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The distance that the dead have gone does not at first appear—Their coming back seems possible for many an ardent year.
— Emily Dickinson

When I was a child, my grandmother gave me advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Never forget where you came from.” So I remember my origins. I am borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Nana sat on the toilet seat. I was on the floor in front of her.

She brushed my brown curly hair until my scalp hurt.

“You have your grandfather’s hair. Stand up. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

I touched my scalp. “It hurts.”

“You must toughen up, Aiden. Weak people get nowhere in this world. Your grandfather was weak. Addicted to the bottle. Your mother has an impaired mind. Now she’s in a nuthouse. And your father, he couldn’t handle the responsibility of a child. People have to be strong. Do you understand me?” She bent and stared into my face. Her hazel eyes seemed enormous. I smelled coffee on her breath.

There were blackheads on her nose. She pinched my cheeks.

I reflexively pushed her hands away.

“Life is full of pain, sweetheart. And I don’t mean just the physical kind.” She took a cigarette from her case on the back of the toilet, lit it, and inhaled. “You’ll be hurt a lot, but you must carry on. You know what the British people used to say when the Germans bombed London during World War Two?”

“No.”

“Keep calm and carry on.” She hit my backside. “Now run along and put some clothes on.” I was wearing my underwear and T-shirt.

“We have a busy day.”

I dressed in the jeans and a yellow short-sleeve shirt she had bought me. She stood in front of the mirror by the front door of the living room, arranging her pearl necklace. She put on bright red lipstick and fingered her gray hair, trying to hide a thinning spot at the top of her forehead. She turned and smoothed her green cotton dress, glancing at herself from behind. “Not bad for an old broad.” She looked me over. “Come here.” She tucked my shirt in, licked her hand, and smoothed my hair. “You’d think I never brushed it.”

As she opened the front door, she said, “Hold on,” and went to the kitchen counter and put her hand in a glass jar full of bills. She took out at least thirty single dollar bills.

“Here. Give this money to the kiddos next door.”

When we were outside, she pushed me toward their house. They were playing on their swing set in the fenced-in yard. In front of the broken-down house was a yard of weeds. A rusted bicycle with no wheels lay on the ground. The pale girl with limp dirty hair looked at me suspiciously as I approached the fence. Her brother stood, arms folded, in the background. He scowled and spit.

“This is for you,” I said, shoving the money through the chain links. The girl reached out to grab it, but most of the bills fell onto the dirt.

“Thank you,” she said.

As I walked away, her brother yelled, “We don’t need no charity from you.”

I opened the door of my grandmother’s blue Plymouth. The air conditioning blasted, and the interior was full of cigarette smoke.

She crossed herself. “Say it with me. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’”

I repeated the words with her, and we drove to her friend Margie’s house. Margie was a smelly fat lady with a big white cat that hissed at me. She always wore the same navy-blue sweater and was constantly picking cat hairs off her clothes while talking about the latest sermon, God, or the devil. Nana told me when Margie was a young girl, her classmates made fun of her. “Smelly,” they called her.

And she did smell. Like urine, cats, and mothballs.

“Don’t let him get out,” Margie yelled as the cat pounced from behind the open door. “Arthur, don’t you dare run out!” She bent to grab his tail and groaned. “My back!”

“Don’t worry. I got him.” I had my arms wrapped around the white monster. He hissed.

“Why don’t you put him in the closet when you open the front door? We go through this every time.” My grandmother pushed past her toward the kitchen in the back of the house. “I have to sit down. It’s hot as a pig’s arse out there.”

Margie placed a tray of ham sandwiches, along with cheese and crackers, on the round gray Formica table. I liked her wallpaper—yellow with the red outlines of children holding hands in circles. On the back wall, she had pinned an American flag with a sign underneath that read, “Happy Birthday, America. 1776—1976.”

“I don’t know how I feel about all those miracles Father Flynn was going on about.” Margie placed a sandwich on a plate for me with some chips. “What ya want to drink, Aiden? I got nice lemonade.” Her two front teeth were red from where her lipstick had smudged. As usual, cat hairs covered her blue sweater, especially the ledge of her belly where the cat must have sat all the time.

“That sounds good.”

She smiled. “Always such a nice boy. Polite. You’ll never have any trouble with this one. Not like you did with Lorraine.”

“I hate when you call her that.”

“That’s her name, ain’t it?” She poured my grandmother and me lemonade and sat with a huff.

“That was my mother’s name, her formal name. I prefer to call my daughter Laura.”

“What the hell difference does it make?” Margie bit into her sandwich and rolled her eyes at me.

“Makes a lot of difference. My mother was a strange woman. I named my daughter Lorraine out of respect for the dead.”

“Laura is …” I knew Margie was going to say that my mother was strange too.

“Laura is what?” My grandmother put her sandwich on her plate and leaned in to Margie.

