And Petal, who seemed to be the calmest woman in the park, turned on Bruce in a rage. “What I tell you?” She seized his upper arm and shook him. “What it is I tell you? How much times me have to tell you, Bruce, don’t call me nanny. You hear, don’t call me nanny. A nanny is a she-goat, Bruce. My name is Petal. P.E.T.A.L. Say it.” She squeezed his arm tight. “Say it.”
Bruce started to cry and said, “Petal.”
The other children looked on, and Ben crawled into my lap. The women too were silent. Ule turned down her mouth.
The lime was over. We said our good-byes, and filed out of the apartment.
I started to talk after the others rode down.
“Hush your mouth,” Ule whispered, cutting her eyes at the Zollers’ front door.
I understood and waited for the elevator to come. Ule rode up to the Bruckners’ floor with me. Pushing the carriage with the ugly baby back and forth, she said, “Don’t mind what you see today. Petal is a good woman, and she love that little boy like she own son.”
“How you could say that, Ule? Bruce is not her son. She shouldn’t talk to the people child like that. And she shake him so rough.” Ben clung with all his limbs around me, and I held him tight.
“I know, I know. But what we going to do? Take bread out we own mouth? Sometimes, child, you just have to wait and see how things work out on they own.”
I didn’t agree with this at all. “And what about Evie? Why she minding my business so? How she know I went upstairs? She’s not even at work at that hour.”
“Child, all I could tell you is watch your self with Evie. That woman know everything that going on in these four towers. Sometimes is best to just sit down and listen and don’t say a word. When name call later on, nobody can’t say you say nothing. And remember too you didn’t come America in no boat. Is fly you fly and come just like the rest of we. You not in no same boat with nobody.”
Ben pulled on my arm again, and I stepped out of the elevator. After the doors closed, he asked, “Why she make Bruce cry, Grace? Bruce is my friend.”
I didn’t have an answer for him, so instead I flipped him squealing onto my back for a jockey ride down the length of the hall.
Chapter 23
Helen and I had a Good Friday tradition. At the stroke of noon we’d each crack a freshly laid egg and drain the white into a glass of pure rainwater, then watch as the swirling albumen shaped itself into a symbol of our future. The ghostly shapes were never quite clear, but we managed to see boats and books and planes and rings and steeples. Our mother warned us that looking for the future was risky, that we could just as easily see an omen of death instead of the adventures we craved, but we never paid her any attention, and we never saw anything suggesting misfortune.
On this Good Friday I was working.
“Don’t you have a skirt?” Miriam asked.
“Sorry, um . . . no,” I said. “I only have jeans here.”
She came back a minute later with a black velvet skirt. “Here, see if this fits.”
I took off my jeans and pulled on the skirt, wishing I had some privacy.
Miriam pinched the sides of the fabric. “Maybe if we pinned it,” she murmured.
“I don’t think so. . . . Miriam, why do you want me to wear a skirt?” I thought her parents might be really strict Jews, that a woman in pants might be too much for them.
“Oh, I don’t care what you wear,” Miriam said, “but my father is old-fashioned. Do you have anything black?”
My turtleneck and the pants I had worn to the interview. “This?” I held up the clothes.
“That’s fine.”
The trip to Miriam’s parents’ house took about twenty minutes. Driving over the bridge, I pointed out to Ben the twin towers of the World Trade Center, the Statue of Liberty, the other bridges spanning the river. But, truly, I was the one who was excited about New York. I had been in America for so long and had seen so little.
From the front seat Sol said, “Grace, you couldn’t fit into Miriam’s skirt?”
Not exactly. “No.”
“I remember when you were as skinny as a strand of spaghetti, Mir.”
I hoped he wouldn’t start with that again, but Miriam didn’t seem to mind. “Grace isn’t expecting baby number two, Sol.”
“My nickname was Bones,” I said.
“When I was a child,” Miriam countered, “my father used to call me Zippo the Human Zipper.”
“Well.” Sol chuckled. “You sure did light my fire.”
“The fireman is my friend,” Ben added.
“Would you like to be a fireman when you grow up, buddy?” I asked.
