The Patron Saint of Ugly Read online

  After I hung up I went to my room to open the present I received today from Yvette: a pair of Chinese slippers. Seems she made it to the Far East, but this time her traveling companion is her mother.

  Here come the Lowlies, Padre, led by Dee Dee, carrying candles as they trek up the last turn of the hill. Underweight mothers with children, old-old men and bent women relying on canes. I should have sent a fleet of cars. Dee Dee is leading them to the reflection pond. Earlier today, Nonna and Betty positioned half a dozen metal drums loaded with firewood around the deck. A few minutes ago Nonna marched from drum to drum squirting in lighter fluid and dropping in lit matches, flames erupting, heat pulsing so intensely I can feel it up here. Nonna has also scattered luminary candles around the rim of the pond, and it’s unbelievably charming. The Nereid below the surface shimmers. It looks as if she’s pulling water into her gills, her giant fishtail quivering as if she might push off at any moment.

  Dee Dee is instructing the Lowlies to remove their shoes and socks or stockings, roll up their pant legs or lift the hems of their tattered dresses, and dip their feet into the warm water. She’s handing out washcloths and bars of soap so they can slough off the grit behind their ears, around their necks, under their nails. I should yell down and tell them to soak for a while, let the healing water do its job, but I don’t want to call attention to myself. The old women are at one end of the pool, the old men at the other, all of them flagrantly peeling down to nothing, easing their liver-spotted flesh into the liquid. Dee Dee doesn’t seem perturbed by the skinny-dipping. In fact she’s laughing, and so is everyone else, mothers stripping their children bare, lathering soapsuds to rub over filthy arms and legs, dipping their heads in the pool, scrubbing their scalps, all of them giggling at the clean-clean feeling they likely haven’t felt in months.

  Here comes Nonna through the gate with a wheelbarrow full of red towels for the mothers to wrap their children in, for the old men and women to dry themselves with as they huddle around the barrels. Nonna is taking Dee Dee by the hand into the springhouse and now here they come pushing more wheelbarrows filled with a mishmash of La Strega’s old clothes: dresses and shoes, underwear and minks, and an assortment of hats, which the old women are tittering over. Dee Dee’s barrow contains armfuls from Le Baron’s closet, and the men are sifting through the finery, modeling the vests and spats and ascots. These clothes have never been put to better use.

  Nonna is making yet another trip to the springhouse and now she’s hauling out shopping bags full of new clothes for the children. Mothers are sobbing as they rifle through coats and boots. “Take-a more,” Nonna is saying. “She need-a more undies. Take-a the six-pack. No! Take it-a for sure!”

  Listen! Can you hear the Saint Brigid choir warming up? Organ pipes luring in the congregants who are funneling into church. I keep waiting for Nonna to roll out teacarts filled with food, and she’s heading to the back gate that’s been meager protection between me and the pilgrims, whose devotion might lead them to gouge out my eyes. But Nonna is opening the gate and motioning for Dee Dee and the Lowlies to come through.

  (No, Nonna! No!)

  Oh crap. Now they’re all looking up here.

  (It’s her!)

  (It’s Saint Garnet!)

  (Saint Garnet! Come down and heal us, we beg you!)

  Thankfully, Nonna is drawing their attention away from me, but I can’t believe she’s leading them past the springhouse, her garden, the grape arbor, and through the French doors into the ballroom and that thirty-seat table. So the Lowlies have been the primary guests all along.

  They’re behaving themselves quite well, Padre. Not slipping the silverware into their coats, their posture immediately improving as they sit and drape napkins across their laps. Dee Dee and Nonna are wheeling food out and centering dishes on the table. Again I am amazed that the Lowlies aren’t diving right in, since they all look as if they could use a good meal, or seven. But they are waiting for Nonna to sit at one end of the table, Dee Dee at the other, and now they’re holding hands, a linked chain as they bow their heads. Nonna’s mouth is moving as she prays and I can read her lips to make out the last words: Now dig-a in!

  It’s off to the races as hands reach for platters and bowls, mothers doling out fish and pasta for the old folks first, then the children, and finally themselves. I imagine La Strega is seething in her tomb, but if bliss has a face, I’ve seen it on these beggars who for once have a seat at the queen’s table.

