Stir Until Petrified

by Theda Vallee

  “Geez! She’s such a freaking general. Stop moving for two seconds and you’re lazy.” Nerina was smart enough to finally whisper before letting her thoughts about Nonna out.

  The sun started to sink into the ocean behind us when we moved the last pile of candles into the courtyard. As if on cue Aunt Sophia burst through the back gate her small, plump body moving with a litheness you wouldn’t think she was capable of. Her arrival was heralded by shrill screams of panic. It was obvious she had some sort of urgent issue as was always the case with her.

  “Alba, please a talking with you.” Aunt Sophia stood wringing her hands.

  How she’d never obtained a full command of the English or Italian language remained a mystery. She’d been raised in Palermo Bay, a change of life baby, born after our family fled Italy in the wake of the world war. English was supposed to be her first language. Sweat glistened on her brow as she stood at the back-door panting. Despite the overall disheveled look she usually presented, there was something strangely ethereal about her. She had brown eyes with soft flecks of espresso across her iris. Either her hair hadn’t started to gray yet, or she was masterful at dying it. Regardless, it was beautiful as it cascaded down her back in soft chestnut ripples. She reminded me of an angel gone rogue. All the elements for perfection were there, she just didn't care to do anything with them.

  “Per favore, Sophia, lasciami in pace.” Nonna stood in the doorway of the house, glaring at her younger sister.

  “Alba, please. I think Albert Savini gave me malocchio at church this morning. I need you check and remove for me.” She clasped her hands pleading with her sister.

  She was certain she’d been given the evil eye at least once a week. I had no idea why she thought so many people wanted to curse her. Poor Aunt Sophia hated coming to her sister for help. Nonna was not very forgiving of her many paranoias. Despite years of effort Aunt Sophia wasn’t adept in the healing arts. I once watched her turn a woman’s palms purple trying to complete a basic wart removal. Without being able to perform the simplest of spells, Nonna was her only option.

  “Aunt Sophia, I think Albert Savini is just crossed eyed.” Nerina smiled at our aunt.

  “No, dear. He tells me I had a lovely blouse and then he gave me the look. I may be old, but I know when someone wants to curse me. Please, Alba. You can’t let me walk around like this. Who knows what can be happening to me.” Her wail of despair was enough to wake the dead. One more thing for the neighbors to stare at.

  “Mama, he was flirting with you. I’ve been telling you for weeks that man has a thing for you. You don't need to bother Zia about this.” From the tone of Gia’s voice, I assumed this conversation had happened many times before.

  “Si sono frustranti. Come inside. I will of course drop everything I’m doing to check you for malocchio once again! Come along mia sorella. Let us get this over with.”

  Nonna would help her sister, but she wasn’t going to be happy about it. Aunt Sophia bounded after Nonna into the house, relief written in every step. We followed behind rank and file. Checking for malocchio was a simple process but could only be performed by an expert. Nerina moved into the kitchen swiftly gathering the materials we’d need. This was a ritual we’d performed hundreds of times in our lives. Finally, something we knew how to deal with today.

  Nerina placed a wooden bowl on the table in front of Nonna. She filled the bowl halfway with purified water before placing a small bottle of olive oil next to it. An iron knife was set across the top of the bowl. Simple, normal everyday things that when combined allowed magic to happen.

  “Give me your hand.” Nonna grabbed Aunt Sophia’s hand without waiting for her to comply. With one hand she deftly removed the stopper from the bottle of oil. Tilting the bottle ever so slightly she allowed a single drop to fall onto Aunt Sophia’s outstretched finger. Guiding her finger over the bowl Nonna held it horizontal, willing the drop of oil to slide from Aunt Sophia’s skin into the bowl. Nonna chanted softly in Italian as the drop slowly made its way into the water. We held our breaths watching the still reflection in the bowl, waiting for the telltale rings to appear. If the drop caused ripples, it was a sign that the person was indeed cursed. The number of rings in the ripple would tell us how bad the curse was.

  The water in the bowl didn’t move. Not even the hint of a curse. I wondered what she’d do if she was ever actually cursed. That was something I hoped none of us ever had to deal with.

