Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

I don’t have to cut it out if I don’t want to. I’m leaving!

  And with that, Bailey-Father threw the baby (my stuffed tiger) on the floor and left the room.

  The next day Bailey came with a suitcase. He was going to stay with us a few days, my mother said. I was so happy! And I thought Bailey would be happy, too, but at night he cried, and I asked him if he was crying because he couldn’t see, and he said, No, and he kept on crying, and I asked him if he was crying because he missed his mother, and he said, No, and I asked him if he was crying because he missed his father, and he said, Yes, and he’s never coming back!

  He hasn’t gone anywhere, Bailey, I said. You’re the one who has gone away.

  But I was wrong. His father had gone away, and he didn’t come back.

  THE BLIND WOMAN . . .

  Granny Torrelli comes back from the bathroom, sits back down, and says, Now, where were we?

  Bailey, I say. We were talking about that Bailey.

  Si, si, she says. Bailey. And what were you thinking about while I was gone?

  I tell her about the plays, and then I remember another play, and I tell her about that one, too.

  We were in the backyard, Bailey and me, when the idea popped into my head. Let’s do one with a blind woman and her husband, I said.

  Bailey waved a stick at me. What are you talking about? he said. That’s so stupid.

  Don’t you say it’s stupid, Bailey. Why is it stupid?

  Bailey waved his stick in the air like a wand. Blind woman? It should be blind man.

  Why? I said. I can be the blind woman if I want to.

  Bailey threw his stick at my feet. No, you can’t, he said. You don’t know the first thing about it.

  I was mad. That’s just stupid, Bailey, stupid, stupid, stupid. I can be whatever I want to be in our play, and if I want to be the blind woman, I can be the blind woman.

  Bailey turned and headed for the house. Then go right ahead, he said. Be the blind woman all by your stupid self.

  That Bailey!

  And so I did. I did a play all by my stupid self and I was a blind woman, but it is hard to be a blind woman all by yourself, with no one to talk to but your own stupid self. It doesn’t make a very good play.

  When I finish telling Granny Torrelli about the blind woman play, she smacks her lips that way she does. Rosie, Rosie, Rosie, she says. You’re a stubborn Rosie sometimes.

  STUBBORN STREAK . . .

  You get that stubborn streak from me, Granny Torrelli says.

  Yeah, sure, I say, thinking of my granny Torrelli, always so calm, so patient.

  Listen, she says. Let me tell you about stubborn me. Remember Pardo? Pardo with the name you think is so funny? Pardo found this dog, see? Big black mangy-looking dog slobbering all over the place. That dog was so big I thought it was a pony the first time I saw it.

  Pardo, he was going to teach that dog everything—Sit! Heel! Come! Fetch! All day long he was outside with that big black dog. He named it Nero, which means black, which goes to show you that Pardo was not the most—how you say?—original boy.

  So he is out there making poor Nero sit and heel and come and fetch and completely—completamente!—ignoring me. Me—his buddy, his pal forever! And I did not like it, not one piccolino bit!

  I got it into my head that I would make that Nero—that big black mangy dog Nero—I would make him love me. I would make him love me so much that Nero would want to be with me all the time, and then Pardo would want to be with me all the time, too.

  And so I ask Pardo if I can take Nero for a walk, and my plan is to take Nero to the woods and give him little chocolates, but Pardo says no, I can’t take Nero because Nero is too big and will not obey me and I might get hurt.

  And I am stubborn, Granny Torrelli says. I am so stubborn like a donkey. I beg Pardo. I plead. I whine. And finally Pardo says, “Bene!” He says I can go ahead and take Nero for a walk, and I know he has said this only to shut me up.

  And so I take Nero and set off across the fields. His leash is a rope and it feels good in my hand. And then Nero starts running, gallump, gallump, like a big huge horse thing, faster and faster, and the rope is pulling, and it is rubbing my hand raw, and I am yelling at Nero to stop, but he won’t stop, and then I trip, and Nero is dragging me across the field and down a muddy bank and slosh into the creek, when finally I let go and Nero races on, running to the woods.

