My grandmother had two sisters -- Mary and Lizzie. They lived in the same house -- Aunt Mary, downstairs; Aunt Lizzie, upstairs.
I spent part of my childhood summers with them -- days, sometimes weeks, at a time.
Aunt Mary and I baked doughnut-shaped yellow cakes and filled them with Cool Whip and My-T-Fine chocolate pudding. I'd add Cool Whip to the pudding until it was almost, but not quite, white.
We made shiny, sticky pizza dough from scratch and sauce from big cans of tomatoes. We fried disks of dough in deep oil, spread them with warm sauce, and grated cheese to sprinkle on top.
The three of us played school. I was the teacher, giving and grading spelling tests. My students had to sit with their hands folded, and raise their hands if they had a question.
I starred in commercials alongside the kitchen's jars and cans: Hi-C Fruit Punch, 4C Iced T, strawberry PDQ.
The cutlery drawer was a cash register. I was a waitress; spoons were dollar bills, forks were twenties.
I was a reporter, asking Mary and Lizzie about each other, asking them both about Jessie -- what she had been like as a little girl.
Downstairs, the tv was on all day: first, game shows, then soap operas ("stories"), then Donahue, then news. Over the years, Donahue would turn into Oprah.
When it was cool, we sat outside on metal chairs, shaded by sickly sweet-smelling grape vines that also harbored bees. The damp grass grew too long, gave me chills. I played hopscotch by myself.
Once a week, Lizzie and I walked up the block to pick up Chinese: big, greasy egg rolls, immense fried chicken wings, saucy pepper steak. I picked out the peppers. No one minded.
On Wednesdays, we walked to Foodtown. Men talked and laughed on corners, in front of empty stores, on their porches, at bus stops. If their voices got louder, or angry, or stopped -- we walked a tiny bit faster.
At Foodtown, the frozen food greeted us. If we picked our ice cream when we arrived, it melted as we shopped. In the snack aisles, people tore open bags of cookies and chips -- "free" samples I sneakily munched. When we'd finished our rounds, Lizzie headed to the check-out and I ran and grabbed a half-gallon of Neapolitan or Heavenly Hash.
I wrote stories on the green pages of a steno pad. Aunt Mary sharpened my pencil with a knife. Aunt Lizzie blew a shrill Oscar Meyer wiener whistle when "creeps" called. When she talked to her sisters on the phone, her hearing aid whistled.
She once left bacon frying on the stove. The ceiling caught on fire.
I took naps, read books, snooped in drawers when I could.
I was skinny. To fatten me up, Lizzie snuck raw eggs into my afternoon milkshakes.
When my grandmother came over, we all quieted down.
Every couple of months, these three daughters of an Italian drunk dyed each other's hair.
Upstairs, I slept in my own bed in my own room. My room had a desk -- the best spot of all. After Lizzie tucked me in, I dozed off to the smell of minty denture cleaner, and the shrill voices of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.
