Rococo

  The charming Cape Cod sits back on Windsor Avenue like a gray bird. Inspired by the black-and-white birch trees in the backyard, I used a palette of lavender, silver, and deep maroon for the interior. The only adjustment I asked her to make on the exterior was to paint the casement portion of the windows deep burgundy instead of black, and the front door burgundy instead of white to give a hint of what’s to come inside.

  “Come in, come in!” Lina greets us at the door. “My gosh, when I see you together, you look like father and son.”

  “How is that possible?” I reply. “My hair is coal black and he’s a brownette.”

  “It’s the face,” Lina insists.

  “Everyone tells me I look just like you.” Two punches my arm.

  Lina wears a burgundy silk blouse and a deep navy blue skirt. Her white hair is done is a simple pageboy. A great decorator pays attention to the client’s personal taste and appearance. One look and you know her favorite color. Her style will dictate the things she likes around her. If she’s ornate and wears lots of jewelry, that bolt of flocked wallpaper you picked up for a song at the Pierre Frey sale has her name on it. If she’s a simple girl, she’ll love early American or Shaker and cozy fabrics in cotton and linen—forget damask and silk taffeta. In a sense, a home is the landscape of a person’s style. The surroundings should enhance what is already true about them. When I first met Lina, she wore a lovely burgundy-and-dusty-grape bouclé coat. That fabric, with the cue from nature in the form of birch trees, provided the palette I used in her home.

  I did the living room, den, and hallway walls in dove gray with white trim and installed wall-to-wall carpeting in a slightly deeper shade of gray to give the small rooms a feeling of spaciousness. Lina is a classic, so I used tone-on-tone plum (Brunschwig & Fils #54) matelasse on the furniture, and the occasional stripe on the throw pillows—no busy prints anywhere. I kept everything trim and classic: no ruffles, beading, fringe, or ruching—clean lines only.

  I convinced Lina to blow out the wall between her bedroom and bathroom to make a true master suite, with a row of windows along the back of the house; I allowed Two to oversee the contractor, and instructed him to come up with the bedroom décor.

  I follow my nephew back to the bedroom. The first thing I notice are the window treatments. Two designed floor-to-ceiling draperies in a white dupioni silk, which opens up the room with light. The bed faces the entrance door, with nightstands on either side. A writing desk sits in front of the windows, and a chaise peeks out from an alcove that connects the bedroom to the walk-in closet.

  “This is magnificent. Tell me how you came up with the design.”

  “Well, now that Lina is alone, she spends a lot of time in her room, so we put in a small desk for correspondence and a chaise longue.” Two points to a unit of open shelves on the wall opposite the bed, where books, photographs in silver frames, and a small Deco vanity mirror are arranged. He talks fast, clearly proud of his work. “Let me turn on the low lamps for you.” He flips the switch on two matching pewter lamps on the nightstands. The custom-made duvet of lavender satin trimmed in white is old Hollywood. The chaise is covered in eggplant velvet. It’s a plum fantasy.

  “Oh, Bartolomeo, Two designed a room fit for Gloria Swanson. I actually drape myself on that chaise like a fading film star,” Lina says happily.

  “It has just enough Deco, doesn’t it?” I agree.

  “Here is my favorite feature.” Two sounds professional. “I had to think of a way to hide the television set.”

  “I hate TVs out in the open,” Lina says.

  “So where is it?” I look around the room.

  Two goes to the étagère and points to a large oil painting hung in the center of the unit. It’s a pastoral scene of green fields and a farmhouse, very soothing. “Watch,” Two says. “It opens like a book.” He pulls the painting toward him, swinging it open. Behind the painting is a television set.

  “Isn’t that brilliant?” Lina marvels. “During the day I close the painting, and at night, when I want to watch television, I open it.”

  “Great idea!” I give my nephew a quick hug. “I love it!” I couldn’t be more proud if Two and I were father and son.

  On the drive home, Two says, “Unc, I really want to work for you full-time.”

  “I’d love to have you,” I tell him. Who knew I would love this mentoring business. I thought I’d hate working with others, but Christina and Two have changed my mind.

  “Really?”

  “After you graduate from Parsons or whatever design school you wish. You need a degree, and then you must be ASID.”

