The Witch of Little Italy

by Suzanne Palmieri

  “What the hell was that all about?” she said, following the trio of old women into Mimi’s apartment.

  “What did you do to him? Where are they going?”

  “Anthony’s taking him back to school. He’ll wake up tomorrow and his purpose for this visit will be forgotten,” said Mimi.

  “How?”

  Fee put her hands on Elly’s shoulders and eased her onto the couch. “Oh, a few herbs, some hypnotism. Nothing really harmful.”

  “It’s not right. You can’t just do that to people.”

  “And what about what he did to you? Hmmmm?” asked Mimi.

  Itsy scribbled: And what about what he was going to do to you?

  “What was he going to do?”

  Itsy put pen to paper again, but Mimi put her hand gently over her sister’s. “She doesn’t need to know that, Itsy.”

  “Why can’t I remember anything?” Elly asked them. “Is that what you did to me? Did you put some kind of spell on me making me forget everything? It can’t be a coincidence that my memories start the minute I left this building.”

  “Look at me,” said Mimi, turning Elly around to face her and looking into her eyes. “Look at all of us and know this to be true. We never did anything but care for you. No spells, no concoctions. If you can’t remember, and that bothers you, try harder. It’s starting already, I can tell.”

  Elly looked at Aunt Itsy. And Itsy averted the stare. Her hands stayed still at her side. Itsy wasn’t saying anything.

  “What did you say to me, Itsy? That day when you broke your silence?”

  Itsy shrugged and shuffled back into her own apartment.

  Elly walked to the front window and watched as Anthony drove Cooper away in Cooper’s car. “I hope you witches told Anthony where Cooper parks his car. I’d hate for him to be suspicious when he comes to.”

  Mimi drew Elly away from the window by the hand. “Oh, no worries. We try not to let those little details get in the way,” said Mimi.

  “Of course you don’t,” said Elly.

  Spring

  12

  Itsy

  I miss Mama’s garden. Sure, we keep it up. We do the same things the same way. But it’s never the same without her. The gardener is just as much a part of the garden as the soil.

  I can still see Mama in her garden. A small square space, but plenty of room for the Eden she created. In the rough, rawness of early spring she’d be there working the ground, the bottom of her skirts and cuffs of her sweaters muddied as if she’d risen from a shallow grave.

  We all helped, not because she asked us to, but because she was silent and joyful as she worked. At peace. A peace we rarely felt emanate from her. That peace drew us in like moths to a flame.

  As we worked, we asked her questions. She’d sit back on her heels and answer every one. I marvel now, when I look back, at how she always had the time for that. There was never a question too small or too big. And in my memory—clouded now and certainly gilded—she never said, “I don’t know.” Even though she taught us there was power in that sentiment.

  “Are you magic, Mama?” we’d ask her. We already knew she could do things other mothers couldn’t, and we already had an appreciation for the genetic abilities we seemed to inherit from her.

  “Magic is a funny term,” she’d say. “There is nothing supernatural about the earth. As long as you know what does what.”

  “What do you mean?” we’d ask her.

  “There are plants that heal, hurt, manipulate. There are ideas to plant in people’s minds. There is power in everyone … most people don’t use it,” she’d answer.

  “Is Papa magic?” we’d ask.

  She laughed at that. “Well, he’s magic for me. But he doesn’t know half of what he is capable of.”

  One time, George (who was never afraid to ask anything, his inhibitions lost in those days he waited to be born), asked the question we all wanted to ask: “How do we see the things we do? Are we witches?”

  I remember Mama was pruning a rose bush. Cutting it all back and explaining that this was the only way to propagate. That if you do the opposite of what seems to be the right thing; mostly you get what you want. If you want more roses? Cut back the bush.

  Anyway, she pulled away from her task, her hair getting caught on sharp thorns and she put her arms out to him. We must have been eleven or so.

  “Come here, my Georgie!” she called to him and he ran to her, their smiles meeting each other and their breath becoming one. She rocked him and called us all from our different corners of the yard to come to her.

  “And what, do you think, is a witch, my delicious little ducks?”

  We all had different answers.

