The sound of the Rosary Hour was his
earliest childhood reflection. He
could remember, after sixty years, the monotonous chant: “Hail Mary full of
grace blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus Christ.” It had meant nothing to him back then,
especially since his parents were not Roman Catholics and had never gone to
church. But it still
carried a haunting refrain for him as he tried to recall those early
years. It somehow
symbolized the countless hours he was left alone in his family’s apartment and
the neglect and punishment he suffered during this period in his life.
A psychiatrist had told him once that
memory requires language. Without
words to describe reference points, the meanings of such points become lost to
the infant or toddler, unless they are associated with trauma or repetitious
events. Although he was
several months away from his second birthday during the winter of 1943, it was
not so strange therefore that he recalled the repetitious Rosary Hour and a few
traumatic sounds, such as his mother and father’s voices and the memory of
being beaten randomly whenever they were around. Apart from his parents and the basic
rhythm of life, however, there were mostly unrecognizable noises and visual
sights during this time. Trapped
for most of his early childhood in the confines of his family’s tiny apartment,
his only reference points in the caboose-shaped domicile were the legs of
furniture, the sides of walls, and the ere glow from lights and windows
overhead. The redundancy he
suffered during his imprisonment had practically branded the points in his
mind. The hated noise box
was located on top of a cabinet, as was the fan, which made a frightening
humming sound when it was on. To
a small, wobbly-legged child, such an elevation made the radio inaccessible
even if he could turn it off or turn the volume down. He had no names then for any of the
inanimate objects he saw repeatedly throughout each day; they were merely the
boundaries of his small world. Such
repetition, even the Rosary Hour, only reminded him that he was alone. But his early grasp of certain word
meanings from his parents and rudimentary knowledge of symbols encountered when
they gave him physical pain allowed him to recognize danger when it was
near. Among these traumatic
events stored forever in his mind, his recollections of various periods of
terror and pain had given him a toddler’s primitive language and list of
symbols. The first symbols
he was to retain were the thundering voice and shaking fist from both parents,
which he had learned to mean, “Shut up or I’ll beat you!” He learned with quivering lip and
tearful eyes to be immediately obedient especially around his mother, since she
was around the most. He
also learned from his mother the words and symbols “Eat it or I’ll cram it down
your throat” after only a few tries. His
father, whom he feared the most, since he was always louder and more agitated
than his mother, had merely to look at him to make him behave. His only physical contact with his
father, in fact, was an occasional smack on the rear or head, the sensation of
his hair being yanked, or ears tweaked.
He would learn years later from his
mother that his father had a deep resentment against him for the way he came
into the world. Not only
had his untimely birth almost killed his mother, but it was possible, because
of this close call, that she might not be able to bear another child. He had been born breach and required a
Caesarian operation, which in 1943 was much more dangerous than it was
today. From the beginning
therefore, in very real sense, he had started off on the wrong foot. After he was born, he would also learn
later, his brother had dropped him from the porch. This was the “official” reason for the
accident. His father was convinced for many years that he was brain
damaged because of this accident. Because
of this mishap, the evil omens of his birth, and his sickly nature, his father
treated him as if he was damaged goods, keeping him hidden from his neighbors
and friends when they were visiting and, during the same visits,
overcompensating for his deficiency by showing off his first-born son, who
would remain for the rest of the father’s eyes, the proverbial “apple of his
eyes”. From the very beginning of his life, Aaron had cast his shadow on
his younger brother’s parade. He
would always be the smartest, the most athletic, and the best looking of the
two boys. He was also the
least bruised and battered of the two.
Although his mother felt as if Noel
was a treasure in the first year of his life, Noel had been a sickly baby and
had caused her great woe. He
was born with asthma and had cried incessantly as an infant. He seemed to develop more slowly than
his older brother Aaron. While
Aaron was walking and talking like a two year old by the age of eighteen
months, Noel was still crawling in the winter of 1943, even though he could
walk if he wanted to, and would talk to himself when no one was around. Cruel words from his father about his
apparent retardation and inability to be potty trained would never be recalled
by Noel, but the physical reactions caused by his father’s attitude toward him
was felt repeatedly during this time. There
was a certain look that his father would show throughout his childhood but was
especially frightening back then. His
father would grind his teeth and move his jaw horizontally as moved his jaws. His severe gray eyes would become mere
slits, his nostrils would flare, and his fists would be trembling at his sides
as if he just wanted to beat Aaron to death.
By the winter of 1943, therefore, Noel
had learned when his father was lurking in their home. From a distance, he would hear a door
slam, grumbling under the breath (that sounded as if it came from a wild
animal), and loud cursing, many times at his mother, which often had Noel’s
name in part of the curse. There were also movements and changes in his
mother’s voice that alerted him to changes in her mood. It had been several months since his
first year had begun and he was obviously no longer the little treasure in his
mother’s eyes. They didn’t
seem to want him now and perhaps, as far as his father was concerned, never
had. That his father hated
him was a message he had been receiving since birth, but from his mother he had
received mixed signals for the past several months. She might strike him
or shake him to make him shut up or behave then turn around and kiss him and
stick a pacifier or piece of candy in his mouth. Ironically, this made him trust her
even less than his father. At
least with him, he knew what to expect.
