Rococo (17 page)

“I do now,” she says quietly.

“If you’re smart, you’ll help Capri pack and you’ll give her some of the lovely modern pieces from Sy’s old den that are stored in the attic. West Long Branch is no place for French anything. Now I must go. I just got off a plane, and my head feels like it’s going to snap off, roll onto the curb, and burst into flames.”

As I climb into my car, I realize that Aurelia is a decent lady, but I am seeing a side of her that I don’t like. She never gives without strings, even though she’s the first person to say she does. Capri put her needs after her mother’s because she never had much of a choice. The family ties that bind can choke you. It’s a lesson I would do well to learn from her.

I arrive home like a wrung-out dish rag and find a letter from Gian Angelo Ruttolo, to whom I wrote before zipping off to London with Eydie. He’s coming to New York in late July and has agreed to take a day trip down to OLOF to see the church.

The English, with their rich colonial history, poached wonderful decorating ideas from around the world. My brief trip gave me more inspiration than I know what to do with. England is an endless resource for decorators. I admired the scrumptious silks, handcrafted wool rugs, and metal accents of India. The Far Eastern influences, like the use of fibers in rattan, straw, and hemp amid the faded chintz, really dazzle me. They say the Brits like bold color because it rains so much there, but I believe they simply took the most artful elements of every place they colonized and incorporated them into their own national palette.

Perhaps it betrays my Roman Catholic roots, but I love the Protestant cathedrals. They are simple, spare, and full of light. A medieval tapestry behind an altar might be the only adornment. When just one object of art is displayed, it has a deep impact. I flipped over the black-and-white marble harlequin-patterned floor at Westminster Cathedral, so I plan to copy it in the church foyer. It reminded me of a chessboard, and how that exquisite game is much like salvation—do a little good, move forward; sin, go back; ignore the needs of others, stay in the same square.

The doorbell rings, and I hear the door open with a key. “B, it’s me, Toot. Don’t shoot!”

“I’m in the kitchen,” I call out.

Toot appears in the doorway carrying a red-and-white enamel pot balanced on a Tupperware cake saver. “Soup,” she says. “I never heard of anyone going on an international airplane who didn’t get a cold.”

“It’s four hundred degrees outside. I may fry to death, but I’m not getting a cold. Trust me.”

“Now, B,” she says sternly. “It’ll flush out the European impunities.”

“Might you mean impurities?” I snap.

She ignores the comment. “How was your trip?”

“Too fast. I could’ve used a month over there.”

Toot gets out a place mat, a napkin, a bowl, and a spoon. She ladles her world-class chicken soup into the bowl and indicates I should eat. I sit down as she takes a seat across from me. I put my napkin on my lap and taste the soup.

“Good?”

“Delish.”

“I strain the chicken stock through cheesecloth. Takes the fat out.”

“I have a feeling you didn’t pop in just to tell me how you make broth.”

Toot sighs. “Sal and I have gotten to third base. I’m not going too fast, am I?”

“Sounds like you’re right on schedule. Although . . .”

“What?”

“When your man is over sixty, I think you should feel free to escalate the proceedings. After all, the clock is ticking.”

“Good point. Do I look thinner?”

“Stand up.”

Toot stands up straight and lifts her neck like a chicken about to lay an egg.

“You definitely do.”

“I’m jogging my ass off.” She sits back down. “Oh, B. Someday I hope you fall in love.”

“Are you in love with Sal?”

“Not at all. But at least I’ve bought a ticket to the game. I’m not on the field yet, I’m in the parking lot, but who knows? It could happen. And soon. I’m so tired of being alone.” She raps her fingers on the table.

“What’s so terrible about it, really?” I get up and find a box of crackers in the cabinet.

“Oh, it’s awful. Being alone is a state of waiting. In my life I was waiting for a man to come along, and then when he did, I was stuck in a marriage that died a little more each day. When we got divorced, I became a woman with everything behind her and nothing in front.”

“That’s not true at all. You have a very full life.”

“As a person, yes. As a woman . . .” Toot turns both her thumbs down. “Let me tell you about being a desirable woman, because it’s the shortest career on earth. By the time you figure men out, it’s too late to use the knowledge. Look at me. Fifty-one years old and I’m regrouping. Who does this?”

“Don’t look back.”

“Well, B, you have to. Because I don’t want to spend Act Two of my life making another mistake and then having to bounce back from it. What elasticity I have left, I want to savor, okay? I don’t know how people like Liz Taylor do it. I haven’t got the stamina to deal with the breakups. Lonnie nearly ruined me. And I’m not blaming him. It was me. I saw the signs and I was busy with the boys, so I ignored them.”

“What signs?”

“Well, after a few years in a marriage, let’s say around . . .”

