Nonnie and me

My grandmother, who I called Nonnie, was by all accounts a great beauty in her day. By the time I became a conscious human, there were still remnants of that youthful beauty, and Nonnie took great care to preserve them. Every night, she carried out a beauty regimen as I watched in fascination: 

·       Brush out waist-length hair one-hundred times with boar hairbrush. Pin it back up and wear a hair net over that.

·       Clean face with gentle cleanser—never soap—and water. Use toner and cotton ball. Gently smooth on Olay moisturizer.

·       Rub fade cream into “liver spots” on hands, then shea butter into hands and feet.

·       File fingernails. Oil with Vitamin E oil.

“Sarah,” Nonnie would say, dabbing a bit of Olay on my nose or brushing my long blonde hair till it shone, “fate is resourceful, so you must be more resourceful.”

Do I make her sound vain? Well, she was. And anxious. But that did not stop her from also being wise and kind, and a wonderful artist.  She taught me how to use charcoal and pencil, watercolors and oils and took me to the golden hills around our house to learn how to paint en plein aire, while she told me stories of her bohemian youth in 1930s San Francisco and taught me words and phrases in French. She read to me and bought me books that were too old for me, but I read them anyway. She was the only one who understood me. I revered her. I swore I would live like her, become an artist like her one day.

My father did not like her influence on me. Dad was a blunt, primitive man, the Stanley to her Blanche Dubois, and would command my mother to kick her out, and the screaming match would begin. 

By the time I was six, the arguing rose to a terrible pitch. Something had to change. So, my grandmother packed her bags and went to live with her older sister in a Hollywood Hills Hindu ashram. The fact that she was a white, protestant, Anglo Saxon hadn’t stopped my eccentric great aunt from exploring her worship options. Landing on the guru Swami Saraswati and his community was just the final leg of her journey. She’d given all her money to the community in exchange for them taking care of her until death, and he’d been very wealthy, so the ashram agreed that my grandmother could stay.

After Nonnie left, the screaming did not stop. It got worse, bleeding into violence. I walked into the kitchen once when I was eight to see Mom backed against the wall, my father’s hands around her neck, squeezing so hard her eyes bulged. I pounded on his back, screaming at him to stop until he finally did, and stomped out. I’ll never forget how small my mother looked, gasping like a landed fish on the stained vinyl floor. 

Often, Mom was covered in bruises she covered with long sleeves, heavy makeup. She’d grimace and limp her way through her chores, wince when I hugged her.

He started hitting me when I was around 10. I missed school a lot, and shied away from making friends, so books and art remained my refuge. 

When Dad was out, I begged for us to leave. She would tear up and say it was impossible. “But I do have a little money squirreled away. Maybe we can go visit Nonnie for a little bit, hunh?”

I’d nod and smile vigorously and tell Mom that sounded great. Maybe then she’d decide to leave Dad. But by the time I was eleven, I didn’t ask so much, didn’t respond if she suggested that trip with her tired sighs. We both knew it would never happen.

I continued to write to Nonnie, though, and she to me. I didn’t tell her what was really happening, because I was worried she wouldn’t believe me. And I think I was ashamed, like I was somehow causing the violence in my household. So instead, I wrote the life I thought a girl my age should be having, full of sunshine and pretty clothes and snuggles in front of the TV with my parents.

Whether she believed me or not, I’m not sure, but in every response letter in which she told me about the beautiful hills outside her quarters, all the books in the ashram library, she’d end with: 

“Fate is resourceful, so you must be more resourceful. 

All my love, 

Nonnie” 

When I was little and she’d lived with us, I’d had no idea what that meant. At first, I thought it was only about holding onto beauty. After all, that’s when she’d said it to me, after her beauty regimen. Around age 12, that line grew deeper with meaning. I began to see how trapped my mother and I were by my father’s violent rages, and that line took on a whole different light. Our “fate,” one I felt in my bones, was to eventually die by Dad’s hand, and no matter how we tried to get out of it, fate, ever resourceful, would find a way.

Unless I was more resourceful.

I came up with a plan. I scanned the employment section in the paper, but determined pretty quickly that what I was looking for wouldn’t be advertised there. I needed a connection.

A kid in my eighth-grade class was rumored to be the son of a mafia don, and though I didn’t have friends and was really bad at making them, I somehow managed to get close to him. Tony was okay, kind of a loner like me, wild-haired, gangly, pimply, and way more into Atari and Dungeons and Dragons than I pretended to be. 

