Read Every Single Second Online
Authors: Tricia Springstubb
The chairs outside the smoke shop, where certain neighborhood men sat and chewed repulsive cigars, were empty now. Except for one. She slowed down when she saw who sat in it. Mr. DeMarco had thick arms matted with yellow hair. His neck was wide, his eyes small. Angela and Anthony’s father had his back against the wall the way he
always did, laser eyes on perpetual watch. Unmoving as Jeptha A. Stone. As a dead man.
Nella hadn’t always been scared of him. But she was now. She had been for years. She drew a breath, commanded her clunky feet not to trip.
“Hello, Mr. DeMarco.”
No answer. Safely past, Nella looked back. He hadn’t moved. Had he even heard her? His eyes pierced the distance, fixing on a point invisible to everyone else.
A dark shiver raced through her. Imagine having him for your father. How was it fair that Angela got a parent like that, while Clem got the Patchetts? What was God thinking, playing favorites like that?
Sometimes Nella really wondered about God.
She turned down her own street. A lonesome chill snaked off Mr. DeMarco and slithered after her.
P
apa. That’s what Angela called him. In second grade, her every sentence started with his name.
“Papa’s home for good now. Papa’s discharged. Papa’s going to get a job and live with us all the time. Papa took Mama out to dinner and bought her a lobster. Papa bought me a pink jacket. Papa says Anthony needs to man up. Papa Papa Papa . . .”
Slowly, it changed to “He.”
“He’s supposed to go to the VA hospital but he won’t. He can’t sleep at night, only in the day. Yesterday at the gas station the smell made him sick. He started shaking and
sweating. I felt so bad for him, Nella.”
And then . . .
“He got freaked out by a ceiling fan. He punishes Anthony for no reason. He tells my mother she’s stupid. He says he misses his army buddies. He says nothing here makes sense.”
That
didn’t make sense to Nella.
They were about to make their First Communions. That morning before school, Angela told Nella her father had bought her the most beautiful dress in the world. It was just like a bride dress.
“Can I come see?” Nella was so jealous. Her Communion dress was a hand-me-down from a cousin.
“It’s in a special bag and I’m not allowed to take it out.”
Angela never disobeyed her father. Or the teachers. Or any adult at all. Suddenly, Nella couldn’t stand her.
“You’re always so good!”
“No I’m not!”
Nella stomped away.
Late that afternoon, Angela appeared at the kitchen door. The Communion dress was draped across her arms, like it had fainted. They snuck up the stairs to the bathroom, where Nella locked the door.
How did it happen? One second Nella was tugging open the special bag’s zipper, the next the dress was sliding
over her head. It twinkled, a dress made of stars. Nella was so much taller than Angela, the dress pinched her armpits and bit her middle, but Nella still wished it was hers. She scrambled up onto the edge of the bathtub so she could see herself in the mirror over the sink.
“Be careful,” said Angela.
Nella swished from side to side, tried to do a spin, and toppled into the tub. She felt the fabric strain and rip like her own skin.
Angela stared down at her, horrified. “It’s ruined!”
“Ssh!” Nella jumped up. “Ssh!”
“I knew I shouldn’t do it!”
Nella wanted to say sorry, but the word stuck in her throat. Turning away, she saw their reflections in the bathroom mirror, and that made things even worse. She was so much taller than Angela! Taller and sturdier, like their bones were made from different materials, and instead of feeling sorry, Nella felt . . . what did she feel? She didn’t know the word for it, not yet.
“Nella!” Mom rapped on the locked door. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing!”
“Open the door!”
A baby (which one would it have been?) on her hip, Mom stared at them.
“It’s not my fault!” cried Nella. “I didn’t mean it!”
“I’m going to get killed!” Angela began blubbering like she’d never stop.
Mom shifted the baby—Bobby it was—on her hip. She grabbed tissues, wiped Angela’s snot, fingered the rip. It was incredible, what Mom could do with one arm.
“It’s just a seam. I can fix it.”
Mom whisked the dress through her sewing machine, mending it good as new. Smoothing the skirt, puffing the sleeves, she zipped it safely back inside the bag.
“I wish you were my mother,” Angela blurted.