“Is a nice girl. She’s got problems, but don’t we all?” She reached out and clasped my hand. “Right, Aiden?”

“Yes, Margie.”

My grandmother rubbed her neck and spoke softly. “Nobody’s perfect. Laura’s getting better. She’s got a few psychological issues. The new meds seem to be helping. She’s the most gentle, optimistic person I’ve ever known. Didn’t even argue when we said it was best for her to spend some time at McCall’s.” Her eyes were shiny and her face flushed. Her bottom lip trembled. She looked at me. “Don’t you need to use the bathroom?” She raised her eyebrows. That was her signal.

“Yes, I gotta pee.”

“You don’t have to be so detailed,” she said. “Just go.” Margie laughed hard and farted.

I exited and crept up the gray stairs. The old banister was dusty. The rug in the upstairs hall was full of Arthur’s hair. I picked up a piece to examine it, then rubbed my pants. Nana said Margie’s room was the last one on the left. Her jewelry case was on top of her dresser. I took the diamond earrings and opal bracelet Nana had told me about. There were also a couple of showy rings—one a large red stone, the other a blue one. These and a gold necklace with a cross I shoved into my pockets. Then I walked to the bathroom and flushed the toilet. I messed up the towel a bit so it looked like I dried my hands.

When I entered the kitchen, they were still talking about miracles.

My grandmother passed our plates to Margie, who had filled the sink with sudsy water.

“He raised Lazarus from the dead,” Margie said. “And then he healed the deaf and dumb men. And the blind man too,” she said, raising her hand and splashing my grandmother.

“Let’s not forget about the fish. And the water into wine,” my grandmother said.

Margie shook her head. “I don’t know, Catherine.” She looked into the sink. “It’s hard to believe that Jesus could have done all that. Why aren’t there miracles today?” I imagined a trout springing from the frothy bubbles.

My grandmother smiled at me. “Of course there are miracles today. As a matter of fact, I’m taking Aiden to that priest at Mission Church. A charismatic healer is what they call him. Aiden’s going to be cured, aren’t you, honey?”

“Cured of what?” Margie said.

“He’s got a little something wrong with his blood is all. Too many white cells. Leukemia. This priest will take care of all that.”

“Leukemia!” Margie said. “Catherine, that’s serious.” Margie tried to smile at me, but I could tell she was upset. “Sit down, honey.” She motioned for me to go to the table. “We’re almost done here.”

“You gotta take him to a good doctor,” she whispered to my grandmother, as if I couldn’t hear.

“I know that. I’m not a stook.”

“What’s a stork gotta do with this?”

“An Irish expression. Means idiot.”

We said our goodbyes, and when we were in the car, my grandmother said, “Let me see what you have.” I pulled the goods out of my pockets while she unclasped her black plastic pocketbook.

Her eyes lit up.

“Perfect. She isn’t watching, is she?” I looked at the house. Margie was nowhere in sight. Probably sitting on her rocking chair with Arthur in her lap.

“Put those in here.” She nodded toward her bag.

When we were about to turn onto Tremont Street where the church was, I remembered the gold necklace and cross. I pulled it out of my pocket, and my grandmother took it from me, running a red light. “This would look beautiful on Laura.” In a moment, a police car blaring sirens followed us.

“Don’t say anything.” My grandmother moved to the side of the road. She looked in the rearview mirror and rolled her window down.

“Ma’am, you ran a red light.” The policeman was tall with a hooked nose and dark brown close-set eyes.

“I know, Officer. I was saying a prayer with my grandson. He gave me this gold cross. I got distracted. I’m very sorry.” He leaned into the car. I smiled.

“Is that a birthday gift for your grandmother?”

“Yes. I wanted to surprise her.”

“And he certainly did,” she said, patting my knee and smiling at the police officer.

“It’s good no cars were coming. You could have been hurt,” he said. “That’s a beautiful cross,” he added.

My grandmother began to cry. “Isn’t it, though?” She sniffled.

The officer placed his hand firmly on the edge of the window.

“Consider this a warning. You can go. I’d put that cross away.”

“Of course. Of course.” She turned to me. “Here, Aiden. Put it back in your pocket.”

The police officer waited for us to drive off. I turned and looked. He waved.

“Are you sad, Nana?”

“Don’t be silly.” She waved her hand. “That was an act.” We laughed.

We parked and entered Mission Church. It smelled of shellac, incense, perfume, and old people. It was hard to see in the musty darkness. Bright light shone through the stained-glass windows where Jesus was depicted in the Stations of the Cross.

“Let’s move to the front.” My grandmother pulled me out of the line and cut in front of an old lady, who looked bewildered.

“Shouldn’t you go to the end of the line?” she whispered, smiling down at me. Her hair was sweaty, and her freckled fat bicep jiggled when she tapped my grandmother’s shoulder. I thought of the asteroid belt.

“I’m sorry. We’re in a hurry. We have to help a sick neighbor after this. I want my grandson to get a cure.”

