The Patron Saint of Ugly (18 page)

The wound-up students, which included me, were let loose, and by the end of the month we had turned every Sweetwater citizen upside down by the ankles and jangled the last coins from pockets or bra—excepting only one spooky hill resident, whom no one had the courage to approach.

It was a Friday when Sister Barnabas gathered the students in the cafeteria, her wimple looking particularly bright against her rosacea. Beside her, the statue of Mary was propped on a table next to a fishbowl filled with ticket stubs.

Sister clapped her hands to stifle our chatter. “I’d like to introduce our special guest, who will relay the results of the raffle: Father Luigi O’Malley!”

Father rushed in bowing, Abe Lincoln jiggling on the side of his face. He paused beside the statue and bellowed, “I’m delighted to report that you sold nearly twenty-five hundred tickets.”

A collective roar rose from the students.

“And now I’m going to draw the winner of this magnificent prize.”

He tugged up his sleeve and reached deep inside the bowl. “And the winner is . . .” He jumbled the tickets interminably as I gripped my chair in the fifth-grade section. Nonna had been praying fervently for the statue, and with me as a sainted granddaughter, she felt certain she would win. She had even cleared a spot for it in her Fiore Pergusa garden, and after weeks of pestering she had coerced Grandpa into pouring a two-foot-square concrete slab to offer it a stable foundation. Though Grandpa grumbled, Celeste Xaviero overheard Nonna offer her ultimate threat: “God give me the
profezia
and if you no comply that slab will be the death of-a you!” My superstitious grandpa complied.

Finally Father pulled out the winning ticket and announced: “Maureen Pasquali!”

That’s right. Annette Funicello. My father’s crush, the woman whose daughter was more of a daughter to him than I was.

A scream from the first-grade section as Mary Ellen jumped up and down. “We won! We won! We won!”

I remember thinking:
Boy, did you ever
. Fluorescent lights overhead began sputtering, but Father squelched that with his next declaration. “I have in my hand the name of the pupil who sold the most tickets.”

I again held on to my chair because I hoped it would be me. After all, so many hill nonnas had slipped me their quarters along with the holy medals and scapulars for me to bless. Even in my nonbelief, I didn’t mind offering a few gibberish words if it would sell more tickets.

“And that person is Nicky Ferrari!”

Well, of course. When all those mothers were down to their last coins and it was between Nicky and their dung-beetle children, Nicky batted his aquamarines and skipped off with the loot in his mitt.

A wave of shrieks from the girls, a thunder of groans from the boys. I spun around to scan the sixth-grade section. Nicky’s face was an odd mixture of delight in winning and mortification at having to walk up the aisle to collect his prize. Girls fanned their faces as he passed; boys hissed and lobbed spitballs. I bet in his head, Nicky was reciting various inventions in body armor. When he arrived, Father handed him a twelve-by-fourteen-inch framed reproduction of the most gruesome, flesh-ripped, thorn-pierced crucified Jesus I had ever seen. Several first-graders began sobbing. My hand instinctively clamped over the locket beneath my shirt so that I could shield Jesus’s eyes the way I wanted to shield mine, and also Nicky’s, since he looked as if he were about to puke as he stumbled back to his seat.

Then Father delivered the bad news. Even after our doe-eyed coercion, we were still six hundred and seventy-five dollars shy of the price tag on the bells.

We slunk back to our classrooms deflated, but after school, as Nicky and I ran down the hall, Sister Barnabas stepped out of her office directly into our paths. We skidded to a stop to keep from knocking her down like a bowling pin.

“May I see you two in my office?” She ran her hands along the wooden rosary beads at her waist that still had dents from my teething. I wasn’t afraid of her office; that’s where I had sought refuge those first difficult school years. I had also been sequestered there during various geography tests, since I was a virtual, if somewhat scrambled, cheat sheet. Nicky, however, quivered and mumbled something about bamboo shoots and fingernails.

We sank into the visitors’ chairs and Sister sat across from us teetering a swizzle stick from Dino’s Lounge between her finger and thumb.

“Nicky, I want to congratulate you on selling the most raffle tickets, and because of that I have a special assignment. As you know, we need several hundred more dollars to buy the bells, and there is only one person with that kind of money.”

