The Patron Saint of Ugly (13 page)

“My dad?” I would have expected her to ask for a cup of sugar. Maybe an egg.

“I have a plumbing problem and talk on the hill is that he’s the man when it comes to home repairs.”

My father had been dubbed top handyman? In his world there was no greater honor.

“Just a minute.” I turned around and hollered, “Dad!”

Footsteps pounded up from the basement, and when Dad saw who was requesting his presence, he tucked in his shirt and fluffed up his pompadour. “Well, come in. Come in.”

Annette declined, saying the baby was by herself, and described the leaking catastrophe in her bathroom. “Jake is all thumbs even when he is home.”

Dad said, “I can take a look at it if you like.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” And out they went.

After that, Dad spent as much time tending to Annette’s abode as ours. The rewards were homemade pies and brownies, offerings Dad carted home as carefully as he might the sacred Eucharist. Mom never touched them.

The night of Dad’s poker-party hangover, the telephone rang. Mom answered the wall phone in the kitchen. Her mouth puckered; she let the receiver drop, and it dangled on its yellow cord as she yelled downstairs, “Angelo! It’s for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Guess.” Mom stomped down the hall and I could hear her lifting the sewing machine out of the table model set up in one corner of her room. Whenever Mom’s brain was too frenzied to settle on a book or pen
poetry
, she worked on the living room drapes she’d been stitching for years.

Dad rushed upstairs and scooped up the phone. “Hello? Well, hi there. Sure, I can take a look at it if you like.”

Ten minutes later, clothes changed, hair combed, he dashed out the door with his toolbox, and this time I clandestinely followed. I wanted to see what Dad and Annette were up to, plus I was hoping to get a peek of a battalion of wooden arms and legs inside Jake’s garage.

I crept up Annette’s front steps and cupped my hands around my eyes to look inside her storm door. Dad and Annette stood in the dining room and I could hear her high-pitched chirp. Dad laughed too, especially when she rested her hand on his forearm. Then baby Mary Ellen bounced in. Annette’s hand still rested on my father’s forearm, an innocent-looking gesture that gained significance when she turned and headed into her kitchen, dragging her finger down his wrist, then the back of his hand, and finally leaving a small gap between their fingertips, like the painting of God creating Adam in the Sistine Chapel.

Dad flipped open his toolbox, which was sitting on the table, reached for a screwdriver, and turned to look down at a wall socket. He knelt before the altar of electricity, and I wondered if he was going to call over his shoulder for Nicky to come and hold the plate and screws, the paten and hosts. He didn’t have the chance because Mary Ellen bounded to him, apple slice in her hand. I expected him to call for Annette to come and fetch her girl child, but he just looked at Mary Ellen’s dimpled knuckles, her unstained face, and proceeded to dismantle the outlet. He slid the rectangle into her palm. The screw he slid into his shirt pocket. My father tucked his finger under Mary Ellen’s chin to make sure she was watching. Boy, was she ever, as he pointed to the exposed wall socket and then wagged his finger in the universal gesture meaning
Don’t touch!
Mary Ellen mimicked him, wagging her finger, shaking her head. She was a quick learner.

It was a betrayal far worse than I could have imagined. Heat rushed through me from my toes to my scalp. A boiling wave flashed across my face as I gritted my teeth and suddenly sparks flew from that exposed box. Mary Ellen hid behind my father and squealed just as Annette’s porch light exploded overhead; pieces of the shattered bulb rained all over me. I bolted down the porch steps completely oblivious to the Captain Hook arms and pirate peg legs and raced home clutching my chest, where a certain box had also exploded.

Inside, Mom was still in her room wasting thread and time on a ridiculous pair of drapes that she hoped would somehow make her house a home. “Is that you, Angelo?”

“It’s me,” I answered in a voice even I didn’t recognize.

I ran to my room, table lamps and ceiling lights surging in my wake. I dove for my bed and pulled the covers over my head. Though I tried to stopper them, tears slid as the hum of Mom’s sewing machine abruptly stopped, its power supply mysteriously cut, and I was glad.

