It was remarkable that Iris could ever feel alone in that crowded bedroom, as she waited for dreams to come and quell her fears. The air in the room pulsed with the sounds and smells of youth and humanity: the coughing and sneezing, the giggling and farting, the clanging of the puke pan as it was passed from one moaning sibling to another if a bug was going around, the jumble of odors emanating from the communal body of childhood in constant metamorphosis. Yet she did feel alone. Lots of times.
Golden brown locks bounced behind Iris as she skipped down the sidewalk; her hair flowed long and wild, unrestrained by the little-girl hairdos that crowned the prim heads of her classmates at St. Augustine’s grammar school. Pigtails and ponytails, braids and bows required time and attention, precious commodities in the economics of morning minutes in the Capotosti household, where chaos reigned over the routine of feeding, clothing, and consigning to parochial school a squad of squirming subjects by eight o’clock sharp. By the end of the school day, Iris’s triangular face was framed by tangled tresses that looked as frazzled as she was from the effort of following the lessons imparted by the dour nun who commanded her classroom. Iris fancied her hair was endowed with special powers, like the trigger hairs of the Venus flytrap her mother had shown her in the encyclopedia. She imagined her locks sensing and rejecting the things that were distasteful or useless, while gobbling up everything that would nourish her, and breaking it down for transmission straight to the brain. Iris felt a peculiar attachment to her hair, and was constantly being reprimanded for twirling her locks between her fingers, and stuffing them in her mouth. Earlier, absorbed in a reading exercise, she had unconsciously slipped a strand between her lips and curled her tongue around it. There was something about the way the sucking and gnawing engaged the tip of her tongue and her teeth that seemed to help her concentrate, overcome her shyness, and placate her fear of making mistakes. Squinting at the words on the page while chewing on the hair in her mouth, a sense of serenity had settled over her, only to be shattered moments later.
“Young lady!” Sister Josephine had scolded, towering over her, tall and straight as a tree - no, more like a telephone pole; she was not nearly as shapely or friendly as a tree. Iris had felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she felt the flush rising again as she recalled how the other twenty-three pairs of eyes in the classroom had turned on her at once, as Sister Josephine continued. “Do you know what happens to little girls who chew on their hair? Do you?” The nun went on to predict a grim future for Iris if she could not overcome her habit; a painful and premature demise would be her lot, owing to the massive hair balls that were at that moment growing and festering in her belly, clogging her gut, strangling her stomach, entangling her bowels. “And pay attention when I speak to you. You look like you’re a thousand miles away.”
Iris couldn’t help that look in her eyes any more than she could help her habit. Each time Sister Josephine reprimanded her, she was both mortified and terrified, yet as soon as she got distracted, the hair somehow wound up back in her mouth again. One positive effect of Sister’s tirades was that Iris started spitting out her gum instead of swallowing it when she entered the classroom, because she feared it would make the hairball problem even more fatal. The gum she chewed never tasted very good anyway, since it came from the neighborhood driveways and sidewalks Iris scoured on her way to and from school in search of the more appealing wads that had not yet been flattened by tires, and didn’t have too much grit ground into them.
As she loped back home down Rugby Road, with a fresh pink wad of used gum in her mouth (scraped off the driveway of that weird family with only one little girl named Rosemary whose parents probably bought her all the new Bazooka bubblegum she wanted), the unpleasant episode of Sister Josephine was soon behind her. Her bottled-up energy bubbled to the surface, yearning for release after the constraints of the classroom. Long, lean legs sent her pinafore flapping as she ran, her gait slowing only when her knee socks dropped to her ankles, and she stopped to roll back into place the rubber bands that held them up. As she bent over her knobby knees, she admired the fresh set of scabs, her trophies from yesterday’s bicycle practice, when her brother John, running behind her, had released his grip on the fender, and sent her off solo, for the first time without training wheels. Thrilled and terrified at her own audacity, she had careened down the road in daring spurts, slamming into the trunks of the oaks and elms that jumped out from between the modest homes on the modest city street. Somehow she never saw the trees until it was too late, and hurting them made Iris feel worse than hurting herself, until she remembered that the trees were not as innocent as they looked. They played tricks on her all the time, with those gnarled roots that burst through the sidewalks to trip her whenever she played hopscotch.