  “If you promise me that I can work under you, I will absolutely go back to school,” he promises.

  “You’ll always have a job with the House of B.”

  While I appear to be unflappable, the truth is I am absolutely sick to my stomach about Capri and Pedro’s breakup and the events it has triggered. It’s not easy to raise money quickly, but God knows I’m trying.

  After I went to Lonnie, I called Zetta Montagna to coordinate fund-raisers with the K of C. I groveled and went back to Father Porp, throwing myself on his mercy. After much begging, he agreed to go to the bishop, although Father is so angry at me that he can barely speak. I told him to put his feelings about me aside and think about his parish.

  I am not above raising the money myself. I know many wealthy people, but, by and large, they’re Episcopalian and they give to their own church. Short-term, I need twenty-five thousand dollars to keep Rufus, Pedro, and the crew working. Long-term, we need an additional hundred thousand dollars to finish the job. The ambitious Wall of Water is almost as much again. It might as well be a million dollars. I’ve managed to keep my pleas for funds quiet, hoping I won’t have to tell Rufus we will soon be broke.

  Pedro, poor, dear Pedro, is sulking around the church like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with his beloved Esmeralda. If you need proof that his love for Capri was true, all you have to do is look at him. I worry he’ll slip with the cutting blade while he’s working on the windows just to put himself out of his misery. Rufus promises to keep an eye on him.

  When I arrive home Toot is waiting for me by the garage. She has borrowed Anthony’s pickup truck.

  “What’s up, sis? Dear God, you’re thin.”

  “I know. First time I lost weight in my life without dieting. It’s all this running around. Now I know why the mistresses are always thinner than the wives. A comare is always on the go: running to meet him here or there while the wives sit home eating cannolis and wait.” She points to a large crate in the back of the truck, marked BY ORDER OF THE QUEEN. “My friend Dahlia at the post office called. I told her you were on a job, so I went over and picked this up for you. What is it?”

  “The children of Fatima.” Toot helps me lift it out of the back of the truck. “I’m so blue, Toot. Where did it all go wrong?”

  “Come on. It’s only money. You’ve come too far. Make those bishops and cardinals give you the dough.”

  “Father said he’d go to them, but he doesn’t think they’ll help. Father wants to see me fail.”

  “What an idiot. It’s his parish. He could get the money. Father Porp is a caddy for the bishop. Everybody knows it.”

  “Well, he’s not going to call in his chit for my project, believe me.”

  “Makes me sick. The money is there! Look at the Vatican! Art up the yinyang! Gold everywhere! If I stood still in Saint Peter’s long enough, they’d gold-leaf my ass. Furthermore, Fatima has gotten the shaft financially. We don’t get half of the stuff the other parishes get. I don’t know why Porp doesn’t grow a pair and go to the bishop and say, ‘Hey, why does every other Catholic church in Jersey get buildings and gyms while we have to beg for a holy-water font? Where’s the justice?’ ”

  “I don’t pretend to understand the financial dealings of RC Incorporated.”

  Toot and I gently place the crate in my kitchen. I get out a hammer and lift the staples off
the planks. The four sides of the box fall away when I lift off the lid. The statues are packed in burlap and cotton batting. Toot helps me unwrap Lucia, then Jacinta, and finally Francisco. The statues are taller than I remember, around five feet. Toot and I line them up across the kitchen floor.

  “This is a sad bunch,” she clucks. “These outfits are from hunger.”

  “They were poor sheepherders in Portugal. You weren’t expecting Bob Mackie, were you?”

  “They need a scrub-down and new rags.”

  “I’ll have Aunt Edith make them new outfits. Let’s take them up to the attic.”

  Toot takes Francisco, while I take Jacinta. We climb up the stairs to the attic and place them near Monica Vitti’s chandelier. I go back down the stairs and into the kitchen where Lucia has fallen over, even though we left her upright. I lift her up, noticing she’s heavier than the other two statues. They’re made of gesso, so they’re sturdy, but not weighty like statues carved from marble. I pick Lucia up like a baby and head up the stairs.

  “You know, these glass eyeballs give me the creeps,” Toot says. “They’re like escapees from the Holy House of Wax.”

  “They like authentic in Italy, what can I tell you?”

