The Patron Saint of Ugly Read online

  If Nicky couldn’t hire a clay army, he could stay sequestered in his room soaking up knowledge. By the time he was eleven he had read all of Grandfather Postscript’s reference books and had begun badgering Dad to buy him the newest Britannicas for Christmas.

  “My set is over twenty years old!” Nicky wailed at the dinner table for the tenth night in a row. “It doesn’t even mention Hiroshima” (bringing this up was a wise tactic, given our veteran father). “There are gaps in my knowledge. Wide gaps!”

  “We just can’t afford it,” Dad said. It must have been excruciating for him to deny his son. “However,” he added, making us all look up as if he were going to pull an erudite rabbit from his hat. “I think we can swing one volume a year. The salesman said you don’t even have to buy them in order, so pick any letter you want, Nicky. Even Z.”

  Mom and I thought it was a brilliant compromise, but Nicky bawled, “One at a time? There are twenty-three volumes; it’ll take twenty-three years. Twenty-four if I get the index too. And by then they’ll be out of date!”

  I understood his urgency; the ratio of kid time to adult time is roughly one kid week for every adult day, which is why Christmas is always so long in coming for kids.

  “I want them all now!” His cheeks flushed as he stormed, as much as his lithe frame could storm, down the hall.

  Dad’s chin sank, but Mom proposed a solution none of us had ever expected to hear. “I suppose I can ask my mother.”

  Ever since Grandma Iris had tried to kidnap my brother, she had been banned from our home. Mom refused Grandma’s phone calls, so she resorted to letters, the first containing a check so obscene that Mom, understanding the strings attached to all those zeros, tore it into pieces. She also refused deliveries of additional home furnishings, though I’m sure waving ta-ta to the window air conditioner was brutal. Sometimes I wanted to shake Mom and say, What the hell are you thinking?

  Over the years Mom softened a bit, as did Grandma. She stopped sending appliances and started sending reasonable amounts of cash. She probably asked her accountant to calculate the appropriate exchange rate for lower-middle-class birthdays. Like kid time and adult time, currency had to be converted from wealthy to poor.

  The night Nicky stomped to his room, Mom made the difficult phone call to Charlottesville. Of course Grandma would buy the Britannicas, with one caveat: she wanted to deliver them herself. Remarkably, Mother agreed.

  On Christmas Eve Nicky and I gazed out the front window as snowflakes drifted through the streetlights’ funneled beams. We were on guard duty, watching not for Santa or even the mighty Christ Child but for Grandma, a woman we didn’t remember but whose name prompted shudders from our folks. At the first glint of chrome we yelled, “She’s here!” This was followed by a collective tightening of orifices. We watched her sleigh of a Cadillac pull into our steep driveway, tailpipe sparking against the cement. Dad came up from the basement, shoulders slumped inside his work shirt. Mom wore her perpetual skinny pants and sweater set, hair in a ponytail, but more makeup than usual. She and Dad shrugged on their coats and went outside, Nicky and I close on their heels.

  Grandma, encased in mink, emerged from the car. “Darling” —she clasped Mom’s face in her hands—“I see someone has been neglecting her skin care.” Mother picked at her eyebrow as Grandma held her gloved hand toward my father. We expected him to kiss it, but he just gave it a pump. Grandma looked beyond Mom and Dad in search of Nicky. “There he is!” She engulfed him in a furry embrace. Initially he squirmed, but he relaxed as Grandma crooned, “My beautiful, darling boy. My handsome, perfect grandson.” If Nonna were there, she would have dowsed us in a ptt-ptt-ptt shower. Remarkably, Nicky closed his eyes, perhaps pretending it was Mom.

  Eventually Grandma’s gaze landed on me and circumnavigated the globe. “It’s even worse than I imagined.” Mom socked her in the arm. “And there’s Garnet,” Grandma said, aggrieved at having to look at my face. Out, damned spot, out!

  When I was younger, and much more gullible, I had asked Mom when she was going to tell Grandma about my sainted lineage. I had pitifully dredged the lore from my pancreas just that morning while Mom scrubbed the scum ring from the tub. “Does she know I’m Saint Garnet?” I fingered the glass locket beneath my shirt. “Does she know I’m special too?” Mom wiped her forearm across her brow. “Garnet, some people will never believe, no matter how many miracles they see.”

