Free The Patron Saint of Ugly by Marie Manilla

children. Not only sobs of fright, but a quavery “Mommy! What’s wrong with—” The question stunted by a hand over the lips, or a nonna’s knuckle to the forehead. “That’s Santa Garney. Shut-a you mouth!”
    I flourished under Nonna’s and Mom’s care, my physique expanding yearly as I went from the crib to the playpen to the highchair to the stack of Sears catalogs piled on a chair when I was finally big enough to sit at the table.
    Nicky was not immune to some envy over my most-favored-nation status with Nonna and Mom, even if he was the pulse that kept my father’s heart beating. He was also the only male heir, the one who would perpetuate the Ferrari name. Not my noncousin Ray-Ray Guttuso, who would always be a Guttuso even if Uncle Dom did adopt him and backhand him with our name.
    Before I was born, Nicky got almost seventeen months of Mom’s gooey-centered love. After I was born, my physical features were the only ones she extolled. “Is she the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen? I think so! Is she the most flawless baby on the planet? I think so!” No doubt everyone within earshot asked a question about my mother: Is she completely insane? I think so! Mom praised Nicky’s quick potty training and ability to read by age three, but after I was born, she never again commented on the thickness of his hair or the perfection of his smile.
    The payback I suffered was a bruise on my right biceps in the exact shape of Nicky’s fist, a new purple-green continent he dubbed Buttholia. Whenever he walked by, I’d get a jab. I retaliated by ripping pages from his Britannica s so that he would never know the national product of Uruguay or the meaning of the word yashmak .
     
    Okay, Archibald. My fingers are pruney, and I don’t see Nonna’s eye at the keyhole, so I’m heaving out of the tub and schlepping to my room.
    (Walleye! Getta the tubes!)
    Crap. I forgot to drain the tub. Now Nonna and Betty will lock themselves in the bathroom with the ten thousand vials that Betty mail-ordered. She’ll be on her knees for hours scooping up water, Nonna sitting on the closed toilet with her label gun shooting out St. Garnet H2O tabs. If they were less upstanding, they could make a fortune, but they give all the relics away.
    Two spirals down the hill is another holy relic, the grape arbor in back of our cracker-box house that Dad built years ago. Countless times I had been lured to the basement by the sound of Dad’s sawing, had seen his palm gripping the handle enriched with his curlicues and sweat. The radio beside him crooned the torch songs he loved even if Uncle Dom called them sentimental crap. I loved them too, especially when my E note sounded. I secretly crouched on the steps the day Dad sawed the arbor posts, drawing the blade forward and back, the muscles in his arms flexing. His face bore the same anguished expression as the one Jesus wore on the crucifix over the Saint Brigid altar. I wondered what torment Dad was reliving in his head. Then I burped and he jolted as if he’d been caught shoplifting. His head swung toward me. “Go upstairs. This is private. Private! ” I slunk away, stung.
    The day the arbor was finished, Dad gathered us all outside to admire his handiwork. Mom even procured store- bought wine to celebrate. She and Dad set up lawn chairs that scooted closer and closer together as the sun set, Mom twirling Dad’s hair in her fingers. Ah, alcohol. The great height-adding elixir. Nicky and I knew where this was heading, so we went inside, but an hour later I heard Dad bellowing, “I christen thee SS Marina !” after which he smashed the bottle against one of the posts.
    After all the hubbub, Dad didn’t do the actual vine planting. Nonna insisted that in order to ensure a plump harvest, Nicky and I should have the honors since we were Dad’s little saplings. Unfortunately, Ray-Ray was also included.
    The ritual had to occur in the spring just before sundown on the night of a