The Patron Saint of Ugly

by Marie Manilla

  I mourned for all of it: his bedside lampshade decorated with Heckle and Jeckle stickers, the on/off button Nicky’s finger had pressed countless times. I grieved for his desk, for the contact-paper-covered soup can filled with pencils and pens he would no longer grip. The shelves of Britannicas, the stacks of them too, piled around the room. Pickle jars filled with marbles, a few steelies mixed in that Dad had snuck home from the Plant. I felt a fist in my gut at the thought of him. Dad. A tormented image I pushed away from me as fast and as far as I could because I could not yet face the full breadth of our loss, and my hand in it.

  I felt weary under the weight of all that water and I sank down on Nicky’s bed, burrowed under his covers, and tried to inhale the scent of him, because I could breathe this water, draw in the stinging scent of Ivory soap, the pilfered aftershave Nicky had begun to splash on after his pointless attempts to use Dad’s razor.

  I nestled my face into Nicky’s pillow, specks of my purple landmasses embedding in the cotton weave, and I imagined his fury at this defilement. I rubbed my arm, Buttholia, and I longed for the sharp crack of Nicky’s fist, a purple bruise that would blossom and eventually evolve into a muted yellow-green. A fleshy sea anemone.

  My eyes burned and I closed them, let the tears soothe the grit, and I felt myself floating up, a surfacing buoy. Footsteps pounded down the hall and I was once again weighted to the bed. I just knew it was Nicky coming to thrust open the door and ask me what the hell I was doing in his room. I clutched the edge of his covers and giggled as the handle turned and the door eased open one inch, two, just enough for me to see Nicky’s hand on the knob, then his shoulder, and finally his head leaning in.

  Though of course it wasn’t Nicky at all.

  Mom rushed toward the lump nestled in her son’s bed. “Oh my God! Nicky, is that you?”

  Though of course I wasn’t Nicky at all.

  SANCTUS INTERRUPTUS, DUO

  Dear Archbishop Gormley,

  This is Betty Ferrari, Garnet’s aunt. I have to whisper because I’ve just stolen Garnet’s tape deck and I’m hiding behind the bromeliads in the solarium. I need to talk to someone because everyone here is so sad, crying at the drop of a hat. Mother Ferrari has been cooking like she’s feeding an army, which I guess she is since we lug pots of spaghetti and pinto beans to all those people outside. We have to sneak the food out since Garnet forbids us. “Don’t feed them or they’ll never leave!” But they all look so hungry. Plus I think Nonna needs to cook for them, but even that doesn’t stop her tears. Yesterday she wept into her apron for two hours straight, blaming it on the diced onions, but I know better. This anniversary is so hard on us.

  Did you hear that? Even the pilgrims have been crying for days. About every four hours they start howling and there it goes again. It’s as if a dark cloud has settled over this hilltop and we’re all one raw nerve of pain.

  I know where it’s coming from. Garnet has been in the conservatory night and day playing the saddest songs over and over on her daddy’s saw. Last week I was in the backyard and I overheard her telling you about, well, everything. I know you need to understand her history, our history, but really, is it necessary to dredge that up now?

  Oh, dear. I know it’s impolite to blow my nose like that. And there goes my mascara. Give me just a minute to blot up this mess. Do forgive me, but what I really need forgiveness for is bringing this tragedy into our lives. It’s all my fault. I have been cursed from birth, just ask Mother Ferrari, who tells me so every other minute.

  I take all the blame for bringing Ray-Ray into their lives. He was never a child I would have chosen as my own. I just know that if I had birthed any children they wouldn’t be monsters. I didn’t even choose his father, but it’s not as if boys were knocking down my door to ask for my hand. But Louis, that was my first husband, was a widower who didn’t seem to mind my eye malady, though sometimes I wish I were as brave as Saint Lucy and could pluck it out. Maybe then Mother Ferrari would love me like a daughter, because she is the only mother I have left.

  Anyway, Louis was more interested in my cooking skills and the two thousand dollars my father scraped together for a dowry, money I had to use for Louis’s funeral seven months later, leaving me to raise that child by myself.

