The Witch of Little Italy (7 page)

Hungry now, with the morning turning into early afternoon, her sickness had passed. She was ravenous. The galley kitchen was small and the counters already piled high with ingredients. “Here, sit here and cut the beets,” said Mimi, who led her to the breakfast nook that was outside of the kitchen but next to the entrance to the dining room and opposite the exit to the back hall. Elly sat down in a well-worn, wooden kitchen chair and began to cut fresh, peeled beets into quarters. The bright red juice got on her fingers. Mimi threw a damp towel to her from the kitchen. “Beets are messy things, but they taste of the earth. And they’re the color of Christmas.”

“What’s on the menu, Mimi? I’m starving.”

“Oh, now you are starving?” teased Mimi. “The roast is in the oven. Roast beef is our Christmas beast. The secret to cooking any kind of meat is to salt it well and put it in the oven for a long time at a low temperature. Leave it there, don’t fuss with it. It’s ready when you can’t stand waiting for it anymore.”

Elly could smell it cooking. A heavy smell, full of crisped fat and savory meatiness. It made her mouth water.

“Here,” Mimi said, putting a bowl in front of her that held the heel of a loaf of crusty Italian bread, ladled with sauce.

“This isn’t the sauce from last night, is it?” asked Elly.

“No, of course not. Would I do that to you? It’s the sauce for the lasagna. We are having roast beef with roasted root vegetables, lasagna, and then a few leftovers from last night, but not the sauce. We never mix sauces.”

Elly wiped her hands with the towel (or mopine, as Mimi called it), and picked up the bread, now softening in the sauce. Warm and perfect. Acidic and sweet. The bread mingled with the perfect sauce and gave it a hearty yeast flavor that Elly could almost taste down to her toes.

The afternoon slipped by in a flurry of chopping, tasting, baking, and setting the table.

When everyone was finally gathered in the dining room, with the flickering candlelight casting warmth across the table, Elly felt a sense of accomplishment as she looked over the meal she’d helped prepare. The roast beef set amongst the roasted beets, yams, fennel, and potatoes. Sprigs of rosemary finishing off the platter. The oblong tray of encrusted cheese that held layer upon layer of light, homemade pasta sheets and a mixture of ground beef and ground sausage browned to perfection. A salad of fresh greens mixed with pears and a crumbling of blue cheese. Broccoli drizzled with olive oil and served with bright lemon wedges. It was perfect.

“Merry Christmas!” said Anthony, who’d picked a seat next to Elly. He tried to place his hand over hers, but she pulled away her hand. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, Elly picked up a glass of sparkling cider and made a toast. “To family,” she said.

Mimi, Fee, and Anthony raised their glasses. But not Itsy. Itsy stared down at her hands. “Don’t mind her, Elly. She’s always been moody,” yelled Fee.

Itsy wrote on her pad.
And you’ve always been FAT.

“I have not. Tell her, Mimi. Remind her that I was thin, when we were young!”

Mimi slammed her hand on the table, clattering the gold-plated silverware together. “
Abaste!
” she yelled. “You all stop this nonsense and celebrate with me. Look, I have my granddaughter home, and it’s
Christmas
!”

“Fine,” Fee said as softly as she could.

“Hey, has anyone heard the one about the three witches and the priest?” asked Anthony, breaking the ice.

Elly stole looks at him throughout what turned into a delightful meal, despite its rocky beginning, thanks to him. How could any man be so kind? It worried her, and it tugged at her. Maybe men weren’t all like Cooper. Maybe some could be trusted.

*   *   *

After the plates were cleared and the pots and pans cleaned, Fee, Itsy, and Anthony all went home to their respective apartments.

“We are done. Christmas is officially over. Come, sit and talk to me. I want to know everything,” said Mimi.

They sat together on the couch. Mimi put her feet up on an embroidered ottoman and reached beside her into a yarn-filled basket taking out a crochet hook and a small multicolored square. She began to crochet in the round.

“I guess you pretty much have the whole story, Mimi,” said Elly, fascinated by the swift movement of her grandmother’s hands.

“Maybe. But how are you feeling?” Mimi tapped her head. “In here.”

Mimi set aside her yarn and went around the back of the couch, gathering Elly’s long hair up and making a thick braid.