“What’s wrong?” the woman whispered. We were four people away from the priest, who was standing at the altar. He prayed over people then lightly touched them. They fell backward into the arms of two old men with maroon suit jackets and blue ties.

“Aiden has leukemia.”

The woman’s eyes teared up. “I’m sorry.” She patted my forearm. Again, her flabby bicep jiggled, and the asteroids bounced.

When it was our turn, my grandmother said, “Father, please cure him. And can you say a prayer for my daughter too?”

“Of course.” The silver-haired, red-faced priest bent down. I smelled alcohol on his breath. “What ails you, young man?” I was confused.

“He’s asking you about your illness, Aiden.” “I have leukemia,” I said proudly.

The priest said some mumbo-jumbo prayer and pushed my chest. I knew I was supposed to fall back but was afraid the old geezers wouldn’t catch me.

“Fall,” my grandmother whispered irritably. Then she said extra softly, “Remember our plan.”

I fell hard, shoving myself against the old guy. He toppled over as well. People gasped. His friend and the priest began to pick us up.

I pretended to be hurt badly. “Ow. My head is killing me.”

Several people gathered around us. My grandmother yelled “Oh my God” and stepped onto the altar, kneeling in front of a giant crucified Jesus. “Dear Jesus,” she said loudly, “I don’t know how many more tribulations I can take.” Then she crossed herself, hurried across the altar, and put a gold chalice in her handbag. My moaning and fake crying distracted everyone.

“He’ll be OK.” She put her arm under mine and helped the others raise me.

When I was standing, she said to the priest, “You certainly have the power of the Holy Spirit in you. It came out of you like the water gushing from the rock at Rephidim and Kadesh. Let’s get out of here before there’s a flood.” She laughed. The priest looked confused. The old lady who let us cut in line eyed my grandmother’s handbag and shook her head as we passed.

When we were in front of Rita’s house, our last stop before home, I asked my grandmother what tribulation meant. And where were Rephidim and Kadesh?

She laughed. “You pronounced those places wrong, but it doesn’t matter. Your mother used to do the same thing whenever I quoted that Bible passage and she’d ask me where they were too.” She opened the car door. “I don’t know where the hell those places are. Somewhere in the Middle East … And a tribulation is a problem.”

“Oh.”

After ringing the doorbell a couple of times, we opened the door. We found Rita passed out on the couch.

My grandmother took an ice cube from the freezer and held it against her forehead. Rita sat bolt upright. “You scared the bejesus out of me.” She was wearing a yellow nightgown, and her auburn hair was set in curlers. “Aiden, I didn’t see you there.” She kissed my cheek. For the second time that day, I smelled alcohol.

“Do you think you can help me out?” my grandmother asked.

Rita looked at me.

“Of course I can.”

“Pull me up and I’ll get my checkbook.” I realized all my grandmother’s friends were fat.

At the kitchen table, Rita said, “Should I make it out to the hospital?”

“Make it out to me. I’ve opened a bank account to pay for his medical expenses.”

“Will five thousand do?” Rita was rich. Her husband was a “real estate tycoon,” my grandmother was always saying. He dropped dead shoveling snow a few years back.

“That’s so generous of you.” My grandmother cried again. More fake tears, I thought.

We had tea and chocolate chip cookies. Rita asked how my mother was doing. My grandmother said, “Fine” and looked away. She talked about the soap operas that they watched. My grandmother loved Erica from All My Children. Said she was a woman who knew how to get what she wanted. Rita said she thought Erica was a bitch.

When we were home, listening to talk radio in the living room, I asked my grandmother if she believed in miracles, like the ones she talked about with Margie.

“Sure, sure,” she said, not looking up. She was taking the jewelry out of her bag and examining it in the light. I saw bits of dust in the sunlight streaming through the bay window.

“You’re not listening to me, Nana.”

She put the jewelry back in her handbag and stared at me. “Of course I am.”

“Do you think I’ll have a miracle and be cured of leukemia?”

“Aiden.” She laughed. “You haven’t got leukemia. You’re as healthy as a horse, silly.”

“But you told everybody I was sick.”

“Sweetheart, that was to evoke pity.”

“What do you mean?”

She spoke hesitantly, like she was a bit ashamed. “Make people feel bad so we can get things from them. I need money to take care of you, Aiden. I’m broke. Your grandfather left me with nothing, and I need to pay for Laura’s medical expenses. If Margie notices her jewelry gone, maybe she’ll think you took it to help your Nana. I told her I was having a problem paying your hospital bills.”

“Sorta like a tribulation, right?”

“Exactly, sweetheart.”

“Is my mother a tribulation?”

This time my grandmother’s tears were real. They gushed like water from that rock in the Middle East. I knelt before her and put my head in her lap. She rubbed my head and looked out the window.

It seemed the tears would never stop.

“Don’t worry, Nana. I believe in miracles too. Someday Mom will come home.”