Iris always watched for cracks when she ran, but sometimes she didn’t see those, either, though she heard over and over again in her mind the warning of every little girl who played sidewalk games: “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back!” Iris visualized her quiet, fair-skinned mother, doling out Spanish rice to her brood from a cracked ceramic platter while jostling a cranky infant on her hip. She thought of the graceful way her mother tossed her head to rearrange her auburn tresses when they fell in front of her clear blue eyes. The thought of breaking her back made Iris so sick to her stomach she thought she would puke. Or maybe it was the balls of hair. Iris slowed to a walk, and breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the Capotosti driveway, remembering to spit out the gum before Lily could ask her if she could have some.
2. Lily
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.”
Lily considered the path before her. The neglected sidewalk was riddled with cracks and holes, punctuated by an occasional old maple tree root, threatening to erupt through the concrete and fulfill its destiny of wreaking havoc on skaters, bicyclists, and children trying to get to school without rendering their mothers crippled.
“I don’t want to play that,” said Lily.
“It’s not really real,” said Mary Beth. “It’s just pretend.”
But all Lily could think about was coming home from school at lunchtime to find her mother in the basement doing laundry, doubled over in pain, back broken. Then there would be no one to make Lily’s bologna sandwich with mayonnaise or take care of the babies, or cook her father’s coffee tonight.
Auntie Rosa would come over with her white stockings and her shot needle and she would say, “Betty – what in heaven’s name happened to you?” and Auntie Rosa would take Lily’s mother back to the clinic and Dr. Johnson would put one of those big Popsicle sticks in her mouth and then bang on her knee with his hammer. Then, they would make her stand in front of that big machine and take pictures of her insides and they would all gasp and cover their mouths and Auntie Rosa’s bottom lip would start to tremble a little and they would all see that Lily’s mother’s back was all broken– it would look like that wishbone on Thanksgiving after Jasmine and John pulled on it. Then Dr. Johnson would say, “Betty, your back is broke; did you fall down the stairs or something?” and Lily’s mother would say, “Why no – I was just in the basement waiting for Lily to get home from school so I could make her bologna sandwich with mayonnaise, and I suddenly fell over and I haven’t been able to get up again since.”
Then Dr. Johnson would turn to look at Lily and then Auntie Rosa would turn to look at Lily, and then finally, Lily’s mother would turn and they would all know that it was because Lily stepped on a sidewalk crack and now Lily’s mother would have to walk around bent over all the time and Auntie Rosa would yelp like she does when someone is apprehended on TV. And probably on the way out of the clinic, Kay at the front desk wouldn’t even give Lily a butterscotch hard candy, and the babies would cry all the time and Lily’s father wouldn’t have his coffee and it would be all Lily’s fault.
“Well, I say we play,” said Mary Beth, skipping ahead. She chanted her mantra of doom and torture, stepping on almost all of the cra
cks, with no thought at all to the pain and misery she could be causing. It seemed to Lily if she were going to play such a game, she should at least do so with some level of compassion and care.
Lily and Mary Beth lived four houses apart on Rugby Road. Lily’s house was loud and messy, but Mary Beth’s house was magical. It had a 7 and a 2 on it and it was green on the bottom and white on the top. Every morning in the summer Lily would skip down to Mary Beth’s, stand outside the side door, and call, “Ma-ry Be-e-e-eth!”
If Mary Beth could play, she would soon appear at the door and let Lily inside where all sorts of pleasures awaited. There were Fluffernutter sandwiches, and Big Shot chocolate syrup for their milk, and an endless supply of Beefaroni. Lunch at Mary Beth’s was better than going to a birthday party with cake.