His house was palatial, full of antiques and plush rugs. I prodded him gently for information about his dad’s profession while we played Donkey Kong, but he was vague, skirted my questions and changed the subject. That and that fact that his last name was prototypical mafioso, Accardi, seemed proof enough his dad was a crime boss. But even if it turned out he was just a captain of industry or an international spy or something, he would still be connected to what I wanted, and that had to be good enough. All I had to do now was be invited over for a family dinner or two so I could get in good with Mr. Accardi.

Stage one, check.

I babysat, pet-sat, ran errands, cut lawns, worked as much as I could without compromising my grades, my friendship with Tony, or my own household chores. By the time I was headed into 9^th grade, I had amassed almost $3,000 in cash, hidden in the guts of four stuffed animals. I didn’t know exactly how much I needed, but I figured if I kept going, I could earn close to $5,000 by the time I needed the cash.

Stage two, check.

Finally, finally, Mr. and Mrs. Accardi invited me over for a celebratory dinner on the night before high school started.

Stage three, check.

Mom worried Dad would think Tony was my boyfriend (totally laughable) and forbid it, so she fudged, telling him I was headed to a dinner for incoming freshmen. It worked. The night of the dinner, I put on my nicest sundress, a spaghetti-strapped, flouncy thing that still fit well and was a shade of purple that highlighted my blue eyes. Nonnie always said they were my best feature, and I tended to agree. I clipped my hair back on each side with barrettes woven with ribbons that draped down the sides of my straight, dishwater hair. The height of ‘80s middle school fashion, I felt confident and strong, at least until I thought too much about what might happen if things went wrong. Then my hands started to shake.

Mom drove me over, drilling me. “Now remember, say ‘so nice to meet you,’ ‘sir and ma’am,’ and ‘please and thank you.’ And after dinner, offer to help clear and do the dishes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, they have people to do that. It would be weird.”

“Oh,” she said quietly and stopped talking after that, while the houses grew larger and more ornate.

Mrs. Accardi greeted us at the door with a big smile. Mom hadn’t met her, and I could tell she was intimidated by the huge house and the tall, beautiful, dark-haired woman in expensive clothing. Mom kept pulling at her ill-fitting top while they spoke about timing, as if her JC Penny’s polyester buttondown would somehow magically transform into a cream silk pantsuit like my hostess. For the first time, I felt ashamed of my mother, and was relieved when she finally drove off.

Mrs. Accardi ushered us all into the living room, Tony looking mortified, his hair tamed, his usual video game t-shirts and brown cords replaced with an oxford button down and khakis. Mrs. Accardi introduced me to Mr.Accardi, a dark, balding man in a jumpsuit. “I hear you’ve been spending some time with Tony here,” he said, a statement, not a great conversation starter, so, I tried to make it one.

“Yes, sir, we’re good buddies,” I said, blood rushing into my neck and face for some excruciating reason. “We hang, you know, and like, play games and stuff.” Oh, I sounded like such an idiot child! Not at all the impression I was trying to make if I wanted him to respect me.

I tried another tack, my hands folded neatly in my lap like a refined lady. “I’d really like to hear what you do for a living, sir. Tony has never mentioned it to me.”

Mr. Accardi smiled, Cheshire Cat-like. It felt dangerous and made my gut flip-flop. “Well, young friend, I am in what they call the import-export business, but really, it’s a little bit of this, a little bit of that. I enjoy diversity, what can I say?”

I swallowed. Hard. Wasn’t that what mobsters always said they did? Some indefinable import-export business that nobody could figure out?

“I think dinner is ready,” Mrs. Accardi said, smooth as her silk oufit. “Why don’t we all go on in.”

While we waited to be served at the rich, mahogany table, I thought about my next move. Somehow, somehow, I needed to get to Mr. Accardi alone. 

“I’d love to see your home office after dinner,” I blurted awkwardly. “I’m sure your family has seen it a million times, so they don’t have to come and be bored on my account.”

The three Accardis stared at me with a mixture of consternation and amusement. Blushing furiously, I said, “It’s just that I am fascinated by all kinds of business, and I’d love to learn more.”

“Hunh,” Mr. Accardi said, trying to look serious. “Looks like you got a smart one here, Tony. Okay, Sarah, it’s a plan.”

Dinner was likely delicious, and my conversation skills probably left much to be desired, but I have no recollection of that part of the evening. I was so nervous, I cocooned in a bright haze somewhere outside my body. Weird, I know, but I’d developed the skill when Dad started hitting me.

I came back into myself gradually. 

“Well, shall we go in, Sarah?” Mr. Accardi asked. “Unless you want another chocolate sundae.”

I looked down at my sundae dish. Completely demolished. How could I have not tasted that? I shook my head, heart sinking that I spaced out the rare treat of my favorite dessert. I managed a smile. “Gosh, no. I couldn’t eat another bite. It was all so good, thank you.”

