“Who looks like a fairy?” Pete Delvecchia asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he looks up from the death notices in the Sunday paper.
“That Obama. He looks like a fairy.”
“He looks like a nigger to me,” Sal Pinto announces, cardiomyopathy and a two-pack-a-day habit leaving him short of breath, as he blows cigarette smoke through his nose. “I don’t believe he’s half-white.”
“I seen his mother married a Chinaman after she dumped his daddy.”
“I woulda killed her if she’d been my daughter.”
“It’s all bullshit, this stuff about his mother, to make us think he doesn’t hate white people. He hates us. They all do.”
“Goddamn it, Francis, why the fuck do you buy these things?” Patsy complains, frustrated by a crisp cannoli shell that’s a challenge for his poorly fitting upper plate. “Next time bring a box of donuts. Soft ones. Jelly or cream.”
Sunday nights are for sprawling on the sofa, watching the NFL in the fall, HBO through the winter and spring. (Michael still misses The Sopranos, though it was never the same after Adriana got whacked.) But tonight he refrains from complaining about being forced to abandon his comfortable routines; he even manages to rustle up a bit of enthusiasm over spending an evening with his neighbors. As he dresses, he decides to go for the extra point and please his wife by putting on a tie without an argument. A foulard seems too formal for the occasion and it isn’t the season for a casual madras. After a few moments of careful thought he chooses a cheerful rep pattern with bright stripes of yellow and lime green on a navy field.
“I can’t believe I didn’t have to ask you to put on a tie!” Kit stands on her tiptoes and gives him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
An hour ago, he’d left his nine-year-old son, Danny, in the kitchen with the nanny, recounting the plot of The Forbidden Kingdom in exhaustive detail, complete with sound effects. He’d surprised Kit as she stood in her closet, trying to decide if a black cocktail dress was too dressy for an informal Sunday evening dinner. The familiar sight of his wife in lace bra and bikinis was oddly provocative, her prominent shoulder bones and swan-like neck arousing. She’d hesitated, her back stiffening, when he placed his hands on her waist. She’d protested lightly, saying she’d just finished blow-drying her hair and putting on her makeup; they were due at the Stapletons’ in an hour. But he pulled her toward him, his erection leaving no doubt of his intentions. She’d shivered as he slipped his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and whimpered as he laid her down on the bed. Afterward, she’d made a small fuss, complaining about needing to do her face again, but he heard her singing “I Dreamed a Dream” in the bathroom so he knew he had pleased her.
“You look very handsome tonight,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper in a rare, shy moment, as she straightens the knot in his tie.
He starts to make a small joke, but desists, understanding any response other than a compliment will be a disappointment.
“You look very lovely every night,” he says.
“I better get downstairs and soothe Jocelyn’s ruffled feathers one last time,” Kit says.
The nanny had begrudgingly accepted a two-hundred-dollar gratuity to assist the lady of the house this evening. She’d resented being asked to help pour coffee and tea. You would think I’d asked her to wear a uniform and call the guests sir and ma’am. Jocelyn had protested she wasn’t a domestic, some Mammy or Aunt Jemima. She had driven a hard bargain, insisting on both cash under the table and a full day off, with pay, the next time her Christian Missionary Alliance tent show revival pulls into town. “Life Is Sweet” has certainly earned all the accolades heaped upon it by the readers of Main Line Life. The dining room table looks like a photo spread in the pages of Food & Wine, with whimsically folded napkins and a glorious floral centerpiece of white lilies and red tulips in a museum-quality vase. The tarts and cakes are artfully displayed on sterling serving dishes and there are banks of candles that will cast a soft glow on the charming Chinese export porcelain on loan from Dodie.
“Okay, then,” Kit says, her roving eye confirming that, in fact, every detail is perfect. “Danny, we’re leaving. Don’t give Jocelyn grief when she says it’s time for bed.” She shrugs when he doesn’t answer and tells Jocelyn to call on her cell if there are any problems. The nanny arches an eyebrow, skeptical, unable to imagine a crisis she’s not better equipped to handle than her employer. “And please tell Scottie to be dressed and downstairs to greet our guests when they arrive.”
