Rococo (22 page)

“The good people who pull their weight are always punished,” Marie clucks as she puts down her pencil and rubs her middle finger.

I ignore her. “For example,” I continue, “we built our own schools and we finance them. And luckily, we were able to have the good sisters come and teach for free.” Sister Mary Michael nods and smiles and moves her giant cross necklace to the center of her habit and pats it.

“Father?” I look to him for support.

“You’re the expert.” Father shrugs. I shoot him a look that says,
Thanks for the support, Padre.

Aurelia raises her hand. “I gave the money for this renovation because Father asked me for it, and because when the full choir is in the loft we’re afraid we’re going to break through to the main floor and be killed in one of those trampling deaths. The church needs fixing and it needs it now. I trust Bartolomeo to deliver us a sanctuary in good taste.”

“Thank you, Aurelia.”

“I only ask for one thing in return. A cry room for the little ones. I can’t hear myself think in Mass. People don’t control their children worth a damn anymore.”

The council nods in agreement, passing Aurelia’s proposal with a unanimous vote.

As I climb the steps from the church basement to the nave, I hear Rufus and Pedro talking. They sit on the steps in front of the main altar, surrounded by blueprints of the church structure. The interior has been completely stripped; the statues, pews, and altar are in storage. There are paint shadows on the walls where the stations of the cross hung. I practically skip down the main aisle to join them. “Sorry that took so long, guys. I had to do a little post-meeting massaging.”

Rufus studies my sketches. “This is it, huh?”

“That’s it,” I tell him.

“There’s definitely something here.”

“Something?” I hope I don’t sound defensive.

“It’s a start.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the sketches.

“I was hoping you’d say it was inspired and new and my sketches surprised you.”

“Well, they’re none of those things,” he says flatly.

I feel my stomach flutter. “What do you mean?”

“This is a standard redo of what was here. It’s just another church. There are some new elements, like the shrine to Mary, but other than that, it’s pretty dull.”

“What do you recommend?” My voice breaks.

“We need a focal point. A statement. Something that makes Fatima Church stand out from the rest.”

“Okay.” I’ve been self-employed all my life, and so I’m used to criticism. But his dismissive attitude hurts my feelings. After all, I worked for months on this renovation. Doesn’t he realize this?

Rufus scatters my sketches on the floor like pages from an old newspaper. “What have we got to lose? You’ve got the dough and the cleric over a barrel. He’d agree to anything, so why don’t you go with
something
? Let’s think big.” He gets up and looks around. “You want to blow out the ceiling with skylights, but for what?”

“Light!” My voice echoes in the vast emptiness.

“It should illuminate something besides a traditional altar. I’d like to make a suggestion.”

“Go ahead.”

“A moving wall of water.”

“Where?”

“Behind the altar. Look, you have a wall there that is fifty feet high. Let’s use it. We do a full mosaic wall of indigenous stone. And then we add water streaming down the wall in a way that makes it look like glass. You could have a pool, a trough basically, that recycles the water but also can be used to baptize your babies. Water is the fundamental element of your religion. It’s also the fundamental element of life. You get the picture.”

“Well, I was thinking water for the grotto.” I point to the shrine to Mary.

“Why put your focal point in a corner? Let’s get it out front and center,” Rufus says impatiently.

“I want a fresco and I want stained-glass windows.”

“You’ll get them. But first you need to show us on paper exactly what your dream is. I don’t see anything here that really soars above the expected and the ordinary, B. I don’t think you’ve cracked this yet. Think about the miracle at Fatima. There are real clues in that story that could help you reinvent this place in a most original way.”

“I don’t want a moving wall of water,” I say petulantly.

“Okay.” Rufus shrugs. “Why?”

“Because I . . . I just don’t like it.”

“You told the folks in the meeting that you didn’t want their input. Now I see why. You don’t like to hear new ideas. You won’t even consider them. You’re threatened by them.”

“I am not!” I sound like a child, but I don’t care. This is
my
church. No one is going to tell me how to do my job!

“Okay.” Rufus fishes in his pockets for his cigarettes.

“Are you comfortable following instructions?” I ask him pointedly.

Rufus leans against the altar, puts the cigarette in his mouth, but does not light it. “Not really.”

“Then we have a problem.”

Rufus puts his hands on the altar. “Look. I have a lot of notions. Some are kind of wild and others are fairly traditional. I’m not right all the time, but I think I can push you to take some chances. You need a worldview here. Your design is stale. I’ve restored a lot of churches, and I don’t think you should do the same old thing. You have the money and you have the time and you have the support of the priest. You should really shake it down.”

“Skylights and fabric and a marble floor treatment and a new altar and fresco and windows are what the place requires,” I say firmly.

“Why?”

“Because it’s a house of God and there are stipulations.”

“Why?”