******
Today, as Noel crawled abstractedly
over the cold wooden floor, the sound of “Hail Mary full of grace…” was
becoming unbearable for him. During
the mornings before his mother left the apartment with his older brother to go
shopping in town, she would listen to a musical program, featuring the big
bands. She seldom ever bothered to turn the radio off unless she did not
leave the house. He would
never know why she had taken his older brother and not him shopping, but he
would always feel abandoned buy their exit and always wail for at least an hour
after they left. This
particular morning, as he listened to the dreadful chant, he let out a howl
that would have set his fathers teeth on edge and caused his mother to
cringe.
His neighbors had heard his crying all
hours of the night and managed to ignore the telltale signs of abuse that they
saw throughout the week. But
this time, for the housewives at home with their children, and the sleeping
husbands, who worked the night shift at the airplane factory or rail road, it
was too much. Several hours passed as the hungry and forlorn child lapsed
into torpor and then erupted into a new round of screams. Something dreadful must be wrong to cause
poor little Noel to carry on this way.
Perhaps his family’s apartment has just caught fire or he had gotten
himself injured in some way.
Noel Bridger now began to
wheeze. His recurrent
asthma was brought on by the allergies in his home, including his mother’s
cigarette smoke and his Dad’s pipe, and the sort of stress he was suffering
during his mother’s absence. No
one, even his well-intended neighbors, could know how much danger her was in
this time.
In the apartment across the courtyard
Alphonse Marello complained to his wife “Rosie, how’my gonna keep awake-a tonight. He’s at it again, that Bridger
boy. Someone’s gotta go
stop-a him, make’em shaddup hees mouth.”
”Poor bambino,” Rosie, who was
cleaning her kitchen, paused to say, “what’s the mattah with that Bridger
woman. She takes her older
kid shopping but leave her baby boy at home.”
”Rosie, you let the police handle
this,” Alphonse advised, turning in the bed and placing his pillow over his
ear. “But call them anonymously. Don’t give your name. Tell them what we hear night and day.”
”Alphonse,” she shook her head, “they
might take that baby from his mother if the know what goes on. Someone, maybe a bunch of us
neighbors, could get together and go, as a group to their house. If the Bridgers saw the entire
neighborhood was against them, maybe they would change.”
”Ha! Let the police do their job!” Alphonse
said, rising up in his pajamas and pulling on his robe. “That woman might just punch you in
the nose!”
”Not if I had plenty of people with
me.” Rosie replied, shaking her head and reaching for the phone. ”She would not dare hit Madya’s
grandma. That old Gypsy’s
gaze is enough to make our kids behave. And
Terri Johnson—she’s a big, powerful woman that no one in this neighborhood’s
gonna trifle with. I don’t
think Misses Bridger would mess with her!”
Alphonse raised his palms upward and
looked up the ceiling as if to say, “Lord, what am I going to with this
woman?”
”I will begin calling now.” Rosie nodded bravely.
”Hey, you make-a sure that Bridger
woman she don’t find out, hokay?” he whispered as she dialed the phone.
If she knew that little Noel was
having an asthma attack, she would have been even more alarmed and probably
called an ambulance. Alphonse,
who also worked at the railroad but on the second shift, would try to sleep a
few more hours but he too was troubled by what was going on in the Bridger
household. His seven
children, who, except little Gina, were all in school, knew who was boss in the
Marinello household, but in such matters he knew Rosie knew best.
******
“Hello, is this Maureen Sutters?” she
began in earnest. Alphonse
had given up sleeping and was sitting next to her in their tiny living room.
“Who is this?” Maureen asked groggily.
“Remember, there is safety in
numbers,” her husband whispered into her ear.
“This is your neighbor Rosie,” miss
Marinello’s voice quivered. “Hey, how ya been doin’, Maureen?”
“Oh, Rosie, I’m sorry I sounded so
cranky,” Maureen replied contritely. “My sinuses are killing me this
morning. It’s that damn
project furnace. Somebody’s burnin’ rubber or something in it. I was thinking about calling on Madya
for a cure, but Harry wants me to see the company doctor. I heard Madya has some of those
belladonnas now.”
“Hey Maureen, all right already. Sure-sure, Madya’s better than one of
them quacks, but listen,” she changed the subject entirely, “we gotta serious
problem with that poor Bridger boy. We
need to get together and talk to Louise and that husband of hers. You can’t hear him like us, but he’s
wailing something awful now.”
“Yeah, I know Rosie, poor little
fellah,” Maureen sighed heavily into the phone, “but Harry said I should mind
my own business. He works
with Bob, the boy’s dad. You
can see how touchy that might be, him being Bob’s workmate and all.”
“Listen Maureen,” said Rosie, “this
doesn’t concern Harry. Those
sons-of-bitches aren’t home. Are
they, huh? This is a
housewives’ call—you me and the other women here in the projects. Hey, those men don’t know what goes
on. (Alphonso bristled at
this characterization.) I
doubt if Bob Bridger knows his son’s crying his heart out every morning, and
maybe he don’t care, but I do. I’m
worried that kid might be hurt or something. What if he’s sick and they’re ignoring
it, huh?”