  “Yeah, and they take pictures of their dead in caskets too, but that doesn’t make it civilized. I don’t like the statues to be so real, the eyes follow you around the room. There’s so much stuff in our religion that scares me.”

  “That’s the point,” I remind her. “Keeps us in line.”

  As I place Lucia on the ground, her foot falls off.

  “It’s broken!” Toot exclaims.

  I lay the statue down on its back and check the foot. The suede boot she was wearing has fallen off, and it looks as though her foot, inside a long stocking, is damaged. I carefully remove the stocking. There is a seam around the ankle, as though the foot has been repaired before.

  “They sold you damaged goods,” Toot says.

  “Wait a minute. There’s something in the leg.” I gently shake the statue, and something rattles. I stand Lucia up and hear a soft bang against the floor. I lift her up gently, and out slides a thin, white marble sculpture.

  “What the hell is that?” Toot comes closer to look.

  I examine the small statue. It’s a long flute of polished marble with faint gold veins and an orb in the center. There are no etchings or carvings. It’s sleek and modern. “It’s the Blessed Mother,” I tell her. “See?” I point out the veil, the robe, the orb, which represents the baby Jesus.

  “Well, it won’t work in my house,” Toot announces. “I have real rosary beads on my Saint Theresa. You keep it.”

  No one has seen Capri since she moved back home. Aurelia is not likely to allow me into the house, so I asked Christina, a neutral party, to take a run over there to see how she’s doing. Rufus, Pedro, and I are having lunch at the Tic-Tock, waiting for Chris. She’s late, which is not a good sign.

  “Pedro, stop beating yourself up,” I tell him. “You fell in love. That’s not a crime.”

  “It wasn’t right. At first, when Capri and I were together, it was bliss. Then, as the reality of her mother’s hatred set in, she withdrew. It became too difficult. She started to question what she was feeling. And then it was over.”

  “It’s crazy.” Rufus shakes his head. “Provincial town. Italian control.”

  I bristle. “Oh, the Irish have no rough edges, I take it?”

  “Rough edges, yes. But not a general prejudice toward others.”

  “You have to understand that Aurelia is not familiar with Mexico and its people, except for a brief pit stop in Cabo San Lucas on a day trip when she and Sy were vacationing in southern California. I think, in time, she would have come around.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Pedro says, looking away.

  “The worst thing Capri did was go home. That made it look like she agreed with Aurelia. She should have stood her ground.” I tap the table for emphasis.

  “Was she this way when you were with her?”

  “Pedro, I was never with Capri. We’re platonic friends who pretended to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Kind of like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.”

  “Deep down, Aurelia knew that you weren’t husband material.” Rufus stirs his coffee and looks at me.

  “Right.” I agree with him, but I’m insulted. “It’s not that I’m incapable of love, it’s just that Capri is like a sister to me.” I sound awfully defensive, so I take a breath.

  “Nobody said you were incapable of love. We all know you’re a passionate guy. I’ve seen you mix paint.”

  Christina pulls up in front of the diner. Rufus watches her get out of the car; he raises one eyebrow ever so slightly and doesn’t take his eyes off of her until she’s inside the diner. I wonder if Rufus told her about Ann. Maybe I should say something to Christina later. Christina squeezes into the booth next to me. “What happened?” I ask her.

  “We had a cup of coffee and she gave me this.” Christina gives Pedro an envelope. Pedro’s eyes light up. He really is quite attractive when he’s not depressed.

  “Excuse me.” Pedro takes the letter and goes outside. Through the window, we watch as he lights a cigarette, then opens the letter and reads.

  “How is Capri, really?” I ask Christina.

  “Aurelia is not budging. And Capri thinks if she follows her heart, it will kill her mother.”

  Rufus pats Christina’s hand and goes outside to talk to Pedro.

  “Have you told Rufus about the money?”

  “No. I don’t have the guts yet. I keep hoping somebody will come through.”

  “He’s probably dealt with this sort of thing before.”

  The waitress freshens up my coffee. I pour some cream into the cup. “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. McSherry.”

  She smiles. “He’s interesting.”

  “Be careful.”

  Christina takes a moment to watch Rufus and Pedro outside. Then she answers me. “I will.”

  “OLOF has turned into the Broken Hearts Club of central New Jersey. As far as I’m concerned, they already have two members too many.”

