The Witch of Little Italy (5 page)

Eight siblings and two parents in a two-bedroom apartment was close comfort. Mama and Papa slept in the front bedroom, the four sisters (myself included) slept in the back bedroom, and the boys slept in the attic. They had a fireplace up there for the cold winter nights, but those boys were a strong lot. They liked it up there. They planned their lives up there. My twin, George, was always supposed to be up there with them, but he usually crept into bed with me or Mama. He said he couldn’t sleep with the older boys because they scared him. Said they talked about how they were going to die.

And George was right, our older brothers all knew they would die when they enlisted.
They had some kind of courage those boys.

I thought of the girl, her back pressed against the door in the hallway. That face. Light, like Mama. Soft features, not hard like Carmen. A softer version of her mother in all the good ways. The last time she was back she was about thirteen or so. She wasn’t at all the little spitfire she’d been when we’d first had her. I remember I was so worried that night. Worried she’d remember—just like I am now. But her preteen instantaneous (and mutual) crush on our Anthony trumped all, and even though I kept checking to see if my throat would loosen, Carmen yanked her out of our lives just as fast as she’d walked back in. Our girl was gone. Again. She was lost. And it was my fault.

Babygirl. Well, that’s what we nicknamed her when she stayed with us that summer she was ten. Her real name is Eleanor.

“That’s a fat girl’s name,” said Fee, once we’d gotten the scared little duck to bed that first night.

“You should know a fat girl’s name when you hear one,” said Mimi.

Fee couldn’t hear her. But she wouldn’t have been hurt even if she had. Fee lost her hearing the day we lost our family, the day I lost my voice. Anyway, it was an honest observation. Mimi’s honest to a fault. Fee
is
fat. I keep wondering if she’ll get so fat she won’t be able to leave the apartment.

In the end, we decided on Babygirl. And Babygirl she stayed, even though she’s all grown up now. I wasn’t
sure
she’d stay. I should have been. When we see something, the three of us, it happens.

Sometimes I wish we didn’t know things, especially now that we’re getting on in age. It’d make life simpler, not knowing. And The Sight is fickle. It shows us just so much—and then? Then the rest is up for interpretation. Mama always said that was the most important part, the interpretation. Mimi and Fee just liked Seeing. Me? I’d like to be free of it sometimes.

Don’t get me wrong; knowing a bit of the future could be useful in a large family. We knew when so-and-so would be late for dinner, or how to stop a sister from tripping on the church steps moments before social suicide.

But, to keep us sane, we all had things about us that helped keep us apart. Things that gave us space in our brains where we could be alone, even as our bodies were squished together. Most times we couldn’t even hide in our brains because all you’d have to do is brush up against someone and know all of their secrets, their desires.
Wow,
were my brothers hot for Carole Lombard. I guess it only made sense. Everyone around them was dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. Carole Lombard was like the sun. Like the ladies on the Far Rockaway beaches in the summertime.

Summers in the city were hot. I suppose if we’d lived in a different time we could have had fancy AC units. But really, even if that had been invented, we wouldn’t have used it. Mama didn’t like anything that wasn’t true. Air conditioning lies to you. Makes you think that it isn’t hot outside, when it is. “If you fool your body your body fools you,” she would say.

If it’s hot, you’re supposed to be hot. You can cool down enough with fans. Fans over bowls of ice cubes worked well. But sometimes we needed to swim, and for that we had the house in Far Rockaway.

Not so much a house as a cottage, really. One in a row of many lovely cottages. Mama and Papa owned it. Well, Mama owned it. She was Irish. Something we didn’t talk much about. Papa made her swear off most things not Italian when they married. Mama grew up in Massachusetts, in a town called Fairview. And before her own mother went crazy, she spent her summers at their vacation house on Far Rockaway. It was her stomping ground. And the summers, all throughout my childhood, we spent wrapped up in Mama’s history, and sand, and sea.

