Rococo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “That fellow is Hollywood handsome,” I tell her.

  “Oh, he knows it.” She smiles and turns her head in profile to look at him.

  Now I realize why Eydie looks so familiar. Against the forest-green walls, her head and neck are outlined like a tintype. That’s it! She has my old nose! Except on her, with her height, long face, and heavy-lidded Egyptian eyes, it works. “Nice to meet you, Bartolomeo.”

  “Good night, Eydie.”

  As her companion holds the door open for her, Eydie steps out into the night like a blue bird sailing up into a dark sky. For a second, I want to follow her. She took one look at me and seemed to know who I was. How ridiculous! I just met the woman! What is it with me? Whenever I’m with a woman, I want to escape, and once she’s gone, I miss the trap.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Ottoman Empire

  I take the steps two at a time as I climb to the choir loft for Sunday Mass. My rendezvous with Mary Kate has turned out to be a tonic. I have a pep in my step that wasn’t there last week. My postcoital regret has turned to a warm glow, almost like a shot of Fernet Branca after a rare steak. My chance meeting with Eydie Von Gunne has also given me a boost. I keep looking at her business card as though it’s a diamond. I’m going to sing my lungs out in Mass this morning.

  I’m also feeling good because I’ve decided to have a serious sit-down with Capri and end our betrothal charade. After my night of love in Scalamandré, I said two rosaries begging the Blessed Lady for forgiveness—not for the act but for lying about being unencumbered. The phrase “free bird” keeps ringing in my ears like a fire alarm. I can’t be part of this ongoing deception anymore. Capri is a wonderful girl, and she deserves to find happiness on her own. After all, if she was attracted to me, we would have had a little more contact than the one time she grazed my thigh with her left breast when I was on a stepladder hanging a valance in the Mandelbaum den in 1968.

  Every Sunday, Capri sits in the first row of the choir loft wearing her prescription sunglasses, resting her chin on the railing, watching the action below like she’s spending the afternoon at Brandywine Raceway betting on the horses. As I observe her from the back row of the choir loft, I realize that we’ve never broken up because there was never a reason to. She never pushed me to marry, and I never pushed back. Our relationship was like a brown overcoat. It works with everything, so why change it?

  Aurelia is at the organ, going over the choir selections with Zetta. I slip into the seat next to Capri.

  “How are you?” Capri looks at me and smiles. She is not even slightly suspicious that I went to New York and made love with Mary Kate Fitzsimmons, which is another reason to break up. “You’re not going to like this,” she whispers. She opens the church bulletin and points to an announcement.

  Father Porporino has retained the design firm of Patton & Persky of Philadelphia, Penn., to renovate our church. Patton & Persky are world-renowned interior designers with clients as diverse as the Liberty Rose Hotel in Philadelphia and the Crestview nursing home in Frenchtown . . .

  I feel as though I’ve been stabbed.

  My stomach begins to churn so loudly I grab my belt buckle as though it’s a volume-control panel. I blink several times and read the last line of the announcement:

  The diocese has approved the selection. The renovation will begin this fall after the Feast of Our Lady of Fatima.

  “I can’t believe he did this to you.” Capri takes my hand and squeezes it. “Are you okay?”

  Shaking my head, I make an excuse and peel down the stairs, push open the side doors of the church, and suck in fresh air. That explains the smirk on Father’s face when I came to dress the altar, the sudden cancellation of the parish council meeting, and the church bulletins he hid until he knew I was long gone. It all makes sense now. He didn’t want to lower the boom in person. He wanted it to crash down around me once it was too late for me to object. I cannot believe that he went outside his own parish to find a decorator. Not only have I served this church faithfully all my life, from altar boy to altar dresser, but he knew what this renovation meant to me. I’ve been sandbagged!

  “B! Don’t go!” Capri says from the door. She races down the steps. The plush vibrato of the organ sails out the windows sounding like the chug of a train going uphill. The congregation belts out “They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love.”

  “Did Father mention anything to you?” she asks when she catches up to me.

  “Not a word.” My face heats up with embarrassment over having bared my creative soul to him. No wonder he looked at me like I smelled of rotten meat.

