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I’m not quite sure what a babalaka is, not even sure if it’s Italian or dialect or North Beach pidgin. But I have no doubt it applies to me — namely because my marital status as single leaves me with no excuse not to spend my spare time with Nonie sewing potholders in preparation for domestic bliss. There is nothing suitable about going to the library. Nothing is more unattractive, more unmarriageable, than a girl with big books. Now that I’m in college some 3,000 miles away from home, I have something of an excuse for my infrequent visits. But even when I was attending high school a mere two miles away from her apartment, it was embarrassing how easily I forgot Nonie for extended periods of time. Looking back, high school feels like a recurring anxiety dream, like a dream of waking up late, falling asleep in class, and scrambling to finish papers in the Mac Lab at lunch, like a dream that hazily continues night after night to no particular conclusion. But one day midway through my junior year stands out: “the day of joy and giving.” No, not Christmas, but something nearly as good, something nearly as rewarding, or so our dean told us: “Community Service Day!” The only day of the year Convent of the Sacred Heart opened its wrought iron gates, and ushered its uniformed fledglings out of the marble halls and into the real world. Macias, Rodriguez, Mares, and Mendoza — the only four Hispanics in my class — were assigned to help at the Santa Maria Daycare Center in the Mission, where, as 16-year-olds, they were older than a number of the mothers dropping off children. The waspier surnames — Hamilton, Gedney and Jones — were assigned to pick up trash in Pacific Heights, the land of bath salt stores and BMWs. And I, a Mari, was sent along with Siboni and Alioto to North Beach, San Francisco’s Italian neighborhood. After cleaning St. Francis’s Cathedral in the morning, we were to assist the Italian Club senior sector, a group that met for a couple hours every Tuesday afternoon, in pumpkin painting. After lunch, Siboni, Alioto, and I were escorted into the Fugazi Italian Cultural Center, two flights above the Beach Blanket Babylon Theater. The hall creaked under our black dress shoes. The hardwood steps emanated a sort of familiar afternoon warmth. Reaching the second story, we were piloted towards the back of the building, to a high-ceilinged room, with a marble fireplace and four huge windows that spanned the length of the wall. And sitting just before the leftmost window, a hazy gray silhouette against the blinding backdrop of the bay, was Nonie. As I drew incredulously closer, the topography of her face came slowly into relief — first her nose, followed by her huge glasses with the translucent beige frames and gold accents. When angel clip-ons finally materialized on her lobes, there was no room left for doubt. “Francesca! You came here to visit me?” She said, her eyelids rising, exposing the robin blue ring around her chestnut brown irises. The twelve other seniors seated around the oblong table either turned to look at us or put their good ear in our direction. “Well, uh, hah, our school is actually here to do community service,” I stuttered. “But I’m so glad you’re here! I can’t believe you’re here!” “What’s community service?” Nonie asked. “Uh well, once a year our school takes a day to volunteer within San Francisco — within the San Francisco community.” “Oh, uhuh. That’s nice. I’m so glad you came to visit me!” “I’m so glad you’re here!” I echoed, shame clawing at my throat. “I’m here every Tuesday! Here! Paint my pumpkin!” she said plunking a mini pumpkin in front of me, and thrusting the paintbrush into my hand. She had already scrawled black paint across the top half. “Don’t you want to do it?” I said. “No! You’re better at it. You do it.” “But it’s just for fun. It’s your pumpkin,” I said trying to hand it back to her. “I’ll get another one. You fix that.” Geeze, I can’t paint over black, I thought and decided to give the whole thing a black base coat. Nonie began jabbing a second pumpkin with polka dots. “You came here to visit me?” she said again. Then she dug around in her purse for her wallet, and after fumbling with the clasp, opened the worn leather wallet and slowly pushed out a family snapshot from the credit card slot with her arthritic finger. “Look here,” she said, stabling her forefinger into the photo. “Look at this family picture! More than half of ‘em are dead now. See, look. One, two, three, Timmy, is he--? No, no, not yet... six, seven. Seven! Seven outta eleven. How’s that! God, I’m old.” “Jesus,” I said. “And Gloria, she went cuckoo. They shipped her to the Boobie Patch!” Gloria was one of Nonie’s neighbors — the one with Alzheimer’s — and the “Boobie Patch” was how Nonie indiscriminately referred to rest homes and mental institutions alike. “The Boobie Patch!” Nonie repeated, ramming her fist down on the table.
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