Papa stayed in the city and kept up the accounts for his clients. Papa was good with numbers and kept the books for almost every business in Little Italy stretching from Arthur Avenue to Claremont Park. He took the train in on the weekends. And my older brothers, they stayed, too, and worked when they got older, and when we returned to the apartment building in late August, Mama would always throw open the windows and say, “Gotta get that man smell out of this place!” And it was true, the apartment always smelled different when we’d been gone. Me and Mimi, Bunny and Fee … and George. Georgie had his problems. He stayed in Mama’s skirts. He didn’t stay with Papa or the boys. He stayed with us.

He was the baby, anyway, even though we were twins. I was born first. He didn’t come until two whole days later.

I can still remember us girls running down the beach and Georgie following us. We always raced ahead until he cried. And I’d always stop. Not my sisters. They ran faster, farther away laughing, always laughing. I’d stop though. Do a few cartwheels back his way and then hold him tight. He belonged to me. He’d reach up and wrap his hands in my curls. He’d straighten the bow in my hair with a shaking hand. “You look a fine mess,” he’d say. I’d take him by his hand and drag him back to Mama, who’d have lunch all laid out for us in the shade of the front porch.

“You’re a good sister,” she’d say.

I was. Then. And then I wasn’t anymore.

4

Eleanor

When Eleanor woke up, it was quiet. And, in those fleeting moments between sleep and awake, she was absolutely comfortable. The heaviness of the blankets felt just right against her skin. The heat was clanging up from the basement and toasting the dust particles on the radiators, making the heat smell pop around in the air. The bed was pushed against a window and there was the tiniest draft trying to make its way in and have it out with the heat. It was clean, and cold, and unforgiving. The mix, like most things dark and light, was magical. Eleanor felt herself begin to slip into that place. The comfort place—part dream or memory—she didn’t know, and didn’t much care. It was just lovely. She was at a beach. Not a European beach. Not the south of France where she’d learned to swim. A pebbled beach. The seagulls were singing and swing sets in the background were squeaking. The lapping waves touched her hands as she did cartwheel after cartwheel across the beach. The sights and smells of this place always calmed her. Slowed her pulse. Made her happy.

But too soon Eleanor’s feet got sweaty and her neck began to pinch. She sat up. She was surprised, then nervous, and finally, excited to be where she was. Her head throbbed. A hangover caused by the enormous amount of decision making the night before. She stretched her arms up over her head and listened for sounds, noises of a busy grandmother she’d have to get to know. But there were no noises in the apartment. Eleanor
did
smell coffee. The aroma hung in the air, warm and inviting. Her hat sat on the pillow next to her. She grabbed it and put it on.
If ever I needed you,
she thought. “Merry Christmas, hat.”

Eleanor got up, intending to find something to wear and then figure out how she was going to deal with this crazy decision she’d made when the lingering fish and garlic smells hit her. She ran out into the hallway but couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time. She threw up on the oriental runner.

“Fantastic,” she said.

Eleanor wanted to clean it up, but the thought of it made her gag again. She’d have to find Mimi.

“Mimi?” she yelled out as she felt her way along the walls and then around the entrance to the living room. Silence.

She walked out through an arched doorway into the living area. It was warm, but Eleanor felt cold in her bones, and she was wearing Carmen’s summer nightgown. She took a folded afghan off the couch and wrapped herself. She held the crocheted wool to her nose and breathed in the history. Whose hands made this? Were there babies babbling while it was being created? Meals being made? Laughter? Tears?

As she thought about the history of her family, Eleanor heard the crying again. The same sound from the night before. It was coming from the kitchen.

“Mimi?”

She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen but no one was there. She went out into the back hall. No one.

“That’s odd,” she said to herself. And it
was
odd, but also thrilling.

The back door was open a crack. The cold air felt good on her face.

She headed outside, the afghan trailing behind her, and found herself in a walled, perfectly square garden. Eleanor put her bare feet in the snow. The cold against her skin tamed the nausea.

She sat on a nearby bench and surveyed the area. The sun was so bright on the snow she had to cover her eyes. She could just make out little walkways here and there. A few religious statues nestled between twigs. Bits of black gardener’s plastic peeked out from under the snow cover.

“Merry Christmas!” said Anthony, throwing open the aluminum screen door so that it slammed against the brick wall of the building. A little snow fell off Itsy and Fee’s kitchen windowsill. A tiny avalanche for Eleanor to focus on so that she wouldn’t get sick again. Not now, out here, in front of
him.

