The Patron Saint of Ugly Page 14

  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 vase
s, 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.

  “So the priest has sent the beggars for alms,” she said.

  Nicky swallowed hard, no doubt wondering how she knew our goal. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And for what purpose?”

  “We need a donation to buy church bells . . . that would be dedicated in your honor.”

  Smooth, though I wondered if she would contribute to a religion at odds with her own spiteful one.

  She harrumphed. “You should be attending a private academy, not that third-rate parochial school.”

  Nicky could only nod, because he thought the same thing.

  Whatever crystal ball La Strega used to peer into our shabby world below also enabled her to read minds. “Say no more. How much do you need?”

  Nicky swallowed hard. “Six hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

  “Radisson! Bring my purse!”

  So Nigger Toe had a name.

  Radisson exited and reentered carrying a tapestry handbag crammed with whatever it was that witches carried in their purses: vials of blood, dried frogs, dismembered human fingers that wiggled. La Strega settled it on her lap, dug and dug, and eventually pulled out seven crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  “I, I,” Nicky stuttered. “I don’t have change.”

  “I don’t expect any. The extra twenty-five is for you.”

  “For me?” His eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets and rolled across the floor.

  “That should buy a lot of encyclopedias, yes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Though perhaps it’s time I introduced you to the great books of lit-ra-toor.”

  “Sure.” Nicky was still gawping at the greenbacks.

  “Please show yourselves out.”

  Nicky and I walked around Radisson and we were about to make a clean getaway when La Strega added one more thing. “Perhaps tomorrow you would like to visit my library, Nicholas? It’s quite extensive, you know.”

  Reminded of his real aim, he ignored the errant forename and said, drooling, “Yes!”

  As we were taking our leave I scoured the room for a crystal ball. How did La Strega know our parents? Our neighbors? Our reading habits? And then I saw it: a telescope pointing down on the saps toiling away their lives for her amusement. Before we reached the door, I heard what sounded like a slap followed by La Strega scolding: “How could you miss their pedigree, Radisson? Your research is shoddy. Shoddy!” A pause, then La Strega added, “That girl is hideous.”

  After school the next day Nicky bolted outside and raced to Flannigan’s, visions of root-beer floats dancing in his brain. I tagged along because his pocket was bulging with twenty-five one-dollar bills. Sister Barnabas had been so bug-eyed she’d pulled out a fat wallet and made the change herself.

  “What are you going to do with twenty-five dollars?” I called after him, panting.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know what I would do.”

  I was hoping he would ask, because I had my eye on a heavenly nightlight in the Sears catalog that salted the ceiling with stars. He did not ask.

  We galloped past O’Grady’s and Paddy’s and pushed open the pharmacy door, the bell overhead jingling. Mr. Flannigan was behind the counter in the back filling prescriptions. Mrs. Flannigan washed sundae glasses at the soda fountain.

  Nicky sat on a stool and I took the one beside him, swiveling, hoping he might buy me a root-beer float too.

  “Hello, Nicky,” Mrs. Flannigan said. “And Garnet,” she added, though, like many villagers, she didn’t make eye contact with my skin. “What can I get you?”

  “Two banana splits,” Nicky said.

  I was stunned by his generosity. This was the priciest item on the menu.

  “We’re celebrating the bells, I see.” Word had already spread about how Nicky slayed our malevolent dragon.

  It was the best banana split I ever ate. As I savored every spoonful I ogled the penny candy in the glass case beside me. So many Mary Janes, Atomic Fireballs, BB Bats, wax lips, and licorice whips. If Nicky’s generous spirit held I might walk home clutching a bagful of decadence.

  And then Nicky began naming Jack the Ripper’s throat-slit victims. I followed his gaze and spotted the Four Stooges, a collection of local bullies, gathered on the steps across the street in front of Dino’s Lounge, which is where they always loitered until Dino scattered them with the baseball bat he kept behind the counter. The thugs were an integrated collection of Irish and Italian teens, their miscreant blood thicker than the familial kind. They were the chief cigarette and beer thieves, egg lobbers and tire deflators, pee-ers in the town’s water basin. Cousin Ray-Ray would have fit right in, and maybe he occasionally did. Their hideout was Snakebite Woods, another reason Nicky warned me to avoid that scary copse. My pretty brother was increasingly the Stooges’ target. He would regularly come home splattered with the remnants of mud balls or crab apples.

  Nicky hunched over his banana split hoping the Stooges wouldn’t see him or that Dino would appear and crack a few skulls, but he didn’t come and he didn’t come even as our spoons clinked the bottom of our dishes. Plus Nicky was due soon for a tour of La Strega’s library.

  And suddenly there she was. Her car, anyway. Radisson parked the Packard in front of the pharmacy. He adjusted his chauffeur’s hat, blew a pink bu
bblegum bubble the size of a coconut, and then sucked the entire thing back into his mouth. When he got out I expected him to open the rear door for La Strega, but the back seat was empty. Radisson pushed open the pharmacy door, looked over at me, and tipped his hat. He loped to the back counter, and as Mr. Flannigan waited on him, I watched the Stooges cross the street and circle the car, rearrange the side mirrors, flip up the wiper blades, twist off the winged-cormorant hood ornament. I spun toward Radisson wondering if I should alert him, but one of the goons did it for me by reaching in the open front window and honking the horn.

  Radisson turned around. Any damage to the car would likely come out of his paycheck, if La Strega even paid the man.

  “Hey!” He ran outside as fast as his stick legs would carry him, shaking his fist at the boys, his jaw moving. The Stooges began to bounce up and down on the bumpers, making the car rock, and the tallest thug reached for the antenna that stuck out of the roof.

  I looked back to see if the Flannigans were going to help, but they hustled through the back of the pharmacy and soon their footsteps pounded up the steps to their apartment. They had been the target of the Stooges’ shoplifting for years. Now the Stooges started circling Radisson, taking jabs at his chest, trying to swipe his hat.

  “That’s not right. We’ve got to do something, Nicky.”

  “Let’s go.”

  I assumed that meant he was ready to take action, but when I followed him outside I discovered that he was using this diversion to slip away.

  As we edged past the scuffle, the Stooges jabbed Radisson with words as well as fists. “Hey, Nigger Toe. You’re nothing but an ass wiper, you know that? An old hag’s ass wiper.” They started chanting, “Nigger Toe! Nigger Toe! Nigger Toe!”