One time, p.6
One Time, page 6
“And kind—”
“And delicious—”
“Offerings.”
A day or two after our visits to the Frails, Miss Lightstone would again mention the “generosity and thoughtfulness” of Miss Judy, who had brought ravioli or cavatelli or lasagna to share with the faculty. When Antonio would turn immediately to me, I would erase from my face any indication of guilt.
I thought to myself, shiyou ga nai. It can’t be helped, so why worry about it?
Small Secrets
Antonio had been living next door for three months and although Dad had seen the grandmother on the weekly pasta deliveries, I had rarely seen her or Carlotta. Didn’t they ever go out?
“Maybe they go out at night,” Dad suggested. “Spies do that, you know.”
“I thought spies liked to blend in with others, get people to trust them.”
“Yes, there is that, too. They trick you into letting your guard down and telling them your secrets. Maybe that is what the grandmother is doing by bringing us all that pasta. She is trying to make us spill the beans.”
“On what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe on how much money you are hiding in that little tin money box.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
“Most people have secrets, little ones mostly.”
Was it a secret that sometimes, in the grocery store or the post office or even on the street, Dad would occasionally stop someone and say, “You dropped this.” He would hand them five or ten dollars. We did not have a lot of money; this I knew from the unmentionable words he and Mom said to the monthly bills. But still, Dad saved some to carry in his pockets for the you-dropped-this routine.
Some people would say, “Oh, no, it isn’t mine,” and Dad would reply, “But I saw it fall from your pocket,” and usually the person would look surprised and say, “Really? Huh. Well, thank you.”
Some people quickly snatched the money and acted as if, of course, the money was theirs; how careless they were to drop it.
In time I learned that Dad was selective in his targets. Haggard-looking mothers trailing small, whining children were his favorites. Old men and women counting their pennies at the checkout seemed to “drop” ten-dollar bills frequently.
Was it a secret that Mom took flowers to the cemetery each Sunday morning and put them on two or three graves that had no flowers? I used to think she knew the people buried there, but when I asked her one day how she knew them, she said, “I don’t know them, but somebody knew them. They were someone’s son or daughter or sister or brother or mother or father, mm?”
More Experiments
One day a week in Miss Lightstone’s class we did writing “experiments.” I was increasingly eager for them, but Margie sometimes worried over them.
“I like to take my time,” she said. “I like to figure out what I think before I write.”
“But you can figure that out while you are writing fast,” I said. “That’s what I discovered, anyway.”
“My mind doesn’t work like that. My mind doesn’t like all that—that—messiness.”
Miss Lightstone nodded sympathetically. “Messy mind is fine, Margie. Try it a few more times. You may find it easier, and maybe you’ll find one gem in the middle of the mess, and later you can expand on that gem when you revise more slowly.”
Our teacher wrote along with us and occasionally shared what she had written, like the day she chose “We didn’t always live on Mango Street,” but changed Mango to Finchley.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said. “I wrote about the house I grew up in and I began remembering so many things, like the wallpaper in the kitchen was white with green ivy crawling up it, and once I drew little red-and-black ladybugs amid the leaves and it was a long time before anyone noticed those ladybugs and I loved having that little secret of the hidden ladybugs.” Miss Lightstone put her hands on her heart. “I had completely forgotten those ladybugs.”
Several people had chosen “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit” for their first line.
“The hobbit turned out to be evil—”
“My hobbit turned into a rabbit—”
“I wrote all about the hole and the tunnels and how a skunk wandered in one day.”
Arif began with “There is no lake at Camp Green Lake,” and perhaps because Antonio had recently predicted that Arif would make great discoveries about our planet, Arif wrote about terrifying changes in the ecosystem and about how all the lakes were gone and the oceans were shrinking and he needed to invent something that would reverse the process.
Fellow future discoverer Margie began with “Rendi was not sure how long the moon had been missing.” She wrote about how long it took people to notice and what might have caused the moon to disappear and what she should do to investigate. How should she begin to look for a missing moon?
Ruby wrote about a missing horse, and when she held up her paper, you could see that she had written quick, short lines that looked like a poem:
Rendi was not sure
how long the horse
had been missing
missing horse
missing horse
who will miss
the horse
absent from the field
stuck stuck
stuckity stuck
Renaldo, potential future teacher, wrote, “My name is Prince Pablo SuperRendo but no one’s ever called me that.” It was important that no one know his real name because he was working incognito as a teacher in an underprivileged country, giving money to people anonymously.
That reminded me of my father and the “dropped” money.
Freddy wrote, “We think they took my uncle.” He held up a page filled with words. “We think he got deported,” Freddy said. “For real.”
We barely had time to sympathize when both Audrey and Claire said they had chosen “I have not had so good of a week,”7 but they did not want to discuss what they had written.
Antonio crumpled his paper and didn’t want to talk about what he had written either.
I wrote, “Their names are Marlene and Judy but we call them the Frails.” Pages of dialogue spilled out of my brain. What they talked about surprised me.
Miss Marlene:
Have you seen—
Miss Judy:
The surfboard?
