[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  But as you and I know, it takes more than a crazy driver, or even a whole motorcade to take down a Capotosti, doesn’t it? Reading through some of the things we remember from our childhood makes me realize it is nothing short of a miracle that we are still around to talk about it. I suppose you get good at learning how to survive, when you start as young as we did.

  You know, to me, exploring those memories from way back is a little like opening that box of Russell Stover’s and choosing which piece of candy to take. You don’t know what you’re getting until you bite into it, and you don’t know whether you’ll be sorry you did until it’s too late. One thing I’ve been noticing is how the good things stand out in my mind more than the bad, kind of like remembering when I hit on a caramel-filled chocolate and forgetting when I got a maple cream.

  Let’s write more soon.

  Love,

  Iris

  From: Lily Capotosti

  To: Iris Capotosti

  Sent: Thur, January 20, 2010 at 6:04 PM

  Subject: Who’s home?

  Dear Iris:

  Your timing couldn’t be worse. Seriously.

  I had an absolutely horrendous day – I don’t even want to talk about it. The only saving grace was that I had a dentist appointment at 3:00 this afternoon so I was able to escape early. Imagine a situation in which going to the dentist is a relief… and the dentist gives me two shots of Novocain, but I still don’t care because it’s still an improvement over being at work - even though he never gets my name right. He’ll call me everything but Lily - Lulu, Lila, Frank (OK, maybe not Frank) and I want to say to him, “Hey – why don’t you just check the chart?” But even then, even though he’s stabbing me and drilling me and he has no idea what my name is, it’s still better. (Anyway, there’s some truth to it too, and maybe he knows that I don’t have a clue about who I am either.) But really, I don’t want to talk about it.

  By the time I got out of there, half of my face was numb, and I was still all wound up so I decided I was going pamper myself a little bit. I had bought this anti-aging facial mask from Dr. Lee, so I came home, brewed up some tea, applied the facial, and sat down to catch up on some personal email. So here I am.

  (Oh, I swear, this mask smells like alpaca shit. I can’t wait to wash it off. I am trying to drink this tea, but since half of my face is paralyzed from the Novacain, the tea keeps dribbling all down the front of me. I feel like a total stroke victim - who just fell down face-first in a steaming pile of alpaca shit. Really – I just can’t even stand it anymore. I’ll be right back; I have to go wash this off before I vomit.)

  OK, I’m back now, but get this: Dr. Lee sold me some moisturizer, too, and after I put it on and rubbed it all in, I looked at the label it says, “Ingredients: Vitamin E, Bee embryo, Finely crushed pearl powder.” Bee embryo? Really? Isn’t that something you would tell someone ahead of time? Like, “So Dr. Lee, do you have any moisturizer to go with that facial mask?” and she’d say, “Sure – but it has bee embryo in it.” I mean, doesn’t that sound like something you’d warn someone about?

  Of course then I found myself wondering what the hell that factory is like, and how many pregnant bees were forced to terminate so that I could have younger looking skin. I don’t even know if I can use it again now. Anyway, what’s the use of looking younger if you smell like alpaca shit, right?

  Then there’s this lovely letter from you, talking about train rides and ancient Roman buildings and car chases and politician motorcades and ROASTED CHESTNUTS ON THE STREET CORNER?? – Jesus Christ – your life sounds like a scene from a movie. (I should have auditioned.)

  It must be really strange, though, to be able to walk past and touch a building that is almost 2000 years old. The oldest thing here besides the land is only about 250. Still, that does get you thinking, you know? It makes me think about Mom’s forbears who fought in the Civil War (the fact that they were fighting a lost cause even back then should have given us all a clue), and about Grandma and Grandpa Capotosti who traveled here twice – probably under unthinkable conditions - until they found a way to make it work. How funny to realize that if they had stayed in Italy, you wouldn’t be there now. Maybe no matter what we want or wish for, we are compelled to take the same trip over and over until it sticks. And maybe we are all destined to end up where we started.

  One thing’s for sure: You and I come from a long line of scrappy, which is probably why we survived our childhood. Well, I survived mine, anyway. I think.

  Love,

  Frank

  7. Iris

  “Up you go!” said Alexander, squatting so Iris could step into the stirrup formed by her brother’s clasped hands. With a swift thrust and a grunt, he consigned her to the back of the moving van.

  “Ouch!” Iris cried, landing with a thump on the cargo bed, her blue valise clutched tightly in her hands as she peered into the windowless space in front of her.

  “Just sit over there, and don’t move, you hear me?” ordered Alexander, his voice booming with the authority temporarily conferred upon him.

  “Ouch!” complained another little girl’s voice, followed by another little girl’s body landing with another dull thump in the semi-darkness.

  “Hey, I’m over here!” Iris cried to Lily, who was sprawled face-down. Lily pulled herself up and crawled over to Iris on her hands and knees. “Come on, sit here,” Iris said, patting the grimy floor next to her. Lily wriggled close to Iris, resting her back against the side of the van, and drawing her legs to her chest.