  “Mom will talk to him.”

  “No!” I nearly shout. “If this is how he feels, and this is what he thinks of my talent, let it go,” I sputter. Capri takes a step back. For the first time in forty years, she is afraid of me. The last thing I want is for her mother to fix this.

  “Okay.” She raises her hands in the air like she’s under arrest. “I’m just trying to help. I know how much this means to you, that’s all.” She turns and goes up the stairs. She stops at the door, slips her glasses off, and puts her face in her hands.

  “Capri, are you crying?” I feel terrible. I’ve never yelled at her before. I go up the stairs, stopping her before she goes back inside. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” I take her in my arms. She wipes her tears on her sleeve and looks up at me. Her expression is like Saint Rose of Lima’s (the third stained-glass window on the right), filled with disappointment and hurt. I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time. “You have beautiful eyes,” I say quietly. I make a mental note that whenever I see something lovely, it pulls me out of whatever suffering I endure in the moment. “I never noticed before.”

  “How can you even see them behind my glasses?” Capri sniffles as she pushes her hair behind her ear. She puts her prescription sunglasses back on.

  “It’s not easy.”

  Capri smiles. “You have a knack for saying the wrong thing.”

  “I know,” I say apologetically.

  “Mom is going to wonder where I went. I’d better go back in. Are you coming?”

  “No . . . I can’t.”

  Capri goes back into the church, and I catch my breath. The years of service to my parish spin through my head like confetti. I had such plans! I wanted to ditch the heavy eighteenth-century stuff and replace it with a modern, open field, thus creating a sense of space. I wanted to use soothing colors, like eggplant and nut-brown, on the walls and trim, to invoke nature and serenity. I imagined a sleek modern Communion railing, a simple Quaker-style altar, and the priest’s chair refurbished in a plum cut velvet with gold trim to pick up the veins of the marble statuary. I had mentally designed a shrine to the Blessed Mother—a contemporary white marble Madonna and child by Pizzo—that would replace the hand-painted cement statue. I planned to construct a simple backdrop for the statue, studded with pin lights and votive candles in a field below, creating an indoor grotto. I try to erase the pictures that have lived in my mind’s eye for so long, but they won’t disappear.

  Oh, what I would have done with the opportunity! Our Lady of Fatima would have been a point of interest for the ecumenical tour buses that come through New Jersey during the jubilee years. Who knows? Perhaps, given the right circumstances, the church might have been the site of a miracle or two.

  I can hear the murmur of the congregation as they plod through the Nicene Creed. Tears sting my eyes as I remember the joy this church has brought me through the years, starting with the All Saints Day parade on All Hallows’ Eve when I was six and wore a Saint Bartholomew costume and brandished an actual sword (on loan from Anthony Cappozolo, a generous member of the Knights of Columbus), to Toot’s brutally hot July wedding when I keeled over in the heat in my white gloves and tails and had to be carried out of the sacristy like a slab of plywood after repeated attempts to revive me with sips of holy water from the font, to every single confession I made in Lucky Booth Number Two since I
was ten years old. I never made up sins like my peers did; I always told the truth—and this is how I’m thanked.

  For the first time in thirty-three years I will miss my Sunday Communion, but I cannot bear to face the crowd of people who will know that I have been passed over like Clemmie Valentini’s stale cannolis on Bingo Night. How could Father do this to me? There is not a family in this parish whose home I have not decorated! Every chandelier, sconce, and drapes in this town was hung by my own hands! As for the diocese, this slight reverberates all the way to Bishop Kilcullen’s mansion in Rumson. How dare they!

  As I park in the lot of the Weis Market in Wall Township, the only twenty-four-hour seven-day-a-week supermarket in the county, the shock of Father’s rejection has turned to anger, coupled with the guilt I feel about missing Sunday Mass. After all, I am a devout Catholic. I’ve never understood parishioners who left their church because the priest had wronged them. After all, it’s not the priest who knows our souls, it’s God. But now I understand. Evidently I’m not as devout as I thought I was, because I didn’t drive to Saint Catharine’s in Spring Lake for the noon Mass to fulfill my obligation, and I could have. No, this morning I feel finished with RC Incorporated.