  “Oh, thank goodness. Thank you, mia sorella. Maybe the charm Nerina made for me is working then? I could have sworn, though. I mean you did not see the way he looked at me. If you had seen it, your doubts would not be happening now.”

  “You stop me from my work for nothing. Pazzo! Molto Pazzo! Since you have interrupted everything, we might as well have dinner. Girls, set the table. Gia, you help me in the kitchen. You can use a break from your madre pazzo.” Nonna continued to mumble about her crazy sister as we left to the set the table.

  “It’s OK, Zia. You know, Gia’s probably right. He was complimenting you. I don’t usually realize when someone’s complimenting me either.” I patted her hand. She was crazy, but she was my family.

  “Yeah, you’re pretty smoking hot. I’m surprised you don’t have all the single fellas at church following you home,” Nerina chimed in.

  “Oh no. No one has looked at me like that in years. I would not even know how to make a flirt now.” From the gleam in her eye she’d certainly like to try.

  “Nerina can give you some pointers on flirting. She’s the expert. Right, Nerina? You can teach Auntie here how to flirt. Maybe next time she sees Albert, she’ll have something to say when he compliments her.”

  “Oh, that would be fun. Yes, Nerina, you teach me to make flirt.” The look of panic on Nerina’s face was well worth any retribution she’d have for me later. I set the table listening to the torture that was teaching Aunt Sophia to flirt. If managed to try any of these tactics, poor Albert Savini might have a heart attack.

  Gia came into the dining room carrying a steaming bowl of sauce. My stomach grumbled in appreciation. Hours of work had left me famished. Nonna followed behind with two more bowls. One was heaped with meat that had been simmering in the sauce all day. Meatballs and pork chops so tender you could cry. The other bowl was brimming with homemade mostaccioli noodles. We never bought noodles from the grocery store. That would be tantamount to sacrilege in our home. Every Saturday Nonna sat at the kitchen table late into the night rolling out the dough in preparation of Sunday dinner. It was a long tedious process to make noodles from scratch, but it was a labor of love she was not willing to give up.

  Another trip to the kitchen produced loaves of bread fresh from the oven. Pats of real butter lay on a plate softened enough to spread easily. A salad was brought out to serve as the encore to our carb fueled meal. I sat down ready to dive in. One would think that a girl would lose her appetite under the circumstances, but when you’re Italian eating was one of the tried and true ways of dealing with anything. Have a bad day? Eat. Have a good day? Eat. It was how you made everything right in the world.

  The food would fill my belly, but the ritual of the dinner would refuel my soul. It brought me comfort knowing my father had sat at this table as a child eating the same food, reciting the same prayers. Every Massoni who’d come before me enjoyed this same meal, time and again as far back as memory could be traced. Eating dinner on Sunday was like sitting down to the savory history of where you’d come from and who you were.

  “Amen.” Nonna’s voice echoed across the table signaling it was time to eat. I dove in, unashamed to shovel it down in front of those I loved. Being Italian allowed you to eat with reckless abandon. No one at this table would ever judge me for how high my plate was piled. The clinking of silverware on plates was the only sound that could be heard over our slurping. It was the first time all day that I felt at ease. I was here, in my home with my family. I allowed myself to soak in the love of the women around me. We we
re a small family. We were messy. We could fight with each other like nobody’s business, but Gia was right; we had each other’s back no matter what the world threw at us.

  “I have heard Osservatori is in town.” Aunt Sophia’s jarring words shattered the silence making the delicious pasta turn to sawdust in my mouth. My head flew up searching for Nerina’s reaction. Her wine glass was frozen in midair, stopped on its mission to her lips.

  “Auntie, you shouldn't spread rumors. You’re going to freak people out.” Nerina punctuated her sentence by chugging her glass of wine.

  “I heard it from Mr. Pretto this morning. He wanted me to say to you, in case.”

  “Mama, what exactly did Mr. Pretto say?” Gia measured each word, trying very hard to look like she was just humoring her crazy mother.

