The Italian Curse (Malocchio – The Evil Eye)

It was almost 6:30 AM when Mom started banging on my bedroom door while simultaneously shouting, “Get up, I’m going to be late!” not once but twice.  I peered my head out from under the covers just enough to see Mom standing there all dressed in her off-white tight-fitting nurses aid uniform.  “Well,” she said, “you need to take me to work.” I cringed and stuck my head back under the soft down pillow, hoping she would just go away and let me sleep in a little while longer.

I finally sat up, rubbed my eyes, and stared at my poster of the U.S.S Enterprise, soaring through the galaxy in search of new worlds.  I thought to myself, “I’ll bet that Sulu’s mom didn’t barge into his bed chamber at 6 AM and point a laser at his face, demanding that he immediately drive her to Altair 4.”

Sleepy eyed, I threw on a pair of Jordache jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt, quickly looked in the mirror, gave my hair a quick brush-through and dashed out into the kitchen. 

Mom was sitting at the table, thumbing through the latest J.C. Penney’s catalog while pointing to the next year’s fabric calendar that she needed to order to replace the one currently hanging on the wall.  I reached for my car keys dangling on the hook near the door, grabbed my light jacket from the doorknob to the basement along with my sunglasses, and started out the door. 

It was a bit chilly on this early October morning and I could see a trace of morning dew still on the grass. 

The front windshield on my Monte Carlo was also wet with dew.  I got into the car and started the engine. I flicked on the wipers as mom slid into the passenger side of the car.

Mom was what they called back a “domestic”, which is basically just a glorified maid.  She cleaned the rooms of the elderly residents at the nursing home and took care of some of their basic needs like fresh ice water and clean towels. Mom was also a good companion and listener to her patients, if only for a few minutes a day, and gave them some much needed personal attention.

Mom was awfully quiet on the drive to Arnold Walter Nursing Home.  She didn’t claw the dashboard at the intersection of Middle Road and Bethany, when I abruptly stopped two inches from hitting the Nash Rambler in front of me.  She didn’t put her fist up to her mouth and bite gently, when I swerved just slightly to avoid a squirrel running across the road near the police station. She just sat there quietly and mumbled. It was something unintelligible, like words she would say at church for each bead on her rosary. 

Finally, I asked, “What’s wrong?”  “Is something bothering you?” She sat quietly for a minute or two.   Then, she spoke.

“I have a patient on my wing that I’m worried about”, she said. “Yesterday she asked me to help her die.” she went on.  “Oh my God, really?” I said. “What did you do?”  “What could I do” she said?  I’m not a nurse.  I only clean her room and sometimes we chat a little,” Mom went on.  “Clara is only around 70 years old. On most days she is pretty cheerful, but lately she confides in me about her kids not coming to see her anymore, and how she feels so lonely and forgotten.”

I thought about what Mom said for a minute, before I replied. “It’s nice that you are there for them… you clean their rooms, bring them fresh linens, ice water, and pick up after their messes in the bathrooms… what more do they expect from you?”  “You’re right, Len, but I still can’t just ignore their pleas for help,” she explained. “Perhaps you can get someone in administration to come and talk to her and get her some help,” I said.

“Maybe,” Mom said.  “I just hate to see these people in these situations,” she added.  “These people who are stuck in wheelchairs are parked in rows along the hallways with no one to talk to and nothing to do.  They just sit there and drool all over themselves.  They have nothing to look forward to except their meals in the cafeteria, and then after that, to go back to their rooms to vegetate some more.” 

It was nearing 7 AM, and Mom needed to head inside and start her shift.  “Let’s talk about this some more when you get home okay.  Do you have a ride tonight?” I asked.  “Yes, my friend Lillian should be around to give me a lift,” she let me know.  “Okay, I’ll see you this evening. Love you Mom,” I said, “try and have a good day.” 

I left for work around 9 AM, and I got home at 6 PM.  Mom showed up shortly thereafter.