  There was also a time when I thought Grandma might be the jettatura toying with my geography, electrifying me, folding her hexes in with her letters, but ultimately I understood that she wouldn’t have bothered.

  After the awkward niceties, Grandma opened the trunk to reveal a display of gross overindulgence. Presents heaped upon presents, all store-wrapped, back and passenger seats piled high too. I may not have been her primary target, but I would gladly eat scraps from Nicky’s table.

  It took several trips to unpack the spoils, including a case of vodka. Dad stacked the wrapped boxes of encyclopedias that Nicky still knew nothing about in a corner. Nicky and I tucked the lighter ones around the tree, a sea of commercial gluttony washing aside the few sad presents Mom had placed there days before.

  Dad hauled his mother-in-law’s suitcases to my room—I would happily take the pullout couch—Mom and Grandma on his heels, Grandma catching glimpses of herself in various mirrors along the way, cautioning Dad, “Careful with that one. Do be careful, dear.”

  When they headed back to the living room, Grandma was in the lead muttering something about one bathroom for five people being beyond the comprehension of civilized society, and on top of that we were putting her in the globe room, of all places. “I might as well be in your father’s study, for God’s sake.”

  “You could always go to a hotel,” Mom said.

  Grandma stopped so abruptly Mom slammed into her, and Dad almost slammed into Mom but managed to ram on the brakes in his work boots.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Grandma retorted. “I came all this way to be with my family, and I can certainly put up with a little substand—”

  Dad didn’t wait for her to finish, just plowed past his mother-in-law, another woman taller than him, and bounded down the basement stairs. He was sawing wood within seconds.

  Mom dove for the case of vodka. “I need a drink.”

  “Make that two!” Grandma eased into the wingback across from the tree. She turned off the table lamp beside her, and she did look pretty with the Christmas tree lights glistening in the diamonds decorating her.

  Mother returned carrying two martinis complete with pearl onions.

  “Thank you, dear.” After Grandma’s first sip, the tight scrunch in her face relaxed.

  Mother sat in the other wingback and I could see the striking similarities between them: the stunning features, the aristocratic bearing.

  Nicky and I lay on the floor as Grandma blabbered about skin specialists and grapefruit diets for me (earning shin kicks from Mom), though I was only mildly pudgy, and a prep school for my brother that would ensure his admission to an Ivy League college. Nicky lifted his head. We all knew Uncle Dom’s college fund would buy him only a state education at Vandalia U.

  “Nicky is not going away to boarding school,” Mom said.

  I looked over at Nicky, who scrutinized our humble digs, which no doubt compared poorly to the ones he was conjuring in his head.

  That night after brushing my teeth I came out of the bathroom and heard Grandma and Nicky mumbling in his room. I tiptoed forward and saw them standing side by side in front of the mirror over his desk, she flattening his forelock, he trying to appear taller by lifting his heels in a new pair of men’s slippers. He was also wearing a pair of pajamas I’d never seen. “One must always look one’s best, Nicky, even while sleeping. You never know when a house fire might force you into the street.”

  The next morning the family gathered in the living room, Mom and Dad on the sofa, Grandma in her wingback. I lost the coin toss so Nicky
got to open his presents first. Grandma’s gifts to him were eclectic: binoculars, safari hat, microscope, toiletry kit, miniature vault, board games that might subtly direct his career path and social status: Camelot; Monopoly; Finance; Easy Money. The grandest of all were the Britannicas and after the first peel of paper he shrieked, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!,” his voice getting higher and girlier, and I hoped none of the hill boys could hear him. He dove for Grandma. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

  Grandma luxuriated in her expensively purchased embrace. Mom and Dad watched stoically, no doubt wondering what the real cost would be.

  As Dad and Nicky hauled the books to his room, I unwrapped Grandma’s gifts to me, which had a unified theme: Barbie. I had seen hill and village girls playing with that coveted doll during the past several months, but I never understood the fixation. She certainly wasn’t on my wish list, since my obsession, as you know, was globes. When I tore the paper from the Barbie, I tried to act pleased.