“You two go talk business,” Mrs. Accardi said with a generous smile that wasn’t at all mocking. “We’ll be here when you’re done.”

Tony started to lope toward the basement, then turned and smirked at me. “I’ll be playing Atari. Have fun being bored off your ass!”

“Tony!” His mother admonished with no real vehemence. His dad just shook his head with that smile that told me nothing. Dad would’ve slapped me so hard my ears would’ve rung till graduation. Normally, envy would have buzzed through my veins, but adrenaline for what lie ahead was all that coursed through them now. 

As Mr. Accardi led me to his inner sanctum, I prayed I could trust him. He seemed nice enough if more than a little inscrutable.

He closed the door behind us, sat at his desk and gestured for me to sit at the chair before it. “So, what is this all about, Sarah? I’m pretty sure this isn’t about how I run my business.”

Whoa. We were getting right to it. I stared at him, and something about how serious he was gave me courage. I cleared my throat, making sure the little speech I’d rehearsed a million times was accessible in the fear soup swirling in my brain.

“Mr. Accardi, sir, what I wanted to talk to you about is rather, um, delicate. Can I trust you? With anything?”

Again, that smile, but this time it was warmer. “Of course, kiddo. Go ahead.”

“Well, sir, I need to hire someone.” I paused and took a deep breath. Time to dive in. “To do away with someone else.”

His smile froze, but he didn’t miss a beat. “You mean, like a hit man.”

I nodded, grateful I didn’t have to say it.

He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. He narrowed his eyes. “And who, may I ask, do you wish out of the picture.” 

I glanced down to the deep red Persian rug, then back up at him, squaring my shoulders. “I’d like to keep that between me and whoever I hire, sir.”

“Sarah,” he said, looking me in the eye, a rare softness in his, “is this someone hurting you?”

After a moment, I nodded. “And my mom,” I whispered, a sob rising in my throat. “He’s… going to kill us some day.” 

God, I’d told him. But instead of dread, I felt a heavy stone in my belly dissolve into sand and blow away. I was crying now and tried to wipe away the tears with the back of my hand.

“Hm.” Mr. Accardi handed me a box of tissue and was silent for what seemed like a million years. Finally, gently, he said, “I’m not sure committing one murder to stop another is the best strategy, Sarah. What if we come up with a way to get you both away from him instead?”

“But I’ve already tried to get her to leave.” I swiped at the tears and snot now streaming down my face in earnest. “She won’t leave!”

“Is there anywhere you could go?”

I thought of Nonnie in her ashram, the view of the hills. “Yes. My grandmother and great aunt would take us. But he would find us.” 

“Oh, I’ll take care of that part for you,” he growled. His eyes sparked and his jaw tightened, and I saw I had been right to tell this man. Whether mafia or not, he was the real deal. “You tell your mother we’d like her to come in for a quick drink tonight when she comes to pick you up.”

“Why are you helping me?” I asked, blowing my nose.

“Let’s just say I don’t like bullies,” Mr. Accardi said in another deadly growl. “Besides, any friend of my son’s is a friend of mine. Now go downstairs and ‘hang’ with Tony. I’ve got some calls to make.”

I didn’t want to know the particulars, so I started to leave, but turned back at the door. "You won't tell my mom what I asked, will you?"

"That'll always be between me and you, okay?"

"Okay," I said, feeling lighter and safer than I had in forever as I headed to the first-floor bathroom. My face was a blotchy mess, but I splashed cold water on it, and it calmed a bit. Tony wouldn’t notice anyway. He’d be glued to his screen.

When my mom got there, I ran out and told her they wanted to have a drink with her. She’d changed her clothes to her best outfit, black slacks and a floral shirt that looked like silk. Still not even close to Mrs. Accardi’s ensemble, but that didn’t matter anymore.

Hope filled me as we sat in Mr. Accardi’s office and heard him out, heard his plan (“You gotta’ leave tonight,” Mr. Accardi had told her darkly. “He could kill you anytime.”), then as she called Nonnie at the ashram, finally told her everything that was going on, including the fact that I was the one to finally break the silence, and made arrangements to stay with her that night and until we were safe to go home.

Done speaking finally, Mom she handed the phone to me. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Hi Nonnie,” I said, feeling almost shy. It had been so many years.

“Hello, my darling girl!” she exclaimed. “It appears you have done it. I knew you could!”

“What do you mean?” I said, though I already knew. 

“You are stronger than your mother. You took action, and now you'll both be safe from that beast.”

“I,” I say, my voice trembling like a little girl’s, something akin to joy blossoming in my chest, “I was more resourceful than fate, wasn’t I, Nonnie?

“Yes, my darling, darling girl. You were more resourceful that fate.”