Rococo

  Nicky is crumpled in a heap on a small green plastic chair. “I can’t, Ma. I can’t.” Toot takes her son’s face in her hands. It’s the color of the chair.

  “You must. You have to be strong and be a man and be there for your wife.”

  Toot lifts Nicky up from under the arms and pushes him into the hallway outside the labor room.

  “Oh, B, thank God you’re here,” Toot says as she drags her son.

  I follow them inside.

  “How is Ondine?”

  “She hasn’t started pushing. She’s screaming like a banshee in there, though. She even scared the other girls.” Toot pushes Nicky through the doors.

  After a moment a young nurse in small wire-rimmed glasses comes out. She is awfully young and looks like one of those girls who danced around the campfire at Woodstock. I’m worried. “Are you coming in, Mrs. Falcone?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Toot tells her.

  “Maybe you should. Your son is a nervous wreck.”

  “This is my brother. Can he come too?”

  “Let me check with the patient.” She goes back inside.

  “I don’t want to go in,” I tell Toot.

  The nurse returns. “It’s fine. As long as he stays out of the way.”

  Sure, I think. This is a hippie hospital where anything goes. Ondine will probably have strangers passing a bong while watching the birth.

  “I’m not going,” I protest.

  “Yes you are!” Toot clamps down on my biceps so tight she pinches a nerve and my elbow goes limp. I follow her into Labor Room 4, where Nicky stands gripping the metal bars near Ondine’s head. As soon as he sees Toot and me, he collapses on the floor in a chartreuse heap. A nurse picks him up and pulls him off to the side like she’s carrying him off a battlefield and deposits him in a chair in the corner. Toot goes to Ondine’s side. “Your mother is on the way, but it’s gonna take a while. Just pretend I’m her.”

  Ondine takes Toot’s hand and screams so loudly even the nurse takes a step back.

  I liked it much better when Toot had babies. They knocked her out and I waited outside, except when Two was born. Toot had switched doctors and had a Hawaiian fellow who allowed me into the room and let me cut the cord. I don’t think he worked in New Jersey after that.

  Poor Ondine. She is so full of fluid that I cannot detect a single bone in her face. Her head is a beach ball. Her nose seems to have sunk, and her eyes are two blue dots. The only way I could pick her out of a lineup is the hair, which lies on her shoulders in soft blond curls.

  The doctor—a middle-aged fellow with his curly mop in a hairnet—instructs Ondine to push. Toot won’t look, and I try not to, but when the doctor tells her, “Again,” I can’t help but look, and out comes the baby, fists in the air, like he plowed through the defensive line of the Baltimore Colts and made a touchdown. When the nurse shouts, “It’s a boy!” Nicky revives suddenly and rushes to Ondine’s side. Evidently this was the news he wanted to hear.

  The doctor asks Nicky if he wants to cut the cord. He shakes his head violently, but Toot smacks him lightly and says, “Cut the cord, it’s the least you can do.” The doctor hands him giant shears (the kind used to install carpet) and shows Nicky where to cut; Nicky clips the cord and the baby screams.

  Ondine smiles at Nicky and he kisses her tenderly. I didn’t think my nephew had the courage. Evidently neither did Ondine. As they coo and cuddle with their baby boy, Toot and I practically dance out of the delivery room when we’re asked to leave.

  “My first grandson!” she weeps. I put my arm around her and push through the doors into the outside waiting area. Anthony and Two, the new uncles, and Lonnie and Doris wait for the news. Toot looks at me.

  “I hope being an uncle brings you as much joy as it has brought me,” I tell Two when I hug him. “And Anthony”—I give him a hug—“you must never put this boy on your motorcycle. Okay?”

  “Okay, Unc,” he says.

  “Lonnie, congratulations!” I give my ex-brother-in-law a kiss on the cheek. “And Doris, you too!”

  “It’s so exciting,” Lady Sylvia says. Poor thing. She’s a classy woman, but there’s just no way she fits in with this clan. It’s like a platter of boiled potatoes and spaghetti.