“So, how was your day today, I inquired?”   “It was a little better than yesterday,” she responded.  “Clara was feeling much better as well, and we had the chance to talk.  She asked if there was a way to get some of the residents involved in doing something together, aside from arts and crafts, which is a common mainstay for most nursing homes. It keeps them busy, but they don’t really interact with each other,” she went on.

I mentioned music.  That really sparked her interest. “What if we get a bunch of people together in the common room and have a sing-a-thon?”  she asked.  “I’ll bet that some of those old broads have pretty good voices, and who doesn’t like singing, right?” she added.  “That’s a great idea!” I exclaimed.  “Good!” mom shot back, “I’m glad you agree with me.  That’s why I volunteered you to come in on Saturday afternoons and play the piano for them,” she added.  “Just think, you can take requests and get them all up out of their chairs, belt out some tunes, and encourage them to shake it up a bit!”

I just sat there with a glazed look on my face.  “I’m not that good, you know.  My piano skills are a bit rusty, and I’d just make a fool out of myself.”  “Nonsense,” mom chimed in.  “It’s not Radio City Music Hall, it’s Arnold Walter.  Come on, it will be fun and just think of how many happy faces you will put on those folks!”

“Okay, I’ll do it for you… but only on a trial basis,” I said as I surrendered. “We can arrange it for Saturday between 1PM and 3PM, after lunch and before nap time.” Mom said. 

When I arrived on Saturday afternoon, there were about twelve people already seated in the common room.  The piano was polished and there was a bottle of water sitting on top for me.

I introduced myself and let everyone know that I would do my best to play their favorite tunes if I knew them.  I could ad-lib a few, but I wanted them not to get disappointed if I couldn’t play what they requested.

Most of them understood.  I sat down at the piano bench and played a little intro song to get them started. Most of them knew the tune “Heart and Soul”, and the tempo was just at the right pitch for them to sing along.  It went well.  Others who were skeptical at first started joining in, and before you knew it, we ourselves had one of the worst off-key chorus groups you could imagine. But that’s what was so fun about it.

For the next hour, I took requests.  “Sentimental Journey”, “Begin the Beguine”, “April in Paris”, “A Tisket-A-Tasket”, and “Blueberry Hill”. 

I was nearing the end of my time there, when one lady named Amelia approached the piano and asked me to play her favorite song. I hesitated for a moment, thinking that I would need to get going, when she insisted again.  “Please play this for me, it was my husband’s and my wedding song and it would mean so much if you would play it.” I asked her the title, and she said, “Lady of Spain”.  “Gee”, I said, “I don’t know that one, I’m sorry”.  “You must know it!” she snapped.  “You knew “Cheek to Cheek”, and this one isn’t that much different!” Again, I said, “Sorry madam, I really don’t.”  Then she started humming it. “See, this is how it goes!” she continued.  Just to please her, I sat down at the piano and gave it a try, hitting a few keys by mistake, hoping she would just give up and wander away.  That didn’t happen.  Instead, she plopped herself down beside me and began to hit some keys at random, sounding like a bratty toddler in romper room.

After a few more minutes and realizing that I really didn’t know the score to “Lady of Spain”, Amelia jumped up and angrily looked me directly in the eye. “I will curse you and your entire family until your last day on this Earth!” she threatened.

Her eyes seemed to be ablaze with anger and her tiny lips quivered just slightly. She gave me the dreaded Malocchio (Evil Eye) curse.  Most Italians know that this is the sign of the Devil… a curse so terrible in some circles, that people get exorcised for it. 

I just stood there in shock.  Amelia finally marched away.

I got up and regained my composure.  I thanked the nice ladies and gentlemen for a most pleasant day, except for the last few minutes.

Everyone clapped as I gathered my jacket and headed for the door. Just before leaving, I turned around and stuck out my right hand towards the room… with just my pinky finger and index fingers extended. This gesture in my culture is the only way I knew to ward off the feared Italian malocchio curse.

I never did go back to the home, even though Mom said I was a big hit, and that they all begged for me to return.  I also didn’t turn into a toad, my heart and lungs went on functioning normally, and I didn’t meet any terrible fates for at least three dozen years.

I’m guessing that Amelia’s curse was just too weak to stick!