“I don’t know…” Maureen began to
seriously procrastinate. ”I
heard that Bridger woman has a mean temper. I heard from Madya that she’s got the
evil eye, and being a Gypsy Madya should know.”
“Mother Mary!” Rosie exhaled deeply
into the phone. “You’re twice as big as that bitch, Maureen. You’re a Christian woman, ain’t
you? You think our blessed
Mary would allow that?”
“Madya says—” Maureen began.
“Madya Schmadya,” Rosie sneered,
“don’t quote that crazy old woman to me. I’m coming over to get you, so be
ready Maureen. We’re gonna
have us a talk with that Louise.”
“But Rosie,” Maureen started to argue.
By then, however, Rosie had already
begun throwing on a shift and pair of slippers and was soon shuffling to her
best friends house.
The Sutter’s project sat across the
courtyard from the Marinello’s. A
sea of sheets and various items of clothing, freshly washed in the washroom,
hung on the lines from the wooden posts cemented into the blacktop. Already many of the tenants had done
their Monday laundry, and Rosie’s family’s clothing and sheets would be hanging
on the same lines Friday when she did her laundry for the week. A playground sat beside the laundry
lines and on the far side, near the washroom, stood the dreaded furnace used by
residents for burning all manner of trash. Although there was crab grass growing
on the ground surrounding the courtyard, there were only a few bushes and trees
planted by the government, all of which were situated around the play and park
area, where family’s could use the communal barbeque pit while the kids played
on the swings and slide. Rosie
Marinello had migrated with her husband and children to Los Angeles from New
York’s Hells Kitchen. Other
tenants complained constantly about the bad plumbing, cramped spaces and tiny
iceboxes for cooling their perishables, but for the Marinello’s, who had big
plans in Southern California, the projects were practically paradise. Even the rising problem with the Zoot
suiters and Pachucos in the surrounding town could not compare in their minds
with the crime rate in Hell’s Kitchen. In
the months ahead this opinion by the Marinellos would change during the Zoot
suiter wars, but for now Rosie’s concerns were for her neighbors—a community
that had replaced the Italian families she had known in New York.
She was as always concerned about her
neighbors, this time for a tiny toddler named Noel Bridger. This latest crusade found her at
Maureen Sutter’s door, but already the mystic Madya Shimanka knew what was
about.
Peering out her heavy satin curtain,
she spied the Italian matriarch moving as a storm through the bellowing
sheets. A faint smile broke
her chiseled features. Clearly in her
dark eyes the mysteries of her ancient people dwelled. When Maureen finally answered her door, her
worried expression did not deter her friend.
“Come on Maureen.” She reached and
yanked her wrist. “By the time that Bridger woman is back we’ll be standing
united by her door. We
gotta let her know were we all stand!”
Protesting all the way, Maureen was
led toward Lois Blevens’ domicile. Unlike,
the more timid Maureen, Lois, who was just now bringing in her laundry, agreed
immediately.
“Sure, hon,” she chirped, “lemme put
this away. I’ll be with you
in a jiff.”
“Meet us at Terri’s place,” Rosie
waved, charging through two of the caboose-shaped projects with Maureen
straggling far behind.
“Terri won’t go for this,” Maureen
called faintly. “Her husband’s one of those conscientious objectors.”
“Yeah, like you huh, Maureen,” Rosie
called back over her shoulder. “Please, I know you’re afraid of that Louise,
but Terri ain’t. She’s the
biggest broad in the projects.”
Terri Johnson heard Maureen arguing
with Rosie about how the big blond was friends with Louise Bridger and would
not believe that Louise was endangering her son. Upon reflection, however, Terri
realized that Louise had been acting standoffish lately and she didn’t ever
remember seeing her youngest son.
“All right what is this?” she opened
the door suddenly and startled the two women half to death.
“Oh hello, Terri,” Rosie said with a
gasp. “You look upset Terri. They
found your husband yet?”
“No, Rosie,” she sighed, “I suspect
he’s at his parents. I
think his Dad’s trying to talk him into reporting before the deadline.”
“I thought they were going to arrest
him,” Rosie looked quizzically into the dark room in back of Terri, an inner
sanctum that no one had ever seen.
“He’s got one more week,” Terri
shrugged. “I gotta get a job at the cannery or Goodyear tires. Maybe I’ll become a riveter at the
airplane factory or join the nursing corps.”
“What about his job at the Railroad?”
Maureen asked, pretending concern.
“He managed to get himself fired, and
those sons-a-bitches reported him to the draft board.” Terri explained,
searching Maureen’s expression.
She knew Maureen despised the
philandering Clu Johnson for constantly making passes at the other woman (other
than Maureen) at the projects, including Rosie, herself. The fact that the handsome Clu was
being drafted, she knew, filled the homely Maureen with mixed emotions. For her own part, she had a Dear John
letter already planned out in her head and plans of her own.