  Granny Torrelli, sitting in our kitchen, looks at the palms of her hands as if she can still feel the rope burning.

  What about Nero? I say. Did you find him?

  Nero! Granny Torrelli says. There I am all sore and muddy in the creek, and you are worried about that black mangy Nero?

  She makes me laugh, that Granny Torrelli.

  That dog! she says. I straggled through the woods all day long calling that black mangy dog, and when it is getting dark and I am cold and hungry and bruised and prickled, I go home. I am not wanting to face Pardo. I am not wanting to tell him I have lost his most precious dog.

  I start back across the fields, and there are Mama and Papa and my brothers and sisters, and there is Pardo, and they are all coming across the fields like a big wave of people, calling for me, and I want to cry, it is such a good sight to see, but then I see Nero loping along beside Pardo, just as happy as can be, that black mangy dog!

  And everyone is saying, “Where were you?” and “Blessed Mother Mary, you are safe!” but I am only seeing that black mangy Nero slobbering beside Pardo, and I go up to Pardo and I punch him and tell him he has a stupid, stupid dog. Stupido!

  Granny Torrelli finishes her story and leans forward, placing both her hands flat on the table. See? she says. See how stubborn I can be?

  And we laugh, me and Granny Torrelli, there in the kitchen with the chickeny soup smelling so good.

  TUTTO VA BENE . . .

  Granny Torrelli stirs the soup, takes a big sniff and says, Tutto va bene! She says it like this: Too-toe vah BAY-nay! It means “all is well.”

  I am thinking about Granny Torrelli and Pardo and the black mangy dog, and that reminds me of the dog disastro last year. And while Granny Torrelli is dipping the ladle into the soup and pouring the soup into the bowls, she is reading my mind. She says, Rosie, are you still wanting a dog for Bailey?

  I say, That Bailey! He can get his own dog!

  Granny Torrelli says, Puh! You’re such a sassy Rosie girl today.

  And so I am thinking about the dog disastro as Granny ladles out the steaming soup. It started at school last year. A man came to assembly with his guide dog, a beautiful sleek golden dog. And the man showed us how his dog was his eyes and how it helped him get around the city and his house, and he said that even if he got lost all he had to say to his dog was: Find home! and the dog would lead him home.

  It seemed like a miracle! I wanted one of those dogs for Bailey! I went rushing home after school and racing up the steps to Bailey’s house and banging through the front door like a blast of wind, and I found Bailey in the kitchen, and I said, Bailey! Bailey! You need a guide dog! They’re the most amazing things! You’ll never be lost! You’ll never bump into things! You’ll never—

  And Bailey said, as cool as can be, Rosie, I know about guide dogs.

  What? I said. What do you know about guide dogs? You never told me anything about guide dogs.

  And Bailey, sitting at the kitchen table, crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair and said—not in a mean way, but in a kidding way—Rosie, do I have to tell you EVERYthing?

  And I said, Yes, Bailey, yes, you do. Now what about it? Let’s get you a guide dog!

  Can’t, he said. You have to be sixteen.

  What? I said. Well, that’s just stupid. Sixteen? Lots of kids have dogs, lots of kids who aren’t sixteen.

  Not guide dogs, Bailey said. You have to know a lot of special things. You have to train. You have to—

  Blah, blah, blah. On he went with the rules about guide dogs.

  When I left Bailey??
?s, I went out looking for a dog. I had seen a stray mutt hanging around the delicatessen, and I went in search of it. No luck. Next day, looked again. No luck.

  Next day, looked again. Found him! Shaggy little brown-and-white, funny-looking dog. I petted him. Cuddled him. Lured him home. Snuck him into the garage. Brought him meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy leftovers.

  Wanted to do everything in one day. Sit! Heel! Stay! Mutt would not listen.

