“Do you think she’ll talk to me? Will you help me, B?”
Rufus, Aurelia, and I are stuffed into the cab of his pickup truck, reminding me of that publicity still of the Marx Brothers when they were crammed into the peel of a banana to promote the movie The Cocoanuts.
There isn’t much to say; it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Rufus doesn’t care for Aurelia. I’m stuck between them like cannoli filling. Aurelia bristles as we take the exit off the Brooklyn Bridge and onto the winding streets that lead to the warehouse. This is a place she wouldn’t want her daughter to visit, much less live in.
Aurelia takes the hike up the stairs to the studio slowly. Rufus bounds up ahead of me. When I reach the top with Aurelia, he has propped the door open. Capri waits in the middle of the vast room. Rufus and Pedro are nowhere to be seen.
Aurelia steps inside the studio and looks around at the scaffolding, the floor covered in splotches of paint, the dirty windows propped open to let in some of that fresh Brooklyn air, and finally, her daughter. Aurelia holds back the tears, but I can see how happy she is to see that her daughter is well.
“I’m going to leave you two girls alone,” I say.
“No, stay,” Capri says softly. She goes to her mother and puts her arms around her. Aurelia begins to cry.
“Can you ever forgive me?” she asks her daughter.
“Of course.”
“I didn’t want anything to change,” Aurelia says quietly. “I wanted it like it always was, with you and me and Daddy. How happy we were.”
“We were happy, Ma. But that was before I wanted to make my own life. I just wanted what you had.”
“I understand that now.”
“I’m married.”
“I know.”
“Pedro is my life. I want you to know that too.”
“My mother always got along with her in-laws. She used to say, ‘If you love him, I love him.’ She never questioned anyone’s choices when it came to marriage. I’m so ashamed I didn’t follow her example.”
“It’s okay, Ma.”
“Where’s Pedro?”
“He’s in the kitchen.”
“I would like to speak to him alone, if that’s okay.”
Capri and I watch as she goes into the kitchen.
“What happened, B?”
“The miracle of the new Fatima Church. She came to see me and she was transformed at the Wall of Water.”
Capri laughs. “That’s all it took?”
A few minutes later, Pedro and Aurelia come out of the kitchen together, holding hands.
“I just booked the first wedding in your new fancy church,” Aurelia announces.
“I’d like a Mass,” Pedro says to Capri, clearly relieved that the mother-daughter rift is over and ancient Mexican curses won’t be visited on him.
“I guess I’m planning a wedding,” I tell them.
“Unc, where do these garlands go?” Two calls out from the altar.
“Festoon the pillars!” I holler back. “Spin them around the columns like crepe paper! The longest one, with the daisies, goes across the water trough at the base of the wall.” Two nods. I climb off the ladder and help Zetta and the sodality ladies place a candelabra on either side of the entrance.
“This is quite a decorating job,” Father Porporino says, standing back and observing the garlands of fresh daisies, red roses, and white tulips draped across the base of the choir loft.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet, Father. The mariachi band is coming from Philly—Capri will enter the church to a trumpet blast—and wait till you see the traditional lasso.”
He blanches but forces himself to smile. After all, I am The Benefactor, which means I get to do whatever I want! “The first wedding in our new church. Thank you, Bartolomeo. Every day I thank God for what you’ve done here.”
“Father, it was my pleasure. All I’ve ever wanted is a glorious church for our people. And now we have it.”
“Go home and get dressed, Unc. I have it all under control.” Two gently pushes me toward the door.
“Don’t forget, candles lit before the first guest is seated. Dimmer on Monica Vitti’s chandelier over the altar. Mariachis in the loft.”
“I got it, I got it. Go.”
As I drive home, I am filled with happiness for Capri—and so happy that it’s her wedding day and not ours. If Sy Mandelbaum were alive, he would be so proud to walk her down the aisle. He always worried about her—worried that Aurelia was too overbearing, that Capri’s countless ailments would prevent her from getting out in the world and making friends, and that his money might be not an asset but a hindrance to her finding her way in the world. “Nothing to worry about, Sy!” I send up a friendly prayer. “Things worked out just the way you wanted.”
