The Habit of Art: Best Stories from the Indiana University Fiction Workshop

Bocce

BOCCE [1] Bocce RENÉE MANFREDI “Jesus Christ is a blood clot in my leg,” Ellen says. “Right here in my calf, the size of a quarter.” She puts her foot up on the bench where her mother, Nina, is sitting in front of the mirror applying makeup. “Do you want to see it?” “Not now,” Nina says, shadowing her eyelids with purple. Ellen sighs loudly. She is ten, an ordinary little girl whose imagination sometimes intersects inconveniently with truth; all of her imaginary friends die tragic deaths and she grieves for them as though they were real. Ellen sits on the floor beside Nina. Her mother is pretty today. She is wearing earrings and perfume, which she almost never does. “Mama—” “How many times do I have to ask you not to call me ‘Mama’? It’s infantile. Ellen pauses. “Mother, my carnation didn’t come today.” “It didn’t? Maybe your father has finally had enough of spoiling you rotten.” Teresa of Ávila, “The Little Flower,” is Ellen’s favorite saint. Teresa levitated off the bed in her love of God and had visions like those Ellen herself has had: Michael the archangel has appeared to RENÉE MANFREDI [2] Ellen in dreams, called to her from the top of a white staircase. Until recently, Ellen would shake her head no when Michael held his arms open to her. But one night he sang so sweetly that she walked halfway up, he halfway down. Ellen sat in his white lap and he rocked her and looked at her with his great violet eyes that never blinked and told her that heaven was perfect but lonely. When he touched her, Ellen felt as though all the light in the world was inside of her, and when she awoke the next morning the sunlight seemed dim and she felt a heavy ache in her leg that beat like a heart. Ellen’s father, Sam, indulges her: every Saturday he has a white carnation delivered to the house for Ellen to wear as a corsage. All the nonsense about saints and angels is perfectly harmless, he said to Nina, and if a flower every week keeps her out of trouble and happy he’d gladly have them flown in from Brazil if necessary. “There are ten-year-old junkies,” he reasoned to Nina. “There are ten-yearold children who hate their parents and run away and become prostitutes . Besides, it could be worse. She might be interested in Saint Francis and then she’d be asking for little peeps.” Ellen links her arm through Nina’s. “Mother, last week in Sunday school Mrs. Del’Assandro said that when God is mad he puts out a contract on our lives. Jesus is the hit man. If a blood clot moves to your heart it can kill you.” “Mrs. Del’Assandro most certainly did not say that.” Nina takes the bottle of perfume that Ellen is holding, says, “Clean your fingernails , Ellen, then go tell your father to come up and get dressed.” “Where are you going? Am I going?” “No.” Nina sprays a cotton ball with perfume and tucks it in her bra. “Where are you going?” “Just to the club for dinner and dancing.” “Then why can’t I come?” “No children tonight. Please go tell your father to come upstairs and get dressed.” Sometimes Ellen doesn’t love her mother. BOCCE [3] Ellen finds her father on the phone in his study. The room is cool, dark, though it is May and still afternoon. But her father is rich enough to have anything, even the night when he wants it and autumn air in spring. She sits on the desk in front of him, wraps the phone cord around her neck. “I am being hung in a public square! I am being persecuted for my belief in God!” Sam swats her away, holds up a cautionary finger. She wanders about the room, picking up this and that, then shuts herself in the adjoining bathroom. She has been in here only a few times. The sunken tub is rimmed with candles. On the floor is a pile of tangled clothes. Some of Nina’s makeup is scattered on the vanity. Ellen spritzes herself with perfume, dabs a little red on her lips. She lifts her long black hair off her neck the way she imagines a man might and...