Rococo (12 page)

“Ma, please. People are eatin’ here.” Anthony, a compact version of his mother, gets a rolling laugh from the crowd as he enters the garage.

“Anthony, wish your uncle a happy birthday, please.”

Anthony worms through the crowd and gives me a big hug. “Sorry I’m late. I had to send out a shipment for the holidays. Stampato bracelets, eighteen karats.”

“Please, everyone, pick up your drinks. It’s time to toast my baby brother.” Toot holds her Fuzzy Navel cocktail high. With her free hand, she adjusts her dress so the peekaboo lace inserts resume their proper places. “B, come down here.”

I move to the band riser and look up at my sister.

“Oh, the things I remember about my brother,” she declares. “Forty years ago this day, I prayed to Saint Gerard to send me a baby sister. I wanted a girl because I had just learned to sew and wanted to make the baby frilly dresses and bonnets.”

“That hardly stopped you,” I shout. “Remember the sailor pants with the Austrian crystal buttons?” The crowd laughs and applauds.

Toot waves me off. There’s no stopping her now. “Any-hoo, my mother, may she rest in peace, had Bartolomeo late in life. There was never any shame about this, mind you, because my mother believed that if God sent you, he had a job for you to do down here. B’s first task was completing our family and making our parents proud. His second was to keep me company. I remember taking Bartolomeo to the movies. He loved melodramas, anything with Kay Francis. He was six years old when I took him to see her in
The White Angel.
He leaned across after a big tearjerker scene in the hospital and said, ‘Sis, that was so hammy-sammy.’ Can you believe it? He was
six
! That’s my brother. He can tell a real from a fake anytime. B is honest and straightforward and true . . . and talented. Talent is not given out liberally by God. In fact, it’s such a rare thing that most people just pretend to have it. But not my brother. He’s got it—in
here.
” Toot raps on her chest.

“Tell ’em about
The Wizard of Oz,
Ma!” Two shouts from the crowd.

Toot smiles. “Well, we were at the Rialto in Spring Lake, two shows plus the newsreel for a nickel. There was supposed to be this great new movie for kids starring Judy Garland. It was called
The Wizard of Oz.
So I took him. When B laid eyes on Margaret Hamilton on that bicycle, he started screaming and I couldn’t get him to stop. Then all the other kids started screaming, and B took off running up the aisle and it caused a stampede.”

“I like my monkeys without wings, thank you!” I shout.

“Well, we never went back to the Rialto,” Toot says. “Of course, it wasn’t our choice. We were banned for life.”

“And I’ve never seen the whole movie!” I take another swig of my cocktail.

“When the flying monkeys scared him, I knew that, while he was a tough little boy, he had his own movie playing inside his head. But the movie in his head was pretty. As a child, he was so easy, you could entertain him with just about anything. He would stare at a silk throw pillow for hours, studying it, taking it apart in his mind’s eye thread by thread. Little did I know that in those moments he was becoming a decorator. He was paying attention. I’m so proud of you, B. And I’m sick that you got the slim hips in the family, but for that small thing, I can forgive you. You are the best brother any girl could ever hope to have, and every night when I say my prayers, I beg God to forgive me for wishing he had sent a little sister instead of you. No girl would have been better.” Toot raises her glass.
“Cent’anni.”

Nellie Fanelli, in a black rayon chemise (she’s been a widow for seventeen years and still wears black—clearly she takes her cues from Aunt Edith’s Widow Etiquette book), motions to Toot from the dance floor. Toot leans down as Nellie whispers in her ear.

“Uh . . .” Toot looks puzzled. Nellie prompts her. After a couple of awkward moments, finally, Toot speaks into the microphone. “I now am going to turn the microphone over to Father Porporino, who I guess is gonna do the invocation—though I should say no one asked him—but here you are, Father, so come on up.” Toot makes a face and clonks the microphone onto the piano like it’s a rotten banana. Nicky helps her off the riser as Father Porp climbs onto the stage.

A low moan of disgust rumbles through the crowd like a waft of gasoline from the spare cans hidden behind the balloons. Father picks up the microphone and turns to face us. He is wearing his weekend priest ensemble: black trousers, a white shirt with a Roman collar, and a black V-neck sweater. “Happy birthday, Bartolomeo.”

The crowd is so quiet, I can hear the squeaks of the plastic knife as Lady Sylvia saws away at her veal parm.

“I came tonight without invitation.” Father shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “The good people of Our Lady of Fatima have been a little upset with me over the past couple of weeks. I went outside our community to find a decorator to renovate the church. I had no idea the firestorm this decision would cause. The phone at the rectory has not stopped ringing since I made the announcement. There is a depth of feeling for the House of B in this town that I was not aware of.”

“You got
that
right, Padre!” cousin Tiki Matera yells, holding up her bottle of beer like it’s a sword.