Once, Mrs. Barone - Mary Beth’s mother - took Lily down into the basement with her and off in the corner was a shelf that was bigger even than Mrs. Barone was. There was a curtain hanging there so you couldn’t see what was on the shelf. Mrs. Barone pulled the curtain back and there were hundreds of cans of Beefaroni – probably more than they have at the store – or even at President Kennedy’s old house. It wasn’t likely that the Barones ever ran out of food.
One of the strangest things about Mary Beth’s house was that there were no brothers or sisters, so Mr. Barone used to play with them all the time. He taught them how to skip down the driveway, how to ride a two-wheeler with training wheels, and how to swing upside down on the monkey bars – which were right in the backyard. Lily tried to imagine her own father skipping rope or roller skating, but she just couldn’t see it. No matter how tightly she closed her eyes, all she could see was her father stepping off the city bus in his brown suit or standing at his workbench, bending over to mend the latest broken toaster, fan, or radio. The only things in Lily’s backyard were a rusty old chair, a rusty old swing set, Princess’s poop, and a bunch of rabbit cages full of rabbits that Lily wasn’t allowed to pet unless she was with Jasmine. Anyway, her father definitely did not have time to play. Jeepers Cripes, there was always so much work to do around here.
So mostly, when Lily came over to play, Mary Beth would open the door and they would laugh and eat Beefaroni and drink chocolate milk and skip and play until Lily was summoned home by the clang-clang! of the cowbell that her father rang at dinner time. That’s how all the children – and the entire neighborhood – knew it was dinnertime at the Capotosti house. And you definitely did not want to be late for dinner.
On some summer mornings, Mary Beth was not allowed to play. Once, Mrs. Barone came to the door and she said to Lily, “I’m afraid Mary Beth can’t play today, Lily. She was sassing back and so today as her punishment she is going to stay in her room and think about that.”
Lily considered asking whether she might have some Beefaroni or perhaps a Fluffernutter sandwich anyway, but before she could get her courage up, Mrs. Barone closed the door and that was that.
Lily tried to imagine what it would be like to sit in your room all afternoon, thinking about sassing back, and wondered why it was punishment. Thinking doesn’t even hurt.
Beginning on the first Wednesday in September, Mary Beth had come to Lily’s house every morning and they walked together, sometimes ahead of Lily’s brothers and sisters and sometimes behind them. As they’d headed down the street, doors would fly open and children would pour out in groups of fours and fives, all headed for St. Augustine’s school. The Smiths, Dr. Schwartz’s family, the Silipinis, the Farruggias, the Cullens, and Bobby Rose, the only colored boy on the block.
But this morning, Lily stood paralyzed. If she didn’t agree to play, maybe Mary Beth wouldn’t answer the door the next time she went over. Torn between a desire to protect her mother and an unending appetite for Fluffernutter, Lily crossed herself InthenameofaFatherandofaSon-andofaHolyGhostAmen, and silently asked God to help her not step on any cracks. Lily approached the task with the balance and agility developed over a long summer of playing hopscotch. She quickly caught up to Mary Beth again, proud of her poise, and relieved at having avoided all cracks.
“I made it!” Lily cried out. “I didn’t step on any.”
Mary Beth looked at Lily, looked down at the ground, and then with a giggle, she gave Lily a swift and definitive nudge, causing her to lose her balance, landing her foot directly over an unmistakable crack in the concrete.
“No fair!” shouted Lily, and in her rage, she gave Mary Beth a shove, sending her against a chain link fence with such force that she bounced off and landed face down on the ground.
“Lily Capotosti!”
Lily turned to find Mrs. Linden marching toward her, waving the Stop sign paddle that she used to halt traffic so the children could cross the street. She helped a now sobbing Mary Beth to her feet, brushed the dirt from her knees, and kissed her forehead. She then turned to Lily, and leaned in so close that Lily could see the tiny holes in the shiny skin of her nose. Lily wondered if there were any bugs small enough to fit inside there and what it would feel like to have a teeny tiny bug curled up inside one of the holes in your skin. It would probably tickle a bit. The thought made Lily giggle.