  One of the reasons I started my company in OLOF was to bring beauty to the town I grew up in. I could have easily gotten an apartment in New York City and swum with the big fish, vying to decorate Park Avenue apartments, Fifth Avenue penthouses, and Turtle Bay brownstones. Instead, I brought my education and gifts to the place where I was first inspired to do something wonderful with my life. Now I see that everything I believed in was a veneer. A local boy could never be good enough to redo the House of God.

  When I was small and had a particularly rough go of things, Mama would make me a consolation cake called Our Lady of (Drown Your) Sorrows, with Heavenly Frosting. Current wisdom is that one must never reward or congratulate with food, or use it to soothe sadness. My mother disagreed, which might be why, when Toot and I are upset, agitated, or hurt, we like nothing better than whipping up a bowl of frosting. We used to take a box of confectioner’s sugar, a stick of soft sweet butter, a thimbleful of vanilla, and a shot of half-and-half, beat it into a creamy frosting, then grab spoons and take turns eating it out of the bowl. When we got old enough to enhance food with alcohol, we replaced the vanilla with a shot of Amaretto. Buttercream frosting is our family Valium, and boy do I need it now.

  When I think about Eydie Von Gunne and how I bragged that I was doing a church renovation, I feel like I could crack open a bottle of cooking sherry and guzzle it before I reach the checkout. Instead, I throw the ingredients for Heavenly Frosting into the cart and envision an afternoon at home finding solace in a bottomless pan of sheet cake.

  OUR LADY OF (Drown Your) SORROWS CAKE WITH HEAVENLY FROSTING

  Yield: Enough for an army

  CAKE

  3 Milky Way bars, cut into small pieces

  3 Three Musketeers bars, cut into small pieces

  3 Snickers bars, cut into small pieces

  1⁄2 cup butter

  2 cups flour

  1⁄2 teaspoon baking soda

  1⁄2 teaspoon baking powder

  1 cup sugar

  1⁄2 cup shortening

  3 eggs

  1 cup buttermilk

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  Preheat the oven to 325°F. Grease and flour a 9 by 13-inch baking pan. Melt the candy bars and butter in a saucepan. Blend. In a large bowl, mix the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and sugar. Then mix in the shortening and eggs. Beat well. Slowly add the buttermilk, beating until fluffy. Then add the vanilla and the candy-bar mixture from the saucepan. Beat well. Pour into the pan, and bake 60 minutes until done. When the cake is still hot, ice with:

  HEAVENLY FROSTING

  1 bag marshmallows, cut in half

  1 cup chopped pecans

  2 cups shredded coconut

  1 box confectioner’s sugar

  4 tablespoons cocoa

  8 tablespoons heavy cream

  4 tablespoons butter, softened

  Place the marshmallow halves, sticky side down, on top of the hot cake. Scatter the nuts over the marshmallows, then a layer of coconut. In a bowl, whip the confectioner’s sugar, cocoa, cream, and butter. Pour over the hot cake. Serve when cool.

  After I ice the cake, I lick the spoons, then wash the pans and straighten the kitchen. My head is throbbing, so I decide to take a nap. I go to my bedroom, climb into bed, and pull my silk wool afghan up to my chin. It’s the last thing I remember when I wake up an hour later. A cool breeze wafts through my bedroom doorway, and I sit up. I must’ve left the garage door open.

  “Uncle B?”

  I hear my nephew Two’s voice in the hallway.

  “I’m in here,” I call out.

  Two appears in the doorway of my bedroom. “Thank God,” he says when he sees me. “You didn’t answer the phone.”

  “I was taking a nap.” In our family, if someone is missing for five minutes, we assume they are dead. No one has ever forgotten the day that Aunt Mirella Bontempo was scheduled to work the zeppole fryer at the OLOF Feast and didn’t show up. My cousin Mona Lisa instantly formed a search party. We found Auntie in her basement with her arm stuck in the agitator of the washing machine. She had been washing her bras and one of the straps had choked the main water pipe and broken the machine. When she reached in to yank the bra loose, her hand got stuck. We got there in the nick of time, as the water was up to her midcalf. It would have meant certain death, as Auntie was a poor swimmer.