Ben made siren sounds. “Whoooo whooooo.”
“I guess that’s your answer, Grace,” Sol said. “So, how’s Dave doing? I haven’t seen him since dinner a few weeks ago.”
I’d seen him on Tuesday night for the grand relocation of the papaya. “He’s fine.”
“Do you have a good time up there?” he asked and glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“I want a baby doggy,” Ben said.
The three of us corrected him. “Puppy.”
“So, Grace, do you have a good time up at Dave’s?” It was Miriam’s turn to ask.
“I do. We spend a lot of time working on the plants.”
“That apartment,” Sol said, “has been featured in every home magazine in circulation. They filmed something up there too, once. Has Dave said anything to you about Florida?”
“Not really,” I said. “Just that he used to spend a lot of time down there.”
Miriam pulled on dark sunglasses. “I think it’s fabulous the two of you get along so well.”
“Grace, I’m thirsty,” Ben said.
But Sol had turned in to park.
“Just a minute, mister,” Miriam told him. “We’re at Nonna and Papa’s house.”
THE FIRST THING I noticed was the shrine. In the middle of the yard, in a concrete alcove painted sky blue and surrounded by blooming yellow daffodils, was the Blessed Virgin Mother. Mary’s black hair was parted in the middle under a long white veil, and her hands were clasped in prayer as she looked piously at the ground before her. My mother, with her aversion for graven images, would not have approved. And it wasn’t just this house. All up and down the block were different versions of Jesus’s mother. In the yard on the right, she cradled her newborn son with the idiot Joseph standing nearby. On the left, she held her hands over her heart and gazed toward heaven. And directly across the street, Mary knelt at the foot of her crucified Christ.
Miriam opened the low iron gate. Sol followed with Ben and waited to latch the gate behind me. “Here we go, Grace. The in-laws.”
The door opened before Miriam could knock.
“Ah, Maria, Maria. At last you here.”
Maria?
The woman was tiny and round, her white hair half hidden under a black head scarf. She opened her arms and reached for Miriam, then clasped her own hands together much like the Virgin in her yard.
“Look at you. Look at you, Maria,” she said. “So beautiful.”
“Hi, Mama.” Miriam leaned over to hug her mother. “How are you? How’s Pop? Is everyone here already?”
Her mother held Sol’s upper arms. “Hello, Solomon. How you doing?”
Sol bent deeply and kissed her fallen cheek. “Hello, Mrs. Forgione. Good, good. Good to see you.”
Miriam gave her mother the small, wrapped package she carried. “I brought the nanny. I hope Pop won’t mind?”
Her mother patted my forearm but didn’t answer. Instead, blinking away tears, she reached for Ben. “Benjamin. Come to Nonna.” She smacked her lips, making loud, kissing sounds. Ben buried his face in his father’s neck.
“Don’t you want to say hi to Nonna, buddy?” Sol asked.
He didn’t.
The house was dark, but I could make out the pictures on the walls: formal family portraits that looked like they had been taken at an old-time photo stud
io; more recent pictures of children, posed in school uniforms; religious pictures of saints and the Virgin. Miriam walked through to the kitchen, where the rest of her family waited.
Besides Mrs. Forgione, there were three women in the kitchen. One could have been Miriam’s twin but for her long black braid and manly nose. She even had the same pockmarks on her cheeks, the same healthy plumpness. The second woman looked nothing like the others. She had a dried out, slightly C-shaped body, and fine blond hair and blue eyes. The third woman was a nun.
Mrs. Forgione made a beeline for the stockpot. “Aye, Linda,” she said, “look at that. I told you keep watch, else it boil down too much.”
“Is it ruined, Mama?”
“No, is not ruined, but it could have ruined. You need to watch.” She tapped the corner of her eye.
“Hey, Maria, you look fantastic. Come let me see you.”
“Hi, Sophia. Hi, Irene. Linda, you still can’t make cioppino?” Miriam laughed. Sophia was the nun. Irene was the look-alike. Linda was the other one.
Irene’s voice was the echo of Miriam’s. “Hi, Solomon,” she said. “Hey, Benny. What’s the matter? You don’t want to say hello to Zia Irene?” She turned to Miriam. “Aren’t you hot in that coat, Maria? It’s so warm outside already.”