Miss Marlene:
The good one.
Miss Judy:
I didn’t take it.
Miss Marlene:
I didn’t say you did.
Miss Judy:
I hated that surfboard.
Miss Marlene:
I hated your goat.
And then they started talking about the empress of Japan, but not in the nicest way:
Miss Marlene:
Did the empress of Japan ever—
Miss Judy:
Write a thank-you note?
Miss Marlene:
Did she?
Miss Judy:
I don’t think so.
Miss Marlene:
A bit rude.
Miss Judy:
After all those cookies.
And somehow the writing then turned to the two of them riding bicycles and going to the beach. They were so young.
At lunch, I asked Antonio what he had written about.
“The name one. You know, ‘My name is—whatever—but no one ever calls me that.’”
“So why did you crumple it up?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the crumpled page, and handed it to me. It read, “I am a son, but no one ever calls me that.”
I believe I responded with: “Oh! But—is that—are you—do you—?”
He didn’t smile, but he leaned slightly toward me and said, in a soft voice, “It’s okay. There are a lot of kids like me around.”
The Clackertys
The next time Antonio’s grandmother brought us a huge pan of lasagna, Dad said, “I know, I know, I should tell her to stop, but I can’t do it, and we cannot eat anymore of it and we cannot burden the Frails with it again.”
We looked sadly at the foil-covered pan, its contents enough to feed a dozen or more.
“Wait,” Dad said. “I have an idea. We give it to a big family, a big hungry family, yes?”
“Like who?” I asked, but as soon as the question came out of my mouth, I knew what his answer would be.
“The Clackertys!” he said, triumphantly. “There’s a loud and crazy and big family for you. Yes?”
“You’re really going to walk down there and hand them a pan of lasagna?”
“No, no, they don’t want to see me invading with a big pan. I might scare them.” A little sheepish smile crept onto his face.
“Oh no,” I said. “No, you don’t. I won’t. I can’t.”
Dad gazed forlornly at the pan of lasagna. He sighed a deep, heavy sigh and sat wearily at the table. “Oh well,” he said. “It was only an idea. I was thinking of when I was little and my mother would make a big bowl of cavatelli and meatballs and we would take it to the neighbors who had a very big family, but the husband had broken his arm and couldn’t work, and the momma always looked so tired. But you should have seen their faces when we showed up, me and my mother, with that big bowl of delicious-smelling pasta. You should have seen it, I tell you. They were hopping and laughing and so eager to taste that big bowl of delicious-smelling—”
“Okay, okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll take it to the Clackerty-Claffertys.”
“Really? What a big, generous heart you have, Gina.”
“Right.”
Off I went, carrying the big pan of lasagna down the street, hoping Antonio’s grandmother would not see me. I was still several houses away from the Clackertys when two of the little ones came charging at me, waving their muddy hands.
“Hi, hi, hi! Whatcha got? Whatcha got in that pan?”
“Is it snakes?”
“Is it turtles?”
I kept walking, weaving my way between them. Their yippy-yappy dog, trailing its leash, and two other Clackertys joined the young ones.
“Who’s that? What’s she got?”
“She has snakes and turtles!”
“And ribbity rabbits.”
They were jumping up, trying to lift the edge of the foil, and the dog was jumping up, scratching my legs and tangling my feet in its leash.
Two other Clackertys jumped down from a tree. “Whatcha got there? Is that for us?”
“She’s got snakes and turtles and ribbity rabbits and squishy snails.”
At last I reached the porch and asked if their mother was home.
“Go on in,” they said.
“She’s probably on the couch. She’s so tired!”
“Maybe you could put this in the kitchen,” I suggested. “I don’t want to bother her.”
“She don’t care! Everybody’s always going in and out.”
One of them opened the door and another pushed me forward. “Go on, couch is right over there.”
“Mom, Mom, Mom, some girl is here—”
“With snakes and turtles—”
“No, no, I don’t have snakes and turtles—”
A woman—Mrs. Clafferty, I assumed—was lying on the couch with a blanket over her legs. She did not get up, but she did open her eyes.
“We’re not buying any,” she said.
“No, no, I’m not selling—this is for you. It’s lasagna.”
Mrs. Clafferty sniffed the air. “Lasagna? Really?” She sat up. “For us? Why?”
One of the little kids said, “Aw, poo. No snakes? No turtles?”
“Where are the snakes and turtles and ribbity rabbits?”
Mrs. Clafferty said, “Thank you. Do you mind taking it to the kitchen? I broke my leg.” She lifted the blanket to show me the cast. “Thank you so much.”
“No snakes? No turtles?”
Two of the littles and the yippy-yappy dog followed me halfway back up the street.
“What’s your name? Where do you live? Where are the snakes?”
At home, Dad said, “Success?”
“Next time, it’s your turn.”
Crows
Another package arrived from Nonna Filomena. In it was a delicate, narrow piece of pale blue fabric, about a foot long, fringed with tiny green and yellow beads. Dad translated the attached note: “For your wrist, you wrap it around. It is to ward off bad spirits.”