  Locked him in the garage. Snuck out in the morning and fed him more meat loaf. Took him out to do his business. Made him a bed out of my pillow and an old blanket.

  Went to school.

  Came home. Pillow in a thousand, thousand shreds. Blanket peed on. Poop by the lawn mower.

  Took him out. Sit! Heel! Stay!

  Dog doesn’t listen. He runs, rolls, bites my shoelaces.

  Another week of that. Garage looking very bad, smelling very bad. Mom starting to ask about disappearing leftovers.

  Little boy and his mother come to our door one day, asking about a dog. Tootie is his name, they say. Tootie! It’s the little boy’s dog, and he lost it and he is sad. They say someone down the street said they saw me with a dog that looked like Tootie.

  My mother says, Rosie doesn’t have a dog, honey. We’re so sorry.

  They start to go. Hear barking. Tootie! the boy says. His whole face lights up, as if someone has given him a barrel of chocolate.

  Boy and his mother head for garage. My mother follows. I creep behind. My mother opens the garage.

  Tootie! the boy says, and that Tootie mutt runs smack into the boy and licks him all over, and my mother is looking around the garage and gagging from the smell, and she says, Rosie? Do you know anything about this?

  Tutto NON va bene. All is NOT well.

  And that was the end of the secret guide dog business.

  PASTA PARTY . . .

  Zuppa is on the table!

  Granny Torrelli folds her hands and says a little prayer. God bless Mama and Papa and Rosie and Angela and Carmen and Giovanna and Lucia and Maddalena and Gianni and Lorenzo and Guido—

  On she goes like that, more and more names, and when she finishes, I say, Ditto. I don’t know who all those people are, but ditto.

  Granny Torrelli, with her hands still clasped together, says, Oh, Rosie! You know! Giovanna and Lucia and Maddalena—those are my sisters—and Gianni and Lorenzo and Guido—those are my brothers, may they all rest in peace.

  Oh! I say. Are they all dead? All of them?

  Granny Torrelli says, Puh! I do not like that word “dead.” They are all having a big pasta party up there—she lifts her palm toward the ceiling—just waiting for me, the baby!

  Well, don’t you go being in any big hurry to join their party, I say.

  Puh! Granny Torrelli says. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with my Rosie.

  And we eat our zuppa, and I am thinking about how Granny Torrelli left Italy when she was sixteen and she came on a boat with her uncle to America. And she has told me this before, but I ask her anyway, And did you never see your family again, not ever?

  Granny Torrelli slurps her zuppa. She shakes her head. Not ever. Then she crosses herself because she is Catholic, but I am not Catholic and so I do not cross myself.

  I can hardly stand the thought that Granny Torrelli never saw her family again, not ever, and that now they are all—her mama and papa and sisters and brothers—all of them are up in heaven having their pasta party, and my grandpa Torrelli is probably with them, and here is Granny Torrelli with just me, sipping chicken zuppa.

  TANGLED HEAD . . .

  It’s good zuppa, I say.

  Granny Torrelli nods her head and says, Si, si. We did good.

  You really think your mama and papa and brothers and sisters and Grandpa Torrelli are all up there—I raise my hand to the ceiling like Granny Torrelli did—having a pasta party? And is Pardo there, too?

  Granny Torrelli puts one hand to her lips. Pardo? Oh, Rosie, you don’t want to know about it.

  I do!

  Oh, Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. I will tell you later.

  Is it sad? I ask.

  Granny Torrelli places her hand over her heart. Si, Rosie, si. Molto, molto sad. You do not need all those sad things in your smart head.

  I wish I had all the things in Granny Torrelli’s head inside my head, and then maybe I would know what is going to happen to me, and who I will be, and what I will be, and if I will marry, and if I will have children, and if I will have a job, and if I will be happy in my life.

  What I say to Granny Torrelli is only part of that: I wish I had the things in your head inside my head.