And we stayed like that until the sunbeams dimmed and the dust disappeared and her tears stopped.

In the quiet of the room, she whispered, “Keep calm and carry on” to me or to herself.

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Open your mind to what I shall disclose, and hold it fast within you; he who hears, but does not hold what he has heard, learns nothing.
— Dante Alighieri, Paradiso

I left Nonna’s house around 10:15 p.m. I was surprised to find my parents back from the restaurant so early. When I opened the front door, I heard them arguing in the kitchen directly down the hall. At first, I thought I would just go to my room, but this quarrel seemed particularly vitriolic and interesting. My mother, a timid woman, usually let my father step all over her. Tonight, she was screaming at him, calling him a son of a bitch. Curious, I opted for a glass of orange juice that I would later mix with vodka. When I entered, my father was pressed against my mother, who leaned back over the stove; he was choking her.

“Don’t you ever call me foolish again!” The back of his neck was bright red. For a second, I imagined he might burst a blood vessel in his brain and have a stroke. “You’re the fool. Why can’t you speak with Agnella about a loan? She’s your goddamn mother. I told you I will pay her back. What are we going to do if the restaurant goes under?” My mother, who saw me enter, had a look of terror on her face. Her eyes said, Go away. I walked by them and opened the refrigerator door.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” my father said, turning around and releasing his grip on my mother’s neck. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”

I laughed. “Doesn’t sound like ‘talking’ to me.” Without looking at him, I took a glass from the cabinet, placed it on the counter, and poured my orange juice.

“Look at me when I talk to you, Molly!” my father screamed.

“Ask me nicely, and maybe I will.” He charged towards me and whacked the glass of orange juice out of my hand. Shards of glass scattered on the red-tile floor, and a stream of orange juice moved in a rivulet towards the back door.

“You troia!” He slapped my face.

“I may be a whore, Dad, but you’re a fucking asshole.” I followed the orange trail to the door, assuming that was an indication of where I should head next. I was always looking for signs. I didn’t believe in God; that was foolishness. But I liked to follow the signals that my environment gave me. The physical world was more magical to me than any fairytale notions of God, heaven, and hell.

“Molly, apologize to your father,” my mother said. She was rubbing her neck, where bruises were beginning to form.

“Mom, you need to stand up for yourself! Dad abuses you.”

I opened and shut the back door, which led out to a small porch and yard, and walked down the steps to the cement pad where two trashcans sat. Sitting on the bottom step, I contemplated how I would get the money for a deposit on an apartment or tuition for college. I was sixteen, a senior in high school; the year was 1980.

I looked up at the sky, past a rat running quickly along a telephone wire. Maybe he, too, was dreaming of a way out of his hellish existence, following the moonlight and a dream. Then I heard the croak of a toad sitting on the trash can cover to my right by the fence. He looked sick, frothing at the mouth and shaking. I searched the backyard for several minutes until I found a large rock. I walked over to where the toad sat, lifted the lid of the trashcan until he fell onto the cement pad, where he continued to croak and shake. To put him out of his misery, I smashed the rock against him a few times and watched his guts smear across the concrete. Then I sat on the bottom step for at least twenty minutes.

I spied my parents through the kitchen window; they were kissing and laughing. She was a sap; he was a bastard. I wondered how I could be their progeny. When they left the kitchen for the bedroom, I entered the house, poured another glass of orange juice, and went to my room. I added some vodka from my stash hidden in the closet and took a few sips. The gross image of the frog kept appearing in my mind. When I finished my screwdriver, I turned out the lamp, and lay in the darkness, dreaming about my escape.

The day after my parents’ fight, as usual, I walked to Nonna’s house after school. I considered myself special because I would be graduating a year sooner than my friends from elementary school.

The Sisters had allowed me to skip sixth grade because I was far ahead of my classmates in all subjects.

I realized that I was smarter than most adults when I was in the third grade. That is, except for my Nonna. Had Nonna lived in a later time, she would have become a doctor. She was fascinated by all things medical. In her bedroom was a bookcase of health-related journals and books. I enjoyed our conversations about medical things or life in general while we ate almond cookies and sipped coffee. Her sisters, my great-aunts, Helena and Bianca, never finished high school. Their conversations were inane. I thought they were a bit pathetic, having to live with Nonna, who felt it was her duty to take care of famiglia.

Nonna had been married once, to a man from the Flanders section of Belgium. He was killed after his car was hit by a train. Nonna was a bit sad, “but not too much,” she confided to me. She suspected he was strange and had discovered him wearing her panties and bra the evening he sped off to his death. Nonna admitted to me that she had married him for his money. His wealthy family owned a textile company in Belgium. When he died, she was left with his large fortune, stock in the family company, and money from a hefty life insurance policy. “And because of him, I got you,” she would say, “more precious to me than all that money … Well, almost.” And then she would laugh, squeezing my cheeks or kissing my forehead.

