sighed. “He will, though. He just needs time. That’s what faith is, right?”
She started to walk out again but I grabbed the sleeve of her beautifully ugly purple coat and stopped her.
“Please,” I said. “Maybe I could come home with you or something. I need to talk to you.”
“To me?” She looked completely surprised, as if no one ever needed to talk to her. I wasn’t letting go, so she shrugged. “Okay,” she said.
Out in front in a big Oldsmobile, Antoinetta’s father was waiting. He had a droopy, sad face, a dead wife, a car that smelled of stale smoke, and a Christmas-tree air freshener. I thought this must be exactly what heaven was like.
I closed the back door firmly and settled in the backseat alone, so happy I practically started humming the Ave Maria, my all-time favorite hymn. Also the only one I knew. When I glanced up, he was staring at me in the rearview mirror, puzzled.
“I’m Madeline Vandermeer,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What are you? Dutch?” he said. His voice was gruff and gravelly.
“A little,” I said. That was one of the oddest questions I’d ever been asked. “Also Scotch, Irish, and German.”
He laughed. “A Heinz 57!”
What a weirdo, I thought. Then I remembered the dead wife and forgave him.
Neither Antoinetta nor her father wore seat belts. I considered unbuckling mine, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. These people were definitely martyrs, I thought. I was practically giddy. From where I sat I had a perfect view of the father’s head. He was mostly bald on top, with just a few strands of black hair. Still, it looked like he had put on some kind of hair cream to keep that little bit in place, and to make it shiny. He reminded me of Sonny Bono, the same hangdog face. Sonny Bono and his wife, Cher, were famous in the 60s, a husband-and-wife singing team who ended up also getting divorced. Then Sonny Bono skied into a tree and died, but by then Cher had married a bunch of other people and Sonny had a wife and a new kid. My parents had all of Sonny and Cher’s albums. On car trips, they used to sing “I Got You, Babe,” my mother singing Cher’s parts and my father singing Sonny’s. My mother got the albums in the divorce, but she doesn’t play them anymore.
“Wasn’t that sad when Sonny Bono died?” I said, because he reminded me of him and also because no one else was saying anything.
“You go to school with Antoinetta?”
“Uh,” I said. “No.”
“I know her from church,” Antoinetta said.
I watched as we passed the State House, which everyone always got so excited about.
“Third largest unsupported dome in the world,” I said, showing off.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mr. Calabro said suspiciously.
“You know, the roof,” I said. “The dome.”
He squinted at me in the rearview mirror and I squirmed. I decided not to tell him the other two, which were the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C., and, my favorite, Saint Peter’s Cathedral in Rome.
We were going past the Castle Cinema, the second-run movie theater on Chalkstone Boulevard. I didn’t know anyone who lived in this part of Providence. It was almost like being in another country. We stopped in front of a three-story blue house. Right there, on the front lawn, a statue of the Virgin Mary was standing in what appeared to be an open oyster shell. A shrine! I was elated.
“I love your house,” I said, and meant it.
Antoinetta’s father looked at me like I was crazy again. Then he went inside.
“So,” Antoinetta said. Then she just stood there in that purple coat. It had big black buttons and every one looked like it was about to fall off.
Even though it was almost Easter, there were still some patches of snow in the front yard and when I talked, puffs of air came out. There was a candle lit in the shrine and some artificial flowers in an empty Fresca bottle.
“What happened to your mother?” I asked her.
“Female trouble,” Antoinetta said.
That sounded really saintly. “Did she have hospice?”
“Nah. The doctor wanted her to but my father kept saying she was going to get better. Because of the miracle, you know? San Giovanni Rotundo.”
I could only nod. Something much larger than me, something divine, had led me to this girl, this house.
“Want to go inside?”
“Yes,” I said so eagerly that Antonietta shook her head.
We walked up three steps into the house, entering a hallway that had lots of boots and coats and umbrellas, two closed doors, and a stairway leading to the second floor.
“We live up there, but it’s Sunday so we go to my grandmother’s,” Antoinetta said. She put her hand on the doorknob, then turned to me. “Are you staying for lunch?”
“Great!” I said. “Thanks.” I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I thought of all the other things I might have been doing today—being forced to read the funnies to Cody or going to the mall with Eliza Harrison, watching her try on clothes at the Gap. But I was here instead. I made a very quick sign of the cross, a thank-you of sorts. I always did them fast because I wasn’t sure I knew the right way.
Antoinetta opened the door onto the most beautiful room I had ever seen. I had seen all kinds of houses that everyone thought were beautiful: the restored Victorians like Sophie’s with their stained glass windows and polished hardwood floors; the modern ones like Eliza Harrison’s with wall-to-wall carpeting and an all-white kitchen; the large Colonials like Nana Vandermeer lived in, all polished silver and heavy antique furniture. But never had I seen anything like this. My powers of observation told me I would never see anything like it again.
We were in the living room and all of the furniture was covered with plastic. Under the plastic, the sofa was maroon; on top of the plastic were round pillows in crocheted covers of gold and white, purple and red, an array of dizzying colors. There were lamps with goddesses dancing around their base and plastic covering the lampshades. Every table had ashtrays, big elaborate orange ones filled with ashes and cigarette butts. The drapes were gold and heavy. In the corner was another saint. I knew it was Saint Francis of Assisi because he was surrounded by animals.
Even though this se
emed to be the biggest room downstairs, everyone was jammed into the kitchen, where smells like the ones at Francesco’s Restaurant in New York floated out. There wasn’t one book in sight, I realized, as I followed Antoinetta to the kitchen. Just a TV Guide sitting on top of the television beside a line of pictures: a wedding photograph, a man in a World War II uniform, and a close-up of a woman who looked like a movie star from the forties, all black-and-white. The soldier’s picture had crystal rosary beads wrapped around it, the silver cross dangling over his right shoulder.
“That’s my uncle Curly,” she whispered. “He died in the war.”
She took me by the elbow and led me into the kitchen. More dazzling sights: an old woman with bobby pins all over her thinning hair, frying sausage at the stove. Small children eating meatballs without any sauce on them, fat babies in rickety high chairs drinking orange juice from sippy cups. Women, all with Antoinetta’s luxuriant black hair and full figures, dressed in stockings and high heels and snug dresses, all with gold crosses around their necks, all talking while they cut spinach pie into slabs, pulled pigs in a blanket from the oven, put slices of homemade pizza on a platter. The men sat around the table, which was covered with heavy yellow plastic, smoking and drinking something clear out of small glasses, not talking, but eating as the food appeared on the table.
“This is my friend Madeline…” Antoinetta paused and looked at me. “Van Mars,” she said finally, and I didn’t even care that she got my name wrong. “We’re going to go upstairs until lunch is ready.”
No! I wanted to tell her. I want to stay here!
“Want to take a piece of pizza?” Antoinetta said, putting two on a pink plastic plate without waiting for an answer. She put some spinach pie on it, too. “Come on.”
Antoinetta and her father and sister’s apartment upstairs was dark and quiet. It smelled stale, like the windows hadn’t been opened in about a hundred years. The quiet up there felt like it had started a long time ago; it made me whisper.
“Want to see a picture of my mother?” Antoinetta said in a normal voice, chewing her pizza.