“Not talking?”

Eleanor cleared her throat. “No.”

“Suit yourself. You should get a pad like Itsy. And some shoes. It’s cold out here.” Anthony began to shovel the few inches of snow off of the walkways, stopping to sweep the remaining snow off of the lower windowsills and the heads of saints with his hands. After he brushed off the saints he made the sign of the cross and pulled a gold crucifix out from beneath his heavy coat to kiss it.

“Religious much?”

“Cold much?” said Anthony with a smile. “You should really go inside. Especially in your condition.”

“In my what?”

Anthony stopped to look at her, then scratched his head. He looked confused. “Nothing, never mind,” he said and continued shoveling.

He was even more handsome in the daylight. His black hair shined in the sun, falling in front of his eyes. He took off his coat as he worked and his white t-shirt stretched across his perfectly built frame. Strong shoulders, wide masculine back. Eleanor felt her own body grow excited as she watched him move.
What the hell is wrong with me?
she thought.
First I’m puking, then I’m all excited over a boy I hardly remember while my feet turn blue in the cold?

But it wasn’t true. She remembered him well. He was the reason she’d held that night so long ago in her memory like a talisman. The memory of him was what first alerted her something was wrong with Cooper. Her few minutes alone with Anthony when they were thirteen taught her more about mutual affection than a lifetime with Carmen.

The back gate of the yard screamed open.

“Anthony! I told you to WD-40 this thing! It could wake the dead it could!” The three women filed in. They looked like triplet witches from a Gothic fairy tale. All three in long black ladies’ trench coats, with black umbrellas, and plastic hair covers tied in bows under wrinkled chins. They stopped in a line in front of Eleanor.

“She’s barefoot.”

“Out in the snow.”

“Like a gypsy heathen.”

“We have so much to teach her.”

Itsy scribbled a note and threw it. It floated like a feather and hung suspended in the air for a moment until it landed in Eleanor’s lap.

You look like your mother out here underdressed. Now go put on some clothes.

The three women moved together into the back hall and while they all removed boots and other snow gear Mimi said, “Child. You
will
meet us inside to exchange gifts. It’s Christmas, don’t you know!” Lined up and leaning from the screen with her sisters’ bobbing heads above hers, they looked like a crazy totem pole. And then they closed the interior door.

“I don’t have any gifts for anyone,” said Eleanor.

“That doesn’t matter. Can I sit by you?” asked Anthony as he put his discarded coat around Eleanor’s feet and tucked it under. Then he sat next to her on the cold bench.

“It’s a free country,” she said even as her mind whispered
Oh yes, sit close to me. Please. I’ve missed you.

“What did Itsy write to you?” he asked.

Eleanor handed him the note. “It’s not true, anyway. What she wrote. My mother’s pretty.”

Anthony read the note. “No, it’s true. You do look like her. Only you’re softer. And your eyes are green, not brown. Pretty.” He looked into her eyes, making her heart race. He looked away and pushed his hands through his hair. “Carmen has that look-but-don’t-touch thing. You … you I could definitely touch.”

Eleanor flushed. Those words seemed too intimate. They reminded her of Cooper. “Look, I know we were kids together, but do you think you
know
me or something? I don’t know you. Are you really an altruistic guy or just a mooch who lives off my grandmother?”

Anthony laughed and went back to shoveling.
He laughed,
thought Eleanor.
He laughed at those bitter words. He didn’t slap me, or make fun of me. He laughed.

“I’m no mooch. These women are my family. The only family I have left. My mom died last year. She had MS. I’m an electrician. Certified.” He puffed out his chest as he said it.

“Sorry,” said Eleanor.

“It’s okay. I know how it looks. Especially from so far away. You and Carmen haven’t been around for years.”

“Well … Mom’s been in Europe.”

“Yeah, but you’ve only been an hour away in New Haven.”

“Oh … I get it,” said Eleanor, “You want to be my conscience all of a sudden?” Eleanor was astounded to hear Carmen coming out of her mouth. She clapped her hand over her cold lips and said a muffled, “I’m sorry.”