  Oh, Rosie! I wish I had a young head like yours, instead of this old head of mine. You should not wish for all these tangled things in my head. She taps her forehead. Very crowded in here!

  She passes me the bread. Now, she says, let’s get back to that Bailey.

  There she goes again.

  LOST . . .

  I glance out the kitchen window toward Bailey’s house next door, but I can see only the front yard and the bushes hugging the house. A piece of red paper skips over the grass, doing flips in the breeze, and I think of Bailey when he was little and had a red sweater.

  One day Carmelita came running to our door. Bailey is missing! Bailey is gone! And my mother and I rushed with Carmelita up and down the street and around the block calling, Bailey! Bailey! Bailey! and we stopped everyone and asked if they had seen Bailey, dressed in a red sweater and blue shorts.

  And people joined us, all the neighbors, old and young, racing up and down the streets shouting, Bailey! Bailey! Bailey!

  And someone called the police, and now the police were roaming up and down the streets asking people if they’d seen Bailey in his red sweater and blue shorts.

  Bailey was never supposed to go anywhere alone, never, never, never.

  Carmelita was out of her mind with worry. He’s been kidnapped! Who would do such a thing? Oh, Bailey, Bailey, Bailey!

  And when it started to get dark, we went home to get flashlights, and there was Bailey sitting on his front porch in his red sweater and his blue shorts, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  And maybe it was like when Granny Torrelli lost Nero, Pardo’s black mangy dog—maybe we looked like a big wave of people coming down the street and all of us saying, Bailey! Bailey! Bailey! Oh, Bailey, you are safe!

  But Carmelita did not punch him, and she did not call him stupido like Granny Torrelli called Nero. Carmelita wrapped her arms around him and kissed him all over his face and cried and cried and cried.

  The police came again, all of them smiling, so happy to see the red-sweatered boy with his mother. One of them said, Where were you, Bailey?

  And Bailey untangled himself from his mother and brushed some bread crumbs from his red sweater and he said, I went for a short walk that got very long.

  You were lost! I said.

  Was not! he said.

  You were!

  I wasn’t! Maybe you were lost, Rosie, but I was not lost! I wasn’t!

  And Bailey, my buddy, my pal, punched me and ran inside the house.

  Now that was like Granny Torrelli.

  I was mad at Bailey. I ran across the yards, up my steps, into the house, up more steps, and into my room, slammed the door, dove into the bed, pulled the covers up right over my head, and I was thinking I would sob, but instead a big smile appeared on my face.

  I felt very happy that none of the horrible things I had been thinking as we ran up and down the streets—none of those awful, horrible, ghastly things I feared might have happened to Bailey—none of those things happened. None of them.

  He only took a short walk that got very long.

  THE PRINCE . . .

  Granny Torrelli sits up straight, bangs her spoon on the table, and says, More zuppa! I want zuppa!

  I get up. Yes, madam queen, I say as I refill her bowl.

  And then I tell her about the
time that I was coming home from school—maybe I was ten then—and two older girls followed me: nasty, mean girls looking for a fight. I walked faster and faster and had just turned the corner of our street when they started pulling at my hair and grabbing at my books and telling me I was a stupid skinny girl, and I told them to cut it out. Stop it, stop it, stop it!

  But they were pushing and slapping and whacking me on the head with my books, and I was trying to get away when all of a sudden, there comes Bailey running up the street.

  I’d never seen him run so fast. I was afraid he would fall. How did he know nothing was in his way? How could he run so straight? How did he know I was in trouble?

  Bailey is tall for his age and strong, and I was so glad to see him coming, but I was afraid, too—afraid that the girls would hurt him, would take advantage of his not being able to see.

  Bailey said to the girls, Hey, cut it out! He was wearing sunglasses, something new he’d started doing so people wouldn’t stare at his eyes.

  The girls blinked at Bailey, standing there so tall and strong, and they stopped pushing and whacking me and backed away.