by Marc Acito
First stop is LaChance's bank in Cramptown where, just for fun, Ziba withdraws the ten grand in $100 bills. That's one hundred $100 bills. No one but Ziba has ever seen that kind of cash before and we all take turns counting it, everyone making the same joke of pretending to steal it for themselves. We're all so excited none of us seems capable of having a normal conversation so we sing songs from Godspell for the rest of the trip. (I know it's totally queer, but that's how we are.)
We all go into the bank in Hoboken for safety reasons although, realistically, who but the most hardened of criminals would dare mug a group of nuns and priests? What's more, Hoboken has a long and distinguished history of Mob connections, so the sight of a priest with $10,000 in cash doesn't seem to faze the teller at all. Everyone gathers around as I write the words “Juilliard School” on the cashier's check.
“Praise Jesus,” says Sister Nudelman.
I put the check in the envelope with the letter from the Catholic Vigilance Society and lick it shut, getting a tiny paper cut as I do.
We're almost done.
The only thing left is getting the check to Juilliard. There was some debate about how to handle this step, but we eventually decided that delivering by hand was the safest way to be certain it got there.
We stop and have lunch first where, despite being dressed as a priest, I'm still mistaken for a waiter. We're coming out of the restaurant, laughing and joking, when I hear a familiar voice call my name. I turn and there, standing on the sidewalk in a hat with a veil, is Aunt Glo.
“Oh, baby doll,” she cries, her pudgy little body flopping into my arms. “I prayed to St. Christopher to help me find the way, and here you are to help me. Thank you.” She crosses herself.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to look as if there was nothing unusual about my standing on the streets of Hoboken dressed as a priest.
“Oh, Eddie, it was terrible.” She pulls a tissue out of her purse to wipe her nose and sees everyone else for the first time. “Waddya know, it's the LBs!” she says. “Don't you all look nice.”
“We're doing research,” Natie says, “for Godspell.”
Aunt Glo seems to neither understand nor care. “So, this morning I got up and decided it was such a beautiful day I'd come into Hoboken for my Angelo's funeral.”
“Angelo's dead?”
“Of course not,” she says, crossing herself. “God forbid. He was saying a funeral Mass. Oh, my Angelo does such a beautiful job with funerals. You kids should come sometime, they're practically like musicals. And there's always food after. Anyway, what was I talking about?”
I'm never quite sure how to answer that question. In fact, I've always been tempted to throw out an entirely different topic (“Greyhound racing! Margaret Thatcher! The famine in Ethiopia!”) just to see if she starts talking about it.
“The funeral today . . .” I say.
“Right,” she says, patting her neck with a tissue. “Paula's too busy having premarital sex with her long-haired boyfriend to drive me anyplace, so I say to myself, I say, ‘Gloria, take the train.' So I do. Well, nothin' looks the same anymore in this damn—excuse my language, Father—city. So here I am wandering the streets like a crazy person when, thank you, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints in Heaven, I find you.”
“What time is the funeral?” I ask.
“Oh, I missed it already. I just wanna go home. You kids didn't drive, didja?”
“Well, actually . . .”
“Oh, Eddie, do an old lady a favor and take me home, will ya'? I'll pay ya' in cannolis. I just made a fresh batch.”
“But . . .”
“Great. Where's the car?”
I bug my eyes out at Natie, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “What the fuck are we supposed to do with this crazy old lady?”
“Listen, Mrs. D'Angelo . . .” Natie says.
“Please, Sister, Aunt Glo,” she says. “Everybody calls me Aunt Glo.”
“We need to make a stop in the city. Is it okay with you if we swing past Juilliard?”
“You kidding?” she says. “I can finally give my fornicating niece a piece of my mind.”
I'm thinking Aunt Glo needs to hold on to whatever pieces she has left. We put her in the Wagon Ho.
I pull Natie aside and whisper, “What are you thinking?”
“Don't you see, she's the perfect cover,” he says. “It's like hiding in plain sight. Who's going to suspect anything of a priest and a sweet old lady?”
“I'm not so sure that's a good idea.”
“Trust me,” he says. “You walk in, you drop off the check, you leave. What could possibly go wrong?”
As Aunt Glo and I approach the double doors of the theater building, my mind travels back to the day I said “goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad” in front of Marian Seldes. I find it ironic that on the day I was supposed to be acting, I couldn't help but be myself. Now on a day when I should just be myself, I'm acting. Going into Juilliard is a risk, of course, but between the beard and the glasses I think I look sufficiently different from the sweaty, crazed lunatic who auditioned here. What's more, experience has proven that most people tend to focus on the clerical collar rather than the person wearing it. That's just how it is with priests, even the phony ones.
I hold the door open for Aunt Glo and a gaggle of noisy students passes by. I'm a little concerned we'll run into Paula, but since she's the one who swiped the priest's collar to begin with, she's hardly in a position to question it.