“Irene,” Sophia said.
“What, Sophia? Alls I’m saying is that it’s hot already. Sam Champion said it was gonna go up to sixty today. It’s a very nice coat.”
“I wish I had a fur coat,” Linda said. “You know how many years already I been asking your cheap brother to buy one for Christmas?”
“How are you, Maria?” Irene asked.
“I’m good, Irene, thanks. Hey, I brought Ben’s nanny. I hope Pop won’t mind.”
The women turned toward me. Sophia said, “And does Ben’s nanny have a name, or do you call her Ben’s nanny?”
“Grace,” I said.
“Hello, ladies,” Sol said. “Where’s Frank and Pino?”
“I don’t think Peter’s going to make it,” Sophia said. “They’re serving Good Friday lunch over at St. Mary’s. Frankie’s in the back helping Pop unwrap the fig.”
“Can I leave this here?” Sol shrugged out of his coat.
“Grace,” Miriam said, “hang Sol’s coat on the hook behind the door. Ben’s too.”
“Do you want me to hang yours also, Miriam?” I asked her.
“Carefully,” she said and passed me the soft fur hot from her body. “What can I do?” She took off her sunglasses and sat down at the table. “Grace, can you get me a glass of water with ice?”
The women looked at each other. Sophia said, “Grace, sit down. I’ll get Maria some water. Do you want anything?”
“No, thank you.”
“Grace, are you from Trinidad?” Sophia asked. Linda was watching the simmering pot, and Irene was tearing iceberg lettuce—the kind Miriam had warned me never to buy.
“One of the sisters at the convent is from Port of Spain. You sound exactly like her.”
“Maria,” Mrs. Forgione said, “help Irene with the salad.”
“It’s all right, Ma. I got it. Sit, Maria,” Irene said.
Except for Mrs. Forgione, no one besides us wore black. Even Sophia’s habit was gray with a white band around the neck.
“So I have some news,” Miriam said.
Linda spun from the pot. Mrs. Forgione shook her head.
“Well . . . tell us,” Sophia said. “What is it?”
“I’m three months pregnant. Fourteen weeks to be exact.”
“Maria, that is truly wonderful news,” Sophia said. “Did you have the bad morning sickness again? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?” She laughed. “But you wouldn’t know so soon yet, or would you?”
“When I was having Frankie junior, I was sick for nine months; every day I threw up,” Linda said.
Mrs. Forgione left the pot and came over to Miriam. “Ah. Look at you. Another baby. Good, good, good.” Then she crouched at her daughter’s feet. “Maria, you know better than this. Why you wear the high heels when you’re having a baby? No good.” She tried to remove Miriam’s shoes, and the other women laughed.
“Mama, stop fussing.” Irene was squeezing lemons into the salad. “Women don’t care anymore. I see them when I go to New York. High heels, tight clothes, the belly hanging out. It’s all fashion now, Ma.”
“When do you ever come to the city?” Miriam said.
“And when are you going to invite me to come to the city? Any of us?”
Sophia clapped her hands, and the heavy silver cross on her bosom jumped. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You two are ridiculous. This is just as bad as when you were children. Grace, do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“A younger sister.”
She was going to ask me something else, but Linda, who had been torn between watching the pot and watching her sisters-in-law, said, “I think it’s ready, Mama.”
Sophia went outside to get the men, Linda went upstairs to round up the children, and Miriam asked Irene and her mother in a low voice, “What about Grace? Should she eat in the kitchen?”
Irene untied her apron. “Oh, don’t be stupid, Maria.”
“Of course she sit at the table,” Mrs. Forgione said, patting my back.
“And what about Pop?”
“It’s Easter,” Irene said. “Pop can deal.”
In the dining room, I understood where Miriam’s passion for figurines had come from. Mrs. Forgione didn’t have just animals. Her collection included children at play and at rest, globes and trees and crosses, fruits and vegetables, little glass houses and big glass castles, glass hats. The centerpiece was a clear glass sacred heart, topped by a doubly dangerous glass crown of thorns. The new piece that Miriam had brought in the wrapped box, a crystal spray of roses, sat in the middle of the table between the pots of real Easter lilies.