When I entered Nonna’s house that day, I smelled the familiar amalgamation of heavily shellacked woodwork, linoleum, old furniture, garlic, tomato sauce, desserts, and the old-lady perfume, Shalimar, which they all shared. The kitchen at the end of the dark hall was a bright yellow room, unfailingly astir with the commotion of cooking. Nonna had two big stoves, one aqua and the other white. All three of them were paid by my father for their cooking, which helped with the restaurant.

In the kitchen, Nonna and Helena were on their knees, wiping up a pool of marinara sauce with meatballs that had scattered like aimless billiard balls. Bianca sat despondently in one of the chairs at the table. She was holding a wet dishrag against her left hand.

When Nonna saw me she said, “Molly, go grab some towels from the linen closet. Not the good ones. Find the most worn-out ones, like your Aunt Bianca over there,” she ordered, lifting her head in Bianca’s direction. Bianca frowned, turned away, still holding her hand.

“Why you always picking on her?” Helena said. “It was a mistake. And those big pans are hot.”

“Because she’s an idiot!” Nonna said. “Move your toosh, Molly. Just don’t stand there. Can’t you see this mess?”

When I returned, I handed the most ragged towels I could find to Nonna and Helena, who were picking up meatballs and placing them in a big bowl, which they slid before them as they moved across the floor.

“What? You think you’re too good for us? Get down here and help.”

I joined them on the floor, sickened by the sight of the sauce. Nonna planned to wash the balls off and use them. “No one will ever know,” she said.

I laughed, thinking of the oblivious customers who would later be eating them.

“What’s so funny?” Helena said.

“Just the idea of us on the floor chasing meatballs.”

They all laughed, even Bianca, who was now at the sink, running her hand under cold water.

“It stings,” Bianca said, “but to laugh feels good.”

“Of course it stings, you stunad! You were burnt.” Nonna stood up, bracing herself against the table and taking a deep breath. “Sometimes I get dizzy,” she said to me. Then she looked at Bianca and Helena and added, “These old broads are enough to make me go crazy.”

She moved towards Bianca and said, “Hold out your arm and put that damn dishrag in the sink. Let me see how your hand looks now.” She widened her eyes a bit. “It’s starting to blister, Bianca. We gotta take care of this. Molly, get me some gauze from the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. And Helena, grab some honey from the cupboard.”

Soon we were all seated around the table, Helena and I watching as Nonna rubbed honey on Aunt Bianca’s hand and then wrapped it in gauze. “We need a drink,” she announced when finished, then got up and poured four glasses of whiskey out of a decanter that she carried from the dining room.

“What are you doing?” Helena said. “Molly can’t have whiskey. She’s too young.” There was a look of disgust on her round face.

“Of course she can,” Nonna said. “I’m only gonna give her a little bit.”

Helena nodded.

Nonna handed each of us a glass. “Salud!” We clinked our glasses and took a sip. For a minute there was complete silence. Nonna surveyed what we had managed to clean up. The sound of a drip from the sink faucet, the kitchen clock, Bianca’s whimpering over her injury, and a dog barking in the distance were all that we heard.

Bianca took another sip of whiskey and stared at me across the table.

“What are you looking at?” I said.

“You.”

“I know that, Aunt Bianca. But why?”

“Sometimes I wonder where you come from.”

“What do you mean by that?” Nonna said. “Sometimes I wonder where you come from.” She also turned to look at me. “She’s a beautiful girl. A smart one too.”

“I come from another galaxy. I’m an alien,” I answered, completely straight-faced. “My mission here on earth is to study humans. My people are planning an invasion.”

“What are you talking about?” Helena laughed. “You watch too many of them damn—whatcha call it?” trying to remember. Her dark eyes looked upward. “Ah. Science Fiction movies.” She smiled, happy that she was able to think of the term.

“That’s what I mean,” Aunt Bianca continued with a worried expression on her face. “The girl doesn’t seem human sometimes. It’s like she doesn’t feel things.” She scowled. “Any normal niece would show some concern for her auntie. Ask how I was feeling. She wasn’t even fazed when she came into this chaos today. Always so cool, so cold.” She looked out the window again. “It’s not normal. I tell you it ain’t right.”

Nonna and Helena laughed. Nonna said, “Bianca. Maybe you better hold off on that whiskey. You’re going nuts. Either that or the burn traveled to your brain and is eating holes in your cerebellum, causing delusions. You sound pazzo.”

“She’s not at all like her mother,” Bianca said. “Maria always gives us hugs and kisses when she sees us. Not this one.” She rolled her eyes.

“Of course she isn’t like her mother,” Nonna answered. “She’s better than her mother. She’s more like me.”

“That’s what worries me,” Aunt Bianca said.

“Bianca, you’re just resentful,” Nonna said and laughed.

“Why are you always so mean?” Aunt Bianca said.