“It’s about the Bridger boy,” Terri
said, amused by their mute expressions. “Ruth Schoenberg called me about the
crying. I told her it’s
none of our business, but I’m not so sure now. To tell you the truth, Rosie and
Maureen, I think that Bridger boy might be Clu’s son. That’s why Louise is always hiding him
in there.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” Maureen shook
her head vigorously. “Louise is a lot of things, but a slut ain’t one of
them. I know my husband
sure eyes her a lot, but I never seen her flirt with anyone here.”
“Your in denial, Maureen,” Terri
smirked at her.
“Come on, let’s go.” Rosie nudged
Maureen. “You comin, Terri.” She frowned at the overbearing blond.
“I’ll go, if Ruth goes,” Terri
snickered, giving Rosie’s dark curls a pat. “Hey, you folks don’t like that Jew
lady, do ya?” she asked them both.
“That ain’t true,” Rosie protested
indignantly. “Ruth is just unfriendly. That woman stays locked up in their
twenty four hours a day.”
“Well, did you know that her parents
were murdered in their shop by Nazi thugs?” Terri snarled, her big blue eyes
blood shot from weeks of dipping into Clu’s supply of gin.
Rosie, Lois, and Maureen had forgotten
how tall Terri was. She had
begun to intimidate them both, her attitude bespeaking alcoholic abuse more
than unfriendliness. Everyone
knew about the rumors coming from Europe, but it was enough to concern
themselves about day-to-day affairs at the projects.
“Listen, Terri, if you can talk that
lady into going with us, she’s more than welcome,” Rosie was growing impatient.
“Please, this is a serious matter Terri.
We got to stick together and do what’s right around here.”
Without another word, Terri lurched
out her door and forged ahead of them as they searched for Ruth’s
domicile. Ruth lived in
back of the Bridgers and could hear everything that went on their house. Ira, her shy husband, whose 4-F
classification allowed him the freedom to work at any job he wished, was
currently selling appliances in town. He,
like mister Blevens and mister Marinello, wanted no truck with the Bridgers,
but to the three women’s surprise, his wife Ruth immediately, though quietly,
obliged them when they came calling.
“There is safety in numbers, eh Ruth.”
Maureen elbowed the bony little woman playfully. “We’re the Nazis here!”
“You wouldn’t know a Nazi from a Zoot
suiter,” Terri snickered, now walking ahead of the smaller woman as if she was
the leader now.
“Aren’t we gonna invite Madya along?”
Lois whispered to Rosie.
“We don’t have to,” Rosie said
knowingly, as they stood finally in front of the Bridger project.
Suddenly, inexplicably, Madya Shimenak
was standing in their midst, her colorful, flouncey Gypsy dress belying an
hourglass shape. Reminiscent of a hawk
or eagle, two dark eyes peered out quizzically from her head. An amused smile played on her lips, as she
studied her neighbors.
“My dearest, you call upon Madya and
voir, here she be!” she cried, jangling her bracelets as she raised her arms as
if to bless them. “You are concerned about the Bridger boy. He is quite ill you know!”
“What are you talking about woman?”
Rosie’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s wrong with the kid?”
“Do you not notice how quiet it is now
inside their home?” she asked, prancing onto the Bridger porch and rattling the
door handle.
“How could you know that, Madya?” Lois
frowned. “No one ever sees the kid. He
could have two heads for all we know.”
“We must break in and save him,” Madya
grew frantic.
“Madya, are you acting again?” Rosie
was growing suspicious.
“No,” Madya shook her head and pressed
her ear to the door, “I am growing psychic. I cannot explain these things. We must get in there now!”
“Nothing doing,” Ruth found her voice.
“Are you serious, Madya,” laughed
Terri, “we could get arrested doing that!”
“Not if my Roxy does it for us,” Madya offered matter-of-factly.
As suddenly as Madya’s appearance, as
if on cue, little Roxy appeared out of nowhere. Her red, white, and blue Gypsy dress
and blouse was filthy for wear, and her dark round face was covered with grime.
“Why isn’t that child in school?”
Rosie asked with concern.
“Roxy is only four years old,” she
explained. “She seems much older than she is.”
“Her clothes are filthy, and she needs
a bath” Ruth said in a small voice.
“Enough of this idle chat.” Madya
waved dismissively. “Roxy will find a way in.”
“Wait a minute.” Maureen held out her
hands. “I don’t want any part in this!”
Roxy followed the foundation of the
building, which overlapped he bottom of the building, on her toes while
gripping the windowsill, which on the rude government housing amounted to a
splintery two-by four. It
almost seemed as if she had done this before. When she was at the window, she merely
scooted the unlatched window open and crawled simian-like into the room.
“Dear God!” cried Maureen.
“I been drinking,” Terri confessed
with a giggle. “This might be hard to explain.”
At that point, the five other women
began retreating, leaving Madya standing alone on the porch. Then, after hearing Roxy call out
“Mama! Mama!” the door opened awkwardly and Roxy came struggling out with
little Noel in her tiny arms. Madya
quickly scooped the wheezing boy up and immediately laid him on the ground.
“He’s turning blue!” Rosie wrung her
hands.
