[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  Mouth-watering visions of crispy Italian toast and bubbles of butter floating on the milky surface of dunking coffee sent Iris bounding up the stairs two at a time, chasing the aromas that wafted down from the upstairs kitchen. “Slow down, Bella della mamma!” Auntie Rosa called after her, as Iris flew over the green vinyl runner that carpeted the flight of stairs, and burst into the kitchen, just as Grandma Capotosti moaned, “E’ bruciato!” Those two foreign yet familiar words made Uncle Alfred rush to the toaster, and pop out two smoking slices of bread. Irene Capotosti’s frown of disapproval somersaulted and landed in a smile when she spotted her granddaughter, and she extended her arms for a hug. Her grandmother and Uncle Alfred were in the middle of their morning ritual of breakfast, consisting of half-burnt Italian toast, soft-boiled eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice, Postum for Uncle Alfred and coffee for Grandma, all of which were enjoyed at an even more leisurely pace on Sunday morning, after Grandma had watched the Mass for shut-ins on TV. Uncle Alfred always took care of fixing Grandma’s breakfast, since he didn’t have to rush off to work in the morning like most men, or like Auntie Rosa. Uncle Alfred had one of the best jobs in the world: He was a guitar player.

  During the week, Uncle Alfred taught private guitar lessons in his studio (it was down in the basement of the double house, but it was not a scary basement like the one at Rugby Road, because there were lights everywhere, and lots of guitars). Sometimes, if Iris came over on Saturday afternoons, she was allowed to sit at the desk in the little waiting room and pass out candy to the guitar students and their mothers, and of course to be polite and encourage them to take a butterscotch or a peppermint, Iris had to have a piece herself. Uncle Alfred called her his “very private secretary” when she sat at the desk, and Iris thought it wouldn’t be so bad if she got a job as a secretary one day if all she had to do was smile and pass out candy.

  On weekends Uncle Alfred’s Hawaiian Trio played at The Luau, a restaurant where they served strange-sounding food like Pu-Pu Platters and drinks with chunks of pineapple and maraschino cherries in them. She heard all about it from the adults, who sometimes went there on special occasions, like when Grandma Whitacre came up from Independence for a visit. Iris longed for the day when she would be old enough to tag along and have one of those drinks and hear Uncle Alfred play on the stage. She loved hearing him rehearse, and when she closed her eyes to listen it seemed like the notes were surfing along on the foamy waves she saw in the posters that decorated the walls of his studio. Uncle Alfred was always so elegant when he went to The Luau, dressed in a tuxedo with a ruffled shirt and cuff links and a bow tie, more handsome even than Jackie Gleason. Way more, because he was so nice and trim.

  Although Iris didn’t really remember much about it, she heard plenty of stories from the days when she and her family had lived on the floor between the basement and the upstairs floor where Grandma Capotosti and Auntie Rosa and Uncle Alfred lived, before there were so many babies and they had been forced to move, since you certainly couldn’t just build another hutch for babies in the backyard, or serve them up for dinner, like you could when you had too many rabbits. Iris sometimes regretted that her parents had preferred to move to another house rather than stop making babies, but then she wouldn’t have Lily for a little sister, and that would be much worse.

  After Iris hugged her Grandma, she went to hug Uncle Alfred, although he was never as grabby as the other people in the family. Sometimes, when there were all kinds of relatives around and everybody started hugging and kissing and Auntie Rosa was pinching cheeks and saying “Bella della mamma!” to all the kids, Iris would notice Uncle Alfred sneaking away to wash his hands. Uncle Alfred did lots of other things to make up for not being a great hugger; for example, not doing a good job squeezing the oranges when he knew Iris would be there for breakfast, like today. Iris could already taste the burst of tartness on her tongue when she spotted a pile of orange halves on the counter by the sink where he was scraping the burnt edges of the toast, and when Uncle Alfred nodded it was all right for her to have them, she went through the whole stack, first sucking on the flattened pulp that still clung to the skins, then ripping it off with her teeth and eating it. She probably could have had orange juice too, if she had asked for it, but she never liked asking for things. Plus, juice was over way too fast, while she could suck on skins forever if they would let her.

