5

At first Aunt Anna just called, offering weather predictions as if two doors down was a world away, announcing the menu for the day and ending the largely one-sided conversation with an oblique, I make enough food to feed anyone in this town. I never turn a hungry mouth away from the table. That’s all I’ll say. Click.

Then one night, Uncle Nick showed up at the door on his way home from the barbershop. He still wore his white barber’s shirt with its dusting of hair: gray, black, brown, a few blond highlights. Aunt Anna had probably said, You bring those girls home tonight for dinner, or don’t come home yourself! So there he stood on the front porch, head down, shifting from foot to foot. Milan stood beside him, silent support.

Nick and Milan were a package deal; that’s what Aunt Anna called them. They had been born in Taylor, but sent back to the Old Country with their mother when they were still little. Their dad loved the ladies. He wanted room to work. Not too long after, he was shot dead halfway out someone else’s bedroom window, but Nick and Milan didn’t come back until they were adults, no longer American, never quite Serb. Nick gained enough English to propose to Anna. Milan never did master English. Anna took over talking for both of them. They had little to say for themselves after that. Nick and Milan were famous. Nick for the precision of his haircuts and for wandering off to drink for days and sometimes weeks, leaving the town’s hair to grow unchecked. Milan was known as the man whose shoes Patton died in. He had remade his army boots in basic training. They were quickly confiscated and then slowly made their way up the military hierarchy as they chased Hitler’s troops across Europe. Someone said they saw the boots on Patton’s feet in Berlin. History. After the war, back in Taylor, Milan mended soles and worn-down heels, and in the quiet, dim space of his shop he crafted secret widow’s shoes for every old woman on Sixth Street. Shoes, black and sturdy, with prim leather laces, which were perfect replicas of the ones these women had left their homelands in. He kept charts of the old ladies’ feet, maps of every tender defect. He stole into bedrooms heavy with drifting memories and sleep and slipped the shoes beneath soft dust ruffles. The toes, still damp with polish, peeked out to greet the widows with the morning light. We all knew he did it. We didn’t let on. He didn’t need the thanks, wouldn’t want the notice. Milan lived for the shoes. With Nick, his brother, fellow refugee and quiet companion, and the shoes to feed his soul, Milan was complete. Anna took care of the rest.

Standing now, shoulder to shoulder, without Anna to push them from behind, they couldn’t quite bring themselves to their task.

Well? Josie prompted.

Are you hungry? Uncle Nick asked hopefully by way of an opening. His eyes never left the welcome mat.

No, Josie said through the screen door. Uncle Nick’s shoulders rose and dropped. Hair sprinkled down around him. Milan shook his head sadly.

He tried again. See … Well, your mom … Anna thought … she said … dinner … I bet it’s gonna be good … he trailed off in wistful incoherence and sighed again.

Josie stared at him hard-eyed for a moment. Are you hungry? she asked at last.

Well … I … yes …

Come on in you two, Josie said. We were just about to sit down. You might as well have something to eat before you’re denied your own dinner. Mala’s made lamb chops and potatoes. There’s plenty. She opened the screen door wide and pulled them through, brushing the hair from Uncle Nick’s shoulders as he stepped over the threshold.

I love lamb, he said shyly. Maybe just a little bite for the walk home, he added sheepishly. Milan nodded.

Sure, Josie laughed. You could use some fortifying! Mala, go down to the cellar and get one of Eli’s jars of wine. We’ll fix you right up.

The next morning a new pair of sandals lay on the welcome mat, hand-sewn and still smelling of leather oil. Josie examined them.

Nice. Not my size, she grinned. They must be for the cook.

Aunt Anna sent Mimi and Kiki next. They came while Josie was at work. Josie frightened them almost as much as Aunt Anna. They sat on the couch, their thighs touching, sipping coffee in unison. Their heads bobbed. Their eyes blinked.

This is such a nice house. Don’t you think so, Kiki?

Oh yes! So nice! Quiet, too. A nice quiet house, Mimi. I love this house.