I knew where this spiraling path was leading. “La Strega!” I yelled. “We can’t go up there. She’s a witch!”

Sister jiggled her swizzle stick. “She is no such thing, Garnet.”

“But Nonna—”

“Has been misinformed, and may I remind you that gossip is a sin.”

I slumped back in my seat, chastised.

Nicky’s teeth chattered. “Maybe Father Luigi should—”

“We have tried, Nicky.” By the pinched look on her face, I could tell Sister still felt the sting of La Strega’s door slams and perhaps the rosacea-colored effects of her incantations. “Father and I both feel that if anyone can do it, you, with your charm and intelligence, can.”

I couldn’t believe she was sending a child on such a dangerous mission. I again opened my mouth. “But—”

“She has quite an impressive library, Nicky,” Sister said.

A brilliant move.

“She does?”

“It’s far more extensive than the school library.”

Nicky’s head tipped back at the weighty image unpacking in his head. “I guess I can try.”

Sister stood. “That’s all we can ask, but please do your best, as I know you will. You really are our last hope.”

Outside, as Nicky and I walked along Appian Way and up the hill, I felt an odd mix of slight (why wasn’t
I
their last hope?) and relief (thank
God
I wasn’t their last hope). Nicky was cataloging mythological Greek heroes. When we reached our house I started climbing the steps but Nicky walked past me and forged ahead.

“Where are you going?” He didn’t answer, so I bounded after him, heart stuttering. “Nicky! Where are you going?”

“La Strega’s.”

“You’re going now?” I thought I would go with him after we’d spent the evening arming ourselves with Nonna’s protective amulets.

“Yep.” His face blanched, so I hustled beside him. If La Strega was going to chain Nicky in her dungeon, I wanted to be able to run for help. As we marched toward the pinnacle I looked in neighbors’ windows in case the nonnas were watching, torn between wanting their blessing and not wanting them to spread word to
my
nonna, who would have a seizure if she knew where we were headed.

Finally we stood before the mansion with its two fanged gargoyles overlooking the door and its pointy-hatted towers and turrets where I bet La Strega had installed hired guns. We scanned the brick pillars by the gate looking for a doorbell. Nicky spotted a wooden hatch in the right column and reached for the garbanzo-size knob. I stilled his hand.

“It might be a trick.” I looked at the ground to see if there was a trapdoor waiting to spill us into a chamber of horrors.

“It’s not.”

His fingers trembled as he opened the hatch to reveal an intercom like the one Uncle Dom liked to show off in his home—
Betty! Bring me a scotch
(or
ham sandwich
, or
toilet plunger
)—and that I’m sure the neighborhood punks used to harass La Strega.
Your house is on fire! Nigger Toe is wearing your underwear!
Years later, the intercom is still an annoyance.
Saint Garnet, please cure my blepharitis
. But back then, Nicky held his finger above the buzzer, counted to three, and then punched the button. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Nicky Ferrari. I’m one of your neighbors and I’d like to speak with you.”

No response.

“I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

Continued silence. Not even a
Get away!

Nicky attempted a few more angles, all fruitless.

“You tried,” I said as we ambled down the hill.

“I’m going back tomorrow.”

The next morning I accompanied him as he again sought admission. It didn’t work. Nor did he have any luck on Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday, which is when I stopped schlepping up beside him, because even if she was a witch, I had my pride. For two weeks, he went every day without success.

On the first day of the third week, it became intolerable to see my brother once again shove outside to grovel at her door. We had come home from school only so he could comb his hair, and that day, for some reason, it angered me. Though I hated the way Nicky hogged the bathroom and claimed the front seat whenever Dad took us for joy rides, he was still my brother. By the time I swapped my uniform for play clothes, I was boiling. I galloped down the hall and ran outside to catch up to Nicky. “This is the last time!”

Nicky didn’t say a word, such was his desire to gain admission to La Strega’s library.

Once again Nicky pressed the intercom buzzer. “Hello, ma’am. It’s Nicky Ferrari. I just need a couple minutes of your time.”

Surprise: no answer.

“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

Nothing but the cold silence of hell.