  “Vieni qui,” Grandma Capotosti urged, calling her away from the oranges, and over to an empty place at the table, where she was delighted to see a dainty blue porcelain cup sitting on a saucer, just like the ones the grown-ups were drinking coffee from.

  “How about pouring a little drop for Iris, Alfred?” Auntie Rosa said. “Add a little warm water, though, it’s too strong for her.”

  “No, please! No water!” Iris begged. Her mother sometimes had to water down milk or juice to make it go around, and Iris hated the way it made the taste and texture turn all weak and flat.

  “Well, then you’ll have to be content with half a cup,” replied Uncle Alfred as he poured, then set down a fresh round of buttered toast, browned to perfection.

  “Thank you!” Iris said, pouring in cream, scooping in sugar, and stirring eagerly. Grandma smiled as she watched, then reached for a little bottle standing on the table, and said, “E’ domenica!” Unscrewing the cap, she poured a few drops of clear, syrupy liquid into Iris’s cup, under the reproving glance of Auntie Rosa. Iris raised the cup to her lips, and sniffed. Her eyelids fluttered and she swooned with pleasure at the mixed aromas of coffee and anisette. She sipped the hot drink ever so slowly, remembering to extend her pinkie, like Auntie Rosa did. Raising her eyes over the rim of her coffee cup, she saw Uncle Alfred to her left, Auntie Rosa to her right, Grandma kitty-corner across the table, and from the corner of her eye, Grandpa, sitting in his easy chair in the living room. As she dunked her first piece of toast, Iris doubted she could ever be more content. Biting into the crispy, buttery slice dipped in the most heavenly coffee on earth, she listened blissfully as the adults chatted about friends and relatives and neighbors, about the doctors and patients where Auntie Rosa worked, about the turnout at The Luau the night before.

  Whenever her big brothers wanted to make Iris cry for no good reason, they called her “spoiled brat” because of the special treatment they imagined she received here, though Iris avoided talking about it. She was especially careful about not bragging to Lily about privileges her sister could not share, but sometimes a detail or two leaked out about a particularly delicious ice cream float Auntie Rosa had made her, or how much she would rather have buttered Italian toast dunked in coffee for breakfast instead of puffed rice. Iris had asked Auntie Rosa whether Lily might come one weekend, and she had replied possibly, when she was older, but for now, that little rascal Lily was a tad rambunctious and her presence would undoubtedly have an unsettling effect on Grandma. Iris felt so bad about the rejection of her request, and of Lily, that she never told her, but at the same time, she knew there was some truth to what Auntie Rosa said.

  In the end, her desire to spend time at Auntie Rosa’s always outweighed her uneasiness, so she went on accepting the special treatment she was offered, and went on feeling guilty about it. Iris knew she would never fight for attention. She knew she did not possess faults so atrocious or qualities so remarkable they would earn her special standing in her own home. All she had to offer was a smile and a sunny disposition. At Auntie Rosa’s, it was enough to earn her unlimited affection, and like a stray cat presented with a brimming bowl of sweet milk, Iris lapped it up.

  6. Lily

  It was Sunday, and Lily awakened with the unfulfilled desire for fudge in her belly. The children had received stern orders from their father to go directly to bed after the bat incident. Lily tossed and turned with frustration for what seemed like hours before she succumbed to sleep, finally lulled by her sisters’ recounting of all that had happened that night, talking and teasing about who had screamed like a baby, who had acted the
most afraid, and who the bravest. But all the sisters were silent now, except for wispy breaths and rolling snores, all in varied cadences, yet each in perfect measure unto itself. Lily moved across the floor in time, adding her own tiptoe rhythm to the daybreak symphony. Once out into the hallway, she hitched up her nightgown, tied the ends between her legs, swung her left leg over the banister, and carefully balanced her torso against the smooth, dark wood. Letting go of the railing, she slid down to the first floor with such speed that she flew off the end of the banister and landed on the white marble tiled foyer with a thud.