“He’s having an asthma attack,”
declared Madya calmly. “I’ve seen that before. Listen to his chest. Poor little Noel.” ”Here little one,” she drew out a tiny
blue vial; this will make you feel better. ”
“What is that?” asked Maureen. “Is
that dope?”
“It’s all right,” Madya said, opening
the tiny bottle and waving it in front of the boys nose. “Grandma has asthma
too. Let him breathe it in
awhile, and it will lessen the paroxysms.”
“All right Madya,” Terri wrinkled her
nose, dropping down on her haunches to sniff the bottle, “what’s in the
bottle? Smells like
cleaning fluid to me. You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Madya withdrew the bottle, and reached
into a pocket in her skirt and brought out a small rag. After pouring the fluid on the rag,
she held it up to the boys face. Soon
the wheezing stopped. Noel
Bridger looked up at the five women, frightened of these strange she-creatures
who resembled his mother. It
was the first time he had seen human beings other than his parents. He really could not consider his
mischievous older brother human, but the smallness of Roxy appealed to him
now. He held out his little
hands to her and flexed his fingers as toddlers often do.
“There-there little one,” Madya consoled him, as she cradled him
in her arms. “Here, Roxy,” she directed gently, “he wants you. I think you’ve made a new friend.”
“Hi Noel,” murmured Roxy, gently squeezing his little hand.
Noel looked up into Roxy’s dark eyes unwaveringly for several
moments as the five women discussed this event. Of all the faces on earth hers would
haunt him the most throughout his long, often troubled life, but this hour,
with his primitive and undeveloped perceptions of life, he was not quite sure
what she was. She was not a
she-creature like his mother or a he-creature, like his father. Nor was she a beastie-boy like his
older brother, who hated him for being born.
Who was this warm, purring creature? He wondered. Roxy was special. Roxy had fallen immediately in love
with her little neighbor, her desire to have a baby brother now seemingly
fulfilled by her brave act. Noel
sensed in his toddler’s mind that he had found protectors, foremost of which
was the little girl cuddling him now.
Then suddenly, from nowhere, a familiar voice rang out that made
Noel’s heart-shaped face contort in fear.
“It’s her,” Madya looked up into Rosie, Maureen, Lois, Terri, and
Ruth’s frightened faces. “Don’t be afraid. Let me do the talking.”
“How we gonna explain this?” Lois murmured to Maureen.
“What are you doing?” screeched Louise as she dragged her
four-year-old son Aaron along by his arm.
Aaron, who was simpering now, had candy apple smeared all over his
face. He looked pampered
yet exhausted from a morning’s shopping. Louise was holding several packages
with her free hand. As she
exited her automobile, she had looked haggard from her ordeal with Aaron, but
now her face was animated with rage. The
secret was out, Terri was certain. Her
little bastard had become public. In
Rosie and Madya’s minds, however, no such suspicion came, but it seemed
unconscionable that this beautiful child had been hidden for so long in his
home.
Maureen, Lois, and Ruth were merely terrified by this dreadful
woman. What would she do
when she found out her house had been broken into to retrieve the child? Would she call the police or just
attack them with maniacal rage?
“Why is my son in the arms of that little wretch?” Louise’s pretty
face became an ugly mask. “You damn Gypsies got some nerve? What are you doing here Terri? And you in cahoots with them brauds?”
“Your son nearly died from an asthma attack.” Madya stepped
forward, as Roxy continued to hug Noel. “We heard his screaming. When the screaming stopped, I called
out but no one was home, but the door was unlocked, so I went in and brought
him out. He’s all right
now, but you shouldn’t leave an asthmatic child alone like this.”
“It’s none of your damn business,” Louise said acidly. “My son
doesn’t have asthma. He was
just throwing a tantrum. I
can’t take both of my sons everywhere I go.”
“You never take Noel,” Roxy said boldly.
“Get your filthy hands off my son,” Louise snarled. “That’s none
of your business!”
“We made it our business,” Rosie said, folding her arms. “If Madya
hadn’t given Noel that medicine, he’d a died. And all you can do is act like the
stuffy bitch you are and frighten that sweet child!”
Maureen and Lois felt great pride and respect for their friend and
gave her a spontaneous hug. Even
the timid Ruth was bristling with anger at Louise’s attitude at such at
time.
“Rosie’s right,” Terri came forward menacingly, “you really are a bitch! You talk to me like that and I’ll
knock you on your ass!”
Aaron ran into the house, probably to use the restroom, totally
unaffected by this conversation. He
had probably seen his mother this way before. Louise reached down, without another
word, rudely raised Noel up into her arms, and stormed into her house.
“You hurt that kid and I’ll kick your ass!” Terri shouted after
her.
“Now, now, that’s the liquor talking Terri,” Rosie patted her
back. “That woman will have you arrested if you touch her. I got a better idea.”
“We’ll all watch out for little Noel,” Ruth piped up. “Ira and I
live the closest to the Bridgers. I
can hear almost everything that goes on in there if I open my living room
window and listen in.”
“My thoughts exactly!” Rosie smiled at Ruth.
“Hey, you really came out of the closet!” exclaimed Lois.
“Well, that woman reminds me of a Nazi!” Ruth frowned. “It’s time
to take a stand!”
