Rococo (25 page)

“Who said I wasn’t?”

“Good point. Maybe you’re just discreet. Of course, I understand you were engaged once. For what, about twenty years?” He chuckles.

“Well, I wouldn’t call
that
the real thing, Rufus. It was an arrangement made without my consent when I was a baby.”

“Oh, I get it. Like royalty. You were promised.”

“Exactly!”

Rufus replaces the lids on various cans of dry pigment that will make paint when he paints the fresco. Today he tested colors on the wall, making streaks of blue, from the palest aqua to the deepest azure. “I had it once, B.”

“You were married?”

“No, in love.”

“How did you know?”

“That’s easy. I would have done anything for her.” He fishes in his pocket for his cigarettes and hands me one. He lights his own and then throws me the matches while he steps back and squints at the stripes of color on the wall.

“What happened?” I ask gently.

“She died.”

I take a breath. “How?”

“She got sick. And there was nothing they could do.”

“What was her name?”

He takes a moment to answer. “Ann.”

“What was she like?”

“You know, it’s funny. I don’t think of her face. I think of how I felt around her. But she was pretty. A brunette. Tall.”

“Tall people should go together. The same with short. I don’t like those Jack Sprat couples where the man is over six feet and he marries a four-foot door knocker. It’s ridiculous.”

Rufus laughs. “Man, you’ve got standards.”

“Someone has to. This world has gone to hell. And if you haven’t noticed that, then shame on you.”

Rufus sits down on the steps of the altar.

“How long has it been?”

“Three years.”

“Has there been anyone since?” I ask.

“Boy, B. You’re a font of questions.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I like women, so yeah.”

“But nothing has come close to Ann?”

“Nope.” He smiles. “It helps though, to have a little female companionship.”

“It does? I’d think it would be the opposite. You’d always be reminded of Ann and compare others to her.” I usually don’t play amateur psychologist, but there’s something about Rufus that makes me want to ask the questions and hear his answers.

“It doesn’t work like that. Well, maybe for women. But for a man, there’s so much comfort to be found in the company of a woman. I would never turn away from that. I need it. It’s not like anyone can replace Ann, but I need to live, to be present here and now. You know what I mean?”

“Being with a woman makes you feel alive?”

“No, to me it
is
life. I don’t mean that in a cavalier way. I like how a good woman can make it all seem easy.”

“How are we doing?” Christina calls out from the back of the church.

“Ring a bell or knock, would you?” I chide. “I’m having a private conversation here.”

“Sorry, B.” Amalia follows Christina, carrying a Tupperware container of brownies.

“Hi, Rufus,” Amalia says, giving him the container. “I made you these. I put chocolate chips in the batter, so they’re really good.”

“That’s sweet of you. Thank you.”

“Even the thirteen-year-olds adore you, Rufus. Where’s mine, Amalia?”

“You’re always on a diet.” She shrugs.

“So some celery sticks would have been nice.”

“Okay, I’ll remember that for next time.” Amalia rolls her eyes.

I turn to Christina. “We’re going to Aurelia’s for dinner tonight. Want to come? She made that endless pot of sauce with enough meatballs for a potluck.”

“We can’t. We’re going over to the Menecolas’.”

“It’s awful, B,” Amalia complains. “They play the TV too loud and put anchovies in the salad. I hate it.”

“But they’re family,” Christina says kindly. “Well, let’s go.”

Christina smiles at Rufus, who looks back at her with something like flirty affection. I can’