“And so I came here tonight to make things right. If you’ll consider it, Bartolomeo, I would like to appoint you to renovate our church. I informed the firm of Patton and Persky this morning that we were no longer in need of their services. What say you?” Father extends his hand toward me, awaiting my answer. I sip my cocktail, which has made me feel fuzzy enough to love the world, Father Porporino included.

When I feel like I’ve made him squirm long enough, I shout, “Are you just trying to get out of buying me a gift?” The crowd cheers.

“I did bring a Saint Bartholomew medal for you as well,” he jokes.

Maybe it’s because I told Father off in the confessional—or maybe because I’ve always felt sorry for priests who have to live in a rectory, cannot have bank accounts, and live loveless lives—or maybe it’s the extra shot of sweet vermouth in my Manhattan—but, I feel a rush of pity for him. I want to put a smile on his face, replacing the glum set of his mouth that seems to show genuine remorse for the biggest miscalculation of his clerical career. On the other hand, I’ll have few opportunities as perfect as this for making sure he never sandbags me again. So I say loudly, “I’ll take the job, Father—on one condition.”

“And what is that?”

“No interference from anyone. That includes you, the parish council, the diocese at large, Bishop Kilcullen, his staff of evil trolls, and the Pope himself.”

There is a long silence. Perhaps “evil trolls” was extreme. Too late to worry about that now. Cousin Christina slips up beside me and takes my hand in support. Father Porporino looks out into the eyes of the faithful (the di Crespi version, at least) and makes his decision. “There will be no interference. The Church of Our Lady of Fatima is yours to do with as you will.”

Christina squeezes my hand, but before the crowd can erupt into another cheer, Father Porp drops the other shoe. “There’s one thing you need to know. Cardinal Angelini of the Golfo de Genoa in Italy will be here on the feast day of our church, October 13, 1971. You must be finished by then.”

“You have my word, Father.”

The crowd applauds as Dom Ruggiero takes his cue and plays “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Toot forms a conga line, and I fall behind her and grab the grommets of her black stretch belt to follow. Christina latches on to me, Amalia on to her, and so it goes until all the cousins in my bloodline are hooked together like one of Aunt Carmella’s crocheted car blankets. As we cha-cha in celebration, Toot leads the way outside and under the stars as the band plays. There are worse ways to turn forty.

CHAPTER FOUR

Matelasse in Manhattan

I’m no fool. The first thing I do the Monday morning after my birthday party is call my cousin the lawyer Carmine Mastrangelo, in Avon-by-the-Sea. He flits around from firm to firm with such regularity, I have to call his mother for his latest work number. It’s as if he’s an office temp, Juris Doctor, of course.

Although Carmine is not the finest legal mind in New Jersey, he works for a flat fee if you’re a blood relative. (Luckily he’s a second cousin once removed, so I qualify.) For a hundred bucks he’ll do a will or a divorce, or sue the pants off anyone who has crossed you. I put in a call to him at the new office, the firm of Peter, Paul & Mary (no kidding, it’s Pietro, Paulo & di Maria), and have him draw up an agreement with Father Porporino and the diocese for my services in the church renovation. Carmine promises to have it ready by the afternoon, which tells me I’m not the first client who has needed a binding contract with RC Incorporated.

Toot calls and chews me out about Two’s temporary defection from Villanova. I calm her down, assuring her that he’ll return to get his degree in due course, but that he needs time to recharge his creative battery.

That afternoon I sit in the front pew of the church and let my imagination run wild. What to do with this Gothic masterpiece? I feel like Bernini confronting the empty space under the dome at St. Peter’s. I have so many ideas to sort through. It’s not going to be easy. All the ideas I had for the church seem too simple now. The deadline, while it’s a year and a half away, looms large. I have to come up with a design and find the artisans to execute it almost immediately.

“I’m thrilled that Father came to his senses and gave the right man the job!” Zetta Montagna, in a simple navy blue suit, slides into the pew next to me. Rail-thin and chic, she is truly the Jackie Kennedy Onassis of Fatima Church.

“Thank you for going to bat for me.” I’m no fool. As president of the sodality, she is Father Porp’s pet.

“You deserve it. The entire sodality is in full support of you. Whatever we can do to help, just let us know.” She pats my hand.

I almost welcome their help until I remember when I renovated the church basement and asked the sodality for suggestions. They got in an eight-month war over what color enamel the stove should be. “Maybe you could say a novena for me?”

“Are you nervous?”

“I’m in that funny place of having gotten what I wished for.”

“Are you having designer’s remorse?”

“I’m feeling the pressure. There’s a lot of work to be done in a short amount of time. And then, of course, it has to be perfect. Churches are renovated every hundred years or so. Imagine that. It will be 2070 when my work gets an overhaul.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” Zetta gets up and genuflects before the altar. “Who did the flowers?”