  Bunny said, “A green face and a big nose!”

  Mimi … who was a daddy’s girl said, “A witch is a strega, like Daddy’s Aunt Florencia who gave her husband the malocchio and he died.”

  Fee said, “A fairy.” Her voice was so soft then. I can’t remember it well, I just remember how soft-spoken she was before all the madness.

  Mama then turned her attention to me. I always seemed to be the last one on her mind. “And what about you, Itsy, love? What do you think makes someone a witch?”

  “Being mean?” I suggested.

  Bunny laughed at me. “That’s a bitch not a witch!” she said.

  I was embarrassed.

  Mama hushed her.

  “Now listen close,” she said. “My family in Fairview, which is your family, too, don’t you forget, was considered witches. All it meant was that there was a certain knowledge we had … a separate sort of looking through time and space that could help or hurt those around us. We knew what to grow and when to grow it. More importantly, we knew what to do with what we grew. And we called that a witch’s garden. Like this one. It is true—we could see things … the past and future in a clearer way than most. But I think they called us witches because there were things we did, things they simply couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

  I think we were just people who opened ourselves up to the world. And that’s what I’m doing for you. So if you need to consider yourselves witches … go ahead. Have fun! But in my opinion we are simply … Smart!” And with that she tickled Georgie and we all went back to work.

  I remember asking her the difference between a witch’s garden and a regular one. Mama took a stick and drew in the earth—softening as the spring sun grew stronger in the sky—a square space with intersecting circles, the directional arrows North, South, East, and West in the corner.

  “We plant and work the soil the way the earth chooses, which is only right as it is the earth that gives us the permission to use her the way we do. Keep in mind, there should be shadow and light, distinction between plants that heal and those that can make you ill. And perhaps most important, my Itsy, a place to sit.” She pointed at the stone bench in the corner of the garden by the back door. “Papa had that made for me. When the boys were young he sat here and watched us for hours.”

  “Why doesn’t Papa help in the garden?”

  “Papa has a black thumb!” We laughed together. “Itsy … men don’t really understand the magic garden.”

  “What about George?”

  Mama’s face drew quiet. “George isn’t like other men, my Itsy. You of all people know that! I often think I’ll take him home to Fairview and to my house and my people. That they would know what to do. That they could right the wrong that happened in my womb. And even…” She looked toward the sky and pushed back her hair, “Even change the course of events that haunt me so…”

  “Why don’t you, Mama? Please!” I begged.

  “There’s no one left, love. I have no people anymore.”

  “You have us, Mama.”

  “Yes, sweetling. I do. Don’t I?”

  And she did. She had us wrapped up inside her. But even so, the idea of fixing George stayed with me. I prayed every night for weeks that Mama could bring Georgie back to the magical place she came fr
om. Heal him of all that was wrong. Give him back all the air I stole from him by coming out of Mama first.

  It took a while before I realized I was praying more for myself than him. That I wanted to be free of the responsibility. I’d have to try making magic my own way. It turned out my magic couldn’t fix George … but the more I learn about our Elly, the more my magic grows. And I can fix this whole situation. I surely can. Even if what I have to do scares me. Scares me to death.

  13

  The Sisters Amore

  Spring came slowly to the Bronx with a lot of rain and soft watercolor tree blossoms. As Elly grew more pregnant she also grew wiser with Amore wisdom. Mimi and the aunts showed her more and more of Margaret Green’s ways. Protection jars were a new favorite of Elly’s. “I wish it was summer already,” she said, adding a cat’s eye marble to a mason jar already full of cobwebs and sage then screwing the metal cap shut. She placed it among the others on an already crowded table. Anthony would have to reach and put them over the doorframes later. “I hate being pregnant,” she said. “I can’t even learn the magic right. And you won’t let me on stepladders to put these things up properly.”

  “Oh, come now…” cooed Mimi from the kitchen where she was frying thick pieces of steak to put together with tomatoes and red onion on focaccia bread. It was Elly’s newest craving. “It’s your full-of-life time. Don’t throw it away.”

  “But I feel so ugly. And I miss my mother.”