“Young lady, what is so funny? Do you know the rules for safety on the way to school? Can you tell me what they are?”
“No running?” said Lily, trying unsuccessfully to squelch a grin. She knew she was supposed to take the questioning seriously, but all she could think about was the little bug. She would call him Jack, like that exercise man on television.
“And what else?”
“No pushing, no shoving, and no crossing the street without a crossing guard.” Lily quickly added, “But she pushed me first.”
Self-defense was one of the few arguments that had any effectiveness when attempting to escape The Belt at home. Hurting others was never allowed, but if someone was beating you up, or pounding on you, no one expected you to sit there and take it.
Mrs. Linden was the one who didn’t seem to understand the rules. “It’s OK, sweetheart,” she said, taking Mary Beth’s hand. With her other hand, she grabbed Lily’s left upper arm.
“Wait until your mother hears about this,” said Mrs. Linden. “Pushing your little friend, making her cry and then laughing about it.”
Lily considered explaining to Mrs. Linden that she wasn’t laughing at Mary Beth, but then she would have to explain about Jack the bug and how she imagined him all curled up inside one of the holes on Mrs. Linden’s nose, and Lily was pretty sure that would just get her into more trouble than she was already in.
“Now come along, both of you. The bell is about to ring.”
Lily imagined her mother at home, hobbling up to answer the door when Mrs. Linden knocked.
“Why hello, Irma,” her mother would say.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Betty,” Mrs. Linden would say. “Your daughter Lily was apprehended shoving a classmate on the sidewalk today, which – as you know – is breaking the rules. I’m sorry to say that your daughter Lily is a rule-breaker.”
Lily’s mother would look up at Mrs. Linden, unable to stand up straight - because of the broken back - and she would say, “I know Irma, I know – just look at me. We don’t know what we’re going to do about her. She’s definitely a rule breaker.”
As Lily and Mary Beth entered the school, the bell rang and the children all scurried to take their places on the red carpet for circle time.
Miss Swift stood before them and said, “Now class, you are no longer babies in nursery school – you are all big boys and girls, and it’s time for you to begin taking care of yourselves and behaving as young ladies and gentlemen.”
Miss Swift continued. “First, by the end of the week, I want each of you to demonstrate to me that you can tie your own shoes.” This made Lily smile. They had been practicing tying in class all week, and every night, Lily would tie her shoes and untie them over and over again, even putting them on in bed and running the drill until she fell fast asleep.
“Second,” continued Miss Swift, “when you need to use the bathroom, please raise your hand, and when I call upon you, you say, ‘May I please use the lavatory?’ Once I grant you permission to do so, you may proceed to the lavatory in an orderly fashion.”
Anxious to get started with this business of arriving home with a gold star on her forehead, Lily mentally practiced her line: May I use the labatory? May I please use the labatory? even though it seemed quite ridiculous to ask permission to do something that you didn’t really have a choice about. And in the back of her mind, Lily worried about what might happen if she should ask permission, and if Miss Swift should say “no.”
“No, Lily – you may not use the labatory. You may sit there and you may think about how you broke your poor mother’s back on the way to school today.”
Lily shot her right hand into the air, but Miss Swift kept talking. Lily wriggled her fingers, reaching her hand as high as she could.
“Third, I want everyone to have a tissue on hand at all times. When ladies and gentlemen have a sniffle, or have the need to cough or sneeze, a handy tissue is quite necessary.” Miss Swift then pulled a white tissue out from under the cuff of her pink satin blouse, dabbed delicately at the end of her nose in demonstration, and then tucked it away again. “When you have demonstrated to me that you have mastered each task, you will receive a shiny gold star on your forehead, so that everyone knows that you are well on your way to becoming a fine young lady or gentleman.”
It occurred to Lily that they didn’t use tissues at her house. If they needed to blow their noses, they used toilet paper. What would she do? She wondered if Mrs. Barone had any tissues behind a curtain in the basement.
The Complete Series Page 2