“Me. Oreste Castellucci asked me to do them in honor of his mother’s special birthday Mass tomorrow. I hope they hold until Sunday.”

“They’re gorgeous.”

She goes into the sacristy.

I get up and genuflect at the altar. Then, I get to work. As I lift the flower arrangements out of their boxes, I say a quick prayer of thanksgiving.

I missed my church life immensely during the past month, and while I did head over to St. Catharine’s in the interim, Father Porp’s slight certainly shook my belief in the clergy, representatives of Jesus himself here on earth. (This is what I was taught and I’m sticking to it!) Now I see Father Porp as just another human being running a business. He, too, is Italian and not all that different from many men in my family who feel entitled to do whatever they want just because they’re
men.
But Vatican II was eight years ago, and it’s time for a little democracy here in Our Lady of Fatima. The people have spoken.

The door in the back of the church creaks open. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want?” Christina folds her arms and stands near the back pew. She’s back in black, in a pair of black chinos and matching windbreaker. Evidently her turquoise blue party dress was a blip in her mourning attire.

“The first thing you can do is help me with the flowers,” I chirp.

“Is this a setup?” She walks down the aisle toward me.

“Whatever do you mean?” I give her a spray of blue asters with yellow dahlias scattered through the greens, and she follows me up to the altar.

“I haven’t set foot in this joint since Charlie’s funeral. Do you think asking me to meet you here is going to inspire me to come back to church?”

“It would be nice.”

“Oh, B. You’ll be waiting a long time for those clouds to part so you can hear God’s big booming voice: ‘Come back, Christina. Your black heart needs redemption, and by the way, we need you to help us raise money to reseed the football field at Our Lady of Fatima High School.’ ”

“Oh, ha ha. That’s the first thing you fallen away Catholics throw at us diehards. The church only wants your money. Well, I assure you, we want more than your money. We also want your soul. Now”—I give Christina the garland woven with fresh greens and point her toward the altar—“careful, it’s delicate.”

“So, what are you going to do to this barn?” she asks, laying the garland down carefully.

“It won’t be a barn when I’m done with it,” I promise her. “But I can’t do it alone. I need your help. In fact, I called you here on a mission not to save your soul but to save my”—I point to my rear end.

“I knew it! My mother sent me a Maryknoll newsletter inviting widows to upstate New York for a retreat. Unless they’re putting a carton of cigarettes and a fifth of Scotch on our pillows, I’m not going.”

“Do you think that’s funny?” I try not to be put off by Christina’s sarcasm. “You’re young. You have a lot ahead of you.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“Not in this moment, no. But it will come back.”

“What?”

“Hope.”

“You’re dreaming.” Christina turns to the white marble altar where the priest used to say Mass in Latin with his back to us. She opens the small gold tabernacle door and peers in.

“Don’t touch that!”

“I always wanted to see what was inside.”

“Now you know.” I push the door shut. “Behave yourself. Only the select few who went through the rigorous altar-boy instructions are allowed to touch the tabernacle.”

“When I was little and read
Alice in Wonderland,
I wanted to find a magic potion that would shrink me enough that I could go inside that door.”

“It’s just a box.” I pick up a dusting cloth and wipe away our fingerprints. “Nothing exciting. There is only a supply of stale consecrated hosts in a small gold canister to administer to the sick and dying.”

“And Father Defede’s pack of cigarettes.”

“Who told you that?”

“Richie Sammarco, my eighth-grade boyfriend. He was an altar boy too.”

“I can’t believe he gave away a trade secret.” I pull the marble urns to the foot of the altar and fill them with fresh greens. “I really need you. I’d like you to come and work with me.”

“Come on.”

“I’m serious. You can’t live on Charlie’s life insurance forever.”

“Honestly, B, you get right to it, don’t you?” Christina lines up the crisp creases of the cloth with the edges of the altar underneath.

“I only speak from concern,” I remind her gently.

“Charlie had that life insurance from the Knights of Columbus, and I didn’t even know about it. When the check came, I almost tore it up, I was so angry. As if money could bring him back.”

“What stopped you?”

“Amalia. She yanked it out of my hands and said, ‘This is a gift from Daddy.’ ”

“Smart kid.”

“You’ll never know.” Christina sits on the step in front of the Communion railing. I sit down next to her, after a quick genuflection in front of the altar.

“So you’re going to live your life in that gorgeous Tudor that I decorated and be miserable?”

“For now.”

“If you came to work for me, it would help. I promise you.”

“I don’t know a thing about churches. Really, even through twelve years of Catholic school, I didn’t pay much attention. I just followed instructions. I wouldn’t know a cruet from a crucifix.”

