The Patron Saint of Ugly (20 page)

Something glinted before me in the dark-haired row of Italian children: Nicky’s blond head in the noonday sun.

I wasn’t privy to what was going on behind the scenes, but I imagine that as we processed, the Four Stooges slunk into an alley and clambered up the fire escape to the connected store roofs of the Italian side of the street, with their leader, Moe, wearing a white sailor’s hat. They carried burlap sacks as they wove through chimneys and pipes and crouched behind the three-foot-high brick façade of Italia Imports. The Stooges opened their sacks filled with hundreds of overripe tomatoes, Moe seething as he said, “We’ll teach Map Face not to stand up for Nigger Toe.”

Three minutes before noon, just as Father Luigi stopped in front of the basin, the Stooges lined up tomatoes on the ledge. The obedient nuns halted immediately but the inattentive children banged into one another like bumper cars; the ushers had a difficult time stopping their carts, and the two Brigids and I lurched precariously forward and back before tipping into place.

Father Luigi held up a starter pistol, finger on the trigger as the town clock ticked toward twelve o’clock.

Nicky later told me that it was at that point he looked longingly at La Strega’s house and imagined her library, which he still hadn’t seen. When he dragged his eyes away he spotted something bobbing on the top of Italia Imports, a white sailor’s cap, then the top of the other Stooges’ heads, and, most significant, a row of plump ammunition. He assessed the situation and followed the goons’ line of sight to find their target: the Saint Brigid Queen.

Nicky started jostling toward me through the children, looking up at Moe, who pointed to the clock only seven ticks away from high noon. As Father Luigi’s finger began depressing the trigger, all four goons stood and cocked their arms in my direction.

Nicky pushed children out of the way and stepped onto my cart. Initially I was angry at him for stealing my limelight. I lifted the veil. “What are you doing?”

“Get down!”

“What?”

Nicky looked up at the clock. It was exactly noon. Father Luigi squeezed the trigger, and at the same moment it fired, the Stooges lobbed their pulpy grenades. With superhero strength, Nicky sprang from the cart step and shot upward in front of me, acting as a spindly shield. I shouted, “What’s going on?” as church bells began ringing.

Nicky took the first hit to the side of his face; the red gunk splattered into his ear, streaked his hair. The second hit him squarely in the back, the third his left butt cheek, the fourth his right calf. He was propelled completely over the cart and onto the other side, where he landed headfirst on the concrete sidewalk and was knocked unconscious.

I leaped down, protected from the red volley by the cart, and knelt beside Nicky, who lay belly-down. I opened my arms wide, looked up at the goons still firing into the crowd, and bellowed, “Why? Why?”

A photojournalist for the
Sweetwater Herald
snapped a picture of me kneeling over Nicky that looked amazingly similar to the one John Filo would take eight years later of Mary Ann Vecchio kneeling over that dead Kent State boy.

Their original target protected, the Stooges began firing at random into the children: irresistible, pristine targets. Parents dove into the mêlée to grab their youngsters and drag them to safety. The unflappable nuns surrounded Father Luigi, who cowered with his hands covering his (and Abe Lincoln’s) head as the church bells clanged and clanged.

TAPE ELEVEN

Mirror, Mirror

Archibald
,

I’m being a naughty girl while Nonna and Betty are at the village beauty parlor. Betty
finally
convinced Nonna to have her hair styled, for the first time in her life. A horde of photographers has camped outside, flashbulbs flaring every time we sneeze, so Betty wants us to look perpetually photo-ready. The paparazzi increase daily thanks to you, Padre. Did you really have to speak with Mike Wallace?

I’m hiding in the Packard inside the carriage house ogling the empty space where Aunt Betty’s Corvette is usually parked, my gift to her when she passed her driver’s test last year. Just how many Hail Marys do I have to recite as penance for the half o’ cake I just snarfed down that I don’t want to share with my roomies?

I receive dozens of packages every month containing photos of loved ones’ maladies for me to pray over, toddlers’ nightgowns for me to bless, dog collars so I might heal Rover’s and Fido’s mange. Occasionally I get a thank-you parcel, like this German-chocolate marvel, for some healing that’s been pinned on me.