  Since it’s just you and me here I need to confess that I never loved Ray-Ray. Maybe he knew. That boy was a terror, which is why I married Dommy. Ray-Ray needed a firm hand and Dommy surely had that. But Dommy is gone now too, and I don’t miss him one bit. Is that wrong? And now Ray-Ray is halfway around the world and I confess I don’t miss him either. I never was like all those other war mothers who wore those POW-MIA bracelets to show off their grief for their real sons. Wherever Ray-Ray is, shot dead in the jungle, locked in some bamboo cage, I hope he stays missing forever. God forgive me.

  Father, sometimes I don’t know why I do what I do, especially after Garnet invited me into her home after everything that’s happened, not just with Ray-Ray, but with Dommy and Grandpa Ferrari, but I don’t know if she told you about that yet. I’ll say it again just like I told the bank and those thugs who showed up at my door: I don’t know why I should be held responsible for Dommy’s gambling debts or overdue loans, which I knew nothing about. Which makes Garnet’s generosity so much richer since there is no family tie any longer. She could have tossed me to the curb . . . or to those thugs. And how did I repay her? I talked to Mike Wallace and his Sixty Minutes crew. I couldn’t be rude, and I tried not to say anything Garnet wouldn’t want me to, but honestly, people need to know about her healing powers, which are real. I’ve seen them. Anyway, the episode aired last night and it wasn’t easy to keep Garnet away from the TV. She would have had a fit if she saw it. I’m not sure if you caught it, but Mr. Wallace’s assistant said he’d send me a transcript. I’ll mail you a copy just as soon as—

  (Aunt Betty! Have you seen my tape recorder?)

  Shit. I have to go now, Father. But please pray for us. Please pray for all this crying to end.

  60 MINUTES, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1975

  Transcript: “The Reluctant Saint”

  MIKE WALLACE: The holiday season is in full swing as Christians prepare to commemorate their Savior’s birth and as Jews celebrate the Festival of Lights. Not every child longs for a bicycle or plate of latkes; some long for the healing of an ailment or a birth defect. Over the past few years an increasing number of hopefuls have made a pilgrimage to see alleged miracle worker Garnet Ferrari here in Sweetwater, West Virginia, a lowly site for a saint, but no lowlier than a straw-lined manger.

  Sweetwater’s primary industry was once a metal-processing plant, but as you can see from the tchotchkes in storefront windows—Saint Garnet coffee mugs, volcano lighters, lava lamps—the town’s chief product these days is its reclusive healer. Jimmy Katzenberger bought Flannigan’s Pharmacy after the original owners passed away a couple of years ago. The pharmacy no longer fills prescriptions, but it maintains a candy counter and soda fountain that offers the Saint Garnet Float and the Mount Etna Fizz.

  WALLACE: You sell a lot of these fountain drinks, Jimmy?

  JIMMY KATZENBERGER: Oh yeah, yeah. People will buy anything with that saint stuff on it.

  WALLACE: You were born in Sweetwater?

  KATZENBERGER: No! Hell no. I’m from New Jersey, but I know a good thing when I see it.

  WALLACE: Tell me, Jimmy. Do you believe Garnet Ferrari can perform miracles?

  KATZENBERGER: Do I believe? Well, see this cash register? Two years ago it was empty and now it’s full. I call that a miracle!

  WALLACE: From sunrise to sunset, traffic crawls along Appian Way, the only access road to Garnet’s home at the pinnacle of Sweetwater Hill, visible there in the distance.

  WALLACE: Sir! Roll down your window!

  MOTORIST: ¡Oh, mi Dios! You are Mike Wallace!

  WALLACE: Yes, I am. And where are you from?

  MOTORIST: New Mexico.

  WALLACE: New Mexico! That’s a long drive with,
what, five kids you have in there?

  MOTORIST: Sí, but we’ve got a sick little girl here. Mami, pass Mariquita up here. See this harelip? We can’t afford surgery, so we were hoping—

  MOTORIST’S WIFE: Praying, José! Praying!

