Rococo (31 page)

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.

“I like the way it sounds.” Ondine shrugs.

“Maybe Father Porp will give us a pass on the name,” I offer. “I’ll ask him.” Ondine looks at me gratefully.

“We gotta get this kid baptized,” Toot says nervously. “I’m at the point where I don’t care
what
you call him. I’m terrified of limbo.”

“I could turn Catholic,” Ondine offers.

“It takes a year.”

“Why?”

“Well, you have to learn all the rules and regulations. And you have to take classes and then must undergo the sacraments: baptism, First Communion, penance, and then confirmation. And then you and Nicky need to get married in the church, and then you can become Catholic.”

“They don’t make it very easy for people.”

“That’s a common criticism.”

“Cripes.” Ondine shakes her head. “Why is being Catholic so hard? If you want to be Methodist, all you have to do is show up.”

Father Porp meets us in the back of the church to bring us up to the altar for the baptism. Moonstone Falcone is the first baby to be christened in the new church. Father gave us no trouble about the name, which means that as The Benefactor, I now have some sway in this province of Rome that I didn’t have before. The ceremony is quick and lovely. We pile into our cars and head for the Villa di Crespi for the celebration luncheon.

Christina and Amalia, good soldiers that they are, stand in my kitchen and put garnish on the platters. I give Amalia a basket of rolled linen napkins to take outside. “Christina, come with me,” I tell her.

She follows back to my bedroom. “What is it, B?”

I show her a package propped against the bed, eight feet long and six feet high, wrapped in brown paper. “This came for you yesterday. There was a note.” She opens it.

Dear Christina, Amalia should have this someday as part of her family legacy, but for now, enjoy it. Love, Rufus

I help her untie the string around the package. “Have you heard from him?”

“Once in a while. He’s in Italy now. He sent us a postcard.”

Christina carefully pushes away the brown paper. There, in a gilded gold rococo picture frame, is Michael Menecola’s painting of the Italian bombshell. Christina puts her hand over her mouth and laughs. “I wondered what happened to her.”

“Rufus restored it for you.”

We stand and look at it for a moment, remembering the day we found her underneath the fresco. “I think Charlie would have liked him,” I tell her.

“I think he would have liked her”—Christina points to the brunette—“more.”

We hear the sound of our family out in the kitchen.

“Time for
la festa
!” I clap my hands together.

Once we’re back in the kitchen, I give Toot the mozzarella-and-tomato salad. “I’ll check on the table.” Christina goes outside. I direct Toot to follow her. “Put this next to the antipasto. Thank you.”

“It was nice of you to make this party.”

“Could you see us cramming into Nicky’s house?” I ask practically.

“Well, it was very generous of you.” Toot turns and looks at me. “You know, I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“You’d get along just fine. The napkins wouldn’t match, and the china would have chips, and somebody, God knows, would burn the gravy. But other than that, you’d make do.”

“No, I’m serious. You’re always there for us. You make everything beautiful. I just want you to know that I notice.”

“You’re welcome, sis.”

Doris comes into the kitchen carrying a Jell-O mold. “Where should I put this?”

“Take it right out to the table,” I instruct her. “There’s a bowl of ice in the center. Place it inside.” She smiles and goes. “I like a girl who follows instructions. Hello, Lonnie.”

Lonnie carries a beer tap. “Anthony’s putting the keg out back.”

“Excellent.” I pick up a platter of chicken cutlets. “I’ll see you outside.” I turn to open the back door with my hip and see Lonnie put his hand on Toot’s ass and give it a squeeze.

I decorated the yard for the party. The Moroccan tent of bold black-and-white canvas stripes, with a circus-tent top, notched Greek key accents, and draperies tied back on four poles, makes a dramatic canopy. How luscious it looks with the ocean in the background and a clear blue sky overhead.

Under the tent, Ondine hands the baby to Doris, Christina tosses the salad, Amalia gathers the salad bowls, Anthony shares a joke with Nicky, and Two serves the beer. Ondine’s parents and sister seem right at home. Amalia rings my grandmother’s crystal dinner bell as Toot and Lonnie join us under the tent. I give my sister a subtle sign to fix her lipstick smear.

As we gather around the rough-hewn farm table made by my grandfather, I am reminded that my family has come together for generations in this same way. Summers were always our favorite times; we would eat outdoors under the shade of a tree—hand-rolled pasta with a sauce of fresh tomatoes and basil from the garden, cheese from Aunt Carmella, olive oil sent by our cousin in Santa Margherita, and wine from our own jugs. After having our fill of food and laughter, we’d pluck ripe figs right off the trees, peel and eat them until the sun disappeared into the blue. I can still taste those summer days, and will always do everything in my power to re-create them. This is what it means to be a di Crespi.

There was a time when family meant more than just a common name on a document. We actually had a shared goal, something to make together. When Mom and Pop were alive, the aunts and uncles and cousins (whether you could stand them or not) would come for the harvesting of the grapes to make wine. And in between all the stomping, straining, siphoning, and pouring, we’d play bocce under the arbor, a gnarl of branches, old veins now plucked clean of fruit. I remember feeling safe and wishing it would last forever.

When my parents died, Toot was determined to hold it all together, so come holidays she would cook enough for an army, hoping that if she fixed the amounts that Mama did, made them with the same ingredients, and served them on her dishes, somehow, magically, those who had passed on would show up again and it would be as it once was.