The Witch of Little Italy
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Authors: Suzanne Palmieri
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Historical, #Romance, #Contemporary
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For my husband, William, who taught me that once I started something, I could finish it as well
Acknowledgments
There are many people associated with bringing this story into the world, and I’d like to take a moment to give thanks. To my early (nonwriter) readers: Jan Nichols, Tahisha Porter, Kathy Viani, Mary Giannotti, Michelle Esposito, Lynne Hodgson, and Rita Palmieri.
To the writers who read this novel and gave me constructive advice on how to make it better: Lou Florimonte, Loretta Nyhan, Amanda Bonilla, Sarah Bromley, Kari Lynn Dell, Simon C. Larter, Sarah Wylie, and Joanne Rendell.
To my literary agent, the keeper of my dreams, Anne Bohner. You sold four of my novels in one day. Did I win the literary agent lottery, or what? And on that note, to Sally Wofford-Girand, who believed in my stories and encouraged me to keep writing no matter what.
To the entire team at St. Martin’s Press and Griffin, your enthusiasm has overwhelmed me and made me, in turn, want to make this story shine as brightly as possible.
To my editor at St. Martin’s Press, Vicki Lame. You are made of glitter, Glitter. And you sprinkled it throughout this book. I am so happy to have made a “book baby” with you. Also, I made a friend. And that is
always
a good thing.
To my family: Husband William (I
told
you I would do it and I did), I love you, babe. To my three daughters, frequently referred to as “My Coven” or simply: Oldest Witch (Rosy), Middle Witch (Tess), and Littlest Witch (Grace Louise). You are more than patient with my odd ways. You are magnificent and your mother loves you.
Also, thanks to Richard Denton, who helped with the title.
To the writers I admire: Stephen King, Alice Hoffman, Marge Piercy, Peter Straub, Ray Bradbury, and Anne Rice. All of you helped a lonely young woman (me) feel a little less lost. Thank you.
To both my father figures: Robert L. Mele (my godfather in all the ways) and James Sterling Cooper (my father via biology, charisma, and green eyes). And to the Coopers down south: Kim Cooper, my brother Talmadge James, and my first cousins, especially Lana. I love you.
To the entire Palmieri clan who took me in and gave me a name to showcase my culture. Especially my mother-in-law Margaret Palmieri, father-in-law William Louis Palmieri, Jr., sister-in-law, Amanda Palmieri Linski, and my very favorite great-aunt, Rita (Louisa) Palmieri.
Mostly, though, this book belongs to my mother, Theresa Anne Germanese Cooper, and to her mother (my grandmother), Fay Depaul Germanese Barile. You taught me kitchen magic and introduced me to my great-aunts, Carmel, Anna, The Other Fay, The Other Carmel, Mary, and Annemarie. You raised me to respect my Italian-American heritage and reconcile it with the Alabama in my soul. If I have layers, it is only because you layered me. Thank you.
“I’m a Lost Witch, are you a Lost Witch, too?”
—Suzanne Palmieri
Contents
Praise for
The Witch of Little Italy
Winter
1
Itsy
All the Amore siblings had The Sight in varying degrees, and its fickleness got us into trouble sometimes. Like the time when I was young (and still talking) and I called my friend’s husband to give my condolences about her death in a trolley crash, only my friend was still alive and the trolley wouldn’t crash until the next day.
It was hard to explain
that
one, and harder still to keep my friend off the trolley the following day even though I knew her life was at stake. Regular people have such a hard time listening to the low hum of instinct. Don’t get me wrong, I tire of the magic now that I’m old. But still, if I’d had it all to do over, I’d choose magic ways. Especially now, when another, more precious life is at stake.
She’s coming back now, the girl. She’s coming back and bringing my memories with her. Maybe
she
won’t remember anything. Dear God, don’t let her remember. If she remembers, she’ll land straight back in harm’s way. If she remembers, my promise will be broken. And that’d be too bad because it’s one of my best skills, promise keeping. And secret keeping. And cartwheels, too.
I used to be able to do cartwheels. When we were little, my sisters couldn’t but I could. I can still feel how the air shifted as I kicked over my head and moved my hands. I liked to do things upside down. It bothered Mama. “All the blood will rush to your head!” she would yell. Not to mention Papa and my skirts. “Cover yourself, child! If I can see your bloomers so can the whole block!”
I cartwheeled through my childhood. We weren’t poor, but we lived close together. We all lived here on 170th Street in the Bronx for the better portion of our lives. Mama and Papa bought the building when they married. Well, Papa won it. In a fight. They used to fight for money in the streets back then, and one day the wager was a building, and practical Papa, who’d never fought a day in his life, took off his shirt and threw it into the ring.