I stand back from the three-way mirror in my bedroom and marvel at the sight. I wear tight wool toreador pants and a red velvet bolero with gold trim. The crisp white dress shirt against my tanned skin makes me look like an Italian Cary Grant.
All of the men in the wedding party, including Rufus, will wear traditional Mexican attire for the ceremony. Mexicans, like Italians, like a crowd up at the altar. It’s not a real wedding unless there are so many attendants that it looks like the graduating class of a large high school. Pedro has twenty men in attendance, and Capri has matched him a woman for every man. Believe me, that proved a real challenge—Capri was so short on friends, she invited two girls from our kindergarten class to be bridesmaids, my second cousin once removed, the peppy Monica Spadoni, and Coco Ciabotto, who overcame polio to found her own dance studio, Tots in Tights.
The women wear white silk flamenco dresses and carry fans decorated with crystals and lace. Aunt Edith’s fingers must have bled sewing miles of ruffles for the skirts.
I hear the toot of a horn; my ride is here. I practically skip outside. I stop at my rosebush and yank off a red rose to place in my lapel. A happy day deserves a fresh flower—and a day where I remain a bachelor deserves a bouquet! Relief is a wonderful emotion, highly underrated. In fact, I prefer it to elation or joy. Relief lets the air out of the Tire of Pain. And I am reveling in it today. Everyone I see I love, and everyone is my friend. I didn’t ruin Capri’s life by not marrying her. In fact, I made a way for her to find true happiness and, with that, secured my own.
I climb into Rufus’s truck next to Christina, who wears a darling flamenco dress with a tasteful mantilla. I look over at Rufus in his bolero and pants. “You look like the Nutcracker.”
“Whose idea was this?” he complains.
“Pedro’s. And don’t worry, Capri got her two cents in. He’s doing the Jewish thing, breaking the glass, and Capri’s doing the Italian thing with La Boost, and together we’re a glorious pack of Aztecs, down to our white socks and shoe buckles!”
“You make an excellent Mexican.” Christina kisses me on the cheek. She turns to Rufus. “And you . . . not so good.”
There’s a traffic jam outside the church. The plaza is filled with revelers—family, friends, even the governor of New Jersey and his lovely wife.
Aurelia is stunning in a pink gown and matching mantilla. Her brother escorts her down the aisle, and she cries the whole way.
I stand in the back of the church and watch as Father Porporino takes his place in front of the altar and Pedro comes out of the sacristy and stands next to him.
“Pssst. Bartolomeo!” Nellie Fanelli pokes me in the ribs. “I love the redo,” she whispers.
“Thank you.” I hardly think this is the moment for chitchat.
“I have something to tell you.”
“Now?” I’m officially annoyed.
“You see Father up there? He remains behind that altar by the grace of God.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I blackmailed him.”
“You what?”
“I went to him and told him that he better fire Patton and Persky and hire you or I was going to the bishop with some info
rmation I had.” She winks.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s got a girl.”
“Who has a girl?”
“Father Porp. I caught him and Zetta Montagna in the rectory. You know, I used to do the ironing over there too.”
I don’t know what to say.
“The right man got the job.” Nellie jabs me again and finds a seat in the church.
For a moment I feel I might need to lie down. This is like Toot’s wedding all over again—the heat, the drama, the emotional overload, and my gut churning with shock. But when I look down the aisle as the sunlight bounces off the Wall of Water like tiny stars, I could care less how I got the job. I’m just happy I did.
Capri has opted, out of respect for her late father, to walk down the aisle solo as the mariachis play “The Isle of Capri.”
