Authors: Adriana Trigiani
Taking a deep breath I approach the booth, yank the heavy velvet curtain back, close it behind me, and kneel down.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I begin. “You know what? Forget that. These words of penance that have meant so much to me all of my life suddenly sound like a lie. I am not here to ask for forgiveness.
You
have sinned.”
“I beg your pardon?” a stunned Father Porporino whispers back.
“What do you take me for?”
“Bartolomeo?”
“How dare you hire Patton and Persky, those . . . those preppy Main Line Presbyterians! This is
my
church,
my
community. I worship here! I was baptized in the marble font, took my First Communion kneeling at the railing, took my confirmation and the holy oil from the bishop. I’ve been here all my life—twenty years longer than you!”
“I’m sorry if you feel bad—”
“Bad? I don’t feel bad, I am humiliated. Do you know the Latin root of the word ‘humiliation,’ Father?” He tries to interrupt again, but I steamroll right over him. “The root is ‘humility.’ The ability to be humble in the eyes of God. What do you think my devotion to this church meant to me? Everything!”
“You should do good works for the satisfaction it brings others, not for acclaim.”
“I’m not asking for fame, Father. I’m not Joey Heatherton looking to headline at the Sands after years of being an opening act. I deserved the job! Nobody has loved this church more than me. You took away my dream and handed it off to some second-rate Philly talent like it never mattered in the first place.”
“They’ve won awards,” Father says meekly.
“What does
that
mean to the heart and soul of this congregation? Most of them have never heard of Philadelphia outside of cheesesteaks and football—it is hardly the epicenter of interior design.” I begin to feel better and stronger, not afraid of Father Porporino anymore. My self-confidence rises like a tidal wave. “It would be one thing if you had democratically opened up the job to bids. Then at least I could believe that you were watching the purse strings. But to simply ignore, to deliberately insult, any local talent—”
“But you
are
the local talent. You are the
only
decorator in town.”
“Then your job was even easier! All you had to do was give me a call, or stop me on the steps after Mass and give me the heads-up that you were going elsewhere. Instead, I read about it in the bulletin! You seem to find time to single me out when you need me to raise money for the Bishop’s Annual Appeal. That’s what I’m good for—going door-to-door like a Fuller Brush man, can in hand, begging for the diocese. Well, listen to this, Padre, and listen hard; I am done with you and your cans and your fiefdom. You run your church with arrogance. A local boy is not good enough for your grand visions. No, you have to go to the big city to find a big name. You’re buying for the label, not the craftsmanship.”
“They’re quite good, and I liked their portfolio.” Father bristles.
“We’ll see if Patton and Persky support this church as I have all these years. Will they come at dawn on Saint Lucy’s feast day in the freezing cold and haul out the man-sized crèche figurines and string lights in the outdoor manger until their fingers bleed? Will they organize the pancake breakfast for the retarded and set the tables with festive linens because even retarded people deserve ambience? Tell me: Will they give up four weekends in a row to make gravy to freeze for the spaghetti supper to finance the new roof for the rectory so you won’t sleep in a draft and die of consumption? I think we know the answer. You’ve got a lot of crust, Father. A lot of crust!”
“Are you finished?” Father Porporino seethes.
I press my nose so close to the screen I taste metal. “In more ways than you can ever know.” I push the velvet curtain aside and stumble out. I’ve gone my whole life without disagreeing with authority of any kind: not a priest or a nun or a meter maid (I even spelled my name for one who was writing me a ticket once). It was always “Yes, Father,” “Of course, Sister,” “Give me the ticket, Officer.” Now I’m dizzy with anger.
As I turn to go, I almost trip over Nellie Fanelli’s feet as she kneels before the pietà shrine. Then I swivel and poke my head into Lucky Booth Number Two.
“And one more thing, Father. I had big plans for this church. Marble inlays and sumptuous fabrics and crystals and lights and an eternity font that would spit holy water well into the next century! You think about
that
when you’re meeting with Patton and Persky.”
I take a deep breath and yank the curtain closed again. Nellie stands in the corner by the door waiting for me. Her white lace chapel veil, studded with small pink chiffon butterflies, is pinned to her gray-blue bouffant, holding it like saran wrap on leftovers. She looks me straight in the eye and with her gnarled fingers makes an “okay” sign. “I heard everything,” she whispers.