SANCTUS INTERRUPTUS, UNUS

(Go ahead, Mother Ferrari. Say something.)

(It’s-a on?)

(I pressed the Record button.)

(I speech-a now?)

(Yes, but hurry up, Mother. Holy moly. Garnet will be back any minute.)

(Okay-okay. Hold-a your horses [you evil-eye
snake].)

(What’s that, Mother?)

(
Nulla, nulla,
but you go now. I need private time in my Barkyloungy with the holy man.)

(Oh! Of course! I’ll be in the solarium, Mother. Just call when you’re finished.)

(Okeydokey. Bye-bye a-now [you key-eyed wicked a-witch].)

So here goes, Padre, and I hope it still counts if I sit in-a my chair. My feet are a-swoll up like salamis. So many stairs in this house. I keep asking Garney to get the elevator a-fix, but she no want any more workers in-a here. They keep snapping her picture and steal-a the silver.

Now we begin-a for sure:

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

Bless-a me, Padre, for I have-a sin. It’s been a long-a time since I make-a confess. I have been a bad
suocera
, uh, mamma-in-law. I harbor ill will in my heart for Walleye Betty. I pray so hard to have it remove, but it’s still there, like a nail in-a my lung. I never ask for such a daughter-in-law. Yesterday I tole-a her there was no more Mallo Cups, but I hid the last one in-a my purse. Why she need the last Mallo Cup when she bring-a so much misery into our fam-i-ly with her
jettatura
jealousy and her—well, I no speech about all that-a now. Garney will tell you better than-a me.

I also must-a confess to easy-drop on Garney when she make-a her tapes. I no understand why she deny her gift, but now I’m-a gonna set the record straight. It is-a
not
me performing the
miracoli
. Okay, so maybe some funny things happen when I was-a growing up, but I never make-a the freckles or eye sties disappear like Garney do. Never. But here’s some of-a the strangeness that happen to me if it help-a the cause.

Maybe you already know that my father was a poor goat herder who lived in the Nebrodi Mountains. When I was a bambina my mamma would put me in one of the goat pens to keep-a me safe while she do her chores. I keep her company with-a my humming, matching the sound I hear since-a birth that no one else seem to hear. I would dig-a the holes just like our little dog, and with every scoop, out pop the seashells. Mamma saw this and marveled, not only because we lived on a mountain but because when she and Papà dig-a the holes they only getta the dirt. Mamma say it’s a sign of-a something, but she never say a sign of-a what.

My
papà
work-a so hard to keep food on our table, and I work right-a beside him since I was his only child even if, as he say, I was only a girl. My mother make magic when she cook since she know so many ways to prepare the goat,
stambecco brasato
still-a my favorite. When I’m just a girl Papà ask me to help him plant an almond tree as a surprise for Mamma. He hand me a shovel and when I jab in the blade, this time instead of seashells, the ground start-a to bleed. I drop the shovel and scream and Papà kneel and put his finger in-a the puddle to taste it, but I no think that’s such a good idea. He look at-a me and say, “It taste like the red water of Lake Pergusa!” He would know since he make the trip to Siena when he was a boy to see that bloody water for himself. Again Mamma say it’s a sign of-a something, but she never say a sign of-a what.

I also hear Garney tell-a you about the light bulbs she make-a go
pop-pop-pop
, but I tell you the truth, some of it’s-a my fault. In Sicilia I also have the bad time with electric. I remember the night when I was-a twelve and all the people in Sughero gather at the center piazza at dusk to watch the mayor screw the first light bulb into the first street lamp. Everyone ooo and ahhh like it’s a
miracolo
, even thirteen-year-old Angelo Ferrari, the boy who I—oh, I guess I need to tell-a you about him, but it’s-a no easy for me to speech about this. I never even tell this to my parish-a priest. But you are holier since you are the archbishop, so I trust you will keep-a my secret, except from God. It’s okay now if you tell this-a to Him.

