Read Online The Witch of Little Italy by Suzanne Palmieri - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzanne Palmieri
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butterballs with almonds and powdered sugar. Surprisingly spicy chocolate cookies dipped in a shiny chocolate glaze. And best of all, the melt-away Genettis. An Italian sugar cookie of sorts. Simple and elegant.
With a handful of cookies Elly opened the refrigerator to get the milk. The light shone on a pile of dirty mopines in a corner on the counter. The one on top was the one she’d used to wipe her hands after cutting the beets. There was a distinguishable red palm print. Red like blood. A memory started to surface, but she pushed it down. Maybe some of these memories won’t be so good, she thought.
5
Itsy
Papa loved Mama. It was clear to all of us, even though they fought from time to time. And, even though, on closer inspection, they seemed to have nothing in common. Mama had a wildness in her, a scattered beauty. Papa thought in lines and numbers. He didn’t pay much attention to her magic. Bunny always said it was a shame. That Papa didn’t appreciate her. But Mama would hush her and use the complaint as moments to school us. Mama never missed an opportunity to gather us around her and tell us what she thought. She said every moment was a “teaching moment” and no questions should ever go unanswered. And she let us know, very early on, that though love spells existed, they should never be used. You don’t manipulate such powerful things. You simply must understand their secrets.
She taught us the secret of love under the shade of the fiery red maple on a glorious October afternoon. The kind where the sun is still warm but the sky spreads out impossibly blue and hinting at winter. We were closing up the Far Rockaway cottage and eating lunch in the yard. Mama was pointing out how brilliant the red of the tree glowed against the blue, blue sky. She was always doing things like that. Forcing us to stop and look.
In 1938 when we went to see the Technicolor genius that was Gone with the Wind, I learned a whole new appreciation for the world Mama created for us. My sisters and brothers and myself, we weren’t so impressed. But everyone in the theater was oohing and ahhhing over the bright colors on the screen. I remember thinking Goodness, so many people living in gray worlds.
Anyway, we were finished eating and Mama was making us look at that Sugar Maple. We lay down underneath it with her and looked up through the leaves at the sky. She was in the middle and we spread out around her like stars, each of us trying to be the ones closest to her face so we could smell her breath, roses and milk, while she talked.
Bunny sat up. “See, Mama, Papa doesn’t notice these things. He’s always rushing. Look, he’s not even here. So busy back in the city at work.”
Mama sat up, too, and leaned her back against the trunk of the tree. Her hair was loose and her eyes bright with the day. I remember her apron. Beautifully cut work cotton. Perfectly white against her brown skirt. She patted her lap and George climbed on top of her. The rest of us gathered. Well, not the older boys. Those three—always connected at the hip. They were playing cards on the screened-in back porch.
“Papa doesn’t need to notice,” she said, “It’s enough that I do. And I teach it to you, and you will teach it to yours, right?”
We nodded. Forever wanting to please her.
“Here is the secret to love,” she said. “Always make sure that the man loves you just a breath more than you love him.”
“Mama!” cried George.
Mama laughed, “Not you, my duck!” and she rocked him.
“Mama, that’s not fair,” said Mimi, who was always watching over Papa even when he wasn’t there.
“Oh Mimi, I love your Papa more than any woman ever loved any man. And still, he loves me a breath more. It’s the only healthy way. If a woman loves too much—if her love is heavier—she won’t see anything but him. She’ll be blind to the world. Women are made like that. We have to teach ourselves not to become obsessed. True love
With a handful of cookies Elly opened the refrigerator to get the milk. The light shone on a pile of dirty mopines in a corner on the counter. The one on top was the one she’d used to wipe her hands after cutting the beets. There was a distinguishable red palm print. Red like blood. A memory started to surface, but she pushed it down. Maybe some of these memories won’t be so good, she thought.
5
Itsy
Papa loved Mama. It was clear to all of us, even though they fought from time to time. And, even though, on closer inspection, they seemed to have nothing in common. Mama had a wildness in her, a scattered beauty. Papa thought in lines and numbers. He didn’t pay much attention to her magic. Bunny always said it was a shame. That Papa didn’t appreciate her. But Mama would hush her and use the complaint as moments to school us. Mama never missed an opportunity to gather us around her and tell us what she thought. She said every moment was a “teaching moment” and no questions should ever go unanswered. And she let us know, very early on, that though love spells existed, they should never be used. You don’t manipulate such powerful things. You simply must understand their secrets.
She taught us the secret of love under the shade of the fiery red maple on a glorious October afternoon. The kind where the sun is still warm but the sky spreads out impossibly blue and hinting at winter. We were closing up the Far Rockaway cottage and eating lunch in the yard. Mama was pointing out how brilliant the red of the tree glowed against the blue, blue sky. She was always doing things like that. Forcing us to stop and look.
In 1938 when we went to see the Technicolor genius that was Gone with the Wind, I learned a whole new appreciation for the world Mama created for us. My sisters and brothers and myself, we weren’t so impressed. But everyone in the theater was oohing and ahhhing over the bright colors on the screen. I remember thinking Goodness, so many people living in gray worlds.
Anyway, we were finished eating and Mama was making us look at that Sugar Maple. We lay down underneath it with her and looked up through the leaves at the sky. She was in the middle and we spread out around her like stars, each of us trying to be the ones closest to her face so we could smell her breath, roses and milk, while she talked.
Bunny sat up. “See, Mama, Papa doesn’t notice these things. He’s always rushing. Look, he’s not even here. So busy back in the city at work.”
Mama sat up, too, and leaned her back against the trunk of the tree. Her hair was loose and her eyes bright with the day. I remember her apron. Beautifully cut work cotton. Perfectly white against her brown skirt. She patted her lap and George climbed on top of her. The rest of us gathered. Well, not the older boys. Those three—always connected at the hip. They were playing cards on the screened-in back porch.
“Papa doesn’t need to notice,” she said, “It’s enough that I do. And I teach it to you, and you will teach it to yours, right?”
We nodded. Forever wanting to please her.
“Here is the secret to love,” she said. “Always make sure that the man loves you just a breath more than you love him.”
“Mama!” cried George.
Mama laughed, “Not you, my duck!” and she rocked him.
“Mama, that’s not fair,” said Mimi, who was always watching over Papa even when he wasn’t there.
“Oh Mimi, I love your Papa more than any woman ever loved any man. And still, he loves me a breath more. It’s the only healthy way. If a woman loves too much—if her love is heavier—she won’t see anything but him. She’ll be blind to the world. Women are made like that. We have to teach ourselves not to become obsessed. True love
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