When we were very young, in those strange, magnificent years between World War I and World War II, we all lived in apartment 1A. Ten people and two bedrooms. Those were the days. Mama was the magic one. She gave us her abilities to see the future, to grow herbs and flowers that held all sorts of possible magical preparations, but the most important thing she gave us was the gift of each other.
But we’re old now, Mimi and Fee and me. We’re all that remain of the Amore children. Three children left out of eight, each of us carrying the burden of
that day
in our own way. And as we grow ever older, The Sight grows stronger.
On a cold, dark December night, we woke with the same dream and sat around the kitchen table looking into a bowl full of water. Our old lady hair pinned back, my knobby fingers scribbling on my pad with the pen that’s always fastened to my chest.
She’s coming,
I wrote.
“She’s coming,” said Mimi.
“On Christmas?” asked Fee.
“Maybe…” said Mimi.
She’s coming
. I underlined the words on my pad twice, for emphasis.
Mimi was afraid to believe, afraid to get excited. Her girls so rarely came to see us. But our Sight is strong. It grew as we grew. She should know better than to doubt it.
The Sight helped us through our darkest days, and our magic gardens made our lives wild like rambling roses. But
our
roses had thorns. Thorns sharper than those who live without magic could ever fathom. Like how Mama knew, even before the fortune-teller told her, that 1945 would be a very, very bad year for the Amores.
In the end, no amount of Sight could prepare us for the trouble that arrived. And those of us who were left carried the burden of “The Day the Amores Died” in our own way. We suffered our own tragedies and kept our own secrets. Secrets that scattered pieces of us into the winds for the sparrows to collect and keep, until the day the girl returned.
2
Eleanor
Eleanor Amore took the home pregnancy test on Christmas Eve in her mother’s room at the Taft Hotel. Carmen was in a show at the Shubert Theatre that ran straight through the New Year, so Eleanor had the room to herself. Away from her dorm room at Yale. Far from prying eyes. And, more important, far from Cooper.
The Taft was in walking distance from her dorm, but it was a one-way street. Carmen never came to campus. If Eleanor wanted Carmen, she had to
go
to Carmen.
Crossing the Green, she looked up at the enormous Christmas tree, its lights glowing even though it wasn’t fully dark outside. The festive tree set against the remainder of the pink sunset struck Eleanor, making her lose track of her thoughts. Contrasts always did that to her. She sat down on the cold concrete and dug into her large, velvet patchwork bag for her sketchbook and charcoal. Leaning against a park bench she began to move the charcoal over the white paper in soft smudges. The black on her fingers always made her hopeful, giddy with possibilities. If Eleanor hadn’t been so immersed in her impromptu piece of art, she’d have noticed the pigeons cooing and clustering all around her. And what they saw through their small, black eyes was a very different girl than Eleanor believed herself to be. Working away, she smiled as her own eyes sparkled under her knit hat. She drew with broad, confident strokes, her fingers moving with freedom and skill. Eleanor wore fingerless gloves so her fingers would be able to move freely when she wanted them to.
Soon the sun set completely, and it was too dark to draw. Eleanor sighed and closed her sketchbook, buried it with the charcoal in her bag, blew on her fingers to warm them up and finished her walk to the Taft.
She’d been to the hotel enough for the doorman to recognize her, so he let her into the suite even though Carmen wasn’t home from the theatre yet. He was nice to her, looked at her with those sad eyes. The ones that said, “What’s happened to
her
?”
Even at Yale, no matter how impressed other students or instructors were with her artwork, she couldn’t paint over her own insecurities. No matter how hard she tried to join the crowd, play pool at the Gypsy, she couldn’t fit in. The sound of her own fake laugh made her sick. The ironic nature of this “loner” status wasn’t lost on Eleanor. Carmen needed to live inside thronging crowds where Eleanor wanted to live in a submarine. Periscope up, periscope down.
Eleanor switched on a soft lamp and took in the posh surroundings of Carmen’s suite. Overdone, but entirely comfortable. She made her way to the marble bathroom and ripped the waxy, white pharmacy bag open with shaking fingers, carefully avoiding looking at herself in the mirror.
She peed on the stick and said a silent prayer with her eyes closed. “If there is a God there will
not
be a pink plus sign.”
She peeked through one eye. There was a pink plus sign.
“Crap!” Thoughts ran through her head in odd angles, bumping against one another. A baby? A baby. A life was growing inside of her. She’d known it—somehow felt it—the moment she conceived. And in a way she’d cradled the notion like Golem ever since. Her life would change. That wouldn’t be so bad. It was the
rest
of it, the logistics that were an issue. And the idea of telling Carmen twisted her stomach into knots.