Do you love this house, Mala?

Yes, Aunt Kiki. I love this house.

I bet Josie loves this house, too. Does she, Mala?

Yes, Aunt Mimi, she does.

Yes, we were sure she did, weren’t we, Kiki?

We were, Mimi. Pause. The quiet house was quieter for a moment.

Everybody loves this house. All of Mama’s children love this house.

We do, Kiki! All of us. Anna loves this house. Doesn’t she Kiki?

She does, Mimi … Aunt Kiki’s voice trailed off. The nice, quiet house was silent for fully three minutes.

Well, we should be going, Mimi. Don’t you think?

Oh yes, Kiki. We should go. We have so much to do, don’t we?

Oh, so much! Their heads bobbed in unison as they hustled out of their seats and handed me cups of half-finished coffee.

We could come back, though, couldn’t we, Kiki?

What a nice idea, Mimi! Could we do that, Mala?

Yes, Aunt Kiki. You can always come back.

Oh good! Isn’t that good, Mimi?

Oh yes! We just love this house. Don’t we Kiki?

We do. It’s such a nice quiet house. We love you, too, Mala. Don’t we, Mimi?

We do! They kissed me, hugged me, kissed me again and then bobbing, they backed out the screen door. Outside on the porch, they stopped and checked the street. In a stage whisper:

Maybe it’s best not to tell Anna.

No, no, Kiki. You’re right. We don’t want to bother Anna.

No, let’s not bother Anna. She’s so … busy. It can be our little secret.

Mimi! A wonderful idea! Our little secret! Anna is … busy.

Okay, I smiled. Our little secret.

Mimi and Kiki crept out the front gate and scurried the wrong way down the street. They didn’t want to cross by Aunt Anna’s house. Their backs bent, their heads and shoulders pressed together, like two small creatures rushing home with a shared burden, the heavy weight of deception and relief.

Mimi and Kiki were my favorite aunts. I loved their twin, lacquered hairdos and their bright black eyes. They had always been Gram’s favorite, I suspect, though she would have never said so. She took great pleasure in simply watching them as they sat and chirped at her from the couch. They had no father. They arrived mysteriously in the time between when Gram had lost her first husband and hadn’t met her second. Their tiny faces were long and dark, distinctly Greek-looking, which could have pointed to half the men in town, but Gram wasn’t telling. When one or two of the wives demanded whose husband it had been, Gram had shrugged and said Maybe no husband … maybe miracle. Children always miracle. She jabbed a finger at heaven and grinned. For most of the women on Sixth Street it wasn’t much more than a point of curiosity. As the years went by it mattered less and less. The circle they formed was more important than the inexplicable rhythms their men danced to around its edges.

There were other emissaries who visited. Naked Sal came to the front gate. Next to him stood the Methodist-Minister-Without-a-Flock, looking anxious. I invited them in. Sal, used to the hospitality of Gram’s kitchen and the feel of the smooth, cool wood of her kitchen chair under his dusty rump, would have obliged, but the Minister held him back. He cleared his throat and said in his best pulpit voice:

We are on an errand of mercy, Miss Mala. Your Aunt has sent us. She thinks you and your cousin Josie should go home.

Thank you, Minister, Mr. Sal, but I am home. You sure you won’t come in and have something to eat?

They wouldn’t stay. Having said what they were sent to say, they left, walking down the street side by side, the minister looking overdressed next to Sal, who wore nothing more than a tan, a modest covering of grime, and a vacant grin. They walked in the direction of Mrs. Miniverri’s, who was just then serving lunch in her In-home Diner. For the Methodist-Minister-Without-a-Flock and Naked Sal meals were always free.