“That summer you spent with us, the one you can’t remember? We spent a week in the cottage at Far Rockaway. What a wonderful summer that was. We had you baptized. You received your first communion and were sealed into the church by confirmation. Old Father Martin, drunk and senile, petitioned the church so we could do it all at once. But the thing is … You felt safe. You told me so. You always felt safe here.” Mimi smiled, remembering and laughing, “Babygirl.”

“I wish I remembered. Why can’t I remember?”

Mimi dropped the braid and tilted Elly’s head back with her finger looking into her eyes and seeing the truth. “You will. It’s already starting.”

“I hope so,” said Elly, looking upside down at Mimi.

“Well, let me know when you do. It was the summer Itsy decided to speak. She told you something.”

“What did she say?”

Mimi sat down and picked up her crochet again.

“I don’t know. All we heard was mumbling from the upstairs room. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask Itsy … or remember it yourself. It’s always killed me, not knowing what made her break her silence that day.”

Elly wanted to remember.

She looked at her grandmother. The perfectly black hair in the flawless set, the matronly body covered in a boldly flowered housecoat, the knee-high stockings and sensible black shoes. It
was
safe here. The yarn squeaked across the hook.

Babygirl was in the garden with Itsy and George. “Chain five. Single crochet, single crochet…” Itsy sat on a bench behind the little girl moving her hands while George sat at her feet giving the words to the movements. He didn’t even have to look. He just knew what Itsy was doing as if he’d heard the same, basic lesson one thousand times before.

Elly put her hands over her eyes trying to capture more of the memory. Mimi squeezed her hand and said, “Don’t worry my Elly. It will come back. All of it. Just as you’ve come back to us, all that you need to remember will come back to you.”

Elly shook her head as tears started to flow. It bothered her, this instant crying business.

“What is it, my love? Tell Mimi.”

Elly looked at her grandmother again. Yes. It
was
safe here. She let the flood of worry out. “I’m worried my Mom won’t forgive me for this. For coming here. For having the baby. It’s always been just us, you know? And I’m worried about Cooper.”
That he’ll find me
. “And finishing my senior year. I’m worried about telling my mentor I won’t be going to Florence.”

“You were going to go to Florence?”

“Yes, I won a scholarship to restore frescoes.”

“That’s truly an accomplishment, Elly! And you think you’re not interesting! My goodness.”

“I don’t remember telling you I felt
un
interesting, Mimi.”

“I’m sorry, honey. It’s the damn Sight. It talks to us with such a loud voice sometimes. And other times it’s completely silent. Itsy calls it fickle. I know there’s a part of you afraid of all this. Afraid of being who you are.”

“But isn’t there a chance that when I remember everything I’ll be different? That I’ll be fascinating?”

“I can’t tell you what you’ll find, I only know how you feel. And right now there’s a part of you so very afraid that you’ve made all this up. That you wanted so much to escape and now that you’ve achieved it you’ve found there’s no escape from yourself.”

It was true. Mimi could have disappeared in a cloud of smoke right in front of her and it wouldn’t have seemed any crazier than Elly’s desperate need to escape her life at Yale. Her life with Carmen. Her life with Cooper. Witches, ESP, mystery children crying … all of it was preferable to her other world. A world she worried about.

Mimi put the granny square she was making in her lap. “Don’t worry about any of that now. It’ll all work itself out. Those kinds of things always do. Carmen will get over herself. We can deal with that Cooper boy in our own way. I’ll stand by you tomorrow while you call whomever you need to call about your trip. And school? You will finish. You can drive in. It’s not far. You can use Uncle George’s car. Anthony can show you tomorrow.
Abast
.
Finito.
Done.”

“Really?”
Could it all be so easy?
Elly wondered.

“Really.”

“Mimi?

“Mmmhmm?”

“If you have The Sight and it’s so strong why don’t you know what Itsy said to me that day?”

“She blocked me, the witch,” said Mimi.

“I thought you didn’t use that word?”

“Call a spade a spade, Mama used to say.”

Elly sat quietly watching Mimi crochet while trying to let the whole bizarre situation sink in.

“Mimi, do you have an extra hook?”