  “Ouch!”

  “Shhh…” her younger brothers admonished in unison from the living room, without taking their eyes from the television screen.

  There was only one thing that Lily cared about more this morning than watching The Shhh! Show, and that was getting her hands on some fudge. Her stomach growled and her mouth watered as she made plans to sneak a piece before church. She slipped into the kitchen and opened the door of the Frigidaire, but the pan of fudge was not inside. She quietly dragged the step stool over from the corner, and climbed atop it. There in the sink was the aluminum pan, scraped clean, no doubt by Alexander and John who must have come in late, and had themselves a fudge feast. They had probably sat around, laughing and saying the “a” word without giving Lily a thought at all.

  Lily reached into the sink, and scraped off the remnants left behind – hardly enough to even discern the taste of chocolate from the taste of aluminum, or from the dirt packed under her fingernail. She climbed down from the step stool, and with a grunt, she pushed it and sent it clamoring across the linoleum floor. She didn’t even care if she woke up the whole house.

  Lumbering into the living room, Lily plopped herself onto the floor in front of the television. She slipped her right thumb into her mouth, and ran the tip of her right index finger up and down the gentle slope of her nose.

  The Whitacre nose was thin and delicate, turning up slightly at the tip, just enough to be perky, yet not enough to be pug. It was a sharp contrast to the Capotosti nose, which was fleshier, and seemed better suited to things like smelling cheese and getting angry. All of the children had either the typical Whitacre nose or the typical Capotosti nose – except for Iris. Iris’ nose was a tad longer and straighter than the Whitacre nose, as stately as the Capotosti, but not as overpowering. Iris’ nose offered the best of both worlds, and it was unlike any other in the whole family, which is probably how they could all tell she was so special.

  Iris could also make her nostrils flare on command, a skill Lily had desperately tried to master repeatedly. If only she could learn to do that, she could really seem scary. Then the next time one of the boys tried anything with her, she could just puff out her nostrils and those boys would evaporate like the smoke from a blown out birthday candle, stretching out longer and thinner and finally drifting away into nothingness, like they had never even been there in the first place.

  “Show me again,” Lily had pleaded with Iris, the first time she had revealed her talent. Iris faced Lily, taking an official demonstration stance with her shoulders squared, her eyes closed, and her chin thrust forward, and flared both nostrils out and in, out and in. Lily craned her neck and peered straight up into Iris’ nose, as though she expected to discover a lever, a switch, or maybe a button.

  “But what do you do to make it happen?” Lily demanded, stomping her foot.

  “I don’t know,” said Iris. “You just do it, and then it happens.”

  “OK – let me try one more time. You watch and tell me if it works, OK?” Lily closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, as if she could flare her nostrils just by thinking about it intently. Iris stood close, staring at Lily’s nose, squinting at it, with the hopes of discerning even just the slightest quiver.

  “Lily!” shouted Iris.

  “Did I do it? Did I do it?”

  “No – but you did something else. Your nose - it moved!”

  “My whole nose?” asked Lily, grabbing the end of her nose with her hand.

  “No, just the tip of it. You wriggled it back and forth. It was far-out!”

  So while Lily never mastered the nostril flare, she did discover her own unique talent of nose wriggling. It wasn’t exactly scary, and it didn’t come in handy much, but it would be good to be able to perform it sometimes, like whenever Mary Beth came over to show off her latest new dress or sock monkey.

  Sunday morning was usually Lily’s favorite time of the week. She and William and Charles would often be awake before anyone else and they could watch whatever they wanted on TV. But if you were loud, and if you woke up one of the Big Kids, they might come down and change the channel and they wouldn’t even ask. (And if you woke up Henry, you’d better run faster than him.) You could object, of course – for all the good it would do you. Challenging a Big Kid only ended in frustration at best, and with a pounding at worst. It was a lesson Lily knew well, but one to which she never quite learned to submit.

