Read Online Church of Marvels: A Novel by Leslie Parry - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Parry
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her and made her his wife, much to the bafflement and furious injury of his mother, who was used to controlling everything that went in and out of the house. When they were first married, the Signora even asked to examine Alphie’s monthly napkins—she would sit there in the parlor with a lorgnette held up to her eyes, reading the bloodstains like tea leaves, looking for any sign of excitability, wantonness, or infirmity. Are you reading those romantic novels? Or wearing your corset too tight? Alphie could only shift impatiently on the parquet during these interviews, unsure how to answer.
Sitting on the hard bench, waiting for her breakfast of beef tea and bread, Alphie dreamt of the smells from the Signora’s kitchen larder, the steaming dishes at the dining table: burrata melting over poached egg and asparagus, crinkles of pancetta in sweet potato soup. She loved going down to Mr. Moro’s olive cart on Saturday afternoons and staring at the vats, smelling the sardines and vinegar. Mr. Moro would ladle the olives into a jar, and even though she wassupposed to return home and leave them on the draining board to be made into paste, an old fear gripped her as she weaved through the crowded marketplace. Sometimes she ducked into an alley behind barrels of trash and gobbled them all—skinning the olives to their pits, drinking the juice, sucking the salt from under her fingernails—hiding there where no one could see her with her hand wedged wrist-deep in the jar, licking the syrup off her fingers like a dog. Afterward she simply told the Signora that her purse had been snatched and the grocery money was gone. The Signora sucked in her cheeks, pale with indignation, but Anthony took out his billfold and counted out the money again.
Next to her at the dining table, ignoring her food, was the jittery young woman named DeValle. She read aloud from a yellow square of newspaper. The women in the asylum weren’t allowed paper of any sort, even for letter writing, but yesterday Miss DeValle had dug this scrap from a rotting pillar in the hall. When the nurses had tried to pry it away from her, she’d wailed and thrashed about, then snapped her own hair out by the roots. Frightened that the girl’s father, a congressman from New Jersey, would arrive for his weekly visit to find her balding and despondent, the nurses pressed the paper back into her hand and looked the other way. Now, in quiet moments like these, DeValle took the folded square out from her slipper and recited the advertisement over and over again. She wet and re-wet her lips, her voice frantic and catching: “Malvina Cream! The one reliable beautifier—blemishes, sunburn, ringworm, wrinkles! One tin, fifty cents. Oh, look, fifty cents!” She glanced at Alphie and smiled.
Alphie smiled back. Gently she reached over and brushed back what remained of her hair. There, inked in harried script across the girl’s skin, just beneath her throat, was a single word. Her name: DeValle . From across the table another woman glared at them. She was old and ornery-looking, with a bitterly bunched mouth, and asAlphie watched, she lifted her chin and pointed to her own tattoo. But it had been slashed over and over again, as if with a blade, so there was nothing left but a hash of purple scabs.
Alphie touched her chest, which was crusted over and raw-itchy with pain. They’d all been inked—most, like DeValle, with a surname. But some women were brought in and didn’t know who they were, or didn’t speak English; sometimes they didn’t speak at all. Their names became the places they were found, landmarks and street corners and gambling halls: Union Square South, Delancey Suffolk, Brooklyn Bridge. Alphie couldn’t see Volpe’s handiwork on her own skin, but at least she knew who she was; she knew precisely who she was, even though there were some who believed that she didn’t.
She ate her tea and bread slowly, her tooth aching. Across the room, a woman with tangled
Sitting on the hard bench, waiting for her breakfast of beef tea and bread, Alphie dreamt of the smells from the Signora’s kitchen larder, the steaming dishes at the dining table: burrata melting over poached egg and asparagus, crinkles of pancetta in sweet potato soup. She loved going down to Mr. Moro’s olive cart on Saturday afternoons and staring at the vats, smelling the sardines and vinegar. Mr. Moro would ladle the olives into a jar, and even though she wassupposed to return home and leave them on the draining board to be made into paste, an old fear gripped her as she weaved through the crowded marketplace. Sometimes she ducked into an alley behind barrels of trash and gobbled them all—skinning the olives to their pits, drinking the juice, sucking the salt from under her fingernails—hiding there where no one could see her with her hand wedged wrist-deep in the jar, licking the syrup off her fingers like a dog. Afterward she simply told the Signora that her purse had been snatched and the grocery money was gone. The Signora sucked in her cheeks, pale with indignation, but Anthony took out his billfold and counted out the money again.
Next to her at the dining table, ignoring her food, was the jittery young woman named DeValle. She read aloud from a yellow square of newspaper. The women in the asylum weren’t allowed paper of any sort, even for letter writing, but yesterday Miss DeValle had dug this scrap from a rotting pillar in the hall. When the nurses had tried to pry it away from her, she’d wailed and thrashed about, then snapped her own hair out by the roots. Frightened that the girl’s father, a congressman from New Jersey, would arrive for his weekly visit to find her balding and despondent, the nurses pressed the paper back into her hand and looked the other way. Now, in quiet moments like these, DeValle took the folded square out from her slipper and recited the advertisement over and over again. She wet and re-wet her lips, her voice frantic and catching: “Malvina Cream! The one reliable beautifier—blemishes, sunburn, ringworm, wrinkles! One tin, fifty cents. Oh, look, fifty cents!” She glanced at Alphie and smiled.
Alphie smiled back. Gently she reached over and brushed back what remained of her hair. There, inked in harried script across the girl’s skin, just beneath her throat, was a single word. Her name: DeValle . From across the table another woman glared at them. She was old and ornery-looking, with a bitterly bunched mouth, and asAlphie watched, she lifted her chin and pointed to her own tattoo. But it had been slashed over and over again, as if with a blade, so there was nothing left but a hash of purple scabs.
Alphie touched her chest, which was crusted over and raw-itchy with pain. They’d all been inked—most, like DeValle, with a surname. But some women were brought in and didn’t know who they were, or didn’t speak English; sometimes they didn’t speak at all. Their names became the places they were found, landmarks and street corners and gambling halls: Union Square South, Delancey Suffolk, Brooklyn Bridge. Alphie couldn’t see Volpe’s handiwork on her own skin, but at least she knew who she was; she knew precisely who she was, even though there were some who believed that she didn’t.
She ate her tea and bread slowly, her tooth aching. Across the room, a woman with tangled
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