  Grandma leaned forward. “Don’t you just love her? I hear all the girls do.”

  “Sure.” I studied the doll’s lissome frame, its blond hair and blue eyes oddly familiar.

  Next came a two-foot-tall Barbie home in the Greek Revival style, which Grandma Iris had had built. The roof lifted off to reveal a posh interior with a bedroom and walk-in closet with metal rods and tiny hangers. Then a handmade, doll-size Cabriolet Mercedes convertible painted aquamarine with pink interior. There was also an excess of Barbie clothes: tennis outfits and tea dresses, evening gowns and sleepwear, and the crowning glory: a wedding dress complete with lacy gloves, a veil, and a bouquet.

  “Oh, put it on her! Put it on her!” Grandma commanded.

  I fumbled with the packaging and tried to skin off Barbie’s swimsuit. My fingers weren’t working fast enough, so Grandma scooted down on the floor and wrenched the doll from me. “Let me, dear.”

  I obliged and unwrapped my own board games: Sorry and Why.

  Mom saw the disappointment oozing from my pores. “Mother, did you remember the—you know?”

  Grandma was shoving a wedding glove up Barbie’s arm. “What, dear?”

  Mom nodded toward me. “You know. The thing I asked you to bring.”

  “Oh! I thought that was for you, dear. It’s right there.” She pointed to a square box.

  Mom fetched it and handed it to me. “Here, honey.”

  I unwrapped the best present I received that year: a P. D. Windrem celestial sphere cherry-picked from Grandfather Postscript’s collection. Resting on a wooden base was a clear plastic ball with constellations and stars labeled on it in white. In the center of the orb, speared diagonally through with a rod, was the Earth, a small blue ball with white continents. The constellations were printed so they looked correct if one was gazing up at them from Earth. But seen from outside the clear sphere, from God’s perspective, the constellations were reversed. It was empowering to feel that omnipotent, to squint through the heavens and find North America on that blue ball, to narrow in on the United States, then West Virginia, and then one sixty-year-old flea booger whom I could flick off without batting an eye.

  I took the globe to my room to find the perfect shelf space and soon Mom came in holding a broccoli-shaped present. “I forgot to put this under the tree.”

  I palpated it mightily before tearing off the paper and unearthing a ten-inch, orange-haired troll doll. Not sleek and leggy, but squat and rubbery, wearing caveman togs, its plastic blue eyes pressed into its face. Like she had with my old Betsy Wetsy, Mom had painted my geography all over its skin, but this doll I just couldn’t love.

  “Isn’t it adorable?” She yanked the thing from me so forcefully a welt formed on the Isle of Lesbos in the crotch between my finger and thumb.

  Mom sat on my bed and rubbed the doll’s belly, spiraled its hair. “I just couldn’t resist.”

  I left her alone to play with her doll and stood in the hall watching Grandma in the living room playing with hers. I also eyeballed the gross discrepancy between Nicky’s loot and mine. If only I had been gifted the binoculars and safari hat so I could gallivant around Snakebite Woods, a plot of undeveloped forest on the backside of Dagowop Hill where truant boys hid to chug beer and smoke cigarettes. Nicky had warned me countless times never to go there, but that only intensified my curiosity.

  After breakfast Dad hustled to the basement with the bottle of port and pricey cigars Grandma had gifted him. Mom’s present was too large for Grandma to bring, so it was being delivered later that day.

  “Who would make a delivery on Christmas?” Nicky asked.

  “Anyone will do anything for the right price.” Lesson number one Grandma wanted to impart while she had the chance.

  Mom started to clear the table. “I hope you didn’t overdo it, Zelda,” a nickname I wouldn’t understand until a high-school literature class.

  Grandma walked up behind Mom and pulled her shoulders back. “Do watch your posture, dear.”

