this instant , you’ll get the short end of the stick, as usual!” she cried, waving her arms wildly. Her elbow bumped a shelf and everyone but Greta saw Frank Sinatra tip and fall into the air.
Uncle Buddy leaped to his feet, arms extended, and caught the statue head like a football, just inches before it shattered on the ground. He sheepishly handed it to my dad and they looked at each other for the first time since I got home. My dad paused, then turned and put it back on the shelf, where the bust continued to stare at the room. It was the tackiest thing we owned—a white plaster Frank Sinatra head with a garland of leaves in its hair, like Julius Caesar, and eyes tinted blue. Although my mom hated it on an artistic level, she insisted that it never move from its honored place on the shelf.
The bust suddenly took on the significance of people I loved who were dead.
It had been a gift to my parents from my nanny.
She gave it to them as a good-bye gift, only days before she died.
Lucretia Zanzara—Elzy, as we called her (for her initials, L.Z.)—was petite, tough as nails, and always perfectly dressed in a retro-mod sixties style, complete with jet-black beehive hairdo and cat’s-eye glasses. She was an organizational Einstein who ran our household from breakfast to bedtime with a gentle iron fist. Elzy knew someone who could do anything at any hour, from delivering a perfectly crispy pizza margherita at eight a.m. to fixing a refrigerator at midnight, to scoring a badly desired Tickle Me Elmo for three-year-old me the day before Christmas. Her contacts were limitless, ability to get things done, genius, and devotion to my family, seemingly inexhaustible.
Elzy had come to our family via the bakery. Long before I was born, Grandpa Enzo employed her father, Bobo Zanzara, as a baker or pie maker or something. Grandpa and Bobo worked closely until, according to my dad, Bobo took a vacation and never came back. When I asked my dad what kind of vacation lasted forever, he smirked and said, “The federally funded kind,” and nothing else. If I asked for more details, he shrugged and changed the subject. Later, Elzy’s older brother came to work for my grandpa at the bakery, too. Elzy always referred to him as “Poor Kevin,” before shaking her head and tsk-tsk ing . Apparently, Poor Kevin had been a lethal combination of knucklehead and hothead. There had been an incident at the bakery, but again, no one ever explained exactly what had happened. If my dad or Uncle Buddy began to discuss it, Elzy would hold up a hand with perfectly polished nails and say, “The past is the past. Poor Kevin made a mistake. Only the strong survive.” Her voice was solemn in an Italian way that made further words on the subject indulgent and unnecessary.
Elzy had two unmistakable characteristics. One was her voice—a nasal combination of West Side Chicago and a lion suffering from strep throat—and the other was an undying love for Frank Sinatra. Her gargle-growl took on a terrifying tenor when she sang “Fly Me to the Moon” or “Witchcraft,” making dogs howl up and down Balmoral Avenue. The more the cancer spread and the sicker she got, the less she sang. After a final visit to her doctor, Elzy knew that she was going to die. It was right before Lou was born that she gave my parents the Sinatra bust, touched my mom’s belly tenderly, and told them that Frank would watch over them when she was gone.
He has sat on the shelf in the same spot ever since.
I was thinking of them both, Grandpa Enzo and Elzy, hoping they died happy, and it was only the fingernails-on-a-chalkboard tone of Greta’s rant that brought me back.
She had her fists on her hips and was wagging her head from side to side, speaking her piece about “unfair to Buddy” this and “our share of the pie” that.
When she paused to take a breath, my father said, “Calm down, Greta. Buddy knows full well that he’s going to get half the
Uncle Buddy leaped to his feet, arms extended, and caught the statue head like a football, just inches before it shattered on the ground. He sheepishly handed it to my dad and they looked at each other for the first time since I got home. My dad paused, then turned and put it back on the shelf, where the bust continued to stare at the room. It was the tackiest thing we owned—a white plaster Frank Sinatra head with a garland of leaves in its hair, like Julius Caesar, and eyes tinted blue. Although my mom hated it on an artistic level, she insisted that it never move from its honored place on the shelf.
The bust suddenly took on the significance of people I loved who were dead.
It had been a gift to my parents from my nanny.
She gave it to them as a good-bye gift, only days before she died.
Lucretia Zanzara—Elzy, as we called her (for her initials, L.Z.)—was petite, tough as nails, and always perfectly dressed in a retro-mod sixties style, complete with jet-black beehive hairdo and cat’s-eye glasses. She was an organizational Einstein who ran our household from breakfast to bedtime with a gentle iron fist. Elzy knew someone who could do anything at any hour, from delivering a perfectly crispy pizza margherita at eight a.m. to fixing a refrigerator at midnight, to scoring a badly desired Tickle Me Elmo for three-year-old me the day before Christmas. Her contacts were limitless, ability to get things done, genius, and devotion to my family, seemingly inexhaustible.
Elzy had come to our family via the bakery. Long before I was born, Grandpa Enzo employed her father, Bobo Zanzara, as a baker or pie maker or something. Grandpa and Bobo worked closely until, according to my dad, Bobo took a vacation and never came back. When I asked my dad what kind of vacation lasted forever, he smirked and said, “The federally funded kind,” and nothing else. If I asked for more details, he shrugged and changed the subject. Later, Elzy’s older brother came to work for my grandpa at the bakery, too. Elzy always referred to him as “Poor Kevin,” before shaking her head and tsk-tsk ing . Apparently, Poor Kevin had been a lethal combination of knucklehead and hothead. There had been an incident at the bakery, but again, no one ever explained exactly what had happened. If my dad or Uncle Buddy began to discuss it, Elzy would hold up a hand with perfectly polished nails and say, “The past is the past. Poor Kevin made a mistake. Only the strong survive.” Her voice was solemn in an Italian way that made further words on the subject indulgent and unnecessary.
Elzy had two unmistakable characteristics. One was her voice—a nasal combination of West Side Chicago and a lion suffering from strep throat—and the other was an undying love for Frank Sinatra. Her gargle-growl took on a terrifying tenor when she sang “Fly Me to the Moon” or “Witchcraft,” making dogs howl up and down Balmoral Avenue. The more the cancer spread and the sicker she got, the less she sang. After a final visit to her doctor, Elzy knew that she was going to die. It was right before Lou was born that she gave my parents the Sinatra bust, touched my mom’s belly tenderly, and told them that Frank would watch over them when she was gone.
He has sat on the shelf in the same spot ever since.
I was thinking of them both, Grandpa Enzo and Elzy, hoping they died happy, and it was only the fingernails-on-a-chalkboard tone of Greta’s rant that brought me back.
She had her fists on her hips and was wagging her head from side to side, speaking her piece about “unfair to Buddy” this and “our share of the pie” that.
When she paused to take a breath, my father said, “Calm down, Greta. Buddy knows full well that he’s going to get half the
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