The school is pretty small, being so exclusive and all, and everyone seems to want to help a bewildered-looking priest and an old lady find their way. I open the door of the financial aid office for Aunt Glo, then walk up to the counter. A black woman with cornrows is seated in front of a computer monitor while a gray-haired white woman looks over her shoulder. Gray Hair looks momentarily surprised (I'm guessing it's not every day that the clergy walks into the financial aid office of Juilliard), then smiles.
“What can I do for you, Father?” she asks. Everyone's always so nice to priests.
I look down, in part to affect Father Groovy's humble demeanor, but also to avoid letting her get a good look at me. “Would you be certain that the head of financial aid gets this? It's very important,” I say in Father Groovy's gentle, breathless voice.
“Certainly.” Gray Hair turns to Cornrows. “It's for you,” she says, handing her the envelope.
I love New York. You'd never see anybody with cornrows in charge of anything in New Jersey. The woman rises with difficulty, revealing that she's very, very pregnant, and ambles over to the counter. “Hello, I'm Laurel Watkins,” she says in a deep professional way. “How can I help you?”
How can you help me? You can take this letter and pretend you've never seen me, that's how.
“We wish to donate money for a scholarship,” I say to my shoes.
She smiles. “Won't you come into my office?”
I glance at Aunt Glo briefly to see what she's making of all this, but she's just grinning like she's enjoying the opportunity to meet new people. She doesn't get out much.
We go in. I swear, if Natie had a neck, I'd wring it.
Laurel Watkins points to a couple of chairs for us to sit in. “Would you care for some coffee, Father . . . ?”
“Roovy,” I say, “Greg Roovy. No, thank you.”
“And you . . . ?” she asks, looking at Aunt Glo.
“No, thanks,” Aunt Glo says. “It's a long ride back and I've got a bladder the size of a fava bean. Up and down all night, I am.”
Laurel Watkins looks bewildered, not an unusual response to Aunt Glo, then says, “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”
“Gloria D'Angelo,” she says, extending a pudgy hand, “mother of a priest. I'm also the aunt of a stu . . .”
“On second thought I think I will have that cup of coffee,” I say.
“Certainly,” Laurel Watkins says, not looking happy about trying to get
up again. “Black or with cream and sugar?”
“Yes,” I say.
She frowns, hoists herself up, and slowly shambles out of the room. As soon as she's gone I grab Aunt Glo's fleshy little palms. “Please, please, please just play along, will you?” I whisper. “I'll explain later.”
“Of course, Eddie, whatever you say,” she says in a hushed tone, or at least Aunt Glo's idea of a hushed tone. She takes a hanky out of her purse. “Here, lemme wipe that sweat off your nose.”
Laurel Watkins returns with a small tray containing a cup of coffee, cream, and sugar, none of which I touch because, of course, I hate coffee. “Ms. Watkins, we won't take up too much of your time,” I say. “Everything you need to know is in the letter.”
She sits down at her desk, puts on her glasses, and opens the envelope. “Oh, my,” she says, “this is indeed a surprise. Thank you. I don't know what to say.”
“Oh, you don't need to thank us, dear,” Aunt Glo says. “We're but the messengers . . .”
“That's right,” I say, “the actual donor wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Of course,” Laurel Watkins says. “That's not unusual.” She pulls a manila file folder out of her desk drawer and puts our letter into it.
I continue. “The only thing that matters to our donor and to the Catholic Vigilance Society is that the money be used for a promising young Italian-American actor from Hoboken, New Jersey.”
“Yes, I understand that,” she says, removing her glasses. “But I hope you realize, Father Roovy, that it could be some time before an actor fulfilling that criteria is accepted here.”
I give a beatific, crinkle-eyed smile. “Of course, of course,” I say, “but our donor feels especially strong about helping someone from his hometown.”
Aunt Glo leans forward and adds, “He's a big supporter of the Catholic Vigilante Society.”
“Vigilance,” I say, “Catholic Vigilance Society.” I turn to Laurel Watkins. “Well, if there aren't any more questions we have some very sick people we need to visit.”
“Certainly,” Laurel Watkins says, “and please tell your donor how grateful we are for his generous gift.”
“I will.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. D'Angelo,” she says. Damnit. Of course Laurel Watkins is the kind of person who remembers names. And Aunt Glo is the kind of person who isn't easy to forget.
“Likewise,” says Aunt Glo, smiling. “Now, c'mon, baby doll,” she says to me, “I gotta make peeps.”
“She seemed nice,” Aunt Glo says as we step out into the bright winter sun. It's windy on the plaza and a sharp breeze cuts into us. “Now do ya' mind tellin' me what the hell is goin' on?”
Over by the fountain a nun sits on a priest's lap while nearby two other nuns nonchalantly smoke a cigarette and eat a hot dog. I lead Aunt Glo to a bench out of the wind. I can't even look her in the face. “Listen,” I say, “it's probably better if you don't know. It's kind of bad.”
She puts her hand on my knee. “Are you in some kind of trouble, baby doll?”