  Nicky paraded to his room to OD on rote memorization, and while Mom washed dishes, Zelda unpackaged Barbie clothes to hang in the dollhouse now set up on the kitchen table. I pretended to help by rearranging Barbie’s living room furniture in the same configuration as ours. I was also using the opportunity to probe Zelda about Grandfather Postscript, a shadowy figure because Mom rarely spoke of him. Over the years, Nicky and I had pummeled her with questions about our book and globe benefactor, but whenever she tried to relay her fond memories (the time he took her to the horse track, or V-E Day, when he gave her her first taste of champagne), her eyes would tear up and she’d race to her room to compose more odd poems: Fly high, Flyman, softer landings await. At that point all I knew about Grandfather was that his marriage to Grandma was scandalous because of their age difference—he being five years younger—and because he was unmoneyed, a far more grievous offense. He died at age thirty-nine under mysterious circumstances. Sometimes Mom said it was a train accident; other times it was drowning or heart failure.

  The only photo I’d seen of him was a grainy black-and-white Mom kept on her bedside table. Grandfather was handsome in his three-piece suit with a high stiff collar. A bowler hat was cockeyed on his head. One foot was propped on a stack of books. His right hand was shoved in a trouser pocket and his left held the Abel-Klinger globe Mother had been looking at before she birthed me. He looked directly at the camera, one side of his mouth curved up into a dimpled grin. He looked fun, making it difficult to imagine him selecting Zelda as his bride. It also made me wonder if, like Mom, Grandma had had her own wild-oats tantrum by marrying beneath her station. I imagined her doing the Charleston in a beaded dress with Grandfather at a speakeasy before the cops burst in and dragged them off in the paddy wagon, she and Grandpa laughing at the hilarity of it all. How I wanted this romantic fable to be true.

  “Marina, didn’t you used to have this dress?” Zelda held up Barbie, now squeezed into a strapless silver gown with a bottom that fanned out like a fishtail.

  Mom glanced over her shoulder. “Mine was a tad larger.”

  Barbie looked so much like the Pining Nereid Nonna had always told me about that I wanted to yank her from Grandma’s hands, hurl her into Mom’s dishwater, and see if she would sink or swim.

  Because the moment felt right I sputtered the question I’d been working up the courage to ask. “What did Grandpa do?”

  It was a grown-up query I picked up from Uncle Dom. Whenever he met a person, that was the first thing he asked. What do you do for a living? Or if it was a woman: What does your husband do? The answer would prompt a respectful head nod for doctors and lawyers, a shake of disdain for pipe fitters and gas-station attendants.

  “He lived well,” Zelda said.

  I did not understand her answer. “But what did he do?”

  “He was a professional dreamer,” Zelda said. “And spender,” she added, an odd comment, since I thought that was her job.

  Mom scrubbed hash-brown crust from a pan. “He was
a poet.”

  “He was?” I blurted, thinking, Aha!

  “Pah,” Grandma said. “He was no Tennyson.”

  “Perhaps if he’d had the right muse—”

  “He found plenty of inspiration in starlets’ dressing rooms.”

  Mom spun around from the sink. “And he was a philanthropist.”

  Grandma snorted. “He certainly gave a lot of my money away, though I doubt the women he gave it to were in need.”

  “He certainly gave you what you needed.”

  Grandma’s mouth hung open, exposing several twenty-four-karat crowns. “You should be grateful for that, my dear, or you wouldn’t be standing here with your hands in dishwater.” At that moment, Dad belched from the basement. “I suppose you got what you wanted as well.” She added one more stone to the pile. “I’m going to send you some of my neck cream, Marina. It’ll work wonders for those jowls.”

  Mother’s hand flew to her neck. I couldn’t see any jowls—she was just thirty-one—but she frowned at her reflection in the kitchen window, pinching and probing her skin with rubber-gloved fingers. Finally she just stared at herself as if she were in a trance. It was at that moment I comprehended the there-she-goes pose I had seen hundreds of times over the years: Mom holding up the shiny base of an iron, a copper-bottomed pot, a steel spatula, and all those damning mirrors. This wasn’t vanity.

  An hour later I found Mom in her room scribbling in a notebook. Souls need no finery. Wounds will do. She tore out the page and taped it beside Zelda’s mirror before leaning so close to her reflection that her breath clouded the glass.

  At three o’clock the doorbell chimed. Mom’s gift had arrived. Dad came up from the basement speckled with sawdust, stinking of cigar smoke and port. Even Nicky emerged from his cave. Zelda appeared with Barbie’s mini-Mercedes in her hands.