The traditional Mexican lasso, a rosary made of silk tassels (thank you, Mary Kate Fitzsimmons and Scalamandré), is given to the priest by Amalia, who wears a tiara of rosebuds that match the bodice of her white peasant dress. Father drapes the lasso over Capri and Pedro like a figure eight. A prayer of love and fertility is offered by Pedro’s father. Father Porporino administers the vows, while Pedro and Capri look at each other with enough love to fill the place several times over.
Then Pedro is given the glass in the velvet sack, and I remember Sy Mandelbaum as Pedro smashes it with his foot. “Mazel tov!” shout the Mandelbaums, who roll with the Catholic/Jewish/Mexican ceremony like it happens every day. When Capri and Pedro kiss, two doves are released. They head straight for the open skylight and out into the world.
If I have to pick my favorite season on the ocean, it would be autumn. The foliage is less vivid near the salt water, but beautiful nonetheless. Pale yellow, sandy brown, and soft maroon leaves cover my yard like velvet petals. As I rake them into small piles, I remember where I was a year ago, and how much has changed in this short time. I didn’t think it was possible to reinvent yourself after forty, but here I am, a different artist with a new point of view.
The breeze underscores my thoughts like soft music. Suddenly I hear the crackle of car tires on my driveway. I look up to see Toot pulling up in her Cadillac, followed by three other cars. It’s a caravan.
Toot jumps out of her car. “B! B! Where are you?”
I wave from the yard. I see Nicky and Ondine get out of one car and Anthony and Two get out of the next one. Finally, a few paces behind, comes Lonnie. Everyone’s yelling, apparently resuming an argument in full swing.
“What is the matter?” I hold my rake up like a school crossing guard with a stop paddle.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Nicky points his finger at me.
“Tell you what?”
“That Mom and Dad are having an affair!”
Two and Anthony look at me expectantly. “Sorry, Unc,” Two says, “I begged them not to bother you with this.”
“Bother him?” Anthony says. “He’s in on it!”
“I’m not in on anything. Your mother and father’s . . . arrangement is their business. It is none of mine and it never has been.”
“Oh no, you’re not going to weasel out of this,” Nicky says. “You practically raised us and we need you. You have to fix this.”
“Count me out.” I turn, place my rake across my wheelbarrow, and lift its handles to roll it toward the garage. They follow me.
“Where’s the baby?” I ask Ondine.
“With my mother.”
“I didn’t want Moonstone to witness this!” Nicky shouts.
“Oh, come on,” Toot shouts back. “So your dad and I still get together.”
“We don’t mind if you have lunch every once in a while. It’s having sex that’s upsetting us!” Anthony says.
“What difference does it make to you?” growls Lonnie. “How the hell do you think you got here?”
“Yeah!” Toot piles on.
“You’re cheating on Doris!” Nicky points out.
“Oh, I wish you had rallied to my defense when he was cheating on me!”
“That’s different,” Anthony counters. “You were his wife. Now you’re his comare.”
“Would it make any difference if I left Doris and got back together with your ma?” Lonnie asks. Nicky and Anthony grumble. Two looks at me and rolls his eyes.
“Lonnie, I don’t want you back.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t. I like a little taste of honey once in a while, but I don’t need to suck back the whole jar. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll continue our arrangement as is or not at all.”
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“I don’t want to, but if everybody is on their high horse about us having an affair, why would I continue? After all, I am a mother figure.”
“Grandmother too,” Ondine says seriously. Poor girl. With the birth of her baby, she has gone from a hot New Jersey version of Connie Stevens to Eleanor Roosevelt.
Nicky throws his hands up. “What kind of examples are you people? You’re acting like teenagers.”
“It is a little unsavory,” I agree.
“Who are you to talk? What kind of example have you been for my boys in the romance department?” Toot demands.
“I didn’t know that was part of my job as uncle.”
“Of course it is. If you were married, I wouldn’t have two single sons here as they crash and burn toward thirty years old.”
“I got time, Ma,” Anthony promises.
“I’m never getting married,” Two announces.