  MOTORIST: Praying that Saint Garnet would heal her. She healed a boy from Arizona born with only one nose hole, so we are optimistic.

  WALLACE: Indeed, every person in this procession is hoping for a miracle, but the question on everyone’s mind is, Can Garnet deliver? According to longtime resident Celeste Xaviero, Sweetwater inhabitants by and large had a long history of beautiful skin.

  CELESTE XAVIERO: It’s-a true. Before Garnet left, most of the people here had the prettiest complexions, people born-a here, I mean. People who moved here may have brought their disorders with them, oddly shaped moles and rosacea and-a the like, but after they lived here for a while, those things would clear up.

  WALLACE: On their own or with the intervention of Garnet?

  XAVIERO: I wouldn’t want-a to say, since I don’t like to gossip.

  WALLACE: And what happened after Garnet moved away all those years ago?

  XAVIERO: Everybody in town broke out in a rash! Our gums, they turned gray, and our teeth-a fall out. One itchy patch would clear up and another would appear.

  WALLACE: And then Garnet moved back and the rashes disappeared?

  XAVIERO: Not immediately, maybe after six months, but sì, they disappeared.

  WALLACE: And do you attribute this to Garnet?

  XAVIERO: I don’t really know, but I find it strange that she was-a born with the biggest skin disorder of all and she never healed herself. As far as I know she’s still covered in-a birthmarks, though I wouldn’t know since she never visits, and I was her nonna’s closest friend!

  WALLACE: Sitting on the steps outside of Dino’s Lounge, three returning Vietnam veterans are more direct.

  VET. #1: Hell no, she’s no saint. Taking kickbacks from all the dipshits up there. And her brother was no saint neither.

  VET. #2: Little faggot. We used to pound him but good.

  VET. #3: And Map Face just gave everyone the creeps.

  WALLACE: How did you know them? Were they your classmates?

  VET. #1: No. I was older. But Bimbo was in Nicky’s class before he dropped out.

  WALLACE: Where is Bimbo now? Maybe I can interview him.

  VET. #2: He didn’t make it back from Nam. Fat ass stopped to get a ham sandwich out of his pack and got shot in the neck. Stupid ass.

  WALLACE: I’m sorry to hear that.

  VET. #3: Say, you wouldn’t have a spare buck or two for a veter—

  WALLACE: And here comes Dino the bar owner with a ball bat. Hey, where are you all going?

  WALLACE: This is the scene outside of Garnet Ferrari’s hilltop estate. Even in this cold weather, families have established a tent city along her fence. A section of the north side is jammed with votive candles and letters taped to the railings. Pier Paolo Vespucci traveled from Italy to sell ex-votos, mini versions of afflicted body parts offered to Saint Garnet in hopes of a healing. At his booth you’ll find eyeballs and ears, kidneys and feet made of silver or tin, wood or bone.

  WALLACE: You’ve come a long way to do business, Pier Paolo.

  PIER PAOLO VESPUCCI: It’s-a no business. It’s-a holy work. These people need to make-a the plea for a healing and they offer a gift to Saint Garnet so she intercede on-a their behalf.

  WALLACE: And it makes you a nice profit.

  VESPUCCI: A man’s gotta eat, Mr. Wallace. But I perform a service, see? And affordable too, so everyone can buy the ex-voto and be healed.

  WALLACE: You have a nice assortment here, but what if someone comes and there is no votive to represent his or her affliction?

  VESPUCCI: It’s easy, see? I have the wax here and I can form-a almost anything. I even make-a one for your pock-a-mark cheek.

  WALLACE: My—

  VESPUCCI: You had the bad acne as a kid, but Saint Garnet can even heal-a this. I have seen myself once when I make the cheek with the pock-a-mark for a lady and she is healed in one week.

  WALLACE: But—

  VESPUCCI: I take-a the ball of wax and press and press until it’s flat and I make it look like-a the cheek with the jaw and a tiny bit of-a lip. Then I take this-a tool and I bop-bop-bop-bop all the little marks. See? Then I punch a hole and insert the ribbon. Now you take this to the fence and say the good prayer that Saint Garnet intercede and God heal-a you cheeks too. And for you I make-a the good price. Just three dollars.