  I could stay here all night, but the church bells are pealing so it must be midnight. Nonna hears the bells too, her head perking up, and now she’s standing and slipping quietly out through the French doors. She looks absolutely angelic fingering that flower in her hair, her face tipped to the heavens as “Ave Maria” pours into her ears. She’s going back in now. No, wait. She’s heading to the springhouse, through the gate to the pond ringed with luminaries and piles of dingy clothes. I hope Nonna isn’t planning on collecting them.

  No, she’s—what is she doing? Padre, Nonna is slipping off her shoes, reaching up her legs to roll down the support hose with the elastic tops. Now she’s—what the hell is she—unbuttoning her jersey dress and letting it fall to her feet. And there goes the slip, the bra, the parachute panties. I can’t believe I’m watching my roly-poly nonna with her drooping breasts and ripply belly baring it all. But what the hell; it’s Christmas and stranger things have happened on this night. She’s easing into the heated pond and I wonder how many other nights she’s been indulging in an au naturel swim. She’s walking to the center of the pond, directly over the Nereid, and lying down over it, her body mimicking the maiden’s beneath the surface, Nonna’s face the only thing exposed. There it goes beneath the water, once, twice, thrice, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Each time she comes up she shoots a playful spray of water to imitate her sister statue below. Now she’s completely underwater and I’m counting for her: one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three . . . one-thousand-eight. She has remarkable lung power, but it’s making me nervous, and the red Pergusa just bobbed to the surface. One-thousand-twenty-four. Come on up, Nonna. Nonna?

  (Nonna! Come out now!)

  One-thousand-thirty-two.

  Fuck. She’s not coming out. I have to get down there. Goddamn trapdoor and—shit. I just slipped on the stairs. Wait. I have to run. Running. Running. Through the foyer, the hall, the solarium, now out the back. Passing the springhouse, through the gate and I still see Nonna hovering beneath the water though I have to get at her. Forget the shoes. I’m going in.

  (There you are! Thank God.)

  Nonna just lifted her head from the water.

  (You scared the hell out of me! What are you laughing at?)

  You should see her, Padre.

  (Nonna. Say hello to Padre.)

  (Buon Natale, Padre!)

  (What are you doing? You’re getting me wet!)

  She’s kicking her legs, flapping her arms, working up a swirling froth of water, more commotion than I thought she could churn up at her age. And there she goes again, sliding beneath the surface, still roiling the water, which bubbles like mad. I wonder if one of the heating elements has gone kablooey.

  (Nonna? Are you all right in there? Nonna?)

  What the—Oh my God, Archie. I . . . I’m seeing it, but I’m not seeing it. It’s . . . what the hell is this? It’s not Nonna coming out of the water. It’s a giant fishtail flapping up. I swear to God. A silver tail fin splashing the water’s surface. It’s gone and now there’s Nonna sitting up, standing, with her long braid restored and fish scales from the waist down.

  (Oh, come on. Nonna! Is this some costume Betty mail-ordered? Is this some trick?)

  (It’s-a no trick, Garney!)

  She’s laughing, Padre. Can you hear her?

  (I almost-a forget!)

  (Forget what? Nonna! Don’t go!)

  She’s diving back in, rooting around the bottom as if she’s looking for a dropped coin. Here
she comes back up, something in her hand.

  (I find it! I find it!)

  (Found what, Nonna!)

  (Your father wanted me to give this-a to you.)

  (What?)

  (The charm bracelet from-a you dad!)

  Now I know I’m tripping.

  (No! Look-a! Look and you see the words carved on-a the back. See? Right here.)

  This isn’t real.

  (It’s a-real, Garney. See for yourself. You catch.)

  (Shit! You threw it over the fence! Let me just go—)

  (I have-a to go now, Garney!)

  (Wait, Nonna. I just need to find—)

  (I have to go hug-a my son.)

  (Wait! Will you give him a message?)

  (Sure thing.)

  (Would you tell him that . . . he needs to know that . . . I love him too.)

  (I will, Garney. You rest-a for sure. I go tell him right now.)