“Year eight?” How could I forget? That was the year we found a size-five blue patent-leather pump in Lonnie’s trunk. (Toot is a size nine.) It was the first in a series of clothing items recovered from his car. I never understood it—didn’t these women notice a shoe missing? Or their underwear?

“That’s when he went out on me for the first time. Lonnie always liked a good-looking girl. He’d look one up and down like a greased pole. And I stupidly took that as a compliment, thinking, ‘Out of all those girls, he chose me.’ I should have realized I was totally expandable.”

“Expendable.”

“Right. He needed variety. A couple of times I tried to spice things up, like I wore a blond wig and met him at the Steak and Shake, but someone saw me there and said, ‘I didn’t know you had cancer,’ and it killed the mood entirely.”

“That must’ve crushed you.”

“You’ll never know. But Sal, he’s not like that. He looks at me like I’m a hot pie fresh out of the oven. He practically saturates—”

“Salivates,” I correct her.

“And if I make him a dish of spaghetti—even
schway schway,
it takes me five minutes with a can of tuna—he is so grateful. Lonnie used to come home, look in the pot, and if he didn’t like what was cooking, he’d take the keys and go right out to a restaurant—without us! I can’t see Sal doing that.”

“I’m happy for you, Toot.”

“There’s just one problem.”

“What?”

“He wants . . . you know.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“He wants a
. . . particular
thing.” Toot puts both hands on the table and rubs the wood like she’s hand-ironing a tablecloth.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s put it this way. Ma taught me if a man ever asked for
that,
he wasn’t fit to eat on our china.”

“Oh
. . . that.
” Our mother had many rules. Thank goodness she spared me this one. “Toot, this is not an area I am comfortable discussing with you.”

“I figured.”

“Thank you.” I take four saltines and crush them in my fist, then sprinkle them into my soup.

“So I went to Father Wiffnell. Not direct, I asked him in the confessional.”

“You went to a priest? About
that
?”

“Why, naturally. What are we paying them for? I needed some guidance. Who the hell else can I ask when you’re traipsing all over Europe?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe one of your
girlfriends
?”

“My crowd is very sedate sexually. In kindergarten, Sister Mary Purification told the girls in my class to take baths with our clothes on. I learned to be ashamed of my body the same year I learned the Palmer Perfect Method.”

I cannot even pursue the logic of that, so I ask, “What did Father Wiffnell say?”

“He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, ‘Do you love this man?’ So, I answered him truthfully. I said, ‘I’m not sure.’ He said, ‘Why don’t you wait until you’re sure?’ ”

“Good answer.”

“I don’t know. I miss when they used to say, ‘Don’t do it! Go say ten Hail Marys, and the next time you think a thought like this, think of the oozing stigmata of Saint Rose of Lima.’ Now, anything goes. I brought pound cake. You want a piece?”

“Make it a double.”

CHAPTER SIX

The Bernini of Bay Ridge

We locals accept the crowds of summer in our beachfront town without complaint. Main Street in OLOF is always busy during August. There’s a portable Italian ice cart that draws the crowd in the heat. The vendor parks it on the church plaza, where folks buy their ice and then sit on the church steps and eat it—our version of Italy’s La Passegiata. I wait inside the church until I absolutely need a cigarette. Everywhere I go, I’m bombarded with questions about renovating the church. I’m tired of explaining that I’m still in the research phase.

Christina waits in the sacristy at Our Lady of Fatima with her typed inventory of the church contents. I go outside and light a cigarette. Since this project began I’ve been smoking quite a lot, but I promise myself that as soon as the design is complete, I will quit. A good smoke is soothing, and for now I need it.

I see a town car from the city turning the corner onto our town square, and I wave. True to form, Eydie is right on time. The black town car pulls up to the curb, and Eydie jumps out of the backseat in her best ensemble yet: orange paisley stovepipe pants, pumpkin suede platform boots, a hot-pink blouse with flowing sleeves, and a wide-weave crocheted sleeveless bolero in orange, green, and white stripes. She
is
1970.

“B!” She waves excitedly. The driver emerges from the front seat and joins Eydie at the back door of the car. It takes a moment, but Gian Angelo Ruttolo emerges with her help. He’s small, around five feet two, and trim. He’s dressed in black with a straw boater on his head, and when he turns his back to me, I see a long white braid down his back. I didn’t think hippies came in senior-citizen packages. As I hurry to meet them, he is eyeing the church up and down. “Nice stonework,” he murmurs before Eydie has even made the introductions.

“We’re honored to have you here,” I say as I shake his hand.

“Do you speak Italian?” he asks.

“Poco.”
I make the sign for “little” with my thumb and forefinger.

He grimaces and pushes me out of the way. He climbs the steps, holding the brass banister.

“What’s his problem?” I whisper.

