Free Penny from Heaven by Jennifer L. Holm

his head. Nonny always does this if the person on the other end doesn’t speak Italian. She’s scared to talk on the phone.
    After lunch Nonny goes upstairs. She takes her bath in the afternoon, and then a nap, and Frankie figures that this is the perfect time to look in her room. We pretend to play cards, but when we hear the water start running, Frankie nods to me.
    “Go,” he whispers.
    “I’m going, I’m going,” I say.
    I creep upstairs, pausing outside the bathroom to make sure that Nonny’s in there. I can hear her humming, a soft song that sounds sort of familiar, like something you would sing to a baby. I hurry down the hall to her bedroom. I feel like I’m breaking the law by going in there; it’s just not something you do.
    The room is filled with large pieces of heavy, dark furniture, and there’s a crucifix hanging over the bed. In the corner is a washstand with a pitcher that I know she brought over from Italy, the only thing that survived the trip. The pitcher has been cracked and glued back together, and I can’t help but think it reminds me of Nonny: small but tough enough to leave a whole world behind.
    There’s a big four-drawer dresser, and I open the top drawer, the drawer where most people keep their socks. And sure enough, there are rolled-up balls of black stockings and neat stacks of black lace handkerchiefs. The next drawer down has black sweaters and blouses, but no underwear. The next one down has men’s clothes, tidy piles of trousers and button-up shirts with carefully mended collars. With a start, I realize that they must have belonged to my grandfather. I don’t know very much about Grandpa, except that he played the mandolin. He died before I was born. Frankie says he heard Grandpa had some sort of fit and just keeled over. I wonder how long Nonny’s had his clothes in here, and then I wonder how come it’s always Frankie who’s coming up with these schemes and always me who’s doing them.
    Finally, I open the bottom drawer, and lying right on top is something that’s black and silky and I think I’ve hit pay dirt. Only it’s just a silk kerchief, not underwear, but when I move it, I find something else.
    It’s a photograph of Nonny holding a fat, round pudgy baby dressed in a white gown on her lap. I turn over the photograph and see that someone’s written “Alfredo.” It’s my father! They must have still been in Italy; they didn’t come over until my father was two. All the other kids were born here.
    Nonny is young in the photograph—her hair hasn’t turned white yet, and her skin is smooth, like porcelain. The photographer has caught the exact moment when she’s looking down at the baby and not at the camera, and the expression on her face is one of such happiness, such joy, that I just stare at it. She looks like the happiest mother in the whole world.
    Underneath the photograph is a black photo album, and I open it. It’s filled with newspaper clippings—articles written by my father. It looks like Nonny kept everything he ever wrote. Most of the articles are in English, but a few are in Italian. I start reading the articles, and it’s like he’s in the room with me, I can hear his voice so clearly in my head.
    This looks to be a close election with—
    The bathroom door opens and closes, and there’s the soft pad of footsteps making their way down the hall. I put the album back and shut the drawer just in time. Nonny opens the door wearing her bathrobe, which is black, naturally.
    “Penny?” she says, surprised.
    “Uh, hi, Nonny,” I say.
    I’m expecting her to yell at me for being in her room, but instead she just closes the door and walks over to her dressing table. She sits down on the little stool and undoes the single tortoiseshell comb and then hands me her brush. I used to brush her hair when I was a little girl.
    The brush is heavy, with a thick wooden handle that fits my hand and bristles that are bare in places. I carefully brush out