NONNI, CROSS TO BEAR

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Everyone had a cross to bear, Sister Rosa said. Nella’s was named Nonni.

It was Nella’s job to spend a few afternoons a week with her great-grandmother. Today when she got there, she found Nonni dozing in the chair by the window, Dad’s First Communion photo in her lap. The table beside her was a Sea of Dad, Nonni’s only grandchild. Here he was in his altar boy outfit, here in his scarlet Confirmation robe. Now he was graduating high school, first in his class.

Then, a gap.

The next time you saw him, he looked different. Not so much older, but more worn. You could see he’d been through something, and it had stamped him for life.

In this photo he was getting married, to a tall, willowy girl in a dress too big for her. Mom, who considered clothes a waste of money, even bought her wedding dress secondhand.

Dad had no memory of his parents. They’d drowned when he was still a baby. A lake undertow had swept his mother away from shore, and his father, who couldn’t swim, desperately tried to save her. All Dad could remember was life with Nonni and PopPop, which Nella took as a warning: Do not trust your memory.

Now she cracked the front window, and music drifted in. Conservatory students rented the house across the street, and they practiced all hours of the day and night. An old woman who was a clone of Nonni used to own that house, but when she died it turned into a rental. This was the neighborhood trend—the oldsters dying off, students moving in. Nonni hadn’t liked the old woman, but she really hated the students. She hunkered by this window for hours each day, watching the dangerous Invaders across the street. More than once, seeing nonwhite kids, she punched 911 and croaked, Come catch the Gypsy thieves!

A Cross to Bear.

Nella sank into one of Nonni’s numerous itchy chairs. On the table sat a cup of watery tea. Nonni reused tea bags. She saved foil and plastic bags. She got everything at discount, even her beloved candy, so she ate jelly beans in December, and chocolate rabbits in July.

The music swelled like a bud about to bloom, like the spring day had turned into a song, and as if in answer Nella’s legs began to kink and crimp. Please don’t make me grow any taller, she prayed. If this kept up, one morning she’d wake up and her head would brush the sky. Her shadow would cause an eclipse. . . .

“Why you come?”

Nella opened her eyes. “Good to see you too, Nonni.”

“What you want?”

To go. Immediately. “I came to make sure you ate lunch.”

Nonni hesitated. Lately, she was confused when she first woke up. “I ate!” she said at last.

“What did you have?”

Okay, this was cruel. Nonni could forget things from a few minutes, let alone hours, ago. Her eyes narrowed.

“No fish!” She pressed her index and middle fingers together and shook them at Nella. “My cousin Al, he choke to death on a bone.”

“Nonni, you love fish.”

“Is wrong!”

For Nonni, Nella’s wrongness was only a matter of degree. She was wrong, wronger, or wrongest. Nonni especially hated Nella asking so many questions. Girls ask too many questions, she said, God no answer their prayers.

Like God wanted girls to be dumb?

Across the street the flower-music burst into full bloom, and Nonni hummed along under her breath. She loved listening, Nella could tell, though she’d never admit it. Just then, a boy raced up on a bike. An extremely cute white boy, with enough hair for two or three heads. Sam Ferraro might look like that, when he was in college. He took the front steps two at a time.

“Where Angela?”

It was eons since Angela last came along to visit, but Nonni always asked. Angela was her ideal girl. Pretty. Quiet. Knew her place.

Nella jumped up and headed for the kitchen.

She found some soup in the fridge. It was Mom’s minestrone, special made, low salt, for Nonni. Left to herself, she’d live on candy. She had it stashed all over the house. Once Nella had found some on the back porch, on the shelf with Nonni’s arsenal of bug and weed killers. I’m not sure how much longer this can go on, Mom said. What is that supposed to mean? Dad replied.

Dad was the only human being Nonni never bad-mouthed. This could almost be a reason to love her.

When Nella carried the mug of soup back to the living room, her great-grandmother was spellbound by the view across the street. On the porch, Hairy Boy was trying to hug a girl with an enormous case strapped to her back. Turtle Girl wore a fluttery, cocoa-colored scarf that matched her skin. She was so petite. She probably wore size five shoes. As Hairy Boy leaned in for a kiss, Nella heaved a huge sigh, startling Nonni, who threw out an arm and knocked the mug of soup clean out of Nella’s hand.

“Look what you did!”

Bits of carrot, shreds of beef, stringy celery, and pulpy tomato. It was a minestrone massacre. Nonni peeled a noodle off her sleeve and popped it into her mouth.

And then she laughed. Big, that’s how Nonni laughed.

“Che schifo!” she said, wheezing.

This meant something along the lines of This is so gross! Nonni kept laughing, in between stuffing linty vegetables into her mouth. Nella ran to get a sponge.

“Your mama’s cooking, no taste.” Nonni grabbed the sponge and scrubbed at her sweater. “Nulla!”

Nothing. Way too close to Nella.

Across the street, the boy rode off on his bike, hair flapping like a great, fuzzy sail. The girl strolled away in the opposite direction, scarf fluttering. Everything about those two said Yes!

“God, He forget your mama’s taste buds.”

Nonni was right. Mom was a terrible cook. She was all about quantity, not quality. Nonni reached behind her and pulled out a bag of Jolly Ranchers. She took a handful, then passed it to Nella.

“Mi ricordo,” she said. I remember. Nella sat back, unwrapping a blue raspberry, knowing a story was coming.

Once, when Nonni was a small girl back in Italy, she and her brother, Carlo, woke up early and hungry. They were always hungry, Nonni said, smoothing the candy bag. Hungry all the time. It was too early to wake their madre, who worked so hard. So Nonni went to the ice box and got out the heavy jug of milk. Both hands, it took both hands to get it to the table. Carlo climbed up on a chair.

“Boys! They no can wait!” Nonni laughed. “Like your brothers, no?”

The milk had a thick, delicious layer of cream on top. Before Nonni could stop him, Carlo plunged his little fist into the pitcher, tipping it sideways. The milk poured out, gushing over the table and onto the floor. Like a waterfall. Like an act of God. Like fate.

“I no could move.” Nonni hunched her shoulders. “I was . . . was . . . hippo?”

“Hypnotized?”

“Hypnotized.”

Nonni cradled the bag of jewel-colored candy in her lap. Most of her stories ended with disaster—Nonni was big on death and destruction—but this one was somehow different. Nella pictured her, eyes wide, spellbound by the mess. She and her brother, like miniature gods, gazed down on the chaos they’d unleashed.

“It’s a good story,” she said.

Nonni nodded.

By now it was time for her talk shows. When Nella said Dad would stop in on his way home from work, Nonni waved impatiently, fixated on a woman who got her head run over by a mail truck but lived to tell.

Outside, the world was blushing, only green instead of pink. Nonni’s fig tree was still wrapped in winter burlap, but the air thrummed with the promise of spring. Standing on the porch, Nella felt a pang. Nonni used to be young. She really did. For a moment just now, she was a girl and an old woman at the same time. Nella remembered a drinking cup she got once for Girl Scout camp. With a tiny twist it collapsed flat as a coin. Time could be like that.

What was that thing Clem was so excited about? A jump second?

A small bird flew by, wings flashing yellow in the light.

Across the street, something shimmered on the sidewalk. The girl’s scarf—it must have slipped off her shoulders. When Nella picked it up, the warm scent of almonds filled the air. Finders keepers, she told herself. And though she should have learned her lesson about being greedy, and taking things that weren’t hers, somehow she was stuffing the scarf into her pocket, making a getaway, praying nobody but that beady-eyed sidewalk pigeon saw.