“He’s a handful. No patience,” Eydie whispers back.

We follow him into the church, where Christina greets him in Italian. He beams, kisses her on both cheeks, and caresses her hands warmly. Christina doesn’t seem to mind, even though she is a couple of inches taller than he. I never thought I’d see someone more petite than Christina, but here he is.

“Cominceremmo?”
Gian Angelo turns and looks at me without letting go of Christina.

“
Vorrebbe che io le mostrassi la chiesa?
” Christina asks him.

“
Vorrei che mi mostrasse tutto il mondo,
” he says with a twinkle.

“Do you understand?” Eydie asks me.

I understand a come-on in any language. “He wants to show her the world,” I whisper to Eydie. “Is he here to help me or to get laid?”

“Both.” She smiles.

We take Gian Angelo through the church: up to the choir loft, over the catwalks, down the small staircase from the belfry, through the nave, to the side altars, back into the sacristy, the storerooms, the offices, and the hallway with access to the cemetery. He taps walls, looks under statues (for cash perhaps, or secret letters? Letters under statues have long been the postal service of choice for clandestine lovers), checks names and dates of construction, scratches any metal surface with his fingernail, and feels the marble for cracks and fissures. He spends several minutes assessing the Menecola fresco of the children of Fatima looking up at the Blessed Lady. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to hate it. He seems very interested in the paint used and the technique of the artist. I feel like I’m on tour with an archaeologist instead of an architect.

Christina and Gian Angelo now have what appears to be a secret language. Eydie speaks Italian, but they aren’t letting her in on their sotto voce sessions. I’m slightly irritated with Chris, but really, it isn’t her fault. He is our guest, and she is only being polite. She turns to me and says, “Gian Angelo wants to give me his assessment in Italian, and then I will translate.”

“Fine.” I shrug and look at Eydie. We sit down in the front pew.

Christina, taking notes, and Gian Angelo, giving his impassioned sermon, walk in circles around the altar. He points, he gestures, he shouts. Christina scribbles, occasionally interrupting him and repeating what he has said, or asking a question. After fifteen minutes of diatribe, he sits down in the priest’s chair, crosses his legs, and looks at us.

“Gian Angelo says that the original construction of the church is excellent,” Christina reports. “Good bones, he says. The statues are junk, from molds instead of carvings. The only thing he would keep is the rough-hewn cross over the statue of Mary. He says it is Sicilian and hand-carved. He likes the fresco. While it was painted by an amateur, he feels that it was done with heart, and that counts for more than technique. His final recommendation is to modernize the church, making it more accessible. Dispose of the Communion railing, the confessionals, and the baptistery. Replace the pews. The pitch of the pews is uncomfortable, so he says we should get new ones. These are monuments to another time in history, when secrets and shame were part of the doctrine. A church, he says, should serve the people instead of appearing grand and isolating, and he suggests we look to the Jewish synagogues and Quaker meetinghouses, where the rooms are multipurpose and not solely for religious services, for inspiration.”

“Interesting,” Eydie says.

“Ask Gian Angelo what he would do to make this place stand out from all the other traditional churches in New Jersey.”

Christina asks Gian Angelo. He listens and then rolls his eyes.

“He says you should hire Rufus McSherry.”

Eydie pats my hand. “It’s time to go and see Rufus.”

After I said good-bye to Gian Angelo, Eydie, and Christina, I came home to a light supper of sardines on toast, a holdover from my trip to England. It’s a balmy summer night with a cool breeze, so I decide to take a walk on the beach. The beach behind the Villa di Crespi is public, but it’s a thin stretch of rocky shore with coarse sand, so I only get passersby, never any sunbathers. In the distance, looking south, I can see people on the beach where it widens out and the sand is soft, but from here they are as small as bright confetti. Occasionally the wind brings the sound of a radio or laughter my way, but mostly it’s quiet, except for the lapping of the waves.

As a matter of habit, I stop and pick up seashells that interest me, and I always put the ones I really like in a lovely Baccarat bowl in my living room. It’s my way of remembering that I once was young and carefree.

In a way, the worst thing that can happen to an artist is to get what he wants. I dreamed of renovating the church, and was elated when I got the job. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that I might not have it in me to deliver what I know the place can be.

It must be how a soprano feels when she can see the notes on the page—she can hear them in her head, but when the moment comes and she opens her mouth, she can’t hit them. There she is, paralyzed in front of the orchestra, knowing she can’t do justice to the aria. This is how I feel about Fatima Church. I have the ideas, but will I find the artisans to fulfill my design?

This job is not like decorating a home or a business. It isn’t about suiting one client, it’s about providing a place for all kinds of people to find inspiration and peace. A church is a host to the highest dreams, deepest fears, and greatest sorrows of the believer. One building has to be all things to all people who gather there. Perhaps this is why I can’t crack it. I can’t feel what it is I am supposed to be doing. I desperately need inspiration.