“Which is why you’re perfect for the job. I need someone who will pull me back from the safe choices. I want people to walk into this church, whether they’re Catholic or not, and fall to their knees at its grandeur, have a mystical experience because the place is so beautiful it makes their eyes sting.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Christina gets up and extends her hand to pull me up. “It’s a church. It’s supposed to scare you into being good. How do you decorate that?” She looks around and I know what she’s thinking. My beloved church is a disaster. The place even smells old. “It’s not bad if you like gargoyles and stations of the cross that look like scenes from
The Birdman of Alcatraz.
”

“Oh, all that’s going to go. I’m going to reinvent the House of God. And who better to help me than the one person in the world who needs Him the most at this moment?”

“You sound like a kook, B.” She sighs. “Count me in. But only because you’re more fun than my addiction to the
Edge of Night
every afternoon at four. Let’s face it. I need a job.”

I might have been the most sought-after decorator in New York City and been in all the magazines like that chintz nut Mario Buatta, but I would have had to give up OLOF, Toot, and the boys. Duty is more important than self-advancement for a di Crespi. With that in mind, hiring family is always a bad idea, especially if you’re Italian. I believe the problem began with the mezzadri system in Italy, where a padrone ruled over workers who took care of his land and lived on his property. A resentment of authority runs deep in our veins. So what have I done? In short order, I’ve hired two family members: Christina, who will assist me with the church, and Two, who will function as a gofer so I can keep my private-client business on track while I do the church.

Christina’s first task as design associate (her new title) of the House of B is research. I send her to the divinity library at Seton Hall to find out everything she can about the miracle at Fatima. I grew up with a pretty good knowledge of saints and miracles, but I never studied them in depth. My mother’s martyrdom gave me enough firsthand experience with suffering, so I didn’t see a need to conduct further research. I leave the hard-core analysis of mystical experiences to Vatican tribunals, novitiates, and seminarians.

Four times a year I attend workshops in Manhattan sponsored by ASID, in which Members meet for high tea in the Blue Room of the Plaza Hotel (don’t get me started on how much I love this hotel, right down to the Eloise painting in the lobby) to listen to various guest speakers. Today I feel like a Vanderbilt sipping tea while overlooking the summer foliage of Central Park. It’s an afternoon of socializing, education, and tasty gossip.

“Thank you for the flowers.” Mary Kate Fitzsimmons leans over, her soft hair brushing my temple as she whispers in my ear. “Peonies are my favorite.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I came with my colleagues, so I can’t sit with you.” She smiles apologetically. “But I wish I could.”

I stand up and kiss her hand. “Next time.”

“I’ll see you . . . sometime?”

“Of course, darling.”

Mary Kate weaves through the tables to get to her seat. She sits down next to leggy Gloria Zalaznick, an up-and-coming decorator from Great Neck, and Bunny Williams, the spunky assistant at Parrish-Hadley.

I chat with the folks at my table. I always love seeing Helen McNeill, who knows more about rugs than anyone in town, and Norbert Ratliff, who first recommended Helen to me. Eventually I turn my attention to the agenda for the high tea.

On each table there’s a cup of sharpened golf pencils in a silver cup. I take one to jot down notes. There’s also a folder filled with vendors’ invitations to lunch or showroom cocktail parties where they pitch new products (cabinet-front refrigerators, nontoxic paints, Orlon wall-to-wall carpeting). I find these seminars incredibly interesting, but throw in fresh scones, clotted cream, and jam, and it’s just so civilized!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Barbara D’Arcy of Bloomingdale’s says as she takes the podium, smiling out over the crowd. Her eyes match her sapphire blue blouse perfectly. I wonder if she chose this room because she knew her coloring would look best here.

Everyone loves Barbara, and the first stop for any good decorator is her jammed-to-the-ceiling Interiors Department on the fourth floor at Bloomie’s. If you can’t find what you’re looking for there, she gets on the horn and connects you to a purveyor who can. She is a walking, talking textbook for the interior decorator. There’s a rumor going around that she’s writing a book. I can’t wait to read it.

“Thank you for joining us this afternoon,” Barbara continues. “I’ve been trying to get our guest speaker to come and talk to us for several years now, but she’s hard to pin down. Last year she was studying mosaic wall treatments in Eastern Orthodox churches in Moscow. This spring she was in China learning how to double-back embroidered silk, and last past summer she was in London learning about medieval marble inlay in cathedral settings. There is nothing in our trade this gal doesn’t know, hasn’t seen or attempted to master. You never know what sort of room she’ll create next. She did the foyer at the Frick Museum, and the English club room at the Carlyle Hotel—and, let me tell you, it is British down to the sugar cubes! Most recently, she designed the Fifth Avenue penthouse for the ambassador to Indonesia. She’s the magician behind the exotic-bird room in the glass solarium on the roof of Number Ten Park Avenue. But of course you all read about that in the
Times.
When it comes to interior decoration, she has no peer. Please join me in welcoming our own ASID member Eydie Von Gunne of VG Designs of Park Avenue.”