“Va bene.”
Nellie goes into the confessional and winks at me before she pulls the curtain shut. If I felt slightly guilty about telling Father Porporino off, I certainly don’t now. The Little People, in the form of pastoral laundress Nellie Fanelli, have given me their imprimatur. The House of B still carries some clout around here, maybe not enough to get me the Big Job, but it clearly means something to the people who
really
count.
Despite the liberation of telling Father Porporino what I really think of him, by the night of my surprise birthday party, it’s all I can do to pull myself together. I’m blue, plain and simple, down in the dumps. During the day I function just fine, but the nights hit me like a trash-can lid. There’s no worse punishment than having to go out at night when you feel pitch-black inside. As I lock the front door behind me, I plaster a smile to my face. I inhale deeply to calm my nerves before I climb into Toot’s Cadillac.
“Hey, Unc. Are you ready for your party?” Two, my chauffeur, grins.
“I’ll give you five dollars to drive me in the other direction.”
“Sorry. Ma already gave me a ten to get you there.” Two steps on the gas.
“See, even my own sister sandbags me.” I pinch the crease in my slacks from thigh to knee. “How many people are there?”
“About a hundred.”
“Dear God,” I moan. I think about all the years and all the parties that have come before this one. It’s like watching a slide show in my emotional ViewMaster. I remember my sixth birthday, when Daddy rented a pony that ended up having a mental condition and bucked Rosemary With The Lupus into the cherry tree, where she hung like a Wallenda until the mothers found a tall ladder to help her down. Rosemary was fine, but the pony was banished to Ohio to live on a farm. When I was fifteen, Toot and Lonnie took me and six of my friends into New York City for a floor show at the Copa. One of my best pals, Cookie Francesci, disappeared during a Carmen Miranda send-up. We couldn’t find him for three hours. It turned out that he hired a hooker and had sex standing up in the men’s room at Luchow’s. Then there was my thirty-fourth birthday, when I went into the hospital with a kidney stone and Father Porp gave me last rites. I’m sure my fortieth is going to be a doozy.
“Unc?” Two grips the steering wheel and checks the rearview mirror.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to take a year off from college.”
“Does your mother know?”
“Not yet. I plan on going back. I just need some time. I’m having a problem fitting in. I don’t know what it is, exactly. I get along fine with everybody, but I don’t feel like I’m making progress in the theater department like I should. I’m missing something.”
“I thought you were directing a play.”
“I was. It got to be too much.”
“Two, you know I think you’re brilliant, but you can’t start out your life quitting school because you don’t like it. Look, I have clients I can’t abide, but I go into their homes radiating joy and filled to the brim with good taste. I bring them swatches and paint chips and samples, and I endure their small minds, bad breath, and tight wallets because I’m a businessman. An artist, yes, but a businessman also.”
“I don’t feel like an artist yet.”
“It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes years to know what you like and then to fight for it. I was a pushover at first, but I learned that people were hiring me for my eye. It’s the same thing in the theater. You have to train your eye.”
“I don’t relate to the other students.”
“Why? Villanova has nice people. After all, they’re Catholic, aren’t they?” I sound like such a square. So I change my tone. “You’re serious about this?”
“You know I always tell you the truth.”
“I know.” Maybe it’s because I’ve been there for every major event of Two’s life—and every play, recital, and party—that I don’t do him the injustice of behaving like a parent. Who am I to tell him what to do? “Then . . . you should do what’s right for you.”
“Thanks, Unc.” Two smiles. “Do you have some work for me?”
“You want my blessing
and
a job?”
“Well, like you said, otherwise Ma will kill—”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to my drapery guy. He might need someone in the studio.”
Two thanks me profusely. Toot is going to make mincemeat out of me. As we turn onto Corinne Way, cars are parked bumper to bumper as far as I can see. Toot’s garage is aglow like a federal prison, the driveway ablaze with tiki lamps stuck into the ground. Two pulls the Cadillac onto the lawn, where a place has been saved for the guest of honor.
At the entrance to the garage, the crowd lunges at me. “Surprise!” they shout, joyful anticipation on their faces. Italians, who plan their parties down to the fantail arrangement of silver teaspoons on the Venetian table, need to pretend that every detail just happened to come together casually to create
la Festa.