Michael is waiting outside, strolling the parameters of home-sweet-home, inspecting for evidence of damage from last night’s heavy rains. He places his palm on a black watermark on the wall, hoping it’s dry, nothing more than an ancient stain that had improbably escaped his notice. But, of course, it’s wet, meaning Jupiter Pluvius has found yet another leak in the seams of the roof. He’d known this house was a folly the first time he’d laid his experienced eyes on it. His childhood had been spent as forced labor in Papa’s Sisyphean struggle to preserve the decaying charms of a city property constructed the same year real estate developers were building this neighborhood of Shingle Style classics on the Pennsylvania Railroad line. But Kit was insistent, impressed by the majestic front gables and soaring chimneys and charmed by the fine period details like the exposed beam ends carved into an exotic bestiary and the diamond-paned, lead-glazed windows.
Kit had never considered the expense of the upkeep of a century-old residence an impediment. She’d grown up in a House with a Name, the legacy of her mother, Dorothy Pugh Morris. They’d put a large down payment, a gift from her parents, on “Sleepy Peter’s Quiet Nook,” a minor architectural gem with a wraparound porch of locally quarried stone, shaded by a cluster of massive oaks older than the nation. He’s invested blood, sweat, tears, and endless weekends in maintaining “the Nook,” as they call it. He acts like it’s a sacrifice and a burden, but he loves their home as much as his wife does, having dreamed as a boy growing up on a city block that one day he would live in a house he could walk around.
“Let’s do this,” she says when she finally emerges. She picks up his hand and they stroll along Walnut Avenue, headed for the first stop of the night.
In a few weeks, flowering trees and shrubs will greet the arrival of spring and the air will be fragrant with peat moss and cedar chips. The stately houses are solid stone and brick, most sheathed in shingles, all lovingly restored and maintained. The luxury imports parked in the driveways confirm the prosperity of the residents at each address. Michael hadn’t balked at their thousand-dollar donation to support the community library association, the tribute tendered to participate in the neighborhood’s progressive dinner, three courses served at different households with the entire group convening for coffee and dessert at the final venue of the night.
First stop is drinks and hors d’oeuvres at the Stapleton residence. He’s an ophthalmologist at Penn and she’s the development director at a nonprofit energy company. But their professions are merely incidental to their true vocations as “travelers,” constantly departing to and arriving from exotic locations like Katmandu and Papua New Guinea, the Incan ruins and the Russian steppes. Jonathan’s wrist is in a cast, broken on a kayaking expedition to New Zealand; Sydney frets it won’t be healed before the archeological dig on Crete that’s scheduled for May. The house is full of eclectic clutter collected on their journeys to every continent on the planet. Kit is across the room, listening to a youngish matron whose scalp is wrapped in a Hermès scarf describe the horrors of chemotherapy. She gives him a concerned look as he reaches for another helping of cocktail weenies, forever concerned about his HDL levels and triglycerides. He’d like a second bourbon and water, but exercises discretion, having put nothing solid in his stomach all day but a peanut butter sandwich after the pilgrimage to Miss P’s and now a handful of hors d’oeuvres.
Anyway, it’s time to move on to the next venue, the home of the president of the
Anthony Wayne Film Society, for the soup-and-salad course. Madame President is an intimidating figure despite being a tiny sparrow of a woman. She dresses in flowing caftans, hiding her withered right arm and claw-like hand in the deep folds of the fabric. Five decades haven’t tempered her bitterness at contracting polio just months before the announcement of the Salk vaccine. She runs her provincial film club like a sour autocrat, imposing her taste on the meek and insecure. Her house is sparsely furnished so as not to distract the eye of visitors from the walls where original movie posters are framed behind museum-quality glass and expertly displayed by professional installers and lighting designers. The classics, The Maltese Falcon and L’Avventura, Jules et Jim and Vertigo, hang side by side with obscure little cult films, You’ll Like My Mother, a B-movie thriller, and Duel of the Titans, a Cinecittà sword-and-sandals epic. The hostess backs Michael into a corner while he’s chewing a mouthful of arugula, assaulting him with what, in most circumstances, would be a benign enough question.