I have an insatiable sweet tooth, a venial sin at least. During my early years I devoured penny candy from Flannigan’s until a horrid association left it forever unpalatable to me. The first years of my life, my baked confections came mostly from Nonna (and Annette Funicello), but there was a brief spell when I considered her cannolis too provincial for my palate.

It started after the Saint Brigid’s Day Massacre when, thanks to my brother, I was the only kid who walked away un-tomatoed. Nicky sported a bump on his noggin from hitting the sidewalk. That earned him the prize of setting the box fan in his bedroom during his convalescence. In my view he deserved an even richer reward.

A week after the massacre I slipped into Nicky’s room, where he sat at his desk reading about flame-retardant clothing. He must have felt my breath on his neck because he turned around. “What do you want?”

I cleared my throat, though I couldn’t believe what I was about to propose. “I think we should go see La Strega’s library.”

Nicky was also stunned, his head jerking up, but such was the depth of my gratitude.

“You know she wants to show it off and you’re the only person who can appreciate it.”

His mouth started to form the word
no
, so I pressed on.

“Radisson won’t care. I saw him at the festival and I could tell he was proud of what you did to save me.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes!” It was a lie. “You have redeemed yourself!” That line had sounded so much better during rehearsal.

“You think so?”

“I do.” I revved up my nerve so I could bolster Nicky’s. “Let’s go right now.”

Amazingly, Nicky stood in front of his mirror to check his teeth.

Mom was in the kitchen mixing cream soup and canned tuna together. I coughed to camouflage the jumble of Nonna’s protective amulets rattling in my pocket; I’d gathered them from my room. “Where are you going?” she asked. Nicky hadn’t been outside since the festival.

“For a walk. Nicky could use some fresh air”—words Dad had spoken the previous night while he smoked his cigar on the porch and Mom darned a sock.

“Sounds wonderful.” She crumbled potato chips over the casserole.

Outside, Nicky and I spiraled up to La Strega’s intercom button. I thought we were going to have to play one-potato, two-potato.

“You go.”

“No, you.”

“No, you.”

Mercifully, the carriage-house door opened and out came Radisson steering a wheelbarrow filled with potted begonias. Nicky inched behind me as Radisson approached and set down the barrow.

“Good afternoon, miss.” He looked over his shoulder to see if La Strega was watching from her parlor window. She was. “And sir.”

Before I lost my nerve I said, “Radisson, Nicky would like to see the library if that’s okay.”

Radisson groaned as if he could already predict how this would end. Ever obedient, however, he walked to one of those stone pillars, opened a door on its back, reached in, and pulled out a telephone. “Master Nicky and Miss Garnet would like to see the library.”

A pause as he listened and the parlor drapes rippled.

Radisson hung up, pressed a secret button, and the gate clanked open. “Madame will be happy to receive Master Nicholas, and Miss Garnet is also welcome.”

I waited for Nicky to correct his name, but he didn’t.

Nicholas stepped onto La Strega’s property, but I couldn’t move. “Come on,” he said.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to.” And truly, it was as if the soles of my shoes were slathered with tar.

Radisson shot me a look that conveyed the message
You’re making the right decision
.

Nicky adjusted his collar, flattened his hair. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

As my brother walked toward the house, extra vertebrae seemed to appear in his spine, making him taller and taller. By the time he reached the house, he stood nine feet and had to duck to clear the gargoyles. I wished I’d slipped some
tocca ferro
charms into Nicky’s pocket.

Radisson dipped into the wheelbarrow and pulled out a begonia. “For you, miss.” Then he whispered something that sounded like “Run like the wind, Miss Garnet! Fly like the wind!”

I raced to our house, whirred up the blinds in Nicky’s room, and squinted up at the mansion where my brother was being versed in black magic.

An hour later, he returned with two books under his arm:
Oliver Twist
and
Great
Expectations
. At the time I didn’t understand their significance.

Thus began Nicky’s education under the direction of La Strega. For an hour each week she grilled him on his assigned reading and stuffed him with cookies. He smuggled back handfuls in his pocket for me, doughy sweets shaped like strawberries and pears and sprinkled with clear sugar. I wasn’t expecting graft to keep his secret from Mom and Dad. We could both imagine their reactions if they knew about his forays.

Initially I was afraid to eat La Strega’s food, which I imagined was laced with gopher piss and newt eyes, but they were too pretty to resist, those leaves made out of white chocolate.