“See? See? Your bachelor status has soaked through the fabric of our family like motor oil. Why don’t you want to get married, Two? It’s me, isn’t it? And all that pain Daddy caused us so many years ago.” Toot puts her arm around Two.
“No, no, that has nothing to do with it,” Two says. “I wear the powder blue.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Lonnie asks.
“I love a nice shade of powder blue,” I say. They all look at me. “Well, I do.”
“It means I like men,” Two says simply.
“Jesus Christ, what are you saying?” Lonnie booms.
“I’m a homosexual,” Two says quietly.
“I knew it,” Anthony says, pleased with himself. “It’s the theater.”
“Are you sure?” Nicky asks Two.
“Why would he tell us if he wasn’t?” Lonnie barks. “Just to give me a stroke?”
“I don’t think you can be unsure about that,” Ondine agrees.
“Everyone knows there are no Italian homosexuals!” Lonnie grabs at straws.
“Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Tiepolo—shall I go on?” Two looks at me.
“No!” Lonnie shouts. “Well, he didn’t inherit this from my side!”
“No, I’ll get hardening of the arteries, prostate cancer, and diabetes from your side, Dad,” Two says diplomatically.
“I’m completely speechless,” Toot says quietly.
“Ma, you knew all along.”
“Maybe I did. But I didn’t think you’d ever bring it up! I should have never let you wear Christina The Widow’s Communion dress for your Halloween costume when you were seven. That was a mistake.” Toot shakes her head.
“I told you so at the time!” Lonnie says critically. Then everyone looks at me.
“What are you looking at?” I ask. “You think I wear the powder blue?” No one answers. “Well, let me say this. Two, no matter what you are, you’re my nephew and I love you. I put up with a philandering father and a mother who cried about it for fifty-some years, and I never judged them for it. Toot married your father, a good man but not without his weaknesses, and I never judged him either. For me, the definition of family is that group of people who love you for everything you are, regardless of what they think of it. So, if you wear the powder blue, that is absolutely fine with me.”
“Well, sure,” Lonnie says. “You’re a decorator. Your profession’s loaded with them.”
 
; “I have news for you, Lonnie. They’re everywhere. Even in the jewelry business. Even in RC Incorporated.”
“Dear God,” Lonnie clucks.
“You know, I love being a bachelor. And I’m tired of explaining it. I love my family, but I don’t want to make one.” I point to them. “I never wanted . . . this. The great love of my life is my work. I’ve never found a person who thrilled me as much as a blank piece of paper in a sketch pad.”
“Cheaper than women,” Lonnie says.
“I didn’t have a family because I don’t like this.” I indicate them as a group. “I don’t like drama. Now, you need to get in your cars and go back to Toot’s and sit down at the table and talk through your problems. If you don’t like Dad schtupping Mom, tell them, not me. And Two, thank you for sharing your news. Now, if you will all leave me to rake my leaves in peace.”
After some more bickering among themselves, Toot, Lonnie, Nicky, Ondine, Anthony, and Two take a hint, climb into their cars, and go. I take my wheelbarrow back out into the yard and go back to my raking. How funny. People wonder if I wear the powder blue. Doesn’t everyone want to fall in love with a special person? It’s almost a given at birth, isn’t it? For me, I knew long ago that one person would never be enough for me. My dream companion would be half Eydie Von Gunne and half Rufus McSherry. Alas, it can never be, not in this world anyway, so I will wait until the next, where all mysteries are solved and all secrets are revealed.
The di Crespi/Falcones gather in the foyer of Our Lady of Fatima Church on a warm September day, wearing our Sunday finest. Baby Moonstone, who at seven months is too large to fit into our family christening gown, is in a little white tuxedo with a bow tie. He is so big, he could swim in the baptismal trough, not just get dunked.
“Look, Ondine, we’re Catholic,” Toot says patiently. “And Catholics, as a general rule, need a saint’s name somewhere in the configuration. It’s how it’s done.”
“There’s no Saint Moonstone?”
“Not in any of the books we’ve consulted.” Toot looks at me.