  Elly hadn’t spoken to her mother since Christmas Eve, and it was already April. Easter had come and gone with its delicious dandelion soup and garlic pork roast. Easter pies: rice, wheat, cream, and ricotta spread out on the table and Elly not only eating but learning. She’d absorbed so much tradition in so little time. Sometimes the phone would ring in the middle of the night and Elly would jump out of bed and run to the kitchen, whispering Mom, Mom, Mommy under her breath only to find Liz on the other end.

  “Well,” said Mimi, “I can’t make Carmen do anything she doesn’t want to, I never could. That child came out determined to keep on going. But I can help with the ugly … maybe.”

  “Gee thanks, Mimi!” Elly laughed. She was getting used to Mimi’s abrasive sense of humor. Finding solace in it, even.

  “Come with me. Your face is so pretty. It’s your clothes. You don’t have anything to fit your belly.”

  * * *

  Mimi took her to the attic.

  Elly felt a strangeness wash over her. “I remember this, I think,” said Elly. “Is there a hiding place behind the attic door?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Mimi.

  “No,” continued Elly. “You’re right. It wasn’t a straight staircase. I was wrong. I don’t remember it.”

  “Ah, well. Memories are strange and fleeting things,” said Mimi climbing the narrow, dark stairs one at a time, holding onto the thin banister for support.

  The attic was huge with deep peaks and corners. It was tidy, with one back wall lined with boxes and steamer trunks. A part of Elly held her breath. She really thought she remembered something. Mimi was rummaging through boxes, but Elly was pressing her fingers against her temples. Her heart was racing.

  “I know they’re here somewhere … maybe … Yes.” Mimi opened a large steamer trunk that looked like a treasure chest with wide metal strips holding together strong, weathered wood.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Itsy, who was stooped over, making Fee’s bed because that fat sister of hers couldn’t get around the corners properly, stopped. She turned her head up toward the ceiling and slowly creaked open her mouth. She closed her eyes, a tear making its way down her cheek, through her deep wrinkles. Is this how it would happen? Now? With no meaning? Making Fat Fee’s bed? Itsy wondered.

  She waited, stayed quiet—and then tried to make a sound.

  No. Not now. It wasn’t the right trunk. Itsy shook her head and continued on with her chore.

  * * *

  “I’ve found it!” Mimi creaked open a second trunk and started shaking out beautiful summer dresses. “These were mine. They’ll fit you fine. Want to try some on? We’ll wash them, of course. And you could buy new ones if you want.”

  “No, I want them. I want them all.” Elly threw her arms around her grandmother and began to cry. Mimi sat with her on the attic floor. She let Elly rest her head on her lap and she rubbed her granddaughter’s back as she cried.

  “Everything’s going to be fine, love. I promise,” said Mimi.

  “Mimi? Why did I come stay with you all those years ago? Where was my mother?”

  “You really don’t remember?” asked Mimi, pushing back the hair from Elly’s forehead.

  “No. I really don’t.”

  “And you’re sure you want to know?”

  “Yes Mimi. I need to know.”

  “Okay then, I’ll tell you. But do me a favor?”

  “Anything, Mimi.”

  “As I tell you the story, why not flex your muscles? Try out your Sight. Listen to my voice, but see the truth. Can you try that for me?”

  Elly closed her eyes. “Tell me, Mimi. I’m ready.”

  * * *

  New York City was beautiful in the early summer. Itsy, Fee, and Mimi were glad to make the trip from the Bronx to Fairview, Massachusetts, but troubled by the reason. They hadn’t been called yet. The phones were probably ringing throughout the 170th Street building as they drove, but the sisters were already on the road. Awoken the night before they gathered in the dark garden holding hands around the ornate, cement birdbath. Not knowing or caring who was speaking to whom or even if it was a dream, they gathered their thoughts and came to the same, chilling conclusion.

  She’s hurting.

  “She’s been hurt.”

  She’s hurt her?

  “She’s hurt herself.”

  The smell of Mama’s roses, not yet in bloom, told them where to go.