“It’s the way it’s been done since Jerusalem!”

“I thought this job was about breaking rules and reinventing the wheel. The people of this town could use that. They need a jolt of something. If that parish council is any indication, they aren’t feeling the rapture.”

“We need a church that looks like a church,” I reply. “It has to be a house of worship. Look.” I pick up my sketches. “The nave, the baptistery, the altar, the shrine to Mary, all of it is here. I went to Italy and I found a church that inspired my design. I need artisans who understand history and have the expertise to refurbish this church.”

“No, it sounds like you’re looking for a couple of foot soldiers to follow orders. That’s not what we do.”

“What do you do?” I ask him impatiently.

Rufus takes a deep breath. “We find the magic.” He looks at Pedro. Pedro nods.

“That’s all well and good, but I need craftsmen to deliver my design. You should know that I’ve sat in this church for thirty years and reimagined this place a million times. I know what I’m talking about.”

“That’s what you keep telling everybody. But I don’t see your imagination at work, B.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I have a different idea about what kind of house God might like. But you’re a company man, you want to deliver what makes everybody comfortable. Look at your drawings. Except for some new windows and some color, it’s the same place it was before. I think the people will dig it, but you can sell people anything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? That we’re a bunch of sheep? You heard Gus Lascola; he doesn’t want anything new.”

Rufus shrugs. “Why listen to him? Is he an artist?”

“No, but—”

“B, why don’t you trust your own voice? You’re letting these folks tell you how to think. You’re snuffing your creative spark before it’s even lit.”

“I’m offended by that.” I hear myself whine, so I take a breath. “I am honoring the spark.”

“No, you’re not. You’re pandering. You say you want to fly, but you’re falling back on the tried and true. You’ve probably got a brilliant concept in you, but it’s totally bogged down in rules, dogma, and the past. There is no right or wrong in art. And when it comes to churches, it’s an expression of a spiritual longing. You are not hearing it, man.”

“I am completely flabbergasted!” My voice thunders.

“Good! It’s the first sign of juice you’ve demonstrated,” Rufus says evenly. “You are stuck. Stuck in the mud of mediocrity.” He looks at Pedro, then back at me. “You don’t really want what we do.”

“If that’s how you feel . . .” I raise my voice.

“That’s how it is,” Rufus replies.

Without saying good-bye, Rufus and Pedro walk down the aisle and out the front door. I almost call them back when I remember the glorious clouds Rufus painted, Pedro’s shimmering shards of stained glass, and how much fun the two of them were the night of my party. But I’m too proud to run after them. This job means too much to me. How dare Rufus McSherry tell me I lack the magic to reinvent Fatima Church? How dare he judge my talent and vision! I hear his truck drive off, and not for a single second do I wish to stop him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mrs.
Mandelbaum
Regrets

It pours cold rain all Christmas Day. My red tree twinkles and blinks like a big ruby ring on an old lady’s finger, but even that can’t cheer me up. I canceled Christmas dinner here. Ondine offered to make duck in Freehold, so Toot and the boys will go there. I’ve never had a Christmas alone, and while it’s painful, I want to wallow in my misery. I am hurt by Rufus’s assault, and I’m not sure how long it will take me to get over it.

I stack my records on the stereo, careful not to scratch them. I have all the Firestone Christmas albums, from Bing Crosby to the Ray Coniff Singers. I flip the ejector when I hear the violins prelude to “Angels We Have Heard on High.” I kick off my loafers, lie down on the sofa, and look at the tree, getting lost in the red of it all.

The doorbell rings, which should irritate me; after all, I am falling deep into my depression like an olive in oil, but instead, I spring to my feet in hopeful anticipation and open the door.

“Merry Christmas!” Amalia and Christina say in unison.

“We heard you were home.” Christina peels off her gloves, while Amalia kicks off her boots. “Is Ondine’s cooking that bad?”

“That baby is going to starve, that’s all I’m going to say.”

“She’s due any day now, you know. Fix me a drink, please.” Christina sits down on the couch.

“Why aren’t you at the Menecolas’?”

“We did Christmas Eve with them. Night of the seven fishes and the seventeen arguments.”

“They fight a lot, B,” Amalia says.

“Well, that’s just part of a holiday celebration. Remember our cousin Renata?”

“Iggy With The Asthma’s daughter?”

“The very one. She used to come for Christmas, we could seat thirty-two in the basement of Ma’s house. Within forty-eight hours of her arrival, Renata would have a complete nervous breakdown and tantrum after God-knows-who said God-knows-what to her. She’d grab her suitcase and storm out in the middle of dinner in a huff. She’d be out on Route 35 in tears trying to hail a cab to Newark Airport.”

“She was a little nutty,” Christina agrees.