“In safety there is numbers.” Maureen nodded vigorously.
“Right,” said Rosie, “and my place is directly across the
courtyard. If the lines
aren’t filled, I can see them coming and going.”
“And now that I gotta find me a job,” offered Terri, “I’ll be
moving in and out of the Projects a lot. I can do a lot of eavesdropping
myself. Maybe I’ll run into
the bitch a few times and scare the shit outta her.”
“No, no, Terri” Madya shook her head, “Rosie’s right. You gonna get in trouble if you hit
that woman. Maybe she’s got
herself a gun. I got me
plenty. No, we all keep an
eye on that house. You can
snoop around when you come in and out, but the best person to watch little
Noel, is my Roxy.”
******
As the walked away from the Bridger bungalow, Madya explained to
the women that Roxy had the gift. Even as a small child, she had her old
grandmother’s gift of knowing,
which she explained, was much greater than mere psychic powers. Many times now, without knowing what
it was, she had pointed in the direction of the Bridger place, mute for lack of
words for her limited four year old vocabulary…. Now, the Gypsy woman declared
with an element of drama, she understood that Roxy knew that poor Noel was in
trouble.
“You don’t have the gift?” Rosie asked, as they stood amongst the
bellowing sheets.
“No, I can read cards and tea leaves, but not that,” Madya said
sadly. ”But I can interpret
much of her feelings. One
time she was carrying on something fierce, and by trial and error, using a
piece of chalk and blackboard, I figured out that her uncle Roman was having a
heart attack.”
“Did you save him?”
Terri asked bluntly.
“No,” she confessed, “Roman, who lives in New York, died that very
night.”
“Oh dear,” Maureen held her face.
“Well, Madya,” Rosie was filled with purpose, “what now?”
“How about some tea,” the Gypsy’s stony expression broke into a
smile that beguiled them all.
“Sure!” Rosie, Maureen and Ruth all seemed to say at once.
“You got any coffee,” Terri made a face.
As they followed Madya to her project, they wondered what they
would find in her shadowy house. It was
common, though incorrect, knowledge that Madya practiced the black arts. Ruth believed she was a witch. When they entered her house, however, they
were surprised to find paintings of Mary, Jesus, and several Roman Catholic
saints on the walls. The strange odors
they expected to find in her spooky apartment wafted in the air, and yet there
were prayer-hand bookends on each side of a large bible sitting on a circular
table and religious objects sitting in various corners of the main room.
“Let me make you my special tea,” she cackled. “I have something
to show you.”
“Don’t be adding any of your medicinal roots,” Terri replied
half-seriously.
“What does she want to show us?” Ruth muttered nervously. “Her cauldron?”
“I don’t think Madya’s a witch.” Lois patted her wrist. “She’s
just strange.”
“I’m impressed with her religious stuff,” said Rosie, gazing
around the room. “Look at all those statues and that big bible. She’s got more pictures of Mary and Jesus
than me.”
When Madya returned from the tiny kitchen that was found in all of
the project bungalows, Roxy was assisting her with a tray of cups, as her
mother carried a large teapot into the room.
After setting the pot down on a small table, she waited for Roxy to set
the cups and saucers before her guests, and then poured every one a cup of
tea. After dismissing Roxy with a pat
on her head, she sat down in a large, high-backed chair befitting a matriarch,
and motioned with a nod for everyone to take a sip.
“What is this?” Terri made a face. “It tastes weird.”
“I think it’s delicious,” Maureen said, after doctoring it up with
cream and sugar.
Unruffled Madya replied, “It’s sassafras tea. Terri doesn’t like it, but Maureen has
turned it into a European espresso.
Rosie, Lois, Ruth, and I are drinking it straight up like good whiskey”
“What were you going to show us?” Terri came straight to the
point.
“Oh yes,” Madya replied, setting down her cup. “Roxy,” she called
blithely, “bring me Alba’s kit.”
“Alba’s kit?” muttered Ruth. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Hush!” Rosie placed a finger before her lips.
In barely a moment, Roxy trudged into the room carrying a brightly
colored box.
“My-my,” Lois said with a grin, “that box is almost as big as
you.”
“This is isn’t witchy stuff?” Terri blurted, as she sat it down on
the table. “Those look like devil signs to me.”
“They’re not witches symbols nor signs of Satan,” Madya reassured
her, lifting off the lid. “I’m a Christian woman, who respects the old religion
for its benefits to mankind. This box
and its contents were given to me by my Alba, a matriarch of the Romani
people.”
“Who’re the Romani?” Rosie tilted her head quizzically. “That
sounds like Italian.”
“It’s the ancient name of
my people,” explained Madya. “It means simply ‘man.’ There are Gypsies almost everywhere in Europe and the United
States. I never liked the word
Gypsy. I looked it up once. European people thought our ancestors came
from Egypt because of their dark skin, but the truth is we came from India in
the sixth century. After hundreds of
years we’re almost everywhere, even in Australia and New Zeeland. I’m happy being called an American like you
Rosie.”