  I look over at Lonnie and Toot, who seem as happy as they did on their wedding day. Lonnie reaches down to kiss Toot, and I distract Doris while he slips his tongue into my sister’s mouth. What a family.

  Nicky comes out to join us. His skin tone has returned from green to his usual shade of oatmeal, and he beams with pride.

  “What’s his name?” Toot asks.

  “Moonstone.”

  No one speaks. Finally I say, “Nicky, are you sure?”

  “Say that name again,” Toot growls.

  “Moonstone,” Nicky repeats.

  “Moonstone Falcone. Now he and Nellie Fanelli can be song lyrics together,” I offer.

  “What does that mean?” Lonnie looks perplexed. According to tradition, the boy should be named Alonzo Vincent, after him, the paternal grandfather.

  “Ondine likes it.” Nicky shrugs.

  “Did you tell her in Italian families we name babies after people, not rocks?”

  “Don’t start, Ma. Did you see him? I love him. If she wanted to call him Riptide Rex, it would be fine with me.”

  Toot opens her mouth to reply, then thinks better of it and embraces him instead. “Oh, who cares? He’s perfect. And I’m so proud of you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Nicky whispers.

  “I know.” Toot smiles. “But you gave me my first grandchild. Your daddy and I love you very much.” Then, in a moment of largess, Toot looks at Doris. “And you’re a step-grandmom now.”

  Lonnie gives Nicky a man hug, one of those awkward big kinds where the bodies don’t touch but there’s a lean-in and some mutual backslapping. Then Two and Anthony hug their brother. Only Doris and I are left out. We look at each other and smile. After all, we’re family once removed.

  Moonstone will arrive home to the most beautiful nursery in Freehold. With Ondine in the hospital for a few days, I zip over to the house and give the baby’s room an upgrade with circus-themed wallpaper in bright primary colors, an apple-red changing table, a white crib with navy-blue-and-white polka-dot sheets, and café curtains with elephants parading across the hems. (I installed blackout shades underneath for the parents, who will thank me until Moonstone is in college. I’ve been told nap times are a cinch with the miracle shades.)

  It’s late and I’m hungry, but I stop by the church. It’s interesting how life took precedence over work for one night with the arrival of the baby. But now that Moonstone is here and he’s healthy, it’s time to turn my attention back to the church. I am so angry at Aurelia for pulling the funds that I can’t think. How will I tell Rufus and the crew we have no money to continue? And how will Pedro feel when he finds out he’s the reason?

  When I reach the foyer, I see that most of the church is dark, except for the fresco behind the side altar where Rufus is working. I hear voices, so instead of interrupting, I stay behind one of the pillars and listen.

  “You’re beautiful,” I hear Rufus say.

  I peer around and see my cousin Christina, legs dangling from the end of the scaffold, looking up at him. He leans down and kisses her tenderly. I look away. I know to honor a private moment when I see one. I’ve been so busy, but I have noticed that Christina seems better, less morose. Maybe still a little depressed, but not in the black, hopeless funk that has gripped her since Charlie died. I thought, selfishly, that it might be working for me that made her feel better, but I see now it’s not the job with the House of B, it’s the time spent with Rufus of Brooklyn. Rufus goes back to work as Chris watches him, and I realize I’ve just observed a small miracle. Christina has been so sad for so long that I didn’t think it was possible for her to connect with someone again. Maybe it’s the small miracles that make a difference. Maybe a kiss can be a
step to salvation if it brings a grieving woman from despair to peace. Maybe being understood is what a widow misses when her husband is gone. Maybe she just needs to be heard.

  I sneak back out the door and reenter, calling Rufus’s name. If Christina wanted to tell me about Rufus, she would have. And so would he. But they didn’t, so I’m going to respect that.

  “Something interesting up here,” Rufus says as he extends his big paw to me and helps me climb up the scaffolding. I think of those rescue scenes on the news where a man in a uniform is pulling another man to safety over a churning pit of flood water. I could never imagine how it’s done. It takes brute strength and determination on the part of the one man and complete trust on the part of the other. When Rufus practically lifts me from the ground to the scaffold, I understand how a person could be saved.