Mom was the world’s least critical person, but this made her frown. “Don’t say that. Just think if your mother heard you say that.”
Angela rubbed her chin against Bobby’s fuzzy head. “She wouldn’t care.”
After Angela left, Mom said, “The poor thing was scared to death. What goes on in that house?”
Nella wasn’t in trouble. Because Angela didn’t tattle. She didn’t say,
Nella made me do it!
“You be nice to Angela,” Mom said.
“I am! She’s my best friend.”
“Good. That girl needs a friend like you.”
The morning of her First Communion, Nella’s father didn’t get out of bed. Dad never got sick, or if he did, he wouldn’t admit it.
Mom gave orders not to bother him, but just before they left for church, Nella crept upstairs. Her mother had added a wide satin sash to her hand-me-down dress, and Nella had a white veil and shiny white shoes. Nonni, whose usual present was underwear, had given her a white purse with stitched-on pearls.
She stood in the bedroom doorway. Her father’s face was turned to the wall.
“Daddy?”
Nella had seen her father look bad—when the babies kept him up all night, or Nonni was sick, or when he drank too much at the social club. But never this bad. His face was gray. He winced as if looking at her was painful.
“Daddy?” Maybe he was having a bad dream and couldn’t wake up. She went up on her toes. “See my dress?”
She put her palm on his forehead, feeling for a fever like Mom did. A mistake. He shrank away, making a sound so terrible, Nella jumped back. Something bad was trapped inside him, and it was trying to escape.
“Daddy! What’s the matter?”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry, kiddo.” He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. “Say a prayer for me today.”
Mr. DeMarco wasn’t at the church either.
“He had a hard night,” whispered Angela.
“My father too,” Nella whispered back.
Yet another sister secret.
Mrs. DeMarco was there, her hair limp, her eyes rimmed with red. Nella’s mother had all those boys to manage herself, so Anthony was the one who took their photos. Nella’s favorite was her and Angela holding hands with Sister Rosa.
“My PB and J!” Sister crowed, her cheeks rosy, her face beaming. “My Tick and Tock!”
They posed in front of St. Amphibalus—two small girls in white dresses, alongside a white stone statue. By some trick of the light or camera, the statue almost looked like it was about to speak.
What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
H
ark unto me, Jeptha A. Stone!
Contrary to appearances, statues are neither stone blind nor stone deaf.
We see and hear all.
Then how can it be, one might ask, that we cannot speak? I have spent over a century pondering this. At first I conjectured it was because mortals, frail creatures that they be, could not bear the shock of discovering that blocks of wood and stone have opinions.
As time went on—and a monument is rich in nothing if not time—I came to another conclusion. I now believe that speech is such a great, such a powerful gift, it has been reserved for those whose hearts yet beat.
And yet, how many mortals squander that supreme gift?
As they say nowadays, don’t get me started.
E
veryone had a cross to bear, Sister Rosa said. Nella’s was named Nonni.
It was Nella’s job to spend a few afternoons a week with her great-grandmother. Today when she got there, she found Nonni dozing in the chair by the window, Dad’s First Communion photo in her lap. The table beside her was a Sea of Dad, Nonni’s only grandchild. Here he was in his altar boy outfit, here in his scarlet Confirmation robe. Now he was graduating high school, first in his class.
Then, a gap.
The next time you saw him, he looked different. Not
so much older, but more worn. You could see he’d been through something, and it had stamped him for life.
In this photo he was getting married, to a tall, willowy girl in a dress too big for her. Mom, who considered clothes a waste of money, even bought her wedding dress secondhand.
Dad had no memory of his parents. They’d drowned when he was still a baby. A lake undertow had swept his mother away from shore, and his father, who couldn’t swim, desperately tried to save her. All Dad could remember was life with Nonni and PopPop, which Nella took as a warning: Do not trust your memory.
Now she cracked the front window, and music drifted in. Conservatory students rented the house across the street, and they practiced all hours of the day and night. An old woman who was a clone of Nonni used to own that house, but when she died it turned into a rental. This was the neighborhood trend—the oldsters dying off, students moving in. Nonni hadn’t liked the old woman, but she really hated the students. She hunkered by this window for hours each day, watching the dangerous Invaders across the street. More than once, seeing nonwhite kids, she punched 911 and croaked,
Come catch the Gypsy thieves!