  There she goes, diving back in with that giant tail fluke, the liquid swirling in her wake and then . . . nothing. Not a ripple, not a concentric ring, the water calm and smooth, and below the surface, nobody. Just a mosaic sea nymph wearing a beautiful smile and a red Pergusa tucked in her hair.

  Archie, my head feels woozy and I’m going to think I’ve been hallucinating unless I find that bracelet. I’m moving through the fence to the pampas grass where it landed. It’s so dark back here. I can’t see a thing, and my shoes are wet, and this grass is pricklier than it looks. It’s no use. I’ll come back in the morning, or maybe I won’t, because you know something? I don’t need tangible proof anymore. I believe what Nonna said. For the first time in my life, I believe my father loved me, and now he’ll know that I loved him too.

  (Garnet!)

  (Who’s that?)

  (Garnet! Come in! It’s cold out there!)

  Oh no, Padre. It’s Dee Dee leaning through the French doors. How can I get out of here? Those pilgrims, those crazy—but they don’t look crazed right now. In fact, they’re standing calmly behind Dee Dee; they don’t seem ready to yank out my hair.

  (Did you see the Nereid? Did you see Nonna?)

  (What?)

  (Did you see Nonna?)

  (Nonna’s in the kitchen!)

  (Nonna’s not in the kitchen!)

  (She is! Garnet, come inside now.)

  It does look inviting, that room made of windows, the candlelit table. Against my better judgment, I’m actually considering going in, Father. What have I got to lose? It’s Christmas and I’m so tired of hiding. But wait. The Lowlies are coming out to me. There’s nowhere to run. But they’re smiling so sweetly, especially the children, who are, frankly, beautiful. They’re still covered in lesions and boils, but they are exquisite.

  (Garney! You have to come in now. It’s-a time!)

  Father, there’s Nonna! She is in the house with her dripping pink ringlets and wet jersey dress.

  (Saint Garnet. Come inside. Please!)

  The children are coming out and I wish you could see them darting up to me like minnows, gently holding my hand, wrapping their arms around my legs, my waist—

  (I love you, Saint Garnet.)

  (I love you too, sweetie.)

  Oh, Father, these children are beautiful, lavishing me with tears and kisses, and they might as well be twenty-four fat-bellied cherubs ladling dippers of love over me.

  (Come on in, now. Please come inside with us now. You belong here with us.)

  I have to obey. Finally. I just have to, as they pull me inside where it is warm and they are all looking at me so hopefully, so expectantly, as if I might perform a miracle right before their eyes, and you know what? With Nonna beside me, maybe I will.

  But first I have to put the recorder down, Father. I have to stop taping. I have to stop all of this now.

  MARCH 23, 1976

  J.M.J.

  Dear Committee:

  I’m back at the Vatican after spending three days in Sicily tracking down the origins of the Saint Garnet lore. It was fascinating to visit locales Garnet mentioned in her tapes, including Nonna’s hometown of Sughero and the Strait of Messina. I also met three elderly sisters who not only knew Diamante but remember very well the legend of Saint Garnet. However, they shared with me a version that had been buried in the papers of their great-great-great-etcetera-uncle, which I’ll type up and include with this correspondence. The version was unearthed after Diamante left Sicily, so it’s unlikely she was privy to it.

  I apologize for not sending an account of my visit to Sweetwater last month, but I’ll do so now. Garnet’s estate was quite changed from my initial meeting with her seven months prior. No longer were the pilgrims surrounding her fence, clamoring for just a glimpse of their healer. Now the gates are wide open, and visitors are free to wander about the grounds and even enter the mansion. I spotted Nonna sitting on the edge of the reflection pond, a dozen children snuggled beside her, all of them splashing their bare feet in the water. There was commotion on the widow’s walk, and when I got closer I saw a swarm of children leaning over the railing holding kites. In the midst of them was Garnet, her distinctive hair billowing, dangling the biggest kite of all. It wasn’t the improbable sight of her kite-flying that most startled me, but the sound of her laughter—it was not the cynical snickering I had grown accustomed to on her tapes but genuine guffaws, which lightened my heart.