“So whose this person, Alba?” Lois asked bluntly. “I’ve never met
anyone around here with that name.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Madya smiled at her. “She is more traditional
than Roxy and me. Her people live in
the wagons you see in the vacant lot near the bridge.”
“Oh you mean them squatters,” Terri snickered. “I heard they were
a bunch of cutthroats and thieves.”
“Once,” Madya paused to lecture Terri, “everyone was a
nomad—people wandering around and looking for game to feed their families. Gradually they squatted in various places
and settled down. Many of my fellow
Romani have not settled down yet. Some
of them might be cutthroats and thieves but so are other Americans.”
“Yeah, Terri,” Rosie glared at her. “Many Italians, my people, are
mobsters. That don’t mean I’m one.”
“Let’s get on with it.”
Maureen motioned impatiently. “What’s in the box?”
Madya looked around the
group, and prefaced her statement: “That poor little boy won’t survive those
people. What I have here will protect
him the rest of his life.”
“So show us already.” Ruth threw up her hands.
“Have you heard of the Gypsy rose?” she asked, presenting ajar.
They studied the rose floating in the jar. It looked like any ordinary red rose.
“That looks like one of them flowers in front of Noel’s bungalow,”
observed Maureen.
“Precisely,” Madya said, reaching in to extract the rose. “It
belongs to the person, whom I must curse.”
“And how do you do that?” Lois cocked an eyebrow.
“The water in which I immersed the rose is sacred, blessed by
Alba—a Romani seer, who used Christianity mixed with the old religion to help
her people—”
“Wait a minute,” Ruth raised her hand. “I don’t like the sound of
this.”
“Me neither,” exclaimed Maureen.
“Madya,” Rosie shook her head in dismay, “we’re god-fearing
women. This sounds like black
magic. How you gonna perform this
curse?”
“Listen,” Madya snapped, rolling her eyes. “Get it through your
thick skulls. I’m not a witch. Did you see all my pictures and my
bible? I can quote scripture if you
wish.”
“Hah!” Terri snorted. “That don’t mean nothin. I don’t know any scripture, but I
know witchcraft when I hear it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Maureen. “It sounds like witchcraft to me?”
“Let-me-finish!” Madya
cried succinctly. “Open your Judeo-Christian minds! The curse will not harm anyone, only put them on the right
path. I would never use Alba’s potion
to kill or maim. I’ll use it just to
wake them up.”
“You mean Noel’s parents?” Lois eyed her with suspicion.
“Yes, of course,” she nodded. “Can I please finish?”
“I don’t believe any of this?” Terri looked at her friends.
“You really believe this shit?”
“Yeah,” Maureen bobbed her head, “I heard about these people. They got fortunetellers and palm readers. Why not witches.”
“For the last time,” Madya exploded, “I’m not a witch!”
“Come on girls,” chided Rosie, “give her a chance. Madya’s just trying to help.”
After a moment of silence, the Gypsy woman took a petal from the
rose and, pulling out a vial, which seemed to materialize out of thin air,
placed the petal inside. During this
procedure, the five women grew fascinated much as onlookers watching a snake
charmer of practitioner of the black arts.
Blowing
on the vial, she shook it vigorously, and consecrated it with an ancient Gypsy
blessing. The words she spoke were
mumbled. When Terri tried to interrupt
in order to ask her what she was saying, Rosie elbowed her in the ribs.
“It’s Romani,” Madya explained. “To complete the
spell, I’ll need my crystal ball.”
“Dear God,” Ruth groaned, “I want no part of this.”
Ruth started to rise, but found herself drawn to the
conclusion of the spell. Terri, who
tried to make fun of Madya’s actions, giggled hysterically, while Maureen,
Lois, and Rosie seemed frozen in their chairs.
Roxy, apparently signaled by Madya, appeared again carrying the crystal
ball, which she sat down reverently before her mother. What followed transformed even the skeptic
Terri into a believer. Almost
immediately, as Madya moved her hands over the crystal, an image appeared in
the glass: Noel sitting alone on the floor, sucking his thumb, a lost
expression on his tear-strained face.
That fateful moment, perfectly timed for her purposes, Noel’s father
returned earlier than normal from his job at the Railroad. A pipe protruded from his scowling face as
he entered the bungalow. A voice in the
background, was shouting, “I can’t potty train him. He’s not like Aaron. That
time Aaron dropped him must’ve addled his brain.”
“I’ll potty-train him,” his father swore. “A few
good swats are what he needs!”
“Those bastards!” shrieked Terri. “Give’em hell,
Madya.”
Pausing to pour the vial on the crystal ball, Madya
mumbled more Romani, and lapsed briefly into English. “Kalbeliya, protector of
children, with the Christian god’s blessing, send a curse for his
tormentors. The next time his parents
attempt to beat him, they will be stricken.
The offending hand will burn like fire.
The offending voice will grow mute.
The offending eyes with feel as if dust had been thrown in their
face.”
With wide, unblinking eyes, they watched as Madya,
poured more rose water onto the crystal ball and mumbled more unintelligible
words. The women sensed that Madya was
practicing the old Gypsy religion but said nothing until she finished her
chant. After a moment of silence, in
which, Madya prayed mutely, they erupted into chatter.