  Christina shakes her head and studies the menu like a complex theorem. I know her well enough not to say another word.

  The morning light streams through the main doors of the church, which are propped open as we work inside. The scaffolding makes the empty church feel like a large train station; and without the flow of people, it seems to have no purpose.

  Rufus has prepped the walls of the church to paint the frescoes. There are a series of stripes on the wall where he has tested his paints—a rainbow of soft gold, ruby red, magenta, and moss green, and a small white cloud. It looks lonely on the expanse of the dingy wall. I close my eyes and imagine the grandeur of what his fresco might have been.

  Rufus has begun to sketch onto the finished, smooth plaster walls. I see the outline of the countryside of Portugal, and what look to be angels in the heavens.

  Pedro returned to the warehouse in Brooklyn to pour the glass for the new windows. He uses actual silver in the molten glass to give a rippled, iridescent effect. Before he left, I almost asked him if there was a way to make the windows more cheaply but thought better of it. What would I do if a client told me I couldn’t use fabric from Scalamandré?

  We have two days until payday, when we will officially run out of money. I’ve prayed to Saint Anthony, Saint Theresa, and Saint Jude, who handles hopeless cases. So far, no magic money has appeared. I have a few meetings later today to try and raise the funds, but they are long shots.

  To keep my mind off the inevitable, I reupholster the altar chairs myself. I found a wonderful cut velvet that I’m lining with muslin. Rufus has gone out to the truck for more spackle for the grotto wall.

  “Bartolomeo!” Aurelia stands at the back of the church. She spots me and marches angrily down the aisle. She throws a letter in my face. “She left with th
at Mexican.”

  “What are you talking about? Pedro is in Brooklyn working on the windows.”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s off getting married to my daughter somewhere. Read it.” I scan the letter, written by Pedro. Carefully, briefly, and respectfully, he tells Aurelia that he can’t live without Capri.

  “I’m sorry, Aurelia.”

  “Not as sorry as I am.”

  “No, I’m sorry you’re determined to ruin Capri’s life. I wish you’d take a couple of minutes and hold up a mirror. You would see how ridiculous you are.”

  “How dare you?” Aurelia puts her hands on her hips. When I was a boy, she was so tall she scared me. Now she seems like just another little old Italian lady in low-heeled pumps.

  I put my hands on my hips and look her straight in the eye. “I’ve known you all my life, and I had no idea what you were really made of. I thought you were a humble Catholic girl who married for love and got lucky when it came to money. But you’re a controlling woman whose generosity comes at a price. You can’t see how good and decent Pedro is because when you look at him, all you see is brown skin. He’ll be a better husband than I’d ever be, than most men would ever be, not that you’ll ever see it.”

  “This is not what I wanted for my daughter.”

  “Yeah, but it’s what she wants.” I give the letter back to her. “Sy would be ashamed of you.”

  “He trusted my judgment in all things,” she thunders.

  “Well, he’d be really disappointed now. You want Capri to give up a chance at happiness to stay home and watch Bonanza with you while you eat pot pie and complain about how the church is soaking you for funds. Guess what? Capri wants more from her life, and as far as this church goes, we don’t need your money. For the first time in the history of Our Lady of Fatima, we won’t rely on the Castone Mandelbaum fortune to get us through. We’ll do just fine without The Benefactor.” Aurelia puts her hands in the air and goes.

  After a long day of fund-raising, I pull into my parking spot outside the church. The soft work lights spill out the front door of the church, making a path down the stairs to the sidewalk. I sit and look at it for a long time. All around me, the black sky nearly swallows our little town in darkness. In the distance, the streetlamps throw white light like small moons, but for the most part it is bleak. I went to my top four clients and came away with a whopping twenty thousand dollars, which will buy the baptismal trough at the base of the Wall of Water and not much more. It’s almost midnight as I climb the steps into the church with a heavy heart. I’ve been shamelessly avoiding this painful conversation with Rufus, hoping he’s so engrossed in his work that he hasn’t noticed how distraught I’ve been. I halfway expected Pedro to find out what Aurelia did, but I guess The Benefactor knew her daughter wouldn’t rush home to save the day. Capri was always generous, but never devout. At least some small good came of this renovation. Capri found true love with Pedro. It almost makes the whole mess worth it.