  WALLACE: Three dollars?

  VESPUCCI: Okay, two fifty.

  WALLACE: As you can see by the numbers of ex-votos hanging from the fence, people have deep faith in Garnet’s powers, and many claim to have been healed. With me now is Eddie Rangel from Oregon. So you’ve been healed by Garnet Ferrari?

  EDDIE RANGEL: Yes!

  WALLACE: And what was your affliction?

  RANGEL: See this thumbnail? Ten years ago I got a fungal infection, but nothing would cure it. Then it migrated to the next finger and the next. Then it jumped over to this hand. I’m a dentist, Mr. Wallace. Who wants to open their mouth for a guy with funky nails?

  MRS. RANGEL (offscreen): Tell him we usually look a lot better than this.

  RANGEL: We’ve been camping here for a week. We may look a little grungy, but we wash up every morning in the reflection pond, and look at this nail bed. Look! The new growth is coming in just as pink and healthy as anything. Can you believe it?

  WALLACE: Everyone bathes together even in this weather?

  RANGEL: More of a sponge bath, and the water is heated!

  WALLACE: Does it bother you to know that Garnet would like for all of you to go home and leave her alone?

  RANGEL: That’s what we hear, but we don’t believe it. Why would she send her aunt and grandmother to pass out food and holy relics?

  WALLACE: Why indeed? Sixty Minutes tried repeatedly to ask Miss Ferrari these and other questions, without success. Though we can’t get close to the front door, there is an intercom system built into her gate. Let me just punch the button.

  WALLACE: Miss Ferrari. It’s Mike Wallace here with Sixty—

  GARNET FERRARI: For the last time, go away!

  WALLACE: This is the same greeting we’ve received for the past two days, but you can just make out a figure standing by the beveled window there. (Zoom in, Freddy.)

  WALLACE: Some say Garnet’s gruff behavior is an act to deter nonbelievers. Regardless, the longest line of all up here leads to a booth where pilgrims can get free food and blessings. Standing in line is August Delp holding his two-year-old daughter who has a prominent growth on her forehead. How long have you been waiting in line, sir?

  AUGUST DELP: Three hours.

  WALLACE: That’s a long time to stand while holding a sleeping child.

  DELP: It is, but she’s got a melanoma and this really is our last hope.

  WALLACE: What about surgery?

  DELP: We’re Christian Scientist—well, I am. My wife is dead set on surgery, but I have to show her . . . I need for her to see that . . . well, I need for her to believe in me again.

  WALLACE: Believe in you?

  DELP: It was my sin that caused this, sir. Not the baby’s. Mine.

  WALLACE: Let’s hope August finds what he’s looking for. Behind the table stands Garnet’s aunt Betty and grandmother Diamante. Thank you for speaking with me today, Betty.

  BETTY FERRARI: My pleasure, Mr. Wallace. I have always loved your TV show, and so has Garnet. Tell everyone out there that Garnet Ferrari loves Sixty Minutes!

  WALLACE: Yes, yes. So besides minestrone, I see you’re giving out . . . what have you got there? What’s in all those vials? Water?

  BETTY FERRARI: Not just any water, Mr. Wallace. This is water Garnet touched with her own, umm, hands.

  WALLACE: And what is Grandmother Ferrari doing with the vials?

  BETTY FERRARI: She offers a pray
er over every one before handing it over.

  WALLACE: That’s a lot of prayers. And what’s in the vials at the end there with the yellow tint?

  BETTY FERRARI: Oh! That’s for particularly difficult cases. Extra potent stuff, you know.

  WALLACE: Grandmother Ferrari, I wonder if I could—

  DIAMANTE FERRARI: Get away, you squinty-eye jettatura! Ptt-ptt-ptt!

  WALLACE: Apparently Grandma doesn’t like our cameraman.

  BETTY FERRARI: Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, Mr. Wallace. She’s funny about certain things.