I wrapped it around my wrist, instantly convinced that it was infused with Nonna air and angel air, with protection and strength.
In her accompanying letter, Nonna Filomena related the latest Angel Lucia episode. Some of the villagers had been gossiping about a newcomer and the gossip grew and grew and became nastier and nastier.
Angel Lucia does not like this pettegolezzo—this gossip—so mean-spirited. She sends a hundred black crows to swarm the gossipers and to leave many splotches of—you know—the white slop—on their heads.
That angel, I loved her.
Also in the mail that day came a postcard from Auntie and Uncle Pasta, telling us that they were going to be passing through and would stay with us one night.
My parents were not amused. “No call to ask ‘May we?’ or ‘Do you mind?’” Dad said. When Mom asked when they were arriving, Dad examined the card. “Saturday. Nothing like a lot of notice. Saturday!”
Mom said, “Oh, rats. I do believe I have to work this weekend.”
At school, my new wristlet was quickly noticed. Most people admired it and wanted to touch it, but a few, like Claire, were scornful.
“Another special gift from her nonna in Italy,” Claire said. “Tuh.”
Ruby said, “Even I could make that—if I wanted to.”
Overhearing them, I stroked the material, confident that it would ward off their mean spirits.
Antonio asked if he could touch the cloth. He touched it lightly, gently, and the warmth of his touch went through the material to my wrist. He examined the beads. “Unusual,” he said. “I like it.”
Claire turned away. “Tuh!”
Ruby echoed her. “Tuh!”
Their spirit must have rubbed off on Freddy, for he said, “Look at that—Antonio wants a bracelet.”
To my surprise, a few others chimed in, mocking Antonio, but Antonio ignored them.
My wrist was tingling.
There was a thump against the classroom window.
“A bird,” someone said, “crashed into the—yikes—there are lots of them!”
A clump of crows flapping their shiny black wings and cawing, cawing darkened the window.
The next day, Margie and Audrey wore wristlets they had made from lavender cloth and sequins, and the following day more girls wore homemade wristlets. By the end of the week, even Claire and Ruby were wearing them.
Antonio wore his own version: a white wristband—the kind that tennis players wore—dotted with blue and black circles.
Uncle and Auntie Pasta Return
Dad and I had barely finished cleaning the house when Uncle and Auntie Pasta arrived. Mom was conveniently at work.
In they charged with a rush of groans and chatter and jostling: Oof, her coat was too hot; Ack, Uncle bumped his elbow; Bah, the traffic was terrible; Oof, her throat was so dry; Unh, she needed her medicine . . .
They brought, as usual, two gifts for me: lacy, white socks and another quarter for the tin bank. Auntie demanded that I try on the socks and remarked that my feet had grown so large. If my feet weren’t so large the socks would fit better.
Uncle demanded to see the tin money box, which he handled as if it contained precious gems. He shook it. “Seems like there should be more in there. Have you taken any out? I hope you have not. You must save, save, save! Go on, put in the new deposit.” He watched as I inserted the quarter into the slot. “Good, good, now don’t take that out.”
Uncle said he was so hungry he could eat a moose, and Auntie said that moose would taste terrible, and he asked her how she knew that, and she said, “I just know it.” In response to his dire hunger, Auntie unpacked the flour and eggs and tomatoes and basil and olive oil. She rolled up her sleeves.
“Okay!” she said. “Now I make—guess!”
Dad and I exchanged weary looks. He said, “Hm, let me think—I know! You’re going to make roast beef.”
“Pah! I am not making roast of beef.”
Picking up Dad’s game, I said, “Fried chicken?”
“Pah!”
In turn, we guessed beef stew, chicken noodle soup, and chocolate cake, and each time she said, “Pah!”
Uncle Pasta was perched on a rickety chair in the corner of the kitchen, rubbing his foot and looking at us as if we had lost our minds.
Finally, Uncle said, “Pah, pah, pah! Don’t be imbeciles. She is making pasta!”
“Ohhh,” Dad said, “pasta,” and with less enthusiasm, I echoed him. “Oh, pasta.”
“I know you have been hoping for my pasta,” Auntie said. “I make it for you, even though my back is hurting and my hands are swollen and my head is pounding. Do you have some aspirin?”
During dinner they talked nonstop. We heard about Auntie’s cousin Guadalupe with the big nose, and about the neighbor who had been shot outside her apartment (she moved and a nasty lady moved in) and about the people they were going to visit in Indiana (very fine people from Sweden).
Auntie said that she and Uncle were feeling invisible.
“Invisible?” Dad said. “What do you mean?”
Auntie patted her face and her hair. “Look at our wrinkles and our gray hair. We are not so old, you know, but people see the wrinkles and the gray hair and they either think, ‘Oh, they are old and worthless now, what can they do?’ or they don’t see us at all. Isn’t that right?” She poked her fork at Uncle. “Tell them.”
Uncle nodded. “Invisible,” he said. “Worthless.” He contemplated his plate.