As Aunt Anna spread word of our defection, along Main Street knots of old women clutching bags of groceries gathered like crows to corn to discuss the matter. When they showed up at our door, they came out of curiosity, wondering how we’d do, Josie and I, two girls 18 and 13, without the sheltering wing of Anna. Could we keep the house clean? Who would do the laundry? What would we eat? They hadn’t reckoned on Josie’s determination or my hard work. They hadn’t reckoned with themselves, either. Each time they came, they brought something. Just a little soup, chicken, just right for you … You maybe want some beans, just little beans … You take this pork with sauerkraut, so nice for you … I bring you some ravioli, not too much, just a little, I make too much, I give you some … I bring nice roast for you, potatoes too.… When they stood to leave that first time, slowly, gingerly, they shook arthritic fingers at me in cursory disapproval, Mala, you take Josie go home Anna now. You starve here all alone! They were not worried. Behind each of them stretched a history of leaving home, learning, making do, standing alone.

Soon, the hunched, carefully stepping figures came every day. They held warm treasure protectively to their chests and watched the deceptive pavement for wayward stones and errant cracks. Curiosity brought them to me; habit made them stay. They had been making this short trek for over forty years. The fact of Gram’s death could have little effect on the simple, daily movements of a lifetime. Sometimes there were only one or two of them. Sometime the front room bristled with scratchy black wool and nodding gray heads. I took to making sheet cakes and big pots of tea. Have a little cake … Gram’s voice woven through my own. They sat with their pale plates in the wide, flat expanse of their black laps. They teased one another until the room filled with the sound of their chortling, cackling laughter. Tears ran down the seams of their faces, and as one they pulled daintily worked handkerchiefs from between heavy bosoms and mopped their faces, then shook their fists at one another and started off again.

They exchanged symptoms like recipes and examined each other’s illnesses with equanimity, offering home cures they all knew anyway. It wasn’t long before I knew all their bowel habits, their aches and pains, the dreams that woke them in the night, holding them wide-eyed in their beds until dawn, remembering. I learned that warmed olive oil with a hint of cayenne eased stiff joints, a shot of whiskey after dinner kept you regular, and that tears were the best cure for cloudy vision. I learned there was no cure for dreams or memories.

This medical discussion was their opening affirmation, a litany repeated for decades, comforting in its sameness. Then, done with diseases for the day, they gossiped, sometimes giggling like children, sometimes sadly crossing themselves, kissing their fingers and making the sign of the Holy Wheel in the charged air they shared. Here was their religion, shaped in the shared space on this short street of this small town. A religion they had pulled together from scraps of what each had brought from diverse foreign lands, what they learned along the way, what they saw around them every day and, above all, what they hoped: that the mighty fall, the lowly rise, rise, rise. The trick was to watch quietly and pray openly and hope you were on the side of the Wheel that was headed up in its certain, slow roll of fate and justice and God. Before me every house in town opened, revealing its fragile seed and the tendrils of hidden roots that marked its tenuous spot on the Wheel. I heard about the grocer’s secret heart condition and the banker’s wife who let the older Vaccari brother in through the bedroom window for the short half hour that lay between the end of the three o’clock shift and the bang of the kitchen door announcing that her two children were home from school. I now knew that Mrs. Whitacker, the smelter manager’s wife, had the biggest feet in town and drank gin like a fish every afternoon when the dust kicked up. I learned that Mary Ualdivich, from the switchboard, had a lump the size of an old lady’s fist right here between her breast and armpit. She wouldn’t see the doctor. She didn’t want a man other than her husband near her. She hadn’t let her husband see her naked body. Ever. The gray heads around me nodded and turned the invisible Wheel with a gentle movement of fingers in the space in front of their hearts.

They praised my cake and sipped my tea, drawing me into their circle, leaving me slices of rich history with the meat and vegetable dishes they brought.

There were things I didn’t know: Your daddy he no want no girl from Sixth Street. Your mama, she come from East someplace, come here teach children. He see her. He gonna have her, nobody else he want. Every girl this town sweet on your daddy. He could have any girl. But he want chuvar girl from East. ‘Chuvar’, you know that real America, no come from Old Country. Chew gum—chuvar, that what men call ’em they get off boat, see those American chew gum all time. Think pretty damn strange thing. Your daddy marry chuvar. They stopped and shook their heads sadly in the sudden silence and crossed themselves.

