Chada

This is Grama Mary. She is a gold star.

When she was young, they called her Maricada ("Little Mary"), but her baby brother couldn't say it quite right, so it came out "Marichada" and soon turned into "Chada."

She used to pick up me, Tim, and Angelo everyday from St Rose Elementary.

One day after school, an orange Ford Maverick pulled up alongside of Grama Mary's old, champagne-colored Cadillac while we were driving on First Street.
The young female driver rolled down her window, turned her flat, sunburned, orthodontic-filled face to Grama Mary, and yelled,

"Bitch!"

Before we could even process what had happened or why,

"Bitch!"

Wait a second,

"Bitch!"

I started to panic. Did she realize this was Grama Mary she was talking to?! Did she realize this sweet woman was a precious angel of love?! Did she realize that if she had pulled up next to Grama Mary and asked her for fresh-baked cookies or homemade meatballs, she would have obliged?! Immediately?!

My face caught on fire as I felt my tiny mouth open and release my first sentence with a curse word.

"Hey! You are the bitch one!"

Suddenly, the same throat that had so effortlessly screamed that declaration, became paralyzed with fear. And not fear of punishment, but fear of disappointment.
I had said a bad word.
Out loud.
At somebody.

My mind flashed to a scene earlier in the month, where Grama Mary was so angry at Papa Joe, but all she could come up with was to call him a squirrel.

Sweet Jesus, what have I done?

I grasped onto the Virgin Mother necklace I had received for my services as an alterboy-girl and slowly turned towards the living saint.

But she wasn't looking back at me. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the road. The KNX-1070 AM news radio was giving the traffic report.

And Grama Mary was smiling.