  “Are you scared?” Iris asked, draping an arm around her sister’s shoulder. Lily hesitated a second before responding.

  “Kinda. All our stuff is gone, and our house is empty. I opened all the doors, and there’s nothing on the other side of any of ‘em.”

  “It’s not really, gone, Lily. It’s all here. And it’s all coming to our new house with us.”

  “But what about our bunk bed?” Lily asked.

  “That’s it over there, see?” Iris said, pointing to the bed springs and slats of wood stowed in the corner across from them.

  “But it’s all broken! It must be in a million pieces!” Lily said. “Where are we s’posed to sleep tonight?”

  “Don’t worry,” Iris said. “I’m sure Dad will fix it. He knows how to fix everything.”

  “I sure hope so,” Lily said. “When are we gonna get there, Iris?”

  “How the heck should I know? I don’t even know where we’re going! Besides, we haven’t even left yet.”

  A jumble of approaching voices made the girls turn to look at the open van doors. The late summer sun framed a female silhouette as it hoisted itself into the van, followed by another, taller silhouette, and then a third, which sprung inside with an athletic jump. They belonged to Jasmine, Violet, and Marguerite: all five Capotosti sisters were present and accounted for.

  “Well, ain’t this just the cat’s meow!” Violet said, standing with her arms akimbo, while Jasmine and Marguerite took seats on the floor across from Iris and Lily. “First, Mom decides to have Ricci right on my birthday. And now, what day does Dad pick to move? My birthday! Again! So much for even getting a cake this year.”

  “Shut up and sit down!” ordered Alexander, wagging his finger at Violet. From her spot on the floor, Iris could only see the puffed-out chest and head of her brother standing in the street below. Seen like that, with no bottom half, he looked less menacing, even a little ridiculous.

  “Who died and made you pope?” Violet snapped back, as she plopped down next to Iris. Iris and Lily stared at her, their eyes wide and their mouths agape at Violet’s show of wit and courage. As soon as they looked at each other, the two little girls burst into laughter, but they had to cover their mouths and pinch their noses which made their ears pop and their bodies shake, but that was nothing compared to the punishment that would be inflicted upon them if Alexander heard.

  “Everybody in?” their
father shouted, approaching the van. He looked inside, pausing to tug off his work gloves and mop the sweat from his brow with his rolled-up shirtsleeve. His eyes surveyed the last heaping load of furniture and grocery store boxes stuffed with fourteen people’s worth of belongings, flanked by helter-skelter piles of the sundry items which were indispensable to such a family up till the last minute: pots and pans, spatulas and spoons, grocery bags brimming with open packages of sugar, flour, rice and cereal, a wicker laundry basket stuffed with the sheets just stripped from beds, two bicycles, a tricycle, a toolbox, Jasmine, Violet, Marguerite, Iris and Lily. “Now for cryin’ out loud, don’t touch anything, girls!” their father warned. “The big pieces are all lashed down and that net and all those ropes will hold everything else in place.”

  “Maybe I’d better ride with them, Dad,” Alexander suggested. “Just in case, you never know!”

  “Nooooooo!!” the girls cried out, their voices of various ages and timbres joining forces to communicate their unconditional disapproval of such an idea. Iris cringed at the thought of Alexander presiding over them in the dark van, with all those ropes and utensils at his disposal.

  “We’re perfectly able to take care of ourselves, thank you,” Jasmine said. “And since I’m the oldest girl, I’ll watch out for my sisters.”

  “Sure you don’t need a big brother to look out for you and keep you safe?”

  “Nooooooooooo!!” sang the girls.

  “All right then, Alexander, you’ll ride with your mother in the station wagon, together with Henry and Louis and the three little boys. I want you to look out for that stuff strapped on top of the car, we can’t have it slipping off in the middle of the road. John can ride in the truck with me.”

  “But Dad…”

  “Jeepers Cripes, Alexander! Can’t you just do as you’re told? For once? Let’s move! Grab that door there, and I’ll get this other one.”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed to nasty slits as he grasped the metal handle of the van door and, putting all the weight of his teenage body behind it, slammed the door shut with a bang, making the girls jump and the bicycles slide to the floor. “Have a nice ride!” he called out. Iris felt goosebumps rise on her skin at the sound of his sinister laughter.

  She looked at her father, who was lighting a cigarette and shaking his head as Alexander swaggered away. He looked pretty tired, Iris noticed; she worried that he might not have the strength to fix her and Lily’s bunk bed before night after all. He reached for the open door, and pulled it slowly shut.

  “It’s not a long ride,” he said, giving them one last look through the narrow slit of light. “You’ll be fine. And just wait till you see your new house.” Iris searched her sisters’ faces, but no flickers of enthusiasm illuminated the gloomy shadows.

  “I can’t wait, Dad!” Jasmine piped up after a few seconds. She was always good at making their father happy. “I actually saw the place, you guys,” she said. “There’s room for all kinds of animals there!”