“Mean! I pay for the roof over your head. I take care of you! I just took care of your burn, for Christ’s sake.” Nonna stood up, red-faced.

Aunt Helena also stood up, extending her arms in the air, as if to ward off a fight. “The two of you stop it right now.”

Aunt Bianca crossed her arms, a palm clasping her gauzed hand. Her eyes moved back and forth between Nonna and me. I wondered what she was thinking. Outside the window, the sky was darkening.

Helena said, “And Agnella, you shouldn’t talk that way about your daughter. Maria is a good girl. She’s a gentle, kind girl. Not everybody is ‘in charge’ like you.”

“That’s the problem. She’s too good. I wish she had a little pizzazz.” She sat down. “Look at the way she lets that stupido Lorenzo treat her. He pushes her around, always yelling and making a scene. Why is he so angry all the time?” She raised her hand. “He should count his blessings. Yes, Helena, my daughter is a nice girl. Not too bright.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But she tries. Molly, here, is another story. She’s got it all.” Helena and Bianca sized me up. I was wearing my hideous school uniform—black-and-gray plaid skirt with a white blouse. My dark brown hair fell to my shoulders, and there were faint traces of the blush and pale lipstick that I would surreptitiously apply each morning.

“She did get your good looks, Agnella.” Helena bent forward in her chair to fluff up my hair and arrange my bangs. “Look at her beautiful skin, and she’s got your brown eyes with those gold flecks. Remember Papa used to say you were born with dreams of gold in your eyes.” She and Nonna smiled. Bianca remained dour.

“Don’t you think I’m beautiful, too, Aunt Bianca?” I said.

“Normal girls don’t talk like that,” she snapped. “You need a little humility.”

“Don’t be so hard on her,” Nonna said. “You’re just jealous. Molly is going to catch a prize of a husband. Something you were never able to do.”

Bianca stormed out of the room.

“Agnella, that was cruel,” Helena said. “Go apologize to her.”

“I guess I was a bit harsh. Must be the whiskey. But Bianca is always so serious. Why is she miserable? Puss-faced all the time.”

She got up, patted my scalp softly, then left to make amends with Aunt Bianca.

Helena said, “Molly, help me finish cleaning up this mess. Check the floor for any stray meatballs.”

“Yes, Aunt Helena.” I was annoyed. Hadn’t I run for the gauze to help with Aunt Bianca’s burn? Why did she talk that way about me?

I thought of mentioning what I overheard about my parents’ financial situation to Nonna, but decided I should keep out of it. My father would only take it out on me if he knew I said something. And I was sick of being hit by him.

I left Nonna’s and was at my parents’ house by 10:30 p.m. My parents had not returned from the restaurant. They usually arrived anywhere between 10:15 and 11:30 p.m., depending how busy work was. I liked my quiet time in the house because it allowed me to reflect.

I am an introvert by nature, but I am not shy. I just prefer the company of thoughts and ideas to people. From an early age, I liked to be alone, playing with Legos or jigsaw puzzles while my cousins and friends played outside. I would spend hours building houses with Lincoln Logs, then smash my creations, kicking them across the parquet floors that my mother was so proud of.

My mother found scratches during her weekly hand-washing of the floors when she would be on her knees with a pan of warm water and a rag. She pleaded with me to be more careful every time she found a mark, spitting on the floor and rubbing the cloth into the wood. “Yes, Mom,” I would reply. “I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t sorry. I never understood why she cared so much about the dump of a house we owned. To me, it felt like Newgate Prison—dark, dusky, and cold. I hated the ornate shiny gold wallpaper in the living room with its curlicue design, the plastic runner over the hallway rug, the plastic wrappings on the lampshades (to keep them nice), and the tchotchkes all over the place—grotesques, such as a domed-shaped glass Madonna, figurines of Italian peasants, and the awful fake painting of the Last Supper that hung on the dining room wall, a room cordoned off by a white leather strap and two vulgar gold-metal poles. We only used that room for special occasions.

Before my parents got home, I dusted the console and played a record of La Traviata, one of my favorite operas. Then I lay back on the couch, snuggled into one of the red velvet pillows, and recalled the scene with my aunts. I was glad I resembled Nonna, and not Helena or Bianca. Nonna and I shared the same body—both of us tall with long legs, large breasts, and nice hourglass figures. Of course, Nonna’s height had diminished over the years, but the old black-and-white photographs showed our strong resemblance. And Nonna, though almost sixty, was sprightly, strong, and youthful, looking so much younger than her age, blessed with that timeless beauty that so many older Italian women possess. She exuded power and vivacity.

My aunts, on the other hand, were short and pear-shaped—big asses, barely an abdomen, and large, sagging breasts. Nonna’s and my face were oval shaped with strong, perhaps a bit too prominent noses, and piercing brown-gold eyes. Both of us had dark thick hair, profuse lashes, arched brows, and full sensuous lips. Helena and Bianca reminded me of the distorted, squished image I’d see if I were standing in front of one of those carnival mirrors at the Revere Beach Amusement Park. Aunt Bianca never bothered to have her red-gray hair colored or styled, and it stuck out from her head like Bozo’s. Her eyes, round over-sized pennies, gave her the appearance of being perpetually astonished.