“No . . .” I say. “Well, possibly . . . if I get caught.” Where do I start? How do I even begin to explain this whole cheesehead scheme?
I tell her everything, putting particular emphasis on the fact that Dagmar stole the money first, and avoiding words like embezzlement, fraud, forgery, or money laundering. To passersby it must look like a priest is hearing an impromptu confession from an older parishioner, but in reality it's the other way around. “Do you think I'm a bad person?” I ask when I'm finished.
“Oh, baby doll, that's for God to decide, not me.”
I guess the mother of a priest is bound to give you an answer like that.
“Are you going to tell on me?”
Aunt Glo straightens my collar. “Who am I going to tell? Your father? That man oughta be ashamed of himself, not supporting a talented boy like you.” She sighs and shakes her head. “With Italians, you're not considered a man until you can beat up your father. It's stupid, but there you have it. I thank the blessed Virgin my Benny is dead, God rest his soul, so my precious Angelo didn't have to go through something like this. He's just like you, my Angelo, sensitive.” She takes my face in her pudgy hands. “But you listen to me. Two wrongs don't make a right—never have, never will. Eventually you're gonna hafta make your peace with God.”
I nod. “But in the meantime, do you think He'd mind if I went to Juilliard?”
Aunt Glo squeezes both my cheeks. “All's I know, baby doll, is that when you're onstage singing, you're a pure expression of God's grace. And I can't believe that God doesn't want that, no matter what.”
I hug her for a really long time and she rubs my back just like my mother used to.
“How am I ever going to make this up to you?” I say.
She takes my hand in hers. “I'll think of somethin',” she says.
A week later I get a phone call from Paula. “You'll never fucking believe it!” she shouts over the street noise. “Just listen to what's on Page Six of the New York Post.
“Ol' Blue Eyes is at it again. Sources at the Juilliard School of Drama say that the Chairman of the Board himself is the anonymous donor for a full-tuition scholarship. Sinatra didn't have any comments on the report, but the crooner is well known for his generosity. The only question remains, ‘Why the secrecy, Frank?'
“I called the financial aid office and they said it's for a promising young Italian-American actor who, get this, was born in Hoboken! Isn't that fucking amazing? It's like it was made for you!”
I give a convincing performance of fucking amazement. I am, after all, one of the Best Young Actors in America.
“You've got to call them right now,” she says. “Oh, Edward, didn't I say something like this would happen? I knew it, I just knew it. Let me give you the number . . .”
I know the number (by heart, as a matter of fact) but I pretend to write it down, then do a little happy dance around the living room before calling.
“Hi, my name is Edward Zanni,” I say, trying to sound as much like myself as I can. “I'm an incoming freshman in the acting program and I'd like to inquire about the Sinatra scholarship mentioned in today's Post.”
“The origin of the scholarship is a completely unsubstantiated rumor,” says the voice on the other end of the line, which I recognize as being the gray-haired woman behind the counter. “The Post never should have run that item.”
“Oh,” I say, sounding disappointed. “I was just interested because I was born in Hoboken and . . .”
“Could you hold for a moment please?”
I'm on hold for just a couple of seconds when a deep voice comes on, saying, “This is Laurel Watkins. How can I help you?”
Of course Laurel Watkins doesn't come right out and say the scholarship is mine (she needs to confirm this, that, and the other thing, blah, blah, blah), but it's obvious Natie's scheme is going to work. I mean, what could go wrong?
Unshackled at last from the tyranny of Al Zanni, I feel ready for some magic and mischief in my life and the Mixed-Up Choir's trip to Washington, D.C., provides the perfect opportunity. When they make the movie of my life, this trip will definitely have to be another of those montage sequences filled with madcap adolescent high jinks; y'know, like blackmailing the son of a U.S. senator.
Maybe I'd better explain that one.
First you'll see us rehearsing the “Hallelujah Chorus” in preparation for the big choir competition held every year in D.C. There's Miss Tinker trying to be all serious classical-music conductor-y, alternately closing her eyes in great reverence, waving her arms with ecclesiastical vigor, and otherwise looking like Sally Field battling multiple personality disorder in Sybil.
Then there's Kelly with the sopranos, her pink skin shiny, her eyes alive and bright—how she loves to sing—her lips curled to form the perfect pear-shaped tones Miss Tinker desires.
Cut to Doug directly across the room in the baritone section, his dimples deep and l
ong as he smiles his satyr's grin, the veins in his neck pulsing as he belts out his part—how he loves to sing—his eyes riveted on Kelly's perfect pear-shaped mouth.
Cut to the tenors, where Ziba stands a head taller than most of the guys and two heads taller than Natie, her creamy cocoa face tilted slightly upward like a statue of an Egyptian goddess, her expression totally blasé as if she were singing “Hand me my lighter, darling” instead of “For the lord God omnipotent reigneth.”
Close-up on Natie, his doughy face spread in a cheerful grin as he changes the words to “For the lord God impotent reigneth.”