The Nite Caps, my cousin Dom Ruggiero’s swing band, is perched on risers in the space normally reserved for the Caddy. They launch into a high-voltage rendition of “Oh Marie,” and the guests swarm onto the rented parquet wood dance floor like the crowd at St. Peter’s Square when the Pope gives the Easter benediction. I am kissed and slapped and squeezed by my cousins (a few “y” Crespys have come down from Boston), my inner-circle clientele (the Baronagans, Aurelia Mandelbaum, the Schumans, Hagans, Kuglers, and Rabinskis), and dear friends from the trade in New York City (Helen McNeill, Susan Friedman, Norbert Ratliff).
More lightbulbs flash in my face than when I keeled over in the heat at Toot’s wedding. Despite my walking depression, I feel loved and treasured, and younger than the enormous number printed in gold on the napkins alongside my initials. My sister is nothing if not subtle. My family loves to celebrate, and nothing tops a party in honor of a birthday ending in a zero.
To commemorate the year of my birth, 1930, Toot looked to Hollywood. Festive blowups of icons Charlie Chaplin, Tom Mix, Deanna Durbin, and me—posed nude at age one on a leopard rug at Atlantic City’s Steel Pier—hang from the ceiling amid colorful crepe-paper streamers.
The portable tables are covered in red, with multicolored tulips for centerpieces. Toot took my twelve years of school pictures, glued them to a wire, and stuck them in the vases amid the flowers. She covered the floor with green Astroturf, except for the wooden dance floor, where the riding lawn mower usually sits. The windows are propped open and a fresh spring breeze wafts through the well-scrubbed garage, carrying a faint smell of motor oil mixed with the heady floral tones of Youth Dew perfume worn by every lady in the joint.
The walls are decorated (obscured, really) with a row of orange-and-white helium balloons suspended on multicolored ribbons and attached to weighted flowerpots on the floor. There are funny quips printed on them:
THIRTY-NINE AND COUNTING
, 40
AND FANTASTIC
, and
I’M SO OLD I CAN’T TELL MY KNEES FROM MY ANKLES
.
The cake, a replica of the Villa di Crespi, is lit by a spotlight on a round table covered in lace doilies. It is a wonder. The architectural details are exactly right, from the slope of the roof to the arch of the doors, all re-created in vividly colored buttercream icing (even the garden and lawn are done to scale). The dormers are outlined with licorice whips, the stonework fence is made with gumdrops, and the windows are Necco wafers. There’s a little man—me?—in the yard. (It looks as though the baker ripped a groom off a wedding topper. I would never wear a white tie and tails around the house.)
“Bartolomeo, happy birthday from the Salesian sisters!” Sister Theresa Kelly, my favorite nun, gives me a small package.
“Let me guess, Sister.” I shake the box. It gurgles. “Lourdes water.”
“How did you know?” She smiles, and it’s as if an aura of good temper suddenly surrounds me. Or maybe it’s the pulsating strobe light and the up-tempo version of “After the Lovin’.” Sister Theresa is a striking presence, with her green eyes and porcelain skin set against the stark black-and-white habit. What a color scheme that would make for a room!
“We can’t stay.” Sister Theresa points to the other nuns sitting at a table for eight eating an early supper. “Nicolina told us to go ahead and have a bite. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Who’s driving back?” North Haledon, where the convent is located, is pretty far, and the highway is busy on weekends.
“Sister Ercolina. She just got new eyeglasses.”
“That’s a good thing. I saw her at the Fatima sidewalk sale, and she almost plowed into the bingo tent when she was parking.”
“I heard.” Sister Theresa lowers her voice. “That’s why the new glasses.” She gives me a hug as we join Sister Lead Foot and the rest of the nuns at the table for a photograph. They gather round me like chorus girls. I ask Sister Theresa to make devil horns behind my head while the rest of the nuns fold their hands in prayer and look up to heaven. What a shot for next year’s Christmas card.
“Did I go all out or what?” Toot comes up behind me, gives me a kiss on the cheek, then takes my hand to show me the decorations.
“Thank you, sis. What a party. And the cake!”
“Well, you love your house more than anything.”