  “Okay, what have we got?” I say peppily.

  Rufus leans toward the face of the Blessed Mother on the fresco and tugs at the area around it. He pulls the edge of the fresco toward him, loosening the stucco.

  “It’s just as you thought. A canvas mounted on the wall.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what’s interesting.”

  We watch as he pulls the peeling canvas all the way across the fresco, exposing the wall underneath. I can’t believe what I see.

  Painted on another canvas is a nude of a voluptuous raven-haired Italian girl with brown eyes you could fall into. She reclines, Rubenesque, on a blanket of red velvet. Her expression is pure contentment. There is nothing cheap or tawdry about her, yet her face and form are very come-hither. Underneath her body in repose, the word “Credo” is painted in gold leaf.

  “I believe,” I translate aloud. “I wonder who she is.”

  “She sure doesn’t look like Nonna Menecola,” Christina says softly.

  “I love it.” Rufus stands back. “There’s my idea of faith.”

  “For now,” I chide him. “But when you’re old and sick and your sex drive is a distant memory, I will guarantee that you will pray to all the saints and God Himself to relieve you of your misery. You won’t be thinking of her.”

  “I think you’re wrong about that, B. I think God is in the details, the places you think He’d never be.”

  “In the arms of a sexy woman?” I ask incredulously.

  “Especially there.”

  Rufus pulls the canvas up over the brunette bombshell, and I heave a sigh of relief. If Father Porporino were to see this, he’d throw the lot of us out for turning this sacred place into a nudie club.

  “Ondine had a baby boy,” I tell them, and to my own surprise, I begin to cry. Christina puts her arms around me, and Rufus climbs the scaffold and sits next to me.

  “I know,” Christina says. “It’s overwhelming when a baby is born. You were a mess when I had Amalia, remember?”

  “I remember. This time, though, I saw it. The whole thing. And they named him . . . Moonstone.” I sob.

  “I’d like to help you, B, but gold is at a low,” Lonnie says sadly. He sits across from me in a booth at the Tic-Tock, stirring his coffee extra-light.

  “Lonnie, I’m desperate. I’m going have to let the crew go on Friday if we can’t come up with twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “What about the churchgoers? Did you ask them?”

  “The most money I ever raised quickly in our parish was fifteen hundred dollars on Bingo Night, and that’s only because the Knights of Columbus and sodality matched the take of the door. I need a big check fast.”

  “I wish I could help you out.”

  “So do I.” I’m starting to feel defeated.

  “Look, I need to talk to you about something,” Lonnie whispers. It’s hard to hear him through the din of the diner. “I love your sister. And I’d like to get divorced.”

  “Lonnie, I don’t want to get involved. Can I go twenty-four hours without hearing some detail about Toot’s libido and your sex life?”

  “It’s something, what we got. That’s why I’m thinking remarriage.” He smiles.

  “Don’t do that. I’m begging you. Don’t you get it? It’s the thrill of the chase for you. If you and Toot remarried, you’d kill each other.”

  “I haven’t asked her. But if I do give Doris the sayonara, then I have to give her the house.”

  “Why don’t you just buy women houses instead of marrying them?” I snap.

  “The thought has crossed my mind. I don’t know, B, I’m a traditional guy. I believe in laws and all that. I believe when you bed, you wed.”

  “What about all those women you ran around with when you were married to Toot?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “That’s just sex. Half the time you’re not even on a mattress, for cripesakes. Trust me. Those dames weren’t looking to get married. They just needed a little Lonnie.”

  That this man believes he has done the women of New Jersey a favor by servicing them sexually in their times of need makes me want to throw up. And they say I have a big ego. The decorating world has nothing on Lonnie Falcone. “Okay, okay, whatever, Lonnie. I just think as long as the current arrangement is working for you and Toot why change things?”