I did not want to end up like Nonna and her sisters, held back by conventional attitudes towards women. I wanted to accomplish something important in the world. Although Nonna was the strongest, most self-sufficient woman I knew, I wanted to surpass her. Why couldn’t I be a scientist, a lawyer, or a famous writer? I did not voice these thoughts to anyone except for Nonna. Other women, and certainly the men, did not understand these longings of mine. For many in the neighborhood where I lived, Revere was the epicenter of the world, but for me, Revere was a dismal working-class city, with stickball courts, hockey games, small backyards with vegetable gardens, and statues of the Madonna on front lawns.

The attractions that our community extolled—an amusement park with a rickety roller coaster, the stretch of boardwalk with tacky establishments and honky-tonk bars, and the Wonderland Greyhound Park, where dogs (creatures I prefer over humans) were forced to run until they die—were somber reminders of unfulfilled dreams. I’d been thinking about the American Dream, my American Dream. We were reading The Great Gatsby in school, a book I despised. Daisy was a pain in the ass, and Gatsby was anything but great.

My dream, I’d decided, was the power and independence to express myself in whatever way I chose. I possessed an obsessive need to learn everything. I determined that I, like a greyhound at Wonderland, would run, chasing the rabbit until I died. But unlike the dog’s lure, my lure, my green light, would be real—to be as authentic as possible, regardless of what people thought. I couldn’t stand the thought of an “average” life, marrying someone from the neighborhood, settling down with children, and participating in the cult of domesticity. Ending up like my mother in a horrible relationship. I would never sacrifice my difference. I decided that I needed to change the circumstances of my life. I imagined altering my appearance, moving to a place where I was not known, even changing my name. These were the musings of my adolescent mind.

I considered it fortuitous that Helena and Bianca were not home when I reached Nonna’s house one afternoon later in the week. I enjoyed my alone time with Nonna. She was in the living room, watching a soap opera. She shh’d me when I joined her on the soft green couch. On the television screen, an older blond woman with a serious face was arguing with a beautiful dark-haired woman about a man.

“The young one is sleeping with that broad’s husband,” Nonna said to me quickly.

“You’ve ruined my marriage,” the older woman said.

“You ruined your marriage,” the young one protested. “If you had paid more attention to your husband, he wouldn’t have felt the need to turn to me.” The camera zoomed in on the beautiful woman’s face and voluptuous breasts, which seemed about to burst forth from a tight-fitting nurse’s uniform. I surmised that she was in the office of the older woman, probably a hospital administrator. “She’s a porca,” Nonna said, pointing at the young one. “But I like her better than that uptight bitch.” I loved that Nonna was not afraid to curse around me or talk about things other adults considered unsuitable for children’s ears. She always treated me like a peer. She said I had an old soul.

After a tedious argument over who was the better woman, the whore and the older woman were interrupted by a middle-aged, allegedly good-looking man (the husband), who burst into the office. There was a close-up of the shocked looks on each of the woman’s faces, followed by the General Hospital theme song and a commercial for Ivory soap.

“Shut that foolish thing off,” she said to me, “I don’t know why I watch these soap operas. I should be reading a good book or magazine, something substantial. Every mind needs a rest though. That’s why I watch this crap.”

I turned the TV off and joined her again on the couch. “Where are Aunt Helena and Bianca?”

Nonna sighed. “I had to make up to Bianca for my comments yesterday. Even after I apologized last night, she continued to sulk this morning, not coming up to my place for our usual coffee and eggs. Helena said Bianca was still ‘very hurt.’” Nonna rolled her eyes. “She’s always been so sensitive, even as a young girl. Not tough like you and me.” She slapped my arm and laughed. “So I gave her some money to go shopping for something nice. Told her to treat herself special. Helena went with her.”

“I can’t understand why she said those mean things yesterday, Nonna. I have never done anything to her. And I thought I helped out.”

She stared into my eyes. I sensed some uneasiness, but it passed quickly. “Molly, you’re a good girl. Aunt Bianca is just unhappy and she takes it out on others. Some people are like that. You need to realize that, and not take it personally.”

“OK.”

“Good. Now that’s settled, let’s talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You, of course. Aren’t you my little gattina?” She smiled, picked up my hand, and smooched it.

“Yes, Nonna. You always make me feel special.”

“But you are special! You have so many gifts. Plus, you got a sense of adventure. I love that about you. You are like me. High aspirations. I have such big dreams for you, Molly.” She relaxed deeper into the couch and her golden-brown eyes turned upward as she became thoughtful. “Times are changing. Just look at the news. Margaret Thatcher is the first female Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Maybe someday you will be president of the United States. America and the world is your oyster. Make your Nonna proud! I want you to do the things that I was never able to do, the things I could only dream of.”