  Since that visit, the mole on my cheek has shrunk and faded even more than it had the last time we measured, which is something I planned to include in my final report regarding Garnet, but today I received rather alarming news.

  The Vatican is closing this investigation for now and reassigning us to what they feel is a more pressing concern. It involves a recently murdered Romanian girl who claimed to have been visited daily by the Blessed Virgin. The girl was an outcast because of her arms, which were red and scarred from an accident involving a vat of lye. Fortunately the girl kept a diary of her conversations with Our Lady, listing places and dates of future disasters, the last one on June 24, 2025.

  We are to begin our task immediately, so next week, if my traveling papers are in order, I shall slip behind the iron curtain, where I’ll correspond as I am able.

  Kissing the Sacred Purple,

  Dolan

  THE LEGEND OF THE NEBRODI TWINS

  I spent the afternoon of March 21, 1976, in the kitchen of the three Agresta sisters, octogenarians all. As we sipped espresso and ate cuccidati they shared with me a version of the fascinating tale of Saint Garnet.

  Like the first version of the legend, this story begins with a poor couple from Sughero in the Nebrodi Mountains. However, this pair was blessed with not just one daughter but two, red-haired twins named Garnet and Diamante. The children were devoted to their parents, to each other, and to God. Other than praying, their favorite pastime was trying to mimic the sound they heard issuing from Mount Etna, which they insisted hummed them to sleep every night, though no one else heard it.

  Once the girls came of age, they drew the unwelcome attention of the region’s marquis. (Here the Agresta sisters admitted that they were descendants of that original Marquis Agresta, a name that means “sour grapes.”) Marquis did not intend to marry either of the comely sisters with hair that hung to their knees; he planned to move them to his hilltop estate to “work” in his service. Everyone knew what carnal service he had in store for them. Though Marquis tried countless times to bribe the girls’ parents to turn over their daughters, they would not relent, and the girls would not be persuaded.

  As the original legend describes, both parents were imprisoned, and Marquis had Garnet tied to a stake atop erupting Mount Etna. This new version, however, critically includes the mention of volcanic lightning, a common phenomenon, apparently, that occurs within the ash plume when negatively and positively charged ash particles collide. The bolts struck around Garnet, making her hair jut up like a tongue of fire. As pumice stones and lava balls pelted her, she prayed ceaselessly to the Blessed Virgin, who sent twenty-four f
at-bellied cherubs to ladle cool spring water over her throughout the night. In the morning Garnet pranced down the volcano totally nude and now mapped with the world. No one was healed in her presence, but the townsfolk still exalted her, since surviving the furnace of Etna and being tattooed like a globe were apparently miracles enough.

  For Diamante, Marquis chose a different torture. At the same moment her sister was being dragged up Mount Etna, Diamante was yanked by Marquis’s minions down to the Strait of Messina. There, they bound her hands and feet with braided rope and tossed her into a gigantic wine vat that had once held Marquis’s swill. They left the top end open, and Diamante screamed as the minions heaved the barrel into the water and tied an anchor around it so that it would not budge as the tide crept toward the barrel’s lip. Unless Diamante relented, the water would fill up both the barrel and her lungs. Like her sister, Diamante prayed ceaselessly to the Virgin, who sent twenty-four fat-bellied cherubs to ladle seawater out of the barrel as fast as the tide rushed in. Unfortunately, their chubby arms couldn’t work quickly enough and soon the barrel filled.

  Early in the morning, half the townsfolk ran up the hill to discover the fate of Garnet; the other half raced down to the strait to discover the fate of Diamante. As the tide receded, the still-upright barrel became exposed inch by inch; they rushed into the surf, tipped the vat over, and out spilled seawater as blood-red as Lake Pergusa—but no girl.

  The old women wailed until a gaggle of children pointed into the sea at a giant silvery fishtail emerging from the surf. Everyone stared at the receding tail, and then their mouths fell open when in its place Diamante surfaced, first her head, then neck, then shoulders. Her hair was no longer red, but silver, as if bleached by the salt water. In addition, her tresses were now fashioned into a braid, the same length and thickness as the rope that had so recently bound her.