The Forgione dining table was built to accommodate family feasts: Linda, Frankie, and their three children; Miriam, Sol, and Ben; Irene, Sophia, Mr. and Mrs. Forgione; and me. Before we sat, Miriam said, “Pop, this is Ben’s nanny. Grace.”
He grunted.
“Since Pino not here,” Mrs. Forgione said, “Sophia, you bless the table.”
She bowed her head and prayed, first thanking God for the sacrifice and resurrection of his son, Jesus. Next she thanked God for her mother and her father, and for the family together again at this table. She even thanked him for bringing me to break bread with them. She then inserted a special plea to God to watch over Frankie as he patrolled the streets of New York. She asked him to bless all the children, including the one Miriam carried. And then they all joined in for grace, the one we said at school. “Bless us, our Lord, and these thy gifts, which we . . .” The words came easily; I joined in too “. . . are about to receive . . .” I opened my eyes a little. All their heads were bowed as Sophia went on, except for Ben, who looked at everyone, and Sol, who caught me looking around and winked. Miriam’s head hung down, her slim nose slicing out from between a panel of dyed blond hair. “. . . through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Mrs. Forgione grabbed my forearm. “Grace, you Catholic?”
“Anglican, but I went to Catholic school.”
Mrs. Forgione squeezed my forearm tighter. “Never mind that. You teach this blessing to Benjamin, make him say before he eat breakfast, lunch, dinner.”
From the other end of the table, Miriam said, “Mama.”
Sophia, who I realized had the role of peacemaker, said, “Come on, these kids are starving. Let’s eat already.”
Miriam and her father sat side by side, and throughout lunch they talked mostly to each other, and to Frankie, the policeman. Toward the end of the meal, Mr. Forgione leaned over to Miriam and said something so funny that she spat out some food. She laughed and apologized, using an embroidered napkin to dab at her chin.
“Well”—Sophia looked at their end of the table—“are you going to tell the rest of us what was so fu
nny?”
“What’s the jokey, Mom?” Ben asked.
We waited, but Miriam said, “It’s nothing. Finish up eating. I know Mama has ricotta cheesecake for dessert. Right, Mama?” She was still laughing.
“Come on,” Linda said, “Pop. Tell us your joke already.”
Mr. Forgione looked right at me. “It wasn’t even that funny. Alls I said to Miriam was that I didn’t like eggplant. Never liked it all my life.”
Miriam laughed again, and so did Linda and Frankie. Sol let out a long sigh. Irene shook her head, and I didn’t think that Mrs. Forgione even heard what her husband had said. The kids, not getting it, looked at everyone, and Ben asked, “What’s eggplant, Mom?”
“Okay,” Sophia said to the children, “you guys are excused. But no cheesecake if you don’t play nice.” Then she wagged her finger at her father. “And you, Pop. Be-have.”
Chapter 24
Had my egg white in rainwater foretold my days in America, neither my mother nor I would have been able to decipher the signs. On the day of the Seder, I got off the subway one stop before Ettie’s to see more of New York. The rains had washed the city clean of its winter stains. Daffodils and tulips bloomed where before had lain craggy formations of black snow and ice. The sun was warm, not hot yet, but I felt a deeper thaw in the chill that had been in my bones for ages.
I stopped to look in a shop window where mannequins were decked out in miniskirts and shorts and polo jerseys in pastel blues and pinks and greens. One wore an orange halter with white strings. I swear she called out to me by my name. I answered her and walked into the shop. Immediately a saleswoman approached. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, thank you.” This was not Conway. The clothes here were neatly folded and spaced on shelves mounted to the walls. The music here was soft, just a man singing in Spanish accompanied by a plucking guitar. The saleswoman, who looked like a fashion model, raised her perfect eyebrows and asked, “Is there anything special you’re looking for?”
I was glad I’d taken care getting dressed, and had lined my eyes with the last nub of liner I had. “I’d like to see the top on the mannequin, please.”
Minding Ben Page 21
