earning an income. One of Nonna’s sisters had married a man who owned a stable of racehorses, and my grandmothertook up side work running numbers for him. Rita wasn’t afraid to move a bag of dope when she needed the money, and she taught her most intelligent and enterprising daughter, Kathi, how to do the same. The critical difference between this mother-and-daughter pair was that my mother grew up to be a narcotic omnivore, while her mother remained staunchly sober. My grandmother refused to touch alcohol and never developed any personal interest in the drugs she occasionally sold; she was, ironically, disgusted by anyone who did. “No-good fuckin’ losers!” she said, referring to such people, which included almost all of her relatives by both blood and marriage.
My grandmother was just as crazy as everyone else in our gene pool, but I had rightfully identified her as the most trustworthy person among us. Since I was old enough to balance on two feet, I would toddle to where she lived next door and she would look at me as no one else in our family did—as if I was really there.
I had always loved to read, and as I got older my appetite for fiction grew in ways I didn’t know how to meet. By the time I turned eleven, I’d ripped through every Agatha Christie novel I could find in both the school and the town library. I knew there was something better out there, but I didn’t know what it was or how to find it, so I asked my mother to buy me nothing but books for my birthday. Kathi came home with a stack of Disney books with huge illustrations and one dull sentence per page.
“Thanks, Mum.” I pretended to smile as I opened the books, inwardly ashamed for us both. When she was high, she often forgot how old I was, and shopping was one of those chores made more bearable by Percocet or cocaine.
Later in the week, I walked over to my grandmother’s house for my birthday dinner. She’d decided my present that year would be a trip to the bookstore, where I could pick out whatever I wanted. I chose the complete works of William Shakespeare. I liked the heft of the volume, the black leather cover, and the gold paint on the edge of the pages. As my grandmother worked on dinner, I sat on her porch and read
Romeo and Juliet
, because it was the most famous and I thought it would be the easiest to understand.
“They weren’t really in love!” I shouted to Nonna through the screen door. She was frying disks of breaded summer squash in olive oil, our favorite snack. “They didn’t even know each other! They’re just young kids and wicked overly emotional.”
“Everyone always thinks it’s this big love story,” she yelled back.
“It’s not! It’s much better than that!”
I heard my grandmother laughing above the crackle of oil, felt a warm breeze swirl around me. The river looked like a wrinkled sheet of silk, blue and green and black and white. If we get to keep anything of this life after we die, that afternoon is what I would choose.
Growing up, I could wander over to my grandmother’s house at any hour of the day or night, and she would always get up to cook something for me. We would sit together in her kitchen, listening to Billie Holiday on the AM radio station she loved, and stuff ourselves silly on loaves of warm bread. Nonna was a shrieking harpy to her own children, but she truly enjoyed the genetic remove of being a grandmother.
“Don-ah look atta my granddaughter! Oh, please! Don-ah look! She eez homely and stunata!”
she would wail in public, holding her hand over my face. It was a trick of advertising in reverse that she had learned from her own Sicilian grandmother, who believed that Gypsies were always lurking around the corner, scouting young blood to steal into their clan. Publicly denouncing your offspring as damaged goods sent a message to these Gypsies that they’d be better off kidnapping someone else’s child. If I’d had a tail, it would have wagged hysterically whenever
My grandmother was just as crazy as everyone else in our gene pool, but I had rightfully identified her as the most trustworthy person among us. Since I was old enough to balance on two feet, I would toddle to where she lived next door and she would look at me as no one else in our family did—as if I was really there.
I had always loved to read, and as I got older my appetite for fiction grew in ways I didn’t know how to meet. By the time I turned eleven, I’d ripped through every Agatha Christie novel I could find in both the school and the town library. I knew there was something better out there, but I didn’t know what it was or how to find it, so I asked my mother to buy me nothing but books for my birthday. Kathi came home with a stack of Disney books with huge illustrations and one dull sentence per page.
“Thanks, Mum.” I pretended to smile as I opened the books, inwardly ashamed for us both. When she was high, she often forgot how old I was, and shopping was one of those chores made more bearable by Percocet or cocaine.
Later in the week, I walked over to my grandmother’s house for my birthday dinner. She’d decided my present that year would be a trip to the bookstore, where I could pick out whatever I wanted. I chose the complete works of William Shakespeare. I liked the heft of the volume, the black leather cover, and the gold paint on the edge of the pages. As my grandmother worked on dinner, I sat on her porch and read
Romeo and Juliet
, because it was the most famous and I thought it would be the easiest to understand.
“They weren’t really in love!” I shouted to Nonna through the screen door. She was frying disks of breaded summer squash in olive oil, our favorite snack. “They didn’t even know each other! They’re just young kids and wicked overly emotional.”
“Everyone always thinks it’s this big love story,” she yelled back.
“It’s not! It’s much better than that!”
I heard my grandmother laughing above the crackle of oil, felt a warm breeze swirl around me. The river looked like a wrinkled sheet of silk, blue and green and black and white. If we get to keep anything of this life after we die, that afternoon is what I would choose.
Growing up, I could wander over to my grandmother’s house at any hour of the day or night, and she would always get up to cook something for me. We would sit together in her kitchen, listening to Billie Holiday on the AM radio station she loved, and stuff ourselves silly on loaves of warm bread. Nonna was a shrieking harpy to her own children, but she truly enjoyed the genetic remove of being a grandmother.
“Don-ah look atta my granddaughter! Oh, please! Don-ah look! She eez homely and stunata!”
she would wail in public, holding her hand over my face. It was a trick of advertising in reverse that she had learned from her own Sicilian grandmother, who believed that Gypsies were always lurking around the corner, scouting young blood to steal into their clan. Publicly denouncing your offspring as damaged goods sent a message to these Gypsies that they’d be better off kidnapping someone else’s child. If I’d had a tail, it would have wagged hysterically whenever
Similar Books