There were pieces I knew already: Your gramma, she come Sixth Street, no husband, six kids. She come here, she have no hair, just like man. We all think maybe something wrong with her. Sick. We find out she work in mine like man while husband dying. That back in Colorado. Mine foreman find out, big stink! She come Taylor no hair, but still she most beautiful woman! No husband. We think, oh boy! Then Mimi, Kiki come, eight kids now! Your gramma, she so poor, she work so hard, she do laundry for some people live above Main Street, feed kids saurkraut and just little tiny meat every night. She make little bit extra money, sell bootleg whisky. Buy shoes for kids. Then Eli come along, he want those jars your gramma use for whiskey. He want them for his wine he make, see. He marry her for those jars! He not so easy live with but take good care your gramma. They contemplated Eli’s many sins and few virtues. Some chuckled softly. They crossed themselves again, a blessing on his soul wherever it ended up.

And there was this that I learned about myself: When your daddy move back home after your mamma she die, your grandma hold you all the time, sing to you. You just listen. She call you Mirna Mala. Quiet Little One. You only six months old, so tiny, but you never cry, you just listen her sing.

I found that I, too, could add to this discussion. I did not have aches or pains, or secrets to tell, but I had stories, years of stories Gram had told me as we sat together on our couch, when something I had read to her or something we had heard on the radio sparked a memory. For years she murmured to the rhythm of Eli’s snore, then later it was just her, her voice in the soft silence of our evening.

Did Gram ever tell you about the first time she walked down a street in America? I asked them.

No, they were all agreed, surprised even; she had never spoken about this.

Gram is just off the boat in New York.

My listeners nodded to each other murmured reverently, Ellis Island.

That’s right. So, she decides she wants to see what an American city looks like. She takes a trolley and then walks around the streets a bit. She turns a corner, and here is this big glass shop window. In it are three men, all dressed up, very fancy, lying back in chairs with beautiful white towels over their faces. ‘My God,’ Gram thinks, ‘what kind of place is this America? Dead bodies sitting in a store window like meat at a butcher’s shop! What is this country I’ve come to?’ she asks herself, and she starts to pray. She prays for herself and she prays for this poor godless country where they have no respect for the dead and especially she prays for these three dead men, that their souls will rise despite the embarrassment. Well, she’s crossing herself and praying and crossing herself and suddenly, one of the dead men sits right up and pulls the beautiful white towel off his face! Then the guy next to him does the same thing!‘A miracle!’ Gram thinks. She throws her hands up to heaven.

My listeners began to giggle. They shook their heads and mopped their eyes with their clutched hankies.

But then the barber comes up to the men and begins to paint their faces with cream …

I knew it! I knew those men no dead! announced Mrs. Kantar.

Oh, shush you! she is admonished by the others. They turned their attention back to me. Go on, Mala.

I was hearing Gram’s laughter in theirs, her delight in a good joke on herself. She always told me, she always said, ‘Just for one minute I think I do big miracle …’

We all smiled together. It was a good story, my first story.

Sitting with them, I saw these women’s hands were never still. As they talked, they pointed and gestured. With words and wrinkled, roughened hands they wove into the air in front of them a silken garment, strong and binding, unseen but lovingly worn by all. Now my words were joined with theirs, their garment mine to wear. When an hour or two had passed, when the tea cups were empty and chill, the cake scattered crumbs, with a united sigh they pulled themselves up from chairs and couch and took their dishes to the kitchen. Against my protests they washed them with deft movements and left them to dry. At the front door, each gave me her blessing, a patted shoulder, a held hand, a touched cheek. Gathering their sweaters around them, they creaked out into the hot summer street.

We come back see you again, maybe couple days. Just check, maybe.… Maybe bring you little something eat, they called back to me. It seemed I was joining the circle. Tea and cake with the widows …

Aunt Anna was never mentioned.