Our landlords, the Ciaffagliones, lived next door to us in the big-a house and they owned the finest vineyard for miles which produce Orgoglio della Sicilia, the best of Sicilia grapes which make-a the best-best wine. Signore Ciaffaglione was not-a so sweet as his grapes, however. We rent-a not only the land from him but the little falling-down house, which was just a stone’s throw from the main one. My father had to give Ciaffaglione all our best-best goats, plus make sure the stone wall that kept our goats from the vineyard was always in-a good repair or we might get a stone through the window that conk one of us on-a the head.

Maybe it’s because Signore Ciaffaglione was so bitter that he could produce-a no children. During harvest time he hired all his male relatives, including the two sons of Signora Ciaffaglione’s sister who lived across the Strait of Messina in Villa San Giovanni: Dominick (the oldest) and Angelo Ferrari. The first time I met the brothers was the day Mamma take me to the strait for our weekly trading. I see the blue boat that brings the boys to Sicilia, and as soon as they disembark, Dominick rush up like he knows me all his-a life. He reach for my hair though we are just kids and said, “The Pining Nereid!” I think he’s cuckoo for sure, even more because over the years I see he has it in-a his head that when-a we grow up we are destined to marry. I no understand where this
fantasia
came from. I never gave him any special favors, especially since he hated Sicilia, my beloved homeland, where he kicked the dirt and spit curses as if the soil had stolen his favorite sling-a-shot or his newsie cap that he wore even a-then. He hated picking the Orgoglio della Sicilia grapes, which, according to him, were no match to the Gaglioppo grapes from Calabria that his own-a father grew.

But he no want to live in-a Calabria either. So many times I hear him-a rant, “As soon as I save up enough money I’m going to America where I no have-a to pick the Orgoglio della Sicilia grape-a no more!” More than once he looked at-a me and say, “And you come with-a me, Diamante, and we build a beautiful life!” I know it’s-a hard to believe he could say such-a prettiness, but he did, even if I always, always clamped my hands over my ears and ran away screaming, “
Noooo!
” Besides, Dominick lose all his money playing dice with the other pickers, so I don’t think he will ever see the Liberty Statue. And double-double besides, my heart-a belong to his brother, Angelo, who was always such a sweet-a boy. He loved Sicilia and picking the grapes and popping them in-a his mouth and I loved watching him do it.

I loved watching Angelo even more when he served as altar boy at church during harvest season even though his brother make-a the big fun. But Angelo loved-a God as much as I did. Even when it was-a no harvest time I was often kneeling in-a that church with the pretty blue ceiling with the clouds painted on. I knew God lived on-a my mountain, in-a my church, even before I could crawl. I think Angelo knew that too because his face beam like an angel when he helped Padre Ponzo serve Communion.

When his work was-a done in the vineyard Angelo would climb up the trellis beside-a my bedroom window and whisper, “Diamante. Let’s go make a picnic.”

I would quick-quick grab a loaf of-a bread and some goat cheese, a handful of chestnuts, and race outside to our favorite a-spot, which was a flat rock in the woods at the far edge of the property. Someone—not Ciaffaglione, that’s-a for sure—had placed a statue of La Vergine Maria in her own grotto on-a the rock. I love-a this statue, especially the braid that spill from Maria’s head and dangle all the way to her feet. I remember the first time I see her I run-a my hand through my own hair that never grows more than-a six inches no matter what I do.

I even say to Angelo, “I hope one day my hair grows so long as La Vergine’s.”

Angelo reach over and touch the piece of my bang that always falls in-a my eyes. “It will. I know it will.”

And you know, from that day my hair she grow and grow and I never cut it except for the ends when-a they get all frizzy.

We also love-a this spot because it is surrounded by a patch of wildflowers neither of us had seen-a before. The five-petal blooms smelled of roasted almonds and nutmeg and were the exact-a color of the Lake Pergusa blood water. I tell Angelo this and he name the plant Fiore Pergusa. Whenever we make-a the picnic I would inhale the aroma as he told me about life in Calabria, his apprenticeship as a stonemason, a trade both he and Dominick were learning from-a their father. Though Angelo wanted to master the skill that would provide a good-a life, his dream was to own a vineyard and develop a new grape that he would name after me. The day he confessed his heart’s desire he asked, “Do you think it will happen?”