  “Tell the girls all about it on the way, sweetheart. We’ll be there in a jiffy.” A plume of cigarette smoke snaked its way into the van just before he closed the door, plunging them into total darkness. There was a groan from the hinges, and a thud from the latch as they were locked in. Iris was glad for that familiar whiff of her father’s cigarette that had sneaked in to accompany them on the trip, even if it did make her stomach do a little flip.

  Car doors slammed. Engines coughed. The van lurched forward. Iris made the sign of the cross, just like Auntie Rosa always did when they drove past a church or a cemetery. Rugby Road was a bit of both.

  Each time the van made a turn, Iris was thrown either against Lily or Violet. As their bodies swayed in one direction and then the other, Iris tried to picture where they were, but couldn’t. It was a strange feeling, knowing where you had come from, but not knowing where you were, or where you were going. But what was the worst thing that could happen?

  Iris had been sitting on the stoop for nearly an hour, putting out feelers. She was intent on observing her surroundings, and training her nose to the new smells in the air as she gazed at the large lot of unkempt land on which her new home stood. Swaying in a light breeze, the last Queen Ann’s lace and Black-Eyed Susans of the season waved farewell to the summer, their heads hanging in wilted acquiescence to their imminent end. Like the other wildflowers in the field, they would soon be beheaded, and tossed onto the fire smoldering in the backyard of 75 Chestnut Crest, ignited by the new owner, Carlo Capotosti, to burn the mountains of greenery produced by his mowing and chopping.

  Iris was thinking about Jasmine, who knew all kinds of things about animals. She said that cats adapted more easily to a new environment if their whiskers were trimmed after a move; Jasmine didn’t have a cat, not yet at least, but she did have a poodle, and had already clipped its whiskers, just in case the trick worked for dogs, too. Iris wondered whether getting her own hair cut would help her grow accustomed to her new surroundings, too. There was one way to find out.

  “Mom!” Iris called out, as the screen door slammed behind her, and she entered the kitchen.

  Her mother looked up from the stack of cardboard boxes she was unpacking in the kitchen, with the help of Violet and Marguerite. Maybe coming inside wasn’t such a good idea after all, Iris thought, when she spotted her sisters. They would probably find some way to rope her into taking over so they could go explore the neighborhood.

  “What is it, Iris?” Her mother looked up, as she unpacked the large ceramic platter from which she always served Spanish rice. Iris must have seen the platter hundreds of times, but it somehow seemed different now, as if it were out of place. She felt sorry for it, in a way, moving to a new house all cracked and chipped like that. Though the house itself was far from new; in the van, Jasmine had said it was a hundred years old. But the impression you got from old houses was different from the one you got from old platters. Looking at her mother gripping the platter in her hands, Iris wondered whether she wished she could have a new one, or maybe even wished she could quit serving Spanish rice altogether. But that was not why Iris had come into the kitchen.

  “Can you cut my hair?” she asked her mother.

  “For heaven’s sake, Iris, does this look like a good time to you?”

  Iris felt sorry for her mother, with all those old household items to put away, but that did not prevent her from rolling her eyes at her reply. It exasperated Iris to no end when her mother answered her questions with another question or with some reply she couldn’t figure out. It was almost as if she didn’t feel convinced enough to come right out and say either “yes” or “no.” By now, Iris knew that the response, “Aren’t you flying high lately?” when she asked for permission to do something or go somewhere was close to a “no,” but left some possible room for negotiation. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” meant neither “yes,” nor “no,” but simply that her mother was not inclined to make any kind of decision at that time, and that Iris would just have to be patient. Iris hated guessing or waiting for an answer, especially when she could already see the bridge in question, and it worried her, like the problem of what she was supposed to wear for the first day at public school, where she wouldn’t be given a uniform. That wasn’t going to happen next year, or next Christmas, but next week.

  “But, Mom …” Iris wanted to explain the theory that having to insert herself in the unfamiliar environments of a new house and school made this a perfect time for a haircut.

  “Buzz off, Iris,” Marguerite said, cutting her off. “Or pitch in.”

  Iris knew when it was time to give up; she hurried back out the door before another word could be said, and headed toward the road, counting her steps, as always, whenever she walked anywhere. She was impressed on discovering that their new driveway was thirty-six paces longer than their old one, and disconcerted to see there were no sidewalks to walk on once she made it to the end. She figured she would be doing an awful lot of countin
g to very high numbers before she could get her bearings in this new neighborhood where the houses were all spread out and set way back from the road. Good thing she had outgrown her taste for used gum wads, because the pickings would certainly be pretty slim out here. Shielding her eyes from the glare with a hand, Iris gazed down the ribbon of road that rolled passed the house. She wondered which direction it was to Auntie Rosa’s, and how long it would take to walk there. Probably a whole day, provided she would even be allowed. She had asked her mother about it before the move, but that was another one of those bridges she said they would cross when they got to it. Her musings were interrupted by frantic yelling coming from the back yard. She ran back up the driveway to see what was going on.