The sun is setting, leaving behind a trail of white clouds that looks like a window shade raised to let in the last of the light. As the sun melts into the black horizon like a scoop of orange sherbet, dusk settles around me, and I feel truly alone. This is one of those moments when I wish I had a lover to share my life. It would be nice to be supported and quell this self-doubt in the eyes of someone who believes in me. This must be why people get married. They’re afraid of the dark.

Driving through the streets of Bay Ridge with Christina, I realize the neighborhood is a lot like OLOF, except our kids swim in the town pool instead of cooling off in the spray of fire hydrants, and there are more Irish people. Here we see that great American mix of the working-class Irish and Italians, which yields one of the most striking color combinations in all of humanity: raven-haired brunettes with blue eyes. The emotional combination is equally compelling—explosive tempers and quiet shame.

Rufus McSherry works in a warehouse on Seventy-second Street off of Third Avenue on a dead-end street called Bennett Court. Our Martinelli cousins live a couple of blocks over and invited us for a barbeque later, which translates to a bacchanalia of roasted lamb on a spit, a twenty-pound turkey, and several side dishes featuring eggplant, rigatoni, and artichokes. And that’s before the tub of homemade ice cream.

“Do you have the photographs?” I ask Christina as we stand at the entrance door of the warehouse.

“Everything, including Gian Angelo’s recommendations.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t take you back to Italy with him.”

“He wanted to.”

“How old is that man?” I press the buzzer marked McSherry.

“I don’t know. Eighty?”

“Good God. When is it
enough
?” I ask.

“When is what enough?” a voice booms out of the intercom. Christina and I are startled.

I press the button on the intercom and answer, “I was speaking about an eighty-year-old man who still chases women.”

“My kind of guy,” the voice replies.

“I am Bartolomeo di Crespi.”

“Come on up.”

The buzzer is loud. I push the heavy steel door open and hold it for Christina, who looks at me as though we’re on a fool’s run. There is a long, narrow stairwell with no railing that goes up one floor and reaches a landing with a bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. We ascend in the August heat without complaint, but I am about two seconds away from turning down these rickety stairs and jumping back into our air-conditioned car.

“Rufus McSherry?” I ask the man hovering at the top of the stairs.

“No, I am Pedro Alarcon, his apprentice,” the man says. He reaches out to shake my hand. Pedro is around thirty-five, with black hair, golden-brown skin, and a pleasant face. He is about five feet seven, with a square jaw, black eyes, and a small nose with a wide bridge. He shakes my hand and then Christina’s. “Follow me, please.”

Christina and I follow him through a small room filled with paint cans, sacks of concrete, boxes of marble rubble, skeins of small wires, flats of wood, and bags of dry plaster. Then we step inside the workroom. I inhale the smell of oil paint and varnish, a delicious combination that says art is being created.

The warehouse is a massive floor-through room that has been broken down into several work areas. The ceiling, over thirty feet high, is a series of old slanted skylights with steel casings. Some are propped open, letting direct sunlight and a welcome breeze peel through. The floorboards, wide planks of pine, warped from wear, creak loudly when we walk on them.

There is a row of worktables with recessed tops along one wall. This is where the stained-glass windows are made. Christina and I observe Pedro as he pours epoxy resin into the mold trays lined up on the table. He pours the clear liquid, lets it set for a few seconds, then gently shakes the mold, allowing it to settle. We peer over his shoulder, mesmerized by the process.

“This is an ancient technique,” Pedro explains. “I don’t make windows like the Italians. They are beautiful but too sleek. I like the Mexican way. We use sand and heat to make glass. No tubes for blowing the glass, we use our hands. The results are thick blocks of glass, layered in the molds to give them heft and texture. So my windows are primitive.”

“They’re very sturdy,” Christina comments.

“A good window should last a hundred years. And it does”—he smiles—“if I do my job.”

I look down into the mold where a series of geometric shapes emerges beneath the resin, like bamboo pushing through the surface of a pond. The mold is filled with square chunks of emerald-green glass anchored by a thick hem of clay.

“That’s beautiful,” Christina says.

“I hope my windows are like poems. I don’t want to tell you what they mean. You should decide for yourself.” Pedro points to the mold. “See the shapes? Some might see an angel, and others a butterfly. It’s up to you.”

Pedro goes back to work as we turn to a canvas stretched over forty feet in width and about twenty feet in height. The mural of a vivid blue sky with crisp white clouds could be the backdrop of any scene in a Tiepolo painting, but there is a twist. A shard of pink sunlight breaks through the clouds like an unfurled satin ribbon. The sky could have been painted by an old master, but the ribbon is strictly modern. The combination makes me smile.