“That-that’s fantastic,” Terri sputtered. “How’d you
do it? Was it a trick? How’d you get those little people inside
that globe?
“That wasn’t no trick,” Rosie murmured in awe. “That
was magic. Those magicians,
palm-readers, and fortune-tellers we saw in the circus last summer were all
fakes. They use slight of hand and
trickery, but Madya has great power!”
“Yes,” Maureen nodded, “if she’s not a witch, she’s
a wizard.”
“I wish I could see it happen,” muttered Lois. “Just
for a few moments, I’d like to be a fly on their wall.”
“Why do we have to wait?” Ruth posed the question.
“Give’em hell now!”
Gazing into her crystal ball, Madya cackled with
glee, “Say no more, my friends. Gather around—behold!”
As if to demonstrate all three parts of the Gypsy
curse upon Noel’s parents, his mother reached down to rap his head as she often
did, and immediately recoiled.
“Owe!” she howled. “Must be static electricity.”
Reaching down as if to test her hypothesis, she
received another jolt that caused her to scream angrily down at the boy, but as
she opened her mouth, her voice caught in his throat. In fact, when she tried to speak again, she felt a burning in her
throat, as if she was stricken with laryngitis. As the five women watched in amazement, Noel’s mother rubbed her
eyes, which smarted after the evil look she gave her son.
In the background, behind his gyrating wife, his
father was screaming, “What’s wrong?
Have you gone crazy? What
happened to your voice? Why’re you
rubbing your eyes?”
Experimentally it appeared, Noel’s father reached
down to touch him and received a slight jolt.
Withdrawing his hand quickly, he backed away in fear. That moment, as the little boy stood up, and
cracked a beguiling smile, he seemed to stare out of orb at his audience. While
the mother ran into the bathroom to rinse her eyes, Noel’s father looked down
at him with newfound respect.
“You really
did it, Madya,” Rosie declared light-headedly. “You put a spell on them. It really worked!”
“Ho, ho” crowed Terri, “those sons-of-bitches will
think twice before they mess with Noel!”
“But it’s not natural,” cried Ruth, “it’s not
religious. She did that with magic, not prayer.”
“Madya!” Maureen shook her arm. “Will this follow
Noel the rest of his life or will it only happen in his childhood? This is an important detail. Please answer.”
Madya remained silent. For several moments the five women chattered amongst themselves. As Madya sat in her high-backed chair
looking down at her orb, however, the crystal ball clouded and returned to its
translucent state. Lois touched it
reverently, as if it was a sacred thing.
Roxy ran back into the room now.
“It’ll do no good,” she held out her hands pleadingly. “The orb is empty
now. My mother must rest.”
******
Maureen, Rosie, Terri, Lois, and Ruth left the
bungalow, united in their concern for Noel, but fearful of what they had
unleashed.
“You call her what you want to,” Ruth muttered
faintly, “but that woman’s a witch!”
“Yeah.” Terri nodded dreamily. “That ain’t no lie.”
“No,” Rosie replied thoughtfully, “she said she
wasn’t it. Maybe she’s a wizard, like
Merlin. Witches are evil.
“Yeah,” Lois agreed hesitantly, “… Madya’s got
Noel’s best interest at heart.”
“The question is,” Maureen exhaled uneasily, “ ‘how
long will the spell last?’ and ‘will little Noel zap his playmates
someday?’ What about when he grows up
and zaps a co-worker or his wife?”
******
By now the children had returned home from school,
hungry and out of sorts. Because Lois,
Maureen, and Ruth’s husbands were coming home from work at this hour, the women
returned home to be with their families.
Terri returned home to an empty house and unfinished fifth of gin;
except for her friendship with her neighbors her future seemed bleak. With
Alphonso at work, Rosie fixed her children supper, and then, when her children
were in bed, slipped out of her bungalow and made her way, flashlight in hand,
to the Bridger house. Standing there a
moment, she listened carefully for several moments, and then, hearing only
quiet murmurs, retraced her steps, satisfied that Madya’s curse had worked.
In the weeks and months ahead, a bond of
camaraderie, they would share their experience in Madya’s house. Though, after the war, their families would
move away to distant towns, they would remain lifelong friends. For the rest of his life, the elixir of the
Gypsy Rose would protect Noel against his parents; this they didn’t doubt. What had concerned them after Maureen
brought it up, was how Noel might use the curse. Madya had given him great power.
Even now, after only a few days of seeing their reactions after each
hostile look or word, Noel grew in this knowledge. As he grew older, he would
experiment by breaking one of his mothers favorite ceramics or shattering one
of his father’s pipes, delighting at the sight of them blinking or trying to
speak. No longer did they trifle with
him physically, except to cater to his needs.
Eventually, the hard mean words vanished completely, the harsh looks
vanished completely, and the mean words were replaced by honeyed tones. If a playmate mistreated him, he would
never do it again. Bullies and teases
shunned him, and he became the protector of the meek. If a teacher scolded him, his punishment came swiftly as it did
for anyone else bringing on his ire.
All it took was a mean word or look, and God help anyone who touched him
in anger. They would instantly suffer
the Gypsy’s curse!