Mimi dug into the basket and found a shiny pink hook and a ball of soft, white yarn. “Here,” she said. “Make that baby a blanket or something already.”

Elly took the hook and the yarn. Her hands knew what to do.
Chain 100, single crochet, single crochet, single crochet.… Oh look, Uncle George! Come see, Aunt Itsy! I’m doing it!

*   *   *

Later that night, when Mimi was asleep, Elly stole out of bed to grab some cookies and a glass of milk. The cookies were the best she’d ever had. Little round butterballs with almonds and powdered sugar. Surprisingly spicy chocolate cookies dipped in a shiny chocolate glaze. And best of all, the melt-away Genettis. An Italian sugar cookie of sorts. Simple and elegant.

With a handful of cookies Elly opened the refrigerator to get the milk. The light shone on a pile of dirty mopines in a corner on the counter. The one on top was the one she’d used to wipe her hands after cutting the beets. There was a distinguishable red palm print. Red like blood. A memory started to surface, but she pushed it down.
Maybe some of these memories won’t be so good,
she thought.

5

Itsy

Papa loved Mama. It was clear to all of us, even though they fought from time to time. And, even though, on closer inspection, they seemed to have nothing in common. Mama had a wildness in her, a scattered beauty. Papa thought in lines and numbers. He didn’t pay much attention to her magic. Bunny always said it was a shame. That Papa didn’t appreciate her. But Mama would hush her and use the complaint as moments to school us. Mama never missed an opportunity to gather us around her and tell us what she thought. She said every moment was a “teaching moment” and no questions should ever go unanswered. And she let us know, very early on, that though love spells existed, they should never be used. You don’t manipulate such powerful things. You simply must understand their secrets.

She taught us the secret of love under the shade of the fiery red maple on a glorious October afternoon. The kind where the sun is still warm but the sky spreads out impossibly blue and hinting at winter. We were closing up the Far Rockaway cottage and eating lunch in the yard. Mama was pointing out how brilliant the red of the tree glowed against the blue, blue sky. She was always doing things like that. Forcing us to stop and look.

In 1938 when we went to see the Technicolor genius that was
Gone with the Wind,
I learned a whole new appreciation for the world Mama created for us. My sisters and brothers and myself, we weren’t so impressed. But everyone in the theater was oohing and ahhhing over the bright colors on the screen. I remember thinking
Goodness, so many people living in gray worlds.

Anyway, we were finished eating and Mama was making us look at that Sugar Maple. We lay down underneath it with her and looked up through the leaves at the sky. She was in the middle and we spread out around her like stars, each of us trying to be the ones closest to her face so we could smell her breath, roses and milk, while she talked.

Bunny sat up. “See, Mama, Papa doesn’t notice these things. He’s always rushing. Look, he’s not even here. So busy back in the city at work.”

Mama sat up, too, and leaned her back against the trunk of the tree. Her hair was loose and her eyes bright with the day. I remember her apron. Beautifully cut work cotton. Perfectly white against her brown skirt. She patted her lap and George climbed on top of her. The rest of us gathered. Well, not the older boys. Those three—always connected at the hip. They were playing cards on the screened-in back porch.

“Papa doesn’t need to notice,” she said, “It’s enough that I do. And I teach it to you, and you will teach it to yours, right?”

We nodded. Forever wanting to please her.

“Here is the secret to love,” she said. “Always make sure that the man loves you just a breath more than you love him.”

“Mama!” cried George.

Mama laughed, “Not you, my duck!” and she rocked him.

“Mama, that’s not fair,” said Mimi, who was always watching over Papa even when he wasn’t there.

“Oh Mimi, I love your Papa more than any woman ever loved any man. And still, he loves me a breath more. It’s the only healthy way. If a woman loves too much—if her love is heavier—she won’t see anything but him. She’ll be blind to the world. Women are made like that. We have to teach ourselves not to become obsessed. True love lies in peace, not torture.”

And with those words she looked directly into my eyes. They burned a hole through my heart.

6

Elly

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!” Anthony was standing over Elly dangling a set of keys on a rabbit foot key chain.

“Gimme a second. Jesus! How did you get in here?” Elly groaned and pulled a pillow over her head. All she wanted to do was stay in bed. She was warm and sleepy like a cat.