  So the unspoken agreement on Sunday morning was to watch and whisper, united under the common cause of maintaining control of the TV at least until Sylvester the Cat was kicked out of the house by Granny, or until it was time to get ready for church. Tilting her head slightly, Lily reached up with her left hand and selected a section of golden brown hair, which she would twist and twirl, often until it became knotted – even sometimes with her finger still stuck inside.

  “Where did you get all these rats in your hair?” her mother would say with a huff. And Lily would cover her face with her hands, partly to keep from crying as her mother tugged and pulled at the knots with a comb, but also partly to banish the image of little rat faces peeking out from behind her bangs, nibbling on her lobes, pooping in her ear.

  Slowly, the rest of the Capotosti clan awakened and the house began to beat with the life of a new day. Lily’s mother entered the living room with the baby in her arms, and placed him in the path of a sunbeam on the worn wooden floor. Lily called to him, “C’mon Ricci – wanna play rolly?” He squealed and scrambled over to Lily, his shiny curls flopping about like long, loose springs, and then he lay down on the floor in front of her. She placed one hand at his shoulder and one at his hip, and she rolled him first away from her and then toward her – as though she were using his chubby little body to roll out dough for biscuits - building both momentum and suspense with each roll. With a final “Whee!” she gave him a push that sent him rolling across the room. He laughed so heartily that it made Lily laugh, too. When he came to a stop against the ottoman he thoughtfully and carefully raised himself onto all fours, teetered for a moment or two, then crawled back toward Lily in a crooked dizzy line. With his mouth still agape in pleasure, he lay down on the floor in front of her again, his little face bright with anticipation and excitement.

  Lily loved playing with Ricci. William and Charles were only one and two years younger than she, and there wasn’t much that they needed from her. But playing rolly was something special that Lily and Ricci shared. It made him happy, and when they played she was a big sister, too.

  St. Augustine’s church was connected directly to the grammar school where Lily attended kindergarten. By now, the route was second nature to her, but it was different walking with the family. Everyone would be in their Sunday clothes, looking spiffy from their clip-on ties right down to their patent leather shoes. All of the Capotosti girls were crowned with thick waist-length hair, and on Sunday they would take extra time to make a braid for one another, or tie ribbons on ponytails for each other. Lily admired her sisters’ beauty, and she knew that the dresses they wore today would one day be hers. She would not shun them as hand-me-downs, but welcome them as little pieces of Jasmine, Violet, Marguerite and Iris. And when she wore their clothes, then maybe she would be beautiful, too.

  As the family marched down the aisle toward the altar, various frilly bonnets, white lace chapel veils, and shiny black heads matted down with Brylcreem would turn up from their prayers to look
. Some people would whisper and softly laugh, others would make a face like something smelled bad. But Lily didn’t mind. She knew they weren’t looking at her; they were looking at them. All of them. God gave her mother and father more children than He gave to anyone else, and that meant He loved them the most.

  One by one, the family filed into the fifth pew from the front. Lily’s mother and Ricci moved down to the far right end. Then came William, Charles, Lily, and Jasmine. It was Jasmine’s job to help watch the Little Kids during Mass to make sure they didn’t slam the kneeler on the floor or get their fingers pinched in the hat clips – which someone invariably did every week, regardless. Lily wondered why God would put kneelers and hat clips right there in front of you that He knew you really really wanted to touch and play with, and then tell you that you couldn’t. It must have been some kind of a test to see if you knew your rules. That must have been what it was like for Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

  After Jasmine came Iris, Violet, and Marguerite. Lily’s father led the three oldest boys to fill up the left end of the pew, seating them on the aisle where Father Connor would be able to see them, which was almost the same as having God watch you.