A Cross to Bear.
Nella sank into one of Nonni’s numerous itchy chairs.
On the table sat a cup of watery tea. Nonni reused tea bags. She saved foil and plastic bags. She got everything at discount, even her beloved candy, so she ate jelly beans in December, and chocolate rabbits in July.
The music swelled like a bud about to bloom, like the spring day had turned into a song, and as if in answer Nella’s legs began to kink and crimp.
Please don’t make me
grow any taller
, she prayed. If this kept up, one morning she’d wake up and her head would brush the sky. Her shadow would cause an eclipse. . . .
“Why you come?”
Nella opened her eyes. “Good to see you too, Nonni.”
“What you want?”
To go. Immediately.
“I came to make sure you ate lunch.”
Nonni hesitated. Lately, she was confused when she first woke up. “I ate!” she said at last.
“What did you have?”
Okay, this was cruel. Nonni could forget things from a few minutes, let alone hours, ago. Her eyes narrowed.
“No fish!” She pressed her index and middle fingers together and shook them at Nella. “My cousin Al, he choke to death on a bone.”
“Nonni, you love fish.”
“Is wrong!”
For Nonni, Nella’s wrongness was only a matter of
degree. She was wrong, wronger, or wrongest. Nonni especially hated Nella asking so many questions.
Girls ask too many questions,
she said,
God no answer their prayers.
Like God wanted girls to be dumb?
Across the street the flower-music burst into full bloom, and Nonni hummed along under her breath. She loved listening, Nella could tell, though she’d never admit it. Just then, a boy raced up on a bike. An extremely cute white boy, with enough hair for two or three heads. Sam Ferraro might look like that, when he was in college. He took the front steps two at a time.
“Where Angela?”
It was eons since Angela last came along to visit, but Nonni always asked. Angela was her ideal girl. Pretty. Quiet. Knew her place.
Nella jumped up and headed for the kitchen.
She found some soup in the fridge. It was Mom’s minestrone, special made, low salt, for Nonni. Left to herself, she’d live on candy. She had it stashed all over the house. Once Nella had found some on the back porch, on the shelf with Nonni’s arsenal of bug and weed killers.
I’m not sure how much longer this can go on,
Mom said.
What is
that supposed to mean?
Dad replied.
Dad was the only human being Nonni never bad-mouthed. This could almost be a reason to love her.
When Nella carried the mug of soup back to the
living room, her great-grandmother was spellbound by the view across the street. On the porch, Hairy Boy was trying to hug a girl with an enormous case strapped to her back. Turtle Girl wore a fluttery, cocoa-colored scarf that matched her skin. She was so petite. She probably wore size five shoes. As Hairy Boy leaned in for a kiss, Nella heaved a huge sigh, startling Nonni, who threw out an arm and knocked the mug of soup clean out of Nella’s hand.
“Look what you did!”
Bits of carrot, shreds of beef, stringy celery, and pulpy tomato. It was a minestrone massacre. Nonni peeled a noodle off her sleeve and popped it into her mouth.
And then she laughed. Big, that’s how Nonni laughed.
“Che schifo!”
she said, wheezing.
This meant something along the lines of
This is so gross!
Nonni kept laughing, in between stuffing linty vegetables into her mouth. Nella ran to get a sponge.
“Your mama’s cooking, no taste.” Nonni grabbed the sponge and scrubbed at her sweater.
“Nulla!”
Nothing.
Way too close to
Nella
.
Across the street, the boy rode off on his bike, hair flapping like a great, fuzzy sail. The girl strolled away in the opposite direction, scarf fluttering. Everything about those two said
Yes!
“God, He forget your mama’s taste buds.”
Nonni was right. Mom was a terrible cook. She was all about quantity, not quality. Nonni reached behind her and pulled out a bag of Jolly Ranchers. She took a handful, then passed it to Nella.
“Mi ricordo,”
she said.
I remember.
Nella sat back, unwrapping a blue raspberry, knowing a story was coming.