Nicky exhaled, closed the intercom door, and turned around to make the defeated trip home. I was about to follow but I took one last look at the house and saw a female figure peeking out of the window by the front door, though she didn’t look like either a shriveled
gabbo
or a hawk-nosed sorceress. I nudged Nicky. “That’s her!”

“That’s where she always stands.”

“What? She just stands there?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”

Strega or not, she had made me
furioso
. “No!” I yanked open the intercom door, rammed my finger on the buzzer, and said in my best Grandma Iris imitation, “How rude of you to just stand there when you have guests. My grandmother would never treat her company this way. Her ancestors came over on the
Mayflower
, her money is older than yours, and her house in Charlottesville is bigger!” (At the time I had no idea what Zelda’s house looked like.) I slammed the intercom door and turned to leave. The intercom crackled and a voice grumbled, “I suppose you’d better come in.”

Nicky looked at me in disbelief as the gate started humming, gears clanking, and then, amazingly, we were in. My brother straightened his tie and as he marched toward La Strega’s, I dissolved into a quivering milquetoast.

Nicky looked over his shoulder. “Hurry up!”

We reached the massive entryway and I cowered beneath those gargoyles that seemed ready to eat me alive. Nicky raised his hand, but the door opened before his knuckles hit wood. I expected a vampire or zombie, but it was Nigger Toe, apparently the butler in addition to his other positions, wearing the same yard-work ensemble he always wore. For some reason, this disappointed me.

“Good afternoon,” Nicky said. “I’m here to speak to the lady of the house.”

Nigger Toe cleared his throat as if he spoke so seldom he needed to lube his vocal cords. “Madame will see you in the parlor.”

Nigger Toe secretly scoured my face while I not-so-secretly scoured his.

I was prepared for guillotines, iron maidens, and head crushers, but what I noted on our shadowy walk to the parlor were oriental vases, Persian carpets, and velvet curtains blocking out the sun, sights you may remember from your visit here, Padre, though I’ve removed the heavy drapes. Nicky’s shoulders straightened and his chin lifted as if he were the reincarnation of the original Baron. He didn’t hesitate one second as he glided across the threshold to where La Strega, a lumpy, lace-clad form, was sitting on a clawfoot settee, a blanket draped over her lap.

“Do come in.”

Nicky walked up to her as if he’d done it all his life. I wondered if she had already cast a spell on him.

“You’re Dominick Ferrari. Angelo Ferrari’s son.” She sounded disappointed, as if the balance of Dad’s meager bank account were tattooed on Nicky’s forehead. “Your father makes that sawing racket at all hours of the day and night. What in the world is he building?”

Nicky had no answer, but if I’d had the courage I would have shouted:
That’s private. Private!

“And you’re the—daughter”—she leaned forward unabashedly to inspect my stains, perhaps her handiwork—“who used to parade around in that ridiculous pillowcase. Thank God your parents put an end to that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nicky answered for us, thankfully, since my face was beginning to throb.

“You live next door to Louis Bellagrino.”

“Yes.”

“And the Pasqualis.”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a liar!”

Nicky flinched. “No! The Bellagrinos live on our left. The Pasqualis on the right.”

“That’s not what I mean. I know your poor Italian father, and I know his bricklaying father sailed here in steerage, not on the
Mayflower
. You have no money, nor will you ever.”

That’s all I needed to jump-start my ire, and Nigger Toe tapped a lampshade to steady a flickering bulb. “We do too! It’s on our mother’s side.” I rattled the family tree. “Our mom is Marina Caudhill-Adams-Rutledge-[ad infinitum], born to Donald Flyman and Iris Caudhill—”

“Your mother is one of the
Mayflower
Caudhills? She’s a Caudhill-Adams?”

“-Rutledge-[ad infinitum]!” I corrected.

La Strega adjusted her wide bottom. “Was it your grandmother who visited over Christmas?”

“Yes,” I answered, perplexed by her intimate, if incomplete, knowledge of our lives.

“Of course,” she said, probably dredging up images of Zelda’s diamonds and Cadillac. “This is all very interesting.” She assessed Nicky as if he were a glass vase on the mantel that she’d just been told might be Waterford. “You look like your mother. And . . .”

She paused and I wondered who she was dredging up in her head. Nigger Toe cleared his throat as if he were used to these reveries.