  Lonnie looks away. At certain angles he looks like Robert Taylor when he was young and married to Barbara Stanwyck; at other times he resembles a hairy baboon. “You’re right. Status quo is working.”

  “I don’t mean to get back to business, but can you think of anyone else I can ask for money to get this renovation done?”

  “You know, B, to be perfectly honest, the church is not the place people put their money anymore. They give direct to old folks’ homes and disabilities and such. The church seems to have enough dough, you know?”

  I ring Aurelia’s doorbell, which is a first—usually I’m expected and walk right in. I saw that her car was in the garage, so I know she’s home. After a few moments, she opens the door. “Can we talk?” I say politely.

  “I’m not giving you the money, B.”

  “What is your problem?” I demand. I’m empowered as soon as I realize she’s not going to give me the money, so there’s no reason to be less than perfectly honest with her. “You married a Jew in 1929. What’s wrong with your daughter loving a Mexican in 1970?”

  “I will not discuss my daughter with you. She is dead to me.”

  “You’re a horse’s ass!” Aurelia steps back, stunned. “Yes! A big fat horse’s ass! Let me tell you about Pedro Alarcon, because all you see is a poor man from a foreign country. I could be describing our ancestors from the Gulf of Genoa, but that’s too obvious. Pedro is one of the most devout people I have ever met—and remember, I served Mass for Cardinal Cushing on his visit to OLOF in 1954, so I know devout. Pedro is humble and quiet and talented. And he loves your daughter. This is something she wanted and wished for. Capri has lived under your shadow for forty years.”

  “My shadow? I knew she wasn’t a party girl, so I pushed her out from my shadow. I didn’t keep her there!”

  “You tried to marry her off to me, knowing it would never happen.” Aurelia tries to protest. I stop her. “Uh-huh! Yes! Even though you pretended to want us married, you were thrilled when it didn’t happen, because she would be here to take care of you. That’s not what Sy wanted for you or her. In fact, Sy wanted you to remarry—”

  “Never! One God, one man, one life!”

  “That’s a nice sentiment to put on a coin, but it’s a bitch to live.”

  “It’s my truth!” Aurelia thumps her chest.

  “You kept your daughter in this house like a prisoner. I really believe now, when I look back on things, you had me redecorate this joint so many times so Capri would think she had moved. You wanted her to have a sense that something was going on here when, in fact, it was just a way to trap her in your world. Maybe the wallpaper changed, but they were still the same four walls, and the same mother inside to care for.”

  “You’re wrong!” Aurelia bellows.

  “A
nd now to the matter of your millions. What will become of them when you disinherit your daughter?”

  “I have plans for my money.”

  “Sy always stood by his word. I think he would be very angry to know that you promised the money to the church and then pulled the plug. After all, you rebuilt the Temple Beth-El in Oakhurst. He would have wanted you to do the same for your own house of worship.”

  “Things changed.”

  “For the better! You loved your husband and he loved you—and it’s astonishing to those of us who witnessed that love to watch you take that away from your own daughter.”

  “He’s not right for her.”

  “You haven’t given him a chance.”

  “He doesn’t deserve a chance. They’re sleeping together and they’re not married!”

  “Is that what you’re upset about?”

  “No, I’m more upset that he’s a Mexican!”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” I take a deep breath.

  “No, we’re not. I’m home, Mom.” We both look to see Capri standing in the doorway. “Pedro broke up with me.” The vibrant girl with the soft contact lenses is gone, and back is the frump in Coke-bottle eyeglasses.

  Aurelia takes a deep breath. She looks at her daughter first with relief, but within seconds the walls go up. “I knew you’d come to your senses,” she says coldly.

  “I’m really nervous about showing you this job,” Two says as we drive to Lina Aldo’s house in Brielle.

  “Relax. She called me and told me that she was thrilled.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for giving me a chance to design a room for one of your clients. A bedroom, no less. I really appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  Two is right. It was a vote of confidence to hand over the reins when it comes to a favorite client. But to be honest, I’ve been so worried about losing funding for the church that I never would have been able to give Lina the attention she deserves.