Every week I hid in my closet and inspected each one before popping it into my mouth. I began to crave those pieces of heaven,
x
-ing out days on the calendar until I would get my next fix. I’m ashamed to admit that during that time, when Nonna visited with a shirt box filled with cannolis, centered it on the kitchen table, and pulled off the lid, I didn’t squeal as I usually did. Suddenly they looked clunky and unrefined. “Provincial,” Nicky declared, scraping away from the table. “So crude,” I added, getting up to leave, grabbing two cannolis so I would understand what provincial tasted like. I’m glad I didn’t look at Nonna’s face just then.

Nicky started bringing home, in addition to cookies, trinkets La Strega had given him: a porcelain figure of a bowing, golden-haired boy in knickers, one arm trailing behind him, a hand clutching a plumed hat. Very much like the boy in the painting in the whippet room. “It’s a Hummel,” Nicky said, apparently implying that it had real value.

I was not impressed. “Gee. Wonder who this is supposed to be?”

I didn’t envy him that statue, but I lusted after the fountain pen that sucked ink from a bottle. With it came a box of stationery. “Like you ever write letters.” Over the next months he accrued a chess set with marble rooks and pawns, a key chain and money clip, tie tacks and cuff links, and hand-painted Chinese teacups.

When fall came La Strega started buying him clothes. A sleeveless sweater vest that screamed:
Punch me!
Argyle socks with diamonds running up the shaft. Dress shirts with button-down collars. Silk neckties. Every punk in the neighborhood, including all the Stooges, would have slammed Nicky with mud balls if he ever wore one of those getups in public. And that was the irony. He never could wear any of it outside. He had to hide them in the back of his closet. When Mom and Dad were out, however, he’d play dress-up, marching from gilt mirror to mirror to practice his new manners. “I’ll take two, thank you. Please pass the cream.”

Several times during those months I found Dad staring at his son, because dress shirts weren’t the only things Nicky pulled from his closet. He donned an invisible crown bejeweled with superiority. He started taking potshots at our Italian heritage, Dad’s profession, even the roof over our heads. “God, we live in a dump.” How easily my brother had succumbed.

Dad and I were suddenly peons. At supper, Nicholas groused about our misplaced elbows and propensity to slurp. After the fourth correction Dad and I simultaneously blurted out, “Geez.” We looked at each other, both stunned by our shared sentiment. Dad picked up his coffee mug and extended his pinkie. I did likewise with my milk glass, and then Dad let out one of his juicy burps. I laughed so hard I nearly peed as I savored that blissful moment.

“How vulgar.” Nicholas retired to the living room with the Sunday crossword, though he no longer lay belly-down on the rug to do it. Instead, he sat in a wingback and snapped the paper’s spine to attention as if he were a stockbroker.

That Thanksgiving he couldn’t resist breaking out his new togs. Dinner would be at Uncle Dom’s, and Nicky boldly wore the starched dress shirt, silk tie, and sweater vest.

“Where’d you get that outfit?” Mom asked as we slid on our old coats, a Saran-Wrapped bowl of orange-cranberry salad in her arms.

Nicky spouted a well-rehearsed lie. “Grandma Iris gave it to me last year for Christmas. Don’t you remember?”

Mom’s brow furrowed. It was absolutely a costume Zelda would have given him.

Dad eyeballed his son with a look that begged
Who are you?
Only I knew the answer: Czar Nicholas, a boy tethered to La Strega by a golden rope, a boy who was counting the days until she could tug him up for good.

We piled in the car to drive to Grover Estates, and for the first time I thought Nicky looked as if he belonged in that pricey subdivision. Uncle Dom laughed at the getup. “Who are you supposed to be, bucko?” Betty tugged Nicky’s earlobe. “I think you look handsome. Like a real gentleman.” I could tell she meant it by the pained look in her eyes as she no doubt considered the toads she had to live with. As if on cue, Ray-Ray farted. He was leaning against the china cabinet popping cocktail wieners in his mouth. When the adults weren’t looking, he flicked a wiener at Nicky’s sweater. Nicky dodged it, but Ray-Ray pointed a finger and mouthed,
You’re in for it
. Nicky started reciting a chronology of execution devices. Back home he stood at the bathroom sink for an hour scrubbing grass stains, not cocktail-wiener sauce, from the sweater.