  Fairview. The home of Margaret’s people, the Greens. Margaret Green who married Vincent Amore and left sweet, seaside vistas for urban decay.

  “She never looked back, though,” said Fee while Mimi drove George’s car and they told each other their mother’s story, laughing as if it was the first time, as if it weren’t built into the fabric of who they were as a family.

  Fairview was a quiet place. It would have been a tourist haven like the Cape if it weren’t for the hospital, and that was where the sisters were headed.

  Fairview Mental Hospital.

  It used to be called Saint Sebastian Lunatic Asylum before the 1960s made everything politically correct. “Call a spade a spade.” Mama would have said if she’d been around to see it. They drove up the long driveway and took in the Gothic building. They’d been there before. When they were small and Mama came to visit her own mother, their grandmother. It seemed just as dark and sinister a place as it had all those years ago. As they stood at the base of a wide staircase entry, Itsy wrote: Why would she come here of all places?

  Mimi read it and passed it to Fee. All three women shook their heads.

  “Blood holds onto history. A part of her belongs here. Why would she go anywhere else?” asked Mimi.

  The three nodded together, understanding the situation. Inside they met with the doctor in charge who explained the situation. It was a mixture of cocaine and alcohol. Carmen needed time to “detox” and get her life back “on track.” And the girl? She was such a brave little thing. They needed to collect her.

  She was in a fancy waiting room at the front of the hospital. Far away from the screaming back rooms where her mother was being treated. The women felt tiny as their shoes squeaked across the polished parquet flooring.

  Mimi hadn’t seen her granddaughter since she was a baby. The resemblance was striking. She looks like, looks like, looks like Mama! they thought and murmured together as they moved toward her. Itsy, Fee, and Mimi went to the child, where she sat straight as a board in a wingback chair with her small, paisley, corduroy suitcase on her lap. Patent-leather-clad
feet with pretty little lace-topped ankle socks were crossed daintily and dangling. Mimi knelt by the girl who would not look at them. She stared straight ahead.

  “You are wearing a lovely dress,” said Mimi, softly.

  “Thank you, my mother bought it for me in the south of France,” said the girl loud enough for Fee to hear and still staring past them.

  “Come on, let’s go,” said Fee.

  They drove straight home and when they got back the apartments were dark except for the lights in George’s window upstairs. The girl was asleep in the car, but as soon as she woke up, she ran away … deep into the building itself, trying to escape them all like a kitten in a strange new place. And when they found her, they gave her a bath. And they tended to her bruised body, but her bruised mind would need more care.

  Babygirl

  She didn’t like the way it smelled at her grandmother’s house. The old aunts pinched her and they smelled funny, too. Not like Mommy. They smelled like kitchens and chemicals. Mommy smelled like perfume, and smoke, and snow.

  She ran away from them into the first door that would open and down a hall until she found a bathroom. She backed herself up against a window that looked out on a small but luscious garden illuminated in a pool of moonlight. And that’s when it happened. She saw Liz. Not in her mind, but real! Babygirl decided that if being here means she gets to play with Lizzy, real Lizzy, then being here might not be so bad. And Mommy needs a rest. Mimi said so. So Mommy will have her rest and Babygirl will play with Lizzy and that boy upstairs. Because he is just so cute! Lizzy called dibs, but Babygirl knows he has eyes only for her. Babygirl can tell those things. She can feel them a mile away. Just like she knew it wasn’t Mommy who did those things. It was something sad and ill inside of Mommy. Babygirl didn’t need the doctors, or the old ladies, or the priest to tell her that. She knew it already.

  She knew something else, too. She knew her Aunt Itsy was hiding something. It was a mystery. Babygirl loved mysteries and if she had to search all summer, she would solve the whole thing. And then Uncle George … sweet Uncle George took her to Playland. And there was nothing better in the whole world than doing one cartwheel after another up and down the beaches of Far Rockaway. Old Aunt Itsy did them, too. Babygirl loved watching Itsy do cartwheels. She’d watch from the sand while she caught her own breath. She’d watch Liz and Itsy do cartwheels together, their arms and legs striking out at different intervals like graceful starfish with the sparkling waters of the sea behind them.