“What movies have you seen lately?”
Any response is likely to elicit a lecture on the crippling impact of Hollywood economics on artistic expression, tendered with a healthy dose of withering contempt for the taste of the mass audience, including one Michael Rocco Gagliano.
“Kit and I took our son to see The Forbidden Kingdom this weekend,” he says, expecting to receive a good tongue lashing.
But Madame President heartily approves, launching into a lengthy appreciation of Asian martial arts exploitation flicks and a surprising affection for the talents of Mr. Jackie Chan. He’s flattered to receive the seal of approval, especially after she moves on to excoriate the pregnant wife of an investment adviser who foolishly admits that her favorite movie is Titanic. Kit whispers in his ear that she’ll only be staying at the next stop a few moments. Soup and salad have satisfied her appetite and she needs to get home to help Jocelyn prepare for the big rush when the traveling party convenes at the Nook for coffee and dessert.
“I’ll leave with you,” he offers.
“No. You stay. You don’t want to hurt Pattycake’s feelings, do you?”
Patricia Morehouse Rush, known as Pattycake since childhood, is the North Wayne neighbor he’s most genuinely fond of. He feels a kinship with her rebel spirit, both of them having escaped the restraints of their very different upbringings. She was born in the Oak Lane Queen Anne where she resides, having returned several decades ago from the Bay Area to nurse her invalid father, one of the Pennsylvania Railroad executives ordered to move from the city to populate the communities on the suburban line. Rumor has it she’s an old lesbian and her close-cropped silver hair and her habit of wearing sandals in even the dead of winter is enough evidence to confirm the Sapphic suspicions. She’s the cheeriest octogenarian he’s ever met, with a sunny disposition, even when raging against clitoral circumcision in sub-Saharan Africa and the creationist assault on secular humanism being waged within the local school board. There’s an agreement on a moratorium on political discussions tonight, but Pattycake wears her huge Obama ’08 button without comment or protest, a concession to her age and standing in the community. Her frayed, shabby house is warm and welcoming. Her Moroccan chicken tagine is legendary and the music softly playing in the background is as comfy and familiar as an old slipper—Joni singing about big yellow taxis and the ladies of the canyon, Sweet Baby James warbling about trials of fire and rain. She’s introducing a young Organizing for America campaign worker she’s invited to the party to browbeat her more politically diffident neighbors into voting for the charismatic young senator from Illinois.
Finally, the traveling party is herded to the Nook to gather for a speech about the importance of supporting community libraries. His house is crowded with well-meaning donors patting their tummies, insisting they’re too stuffed to even look at the dessert table while loading slices of hazelnut cake onto Dodie’s china. They swear to go back on their diets tomorrow, after burning off these extravagant calories with a five-mile run. Jocelyn has decided to be gracious to their guests. She’s lavishing special attention on women of an age to soon be interviewing prospective nannies. Good career planning, Michael decides, as Danny soon will no longer need the services of a full-time minder.
“Where’s Kit?” he asks her, not finding his wife engaged in any of the clusters of conversation around the dining room table. She’s not in the living room where the chair of the board of Literary Legacy is charming her audience by praising their willingness to pledge substantial tax deductions to the coffers. She’s not in the kitchen, where he surprises a junior partner from Kit’s firm, married to a newly tenured professor at the Bryn Mawr College Graduate School of Social Work, in an intimate clutch with the sinewy wife of a cardiac surgeon who’s hitting on the neighborhood’s newest trophy bride in the next room. Kit’s absence is noted by the guests who are anxious to shower praise on the marvelous baked goods. Michael makes excuses, promising to convey their compliments.
He swings through the rooms of the first floor a second time, then slips upstairs, unnoticed. Kit’s behavior is completely out of character. Rudeness to guests is anathema to his well-bred wife. Something must be wrong. Danny’s in his room, reading past his bedtime. Michael kisses him on the forehead and takes away his book. It’s time for lights out and the adventures of the Wimpy Kid can wait until tomorrow. He hasn’t seen his mother; she hasn’t come in to say good night.