  “We were worried. Nellie Fanelli called Mom and said that she saw you go into church for Mass and then she didn’t see you in the Communion line.” Two goes to the window and yanks the pulley that opens the drapes.

  “It’s a relief to know that besides her job ironing vestments, she has now become my Orwellian Big Brother.”

  Two laughs. “Nellie’s always looking for dirt.”

  It’s a sin to have favorites, but Two is special and not just because he’s my namesake. He has always been reasonable and steady, a cool head in a crisis. He was with Toot when she caught Lonnie at an American Legion clambake with a date after they’d just returned from a marital retreat in the Catskills for Catholic couples in crisis. It was quick-thinking Two who got Toot out of there before she poured a pitcher of beer on Lonnie’s head. The woman did not fare as well. Toot yanked off her pillbox hat and filled it with empty clamshells before throwing it against the wall.

  Two doesn’t look like the rest of the di Crespis, which may be why he commands a certain amount of attention. He has light brown hair in loose curls to his shoulders, green eyes, and the demeanor of a benevolent king. At six feet two, he is the tallest di Crespi of his generation.

  “Ma said the parish is buzzing about the announcement in the bulletin.”

  “Let them buzz. Father signed a contract with Patton and Persky, so it’s over.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not going to fight.”

  “No one has ever fought the Holy Roman Church and won. Look at Martin Luther—they almost killed him before he started his own church. And now what’s he got? A paltry worldwide membership compared to the Baptists, who could take the Lutherans two to one in a softball tournament any day.”

  “But you’ve done so much for that church.”

  “Remember this always, Two. Put out your hand to help someone, and when you pull it back you’ve got no fingers. I told Father Porp I had ideas about the renovation, and he was completely dismissive. Of course, now I realize that he had already made his decision. He played me like a rube.”

  “Screw him,” Toot says from the doorway. “I can’t stand that guy, even if he is a priest. I remember when he came to me and asked me to annul my marriage to Lonnie. He told me I couldn’t have the sacraments if I didn’t get the annulment. Little did he know that Father Wiffnell over in Brielle gives me Communion and confession whenever I want it, no questions asked. He’s the same gu
y that let our cousin Connie With The Curvature have birth control pills because with her back, if she had a sixth baby, she would have wound up in a wheelchair, and then who would have taken care of those kids? I told Porp when he pressed me to file the paperwork. ‘Annul this, Father.’ ”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Oh, yes. I grew golden gottz after Ma and Pop died. I might have played along when they were living, but trust me, I’ve had it with the rules and the regulations and the hypocrisy. Out of respect for you, my devout brother, I’ve kept my mouth shut about all things Roman Catholic. Now I can say what’s in my heart. You’re too good for those people. You don’t need Father Phoney to talk to the man upstairs. Pray direct. With no entreaties—”

  I stop and think before correcting her. “You mean encumbrances?”

  “All I’m saying is, talk to God whenever you want. That’s what I do. And I know my goddamn sins are forgiven. Where’s the cake?”

  “How did you know I made it?”

  Toot looks at me. “You gonna go through a trauma of this magnitude without cake? What home did you grow up in?”

  “It’s in the kitchen under Ma’s server.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Toot disappears down the hallway.

  “I had to beg her not to go to the rectory,” Two says quietly.

  “It won’t do a bit of good. Remember when our cousin Finola Franco wanted to marry that Methodist from Pennsylvania? Father Porp had him investigated and found out he was divorced. Finola knew, but she didn’t care. Porp told her she’d fry in the bowels of hell if she married the guy. Her life was ruined. She got that disease where she never left her house again. Dried up in there like an orange peel.”

  “Why do you put up with this?” Two asks. “Why don’t you write to the bishop and get Porporino moved?”

  “Oh, there have been letters and calls and meetings for years. But Porp is untouchable.”