“She didn’t want to do the dishes,” I tell them. “We’d all get up, go after her, beg her forgiveness, and she’d return for dessert.”

“Well, she provided the usual drama at the Menecolas’ this year. She left during the baccala. Iggy put out a search party and brought her back by the tiramisu.”

“Great. Glad
her
holiday turned out well.”

“How are you holding up?” Christina puts her feet on the ottoman and looks at me.

“I’m fine for someone who has been personally attacked, had his professionalism questioned, his integrity violated, and his vision trivialized. Other than that, I’m great.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I met with some people. They call themselves artisans, but they’re really just contractors who drywall churches. The bishop has a list. I wasn’t very impressed. I called Eydie before she left for France—she does Christmas in Paris every year—and she was very sympathetic. She said Rufus is a genius. The problem with geniuses is they tend to be temperamental.”

“That wasn’t his temper talking. He just didn’t like your ideas.”

“Don’t pile on.”

“Don’t get defensive. He thought you could do better.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. You did.”

“Well, that was a very cruel thing to say!” I sound like a two-year-old.

“He wasn’t being mean. He was being honest. And nobody in OLOF is ever honest, so when the truth is spoken, it stings.”

“My God, cousin, did you intend to come over here on Christmas Day and make everything worse? You know I poured myself into the design. I have nothing left to give. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“I’m on the side of people saying what they mean. I don’t know anything about what you do. I work for you, but usually I’m just in awe of how you come up with your ideas, and the big picture is not something I understand. I know what I like, but I wouldn’t know how to go about putting it together. You’re the artist. That’s what you do.”

“You wouldn’t know it by talking to Rufus. He wanted nothing to do with my ideas.”

“Sounds like he was pushing you to be great, not putting you down.”

“Well, that might be his version.” I pout.

“You waited months to get him here. Why don’t you pick up the phone and call him?”

“And say what? ‘You’re right, Rufus. I stink!’ ”

“Arrange a meeting. Talk things through.”

Amalia comes from the kitchen with Christmas cookies she’s arranged on a plate. “Can I make hot chocolate?”

“No!” Christina and I shout in unison.

“Why not?”

“Because I make the best hot chocolate in New Jersey,” I reply, gently this time.

“So, you make it.” Amalia rolls her eyes. “I hope you guys realize that you just yelled at me on Christmas. I don’t think I need that in my holiday memory book.”

“Follow me,” I tell them.

BARTOLOMEO’S HOT CHOCOLATE

Yield: 4 cups

1⁄2 cup cocoa

1 tablespoon flour

1⁄2 cup dark brown sugar, packed

2 tablespoons confectioner’s sugar

11⁄2 teaspoons vanilla extract

11⁄2 teaspoons coconut flavoring

4 cups whole milk

FRESH WHIPPED CREAM

1 cup heavy cream

1⁄4 cup confectioner’s sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

4 cinnamon sticks

Mix the cocoa, flour, brown sugar, confectioner’s sugar, vanilla extract, coconut flavoring, and milk in a saucepan. Cook over low heat until all the dry ingredients dissolve. Using a whisk, blend well until it steams. In a bowl, whip the heavy cream, confectioner’s sugar, and vanilla extract until stiff. Pour the mixture into 4 mugs, and top with a dollop of whipped cream. Use one cinnamon stick per mug as a stirrer.

Amalia and Christina sit at the kitchen table while I pour the steaming hot chocolate into big, white ceramic mugs. I ladle lots of fresh whipped cream on top, then drop a bourbon ball into my mug and Christina’s.

BOOBOO MIGLIO’S BOURBON BALLS

1 cup finely chopped walnuts

1 cup confectioner’s sugar

2 tablespoons cocoa

1 cup vanilla wafers, crushed

11⁄2 tablespoons corn syrup

1⁄4 cup bourbon

Confectioner’s sugar for dusting

In a bowl, mix the walnuts, confectioner’s sugar, cocoa, and vanilla-wafer crumbs. Add the corn syrup and bourbon, and knead to a doughy consistency. Use a melon baller and roll into small balls. Roll in the confectioner’s sugar to coat. Makes about 45 balls. Store in an airtight container in the fridge until serving time.

“Come on,” Amalia whines. “I’m going to be thirteen in January. Give me a bourbon ball too.” I look at Christina, who nods. After all, it’s Christmas, and I know of very few grown-up rum hounds who went down the wrong path because they ate one bourbon ball during the holidays. I drop one in Amalia’s mug.

“Thanks, B.” She smiles.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell her.

“I want your honest opinion,” I tell Two. “Look at these drawings and tell me if you think they’re . . . good.” I spent the Christmas holiday drawing a new group of sketches for the church.

Two carefully, flips through the spiral-bound notebook, stopping to study details. Finally, after a few minutes and a trip to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, I return to my study to hear what he has to say. “Nobody has eye for color and symmetry like you do.”