Scottie’s bedroom door is open. His stepdaughter’s sprawled on her bed, tapping her foot to the beat in her earphones, absorbed in the message she’s texting into her cell phone. He bangs on the door and she looks up and pulls the buds from her ears. She’s still wearing her lacrosse gear; her hair’s unwashed, pulled into a tight ponytail.
“Do you know where your mother is?” he asks, irritated by her blatant defiance of Kit’s wishes that she look presentable when the traveling party arrived.
“Your bedroom, I guess?” she says.
He finds Kit sitting on their bed, engaged in a one-way conversation with a voice-mail box.
“. . . so, I hope you had a wonderful birthday. I miss you. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“He never called you back?”
“No, and it’s been bothering me all night. I need to get back downstairs. Call that priest and make sure your brother was at that opera. I want to be able to sleep tonight.”
“Now who’s overreacting?”
“I’ve been married to you too long, I suppose. Dodie warned me I’d end up a big drama queen like all you Eye-talians.”
“I think the word she uses is dago.”
“I was being polite,” she says, laughing, as she stands to rejoin their guests.
The performance was glorious, the cast in fine voice. Afterward, Jack announced they had reservations at the Fountain Room. Frankie insisted they go dutch, but Jack was adamant. His generosity has been almost embarrassing. Diocesan priests aren’t flush with cash.
“What else do I have to spend my money on?” Jack scoffed, dismissing Frankie’s protest. “You can’t take it with you when you go.”
He at least allows Frankie to pay the cab fare home and buy the nightcap the birthday boy insists they have at the bar of one of the Ninth Street red gravy houses. Jack was up at six to say the first of two Sunday Masses and must be exhausted, but Frankie dreads going home, not knowing what to expect. His phone has been turned off since before morning Mass. He didn’t want to spoil the celebration spending the day on high alert for a call from Mariano. Jack apologizes, stifling a yawn. Frankie settles the check and walks the priest back to the rectory. They embrace at the front door and Frankie makes his way home alone.
It’s seven blocks on foot from door to door, enough time for him to clear his head. He pauses to stare at the imposing building at the corner of Eighth and Carpenter, the house he’s lived in his entire forty-eight years. It’s the third incarnation of the building, a three-story late-nineteenth-century property first known as F. GASPARI
CO., DRUGS, the name memorialized in the mosaic floor tiles that still greet customers as they cross the threshold.
Frankie’s grandfather had bought the property from the widow of the prosperous apothecary. Papa had shared his father’s fierce pride in the faux-Georgian details—the modillion cornices, the limestone keystones, the oriel windows sheathed in decorative cast-iron panels—that distinguished their impressive domicile from its brown-paper-wrapper neighbors. Its careful preservation was his consuming passion and he put his boys to work as soon as they were able to climb a ladder and handle a brush, forcing them to spend countless hours scraping the rust from the ornamental metal Wedgwood swags and funerary wreaths and applying fresh coats of paint to the Corinthian column that anchors the portico at the corner entrance to the barbershop. But he’d refused to upgrade the living quarters upstairs, ignoring the complaints of each of his wives, believing that only spoiled medigan’ insisted on expensive modern conveniences like dishwashers and central air. Under Frankie’s tasteful supervision, the refurbished interiors, stripped to their essence and reconceived with stark and sparse surfaces, rivals, even surpasses, the lovingly maintained exteriors.
A light in the window of the second floor means that Mariano has found his way home. Frankie unlocks the shop door, finding everything in order, neat and tidy, ready for the next appointment. The silence is encouraging as he creeps up the steps, making as little noise as possible. Mariano’s sitting at the kitchen island, his bare feet hooked around the spokes of the counter stool, issuing battle commands to the miniature Japanese Bakugan action figures he’d found in the kitchen drawer dedicated to odds and ends, forgotten toys Frankie’s nephew had left behind more than a year ago.
“Hola, Frankie. Do you want to play?” he asks, looking impossibly young, an innocent, no more dangerous than a child. The power of his sweet smile to charm is undiminished by the regrettable state of his teeth.
The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter Page 16