Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

THAT BAILEY . . .

Bailey, that Bailey! He said to me, Rosie, get over yourself!

It was not a compliment.

I said, Bailey, you get over your own self.

Which shows you just how mad I was, to say such a dumb thing.

I’M MAD . . .

Bailey, who is usually so nice, Bailey, my neighbor, my friend, my buddy, my pal for my whole life, knowing me better than anybody, that Bailey, that Bailey I am so mad at right now, that Bailey, I hate him today.

GRANNY TORRELLI SAYS . . .

My granny Torrelli says when you are angry with someone, so angry you are thinking hateful things, so angry maybe you want to punch them, then you should think of the good things about them, and the nice things they’ve said, and why you liked them in the first place.

Granny Torrelli is always so reasonable, so calm, so patient, except maybe for the time a man tried to get into her house, pretending he was the meter reader, and she smashed the door on his foot and picked up a broom and opened the door again and beat him on the head with it and told him she had a gun (which she did not really have) and would use it if she had to.

Then she told him he was a pitiful excuse for a human being, going around like that trying to take advantage of old ladies (even though she normally does not like anyone else to call her an old lady).

WHY I LIKED BAILEY . . .

Why I liked Bailey in the first place: Bailey was always there, born next door to me, one week after me, the two of us just two babies growing up side by side, our mothers together, and me and Bailey together, on the lawn, on the porch, on the floor, playing with pots and pans and mud and worms and snow and rain and puddles.

Help Bailey was what our mothers said to me. Help him, will you, Rosie? And I did. I always helped Bailey. He was my buddy, my pal, my friend. Went to the zoo, went to the park, had birthdays together.

What a smile that Bailey had! He was smiling mostly all the time, his hands waving out in front of him, sweeping the air. Freckles on his face, sticking-up hair very soft, very quiet Bailey boy, but not too quiet, and not pushy, not selfish, not mean, not usually.

I pretended he was my brother, only he was better than a brother because I chose him and he chose me.

So why does he go and be so spiteful? Why does he say Rosie, get over yourself! and why does he say that in that cold voice and slam the door in my face as if I am nobody?

GRANNY TORRELLI MAKES SOUP . . .

Granny Torrelli comes over, says she’s in charge of me tonight. She wants soup. Zuppa! she calls it. She says it like this: ZOO-puh!

She starts rooting in the refrigerator, selecting celery (That’s your green, she says), carrots (That’s your orange, she says), onions and mushrooms (That’s our white, I say).

She reaches in the freezer, snatches some chicken, flips it into the microwave, zaps it to defrost. Seizes the big red pot, fills it with water, tosses in salt and pepper and a dash of soy sauce.

Hands me a knife. We chop, chop, chop, fling it all in the pot, such a good smell bubbling in the kitchen.

And then she says it: Okay, Rosie, what’s going on with you?

I say, Nothing’s going on with me.

She says, You maybe can fool other people with that smart head of yours, but you can’t fool Granny Torrelli.

I love Granny Torrelli, always making good things, always so calm, so patient, always telling me about my smart head.

YOU GOING TO TELL ME?

Granny Torrelli roots in the cupboard, snares the little pasta dots, adds more pepper and salt to the bubbling good things, tosses in the pasta, and says, You going to tell me what happened? You going to tell me what’s making your eyes so inside-looking?

She reaches out and taps underneath each of my eyes. It tickles.

Oh, it’s nothing, I say. It’s just that Bailey.

That Bailey? she says. That Bailey? Your buddy, your pal—is there any other Bailey?

I push my shoulders up, let them fall again.

Rosie, why are you so sad, inside-looking about Bailey? He is sick?

No, he is not sick, I say. Except in the head, maybe.

Granny Torrelli smacks her lips. Rosie, that’s no way to talk about your buddy, your pal Bailey.

She frowns, a big clown frown, and pretends to sob. Boo hoo hoo, she says. That Bailey has made me molto, molto sad. Boo hoo hoo.

She makes me laugh, that Granny Torrelli.

PARDO . . .

Granny Torrelli hands me the wooden spoon. I stir the soup. It’s smelling so good: all the green and orange and white swirling in the chickeny broth.

I am thinking maybe I will tell her about that Bailey, when Granny says, I ever tell