“Thank you. So you think they’re good?”

“It was built in 1899. This is the first renovation. Of course, there’s annual maintenance. Painting, new roof, that sort of thing. So it’s unlikely that there will be another renovation for a hundred years or so.”

“Right, right,” I say impatiently.

“The reason I’m asking, what do you envision the church to be a hundred years from now?”

Two’s words ring in my ears, and suddenly he morphs from my favorite nephew to the giant Rufus McSherry, both of whom now have criticized my design.

“Unc, you’re designing a house of salvation,” Two says quietly. “What should a person feel like when they enter such a place? That’s all I’m asking.”

I pace around the study, then grab my jacket, hat, and gloves and head for the front door.

“Sorry!” Two calls after me.

“I’ll be back later,” I snap at him without looking back.

I slam the door behind me and cross the yard to the beach. My feet crunch on the sand, which is covered in patches of ice and frost, as I stride angrily to the water’s edge. The ocean in winter is an endless gray blur, a giant well of sadness and despair. There is no sun today, just a cold final day of the year 1970. How promising this year began, and how sick I am that it is ending on such a sour note.

I don’t like being this way, yet I believe an artist must protect his vision. But, God forbid, what if the naysayers are right? How many more people are going to tell me that I haven’t delivered? Maybe I
am
just an egotistical small-town decorator who thinks he knows everything about everything. But I love what I do, and if I didn’t think I knew best, I would step aside and let someone else do it. No one has the love affair with paint, fabric, and paper that I do. But somehow, the church has me thrown. I have never been in this situation before. I’m used to clients kneeling before me in gratitude. Did I overreach with this job?

“Unc?” Two calls out softly, so as not to scare me. I wave to him, and he joins me.

“I’m having a little snit,” I admit, and, somehow, that makes me feel better.

“I know. I have snits myself.” Two laughs.

“I’m a walking ego. Two legs and a temper. That’s me.”

“You just want what’s best.”

“No, I want things my way, and I want to be right, and I want everybody to know it. That makes me loaded with pride. Now, I grant you, that’s better than being full of cancer, but I’m learning it’s almost as dangerous.”

Two buries his hands in his pockets. “I understand how you feel. But you shouldn’t give up. You know what you’re doing. I said I took a year off because I didn’t fit in, but the truth is, I really came home because I wanted to work with you. You’re the only artist in our family. And that’s what I want to be. Who better than you to show me how?”

I feel myself tear up. “Really?”

“Yes. You’ve brought elegance and style into our lives. Mom would still have plaid café curtains on those spring rods from Sears if it wasn’t for you. And at church, the altar would look like a wrinkled junk pile on Sundays if you didn’t dress it; and our cousins would only see chandeliers in books if you didn’t insist they buy them for their homes. You’re the touch of class in the di Crespi family.”

I take a deep breath and look out to the sea, feeling small and yet suddenly significant. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Without you, we’d be a bunch of
gavones.
You lead us. We need you.”

“All I want to do is make things nice.”

“You do.”

“Why, then, is there so much acrimony around this church project? I’m begging you, tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“That’s easy. Church means something different to everyone. When you decorate a home, you can see how people live and do a version of them in wallpaper and paint. But a church is different. It represents the souls of people, whatever that means. For some, it’s a private place to confess their sins. For others, it’s a choir loft filled with light and music. For children, it has incense and men in dresses, so it’s a little scary. What is it to you?”

I think about my church. It has kept me in line, and provided a framework for my beliefs, which I desperately need. It gives me boundaries and rules and perimeters. I believe in the afterlife, and I want a place there; I want to be told exactly how to get to heaven, and my church does that for me. I revere it, but I also try to live by the rules. I don’t think my young nephew will understand that. Nowadays, the kids believe that everyone should have their own church. I like that thousands of souls came before me, reciting the same prayers in the same way. “My church is a place where I feel rebirth. I go, I pray, I confess, and I leave with a clean slate and start over again.”

“Hmmm.” Two thinks about this.

“I feel connected there,” I say simply.

“Well, that’s not what your sketches say. Those sketches show a place that’s been redecorated with a nice floor and good paint and some gold leafing. It might as well be a fancy hotel. It doesn’t show renewal.”

“I don’t know how to do that.” I have never said those words in my life.

“Then your job”—Two looks at me—“is to find someone who does.”

I feel my feet sink into the sand, and I realize that the water has rushed to the ankles of my Wellies. If I stand here much longer, I’ll be washed away like the top half of an old clamshell. How do I find a way to dramatize rebirth against the backdrop of eternity for the people of Our Lady of Fatima Church? Is there a way? The sun makes a tear in the lining of this grim day, and while I should feel a little hope, what I really feel is sadness. Maybe I’m not the right man for the job.