  “He said the network had notified him that the Osservatori arrived in town sometime this night. No one knows why, but it is concerning, no?”

  That did not bode well. Mr. Pretto owned the meat shop down the street. He wasn’t the kind of man prone to spreading rumors. His granddaughter was a vampiro or vampire. He kept in contact with an underground network that warned people when the Osservatori were on the move. Shannon, his granddaughter, had been attacked by a rogue gang of vampiro’s several years ago. They’d almost completely drained her of blood before leaving her for dead. Santiago, a vampiro who’d lived among us peacefully had gotten there too late to save her. He’d done what he could to bring her back from the edge of death, but he’d accidentally turned her in the process. She was a nice girl for a bloodsucker but vampiro were always suspect numero uno when an unsolved murder popped up in town. Mr. Pretto had as much reason to fear the Osservatori as we did.

  The thing that made the Osservatori so frightening was their unprecedented power over us. They believed anyone who stepped out of line was a danger. Most things that were supposed to be urban legends were real, and the general population wasn't ready to swallow that news. Our kind had struck an uneasy alliance with the world leaders long ago. The Osservatori had been created to help enforce that alliance. They were the agency in charge of making sure anyone who was considered in the realm of myth towed the line. Legend and rumor about the organization sent everyone’s minds into a frenzy when they showed up in town. I was no exception. Especially after last night. Their rulings were absolute. If they said you were guilty, you were.

  “You need to be careful, miei amori. You’re not licensed. That can be guilty enough, no?” Aunt Sophia’s eyes rested on me. As did everyone at the table. I tried desperately not to jump up and run for my life. I’d already decided I’d take whatever was coming for me. It wasn’t the time to chicken out now. “You know the stories. People taken from homes. Disappeared never to see lights again. You're not registered. That is like waving a flag of defiance in their faces.”

  Anyone with magic or who fell into the category of non-human had to register with the Osservatori. I had no intention of using my magic, so I’d never registered. Registered or not they had to know I existed it was their business to know these things. It could all be a coincidence. The Osservatori shows up in town the day after I body slam someone with my magic. They could have a thousand different reasons to be here aside from that. Would they really waste time and resources over something so trivial? Or they could be here for me in which meant I was about to spend some lonely days behind bars trying to teach a mouse tricks in my prison cell. I filled my wine glass to the brim. It could be my last glass. I might even have two cups of pannacotta for dessert tonight. Who cares how big your ass is in prison?

  “I’m sure we have nothing to worry about, Auntie. It’s not like I tried to kill someone with my magic yesterday.” I attempted to laugh like I was the queen of wit. I chugged the wine in one swallow. We were so screwed.

  Chapter

  3

  It’d been a week since I’d body slammed Bob the Cancer. Seven sleepless nights holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mr. Pretto made it a point to walk his yappy Pomeranian past our bakery every morning, offering a grim nod as he passed. His nod, a defiant signal to let us know the Osservatori were still in town. The waiting left me unable to sleep. Insomnia was turning me into a wraith, wandering the halls at night trying desperately to calm the magic bubbling in fear just under my skin. Nonna had stopped talking to me yesterday, because as my sister so loving pointed out, my only form of communication was a snarl. I’m not sure what she expected. I was terrified, exhausted, and feeling extremely sorry for myself. Life hadn’t been kind to me. This was just the final nail in a lifetime of crappy things that happened to Etta Massoni.

  As if sleepless nights of terror weren’t enough punishment, I was stuck working the front counter today. This was supposed to be Nerina’s job. Instead, Nerina was wrapped up in the fifth love related disaster of the day. Most weeks we had one or two people walk in the door looking for help. Of course, the week when I’m having my own crisis everyone wanted to join the party.

  Nerina was currently in the kitchen consoling a petite woman in her mid-thirties. She’d stood at our back door sobbing uncontrollably for fifteen minutes before she could tell us why she was here. Apparently, the love of her life and father of her five children had asked for a divorce last night. It’d come as a complete shock to her. They’d been happily married for sixteen years, at least as far as she was concerned. Last night he took her to get a burger, insisting she order from the value menu. Once they sat down he’d proceeded to tell her he wasn’t happy and wanted out. The least he could’ve done was thrown down a few dollars for a decent meal.