She stared at me, waiting for a response. Sometimes Nonna’s comments seemed staged, as if she were reading from a script. I suppose she wanted me to thank her for all the compliments, but the nice things she had said didn’t impress me. Most of it sounded like typical grandmother-to-granddaughter talk. Nonna was a great actress.

“Nonna. I don’t want to live at home anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Dad and Mom are always arguing. They don’t like each other.”

“Honey, they work hard. They are struggling. It’s natural for husbands and wives to argue sometimes. Blows off steam.”

“But not all the time.”

She patted my arm. “Ignore them. Think of your future. Where are you applying to college? By next September, you will be away at school and you won’t have to listen to your parents anymore.”

“I want to go to Boston University. It’s expensive, but I have a pretty good chance of getting a scholarship.”

“Don’t worry about the finances. We will get the money. Your Nonna has plenty hidden away, but there are other ways to come up with the cash. I gotta save what I got so I can pay for my nursing home. And one can never have too much money.” She laughed.

Helena and Bianca opened the front door, the brisk air of October following them. Both held a couple of bags from Filenes.

They were laughing about something.

“What’s so funny?” Nonna said.

“We just saw Mrs. Muldoon,” Aunt Helena said. “Poor thing was drunk as a skunk. She was walking the street aimlessly. Said she was looking for her husband Jim. We brought her home and got her settled. Then she told us that the Happy Garden Chinese Restaurant was sending pork-fried rice and egg rolls to her house every night. She swears she never ordered the food. She said, ‘I don’t speak Chinese. How in the hell could I order from those chinks? Can’t understand anything they say to me. All I know is that I get chink food delivered every day at about 5 p.m.’”

“She must be having blackouts and forgetting that she ordered. Or she’s imagining that they are delivering the food. Mary is so far gone. She has squash rot.”

“What’s ‘squash rot’?” I asked.

“Means your brain is rotted from too much alcohol,” Helena said. “When she drinks, Mary gets delusional and hallucinates.”

Aunt Helena and Bianca plopped into the cushy green chairs, placing their bags beside them.

“What happened to Mrs. Muldoon’s husband?”

Nonna said, “He died of a heart attack many years ago. Poor Mary was fixing dinner in the kitchen. One evening she called him to the table. He didn’t answer. When Mary walked into the living room, where he would listen to the radio and read the paper, she found him slumped over. She hasn’t been the same since. Just drinks away her sorrows. Such a waste.”

“Oh,” I answered. I couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to find your husband dead.

“Let’s take a look at what you bought,” Nonna said.

I excused myself, saying I had homework. Then I went to Nonna’s bedroom, where I would hang out until it was time to walk home, unless I wanted to join the ladies in the living room where they watched Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy, or Tom Brokaw on NBC News.

I loved Nonna’s bedroom: shades of yellow and green, small cabinets with handleless drawers along the walls, and one large dresser with a stylish oval-shaped mirror. The green-and-yellow headboard had a space for a radio that I would turn on to listen to my favorite station. An Impressionist print of a boat in the harbor that hung above her bed always drew my attention. I imagined sailing away while I listened to Michael Jackson, Donna Summer, or The Police.

The bedspread was a white raised pattern of roses that I would slide my hands and fingers across, enjoying the rough texture. On her dresser were perfumes such as Rive Gauche, Oh! De London, and L’interdit. I would spray all of them on my neck and wrists until the room was suffused with a medley of scents. Sometimes Nonna would reprimand me for wasting the expensive products, but her irritation dissipated quickly while the essence of the perfumes lingered in the air.

Alone in her room, I would open the dresser drawers. Everything was folded and neatly arranged. I looked through her scarves and undergarments, sometimes trying them on and staring at myself in the mirror. Her closet was full of dresses, purses, hats, and shoes. One dress in particular—blue satin with a round neck and fitted waist—was my favorite. I would sometimes put it on, as well as her white pillbox hat from the 60s, a set of pearls, and white gloves. Then I would hold her red sequined purse, picturing myself walking down Fifth Avenue in New York while passersby turned to look at me. Her shoes were too big for me, but there were many to choose from: high heels, flat ballet-style shoes, even boots, all in an assortment of colors. Nonna loved fine things.

I rummaged through her jewelry box, which was filled with pieces from the 1960s, a decade Nonna relished (opals, rhinestones, earrings, enameled pins, brooches, and plastic cuff bracelets with flower, bird, and butterfly designs). She was always saying, “Now those were important times.” I came across some pearl earrings—tear-shaped, surrounded by a gold inlaid pattern of sparkling diamond chips. The pearls had a bluish cast that I adored. I put them in one of my skirt pockets. Hadn’t Nonna told me earlier that the “world was my oyster” and weren’t pearls found in oysters?

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