  Naturally she was devastated, looking for any bit of hope to cling to. She’d come to Nerina to see if there was some magic that would help save her marriage to the cheap cowardly bastard she loved. We’d ushered her into our family kitchen to see what solace we could offer. Half of what Nerina did for her clients was just listen. They needed someone who wouldn't judge them. Someone who had no stake in their life. No matter how close you are with your friends and family they’re going to have their own ideas about your situation. It’s human nature. So Nerina would listen. After listening she’d give out sage words of wisdom, which even though she was young and had never been married, people seemed to take like gospel. Usually we’d send them away with something that smelled delicious but had no more magic in it than a bar of soap. Usually the combination of pep talks, and placebo magic was enough to help a person work out their own issues. If they insisted on something more or had already tried our first remedy, Nerina would turn to her spells.

  Love, sex, passion, or desire were all things that she excelled in, but magic of the heart was a tricky beast. You could make someone want you or stay when they wanted to leave but in the end, you could never make someone love you. Love was its own magic and no spell could counteract what was or was not there. It could only mimic it, which is why it was always a last resort.

  While Nerina worked her mojo, someone had to give the masses their pastries. So here I stood grumbling at the bakery counter willing the bell over the door to stay silent. We needed the customers, but I was willing to lose a few dollars if it meant I didn't have to interact with anyone today. I didn't want to smile while customers made small talk.

  As I restocked the cases the bell over the door rung. I cursed under my breath. If it wasn’t the Osservatori, I’d force myself to get through a five-minute conversation. If someone took longer than five minutes to pick a pastry, they weren’t getting served today.

  I looked up to see Father Lopez stroll up to the counter. He’d arrived for his afternoon freebie. The priest knew about the services we provided to the community. He didn't necessarily condone what we did, but he didn't make an issue over it either. Having served in Texas for many years he was used to the curandero, they were the Latin counterpart to our Italian healers. Perhaps he’d seen things with the curandero that he couldn't explain. That tends to make someone a little more flexible with their beliefs. Free pastries didn'
t hurt our cause either.

  “Hello, Etta. Are you working all alone this afternoon?”

  “Just for a bit. Nerina had a few errands to run. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. What can I get you today, Father?”

  “Are you OK? I noticed at church yesterday you didn't seem to be feeling well and today you look less than yourself,” he asked with a kindly smile on his face.

  Great. Even he’d noticed I looked like crap. Bags had taken up residence under my eyes. I was wearing my oldest pair of sweatpants. The material had become so soft from years of washing that they were almost translucent. My t-shirt had a kitten on the front with a cute little pout and it said, “This is my happy face.” A lumpy ponytail caked with flour topped off the walking disaster look I was rocking. He reached across the counter like he was going to grasp my hand. My face must have given him the impression that it was a bad idea, because he stopped before making contact.

  “We’ve been really busy here the last few weeks. I’m sure I just need a few hours’ sleep to get back to normal. So, what can I get for you this afternoon, Father? The biscotti are fresh. We also have some of those ricotta cheese cookies you love.” I plastered a half-assed smile on my face willing this to end quickly.

  “Ricotta cheese cookies sound lovely. They’re a little bit on the sinful side. I’ll have to say a few extra prayers tonight to make up for it.” He winked at me, as if we were co-conspirators in his decadent cookie crime. “It’s actually very fortunate that I caught you alone this afternoon. Your grandmother’s been by to see me again about your marriage. She believes you could receive an annulment given the circumstances. She’s urged me to consider pleading your case to the diocese.”

  Father Lopez tried to give me his best sympathetic face. My hand shook as I tried to handle the tongs to pull the cookies from the case. Nonna wanted me to apply for an annulment. She knew if I was still married I’d never be able to fully move on. Her well-meant meddling was not appreciated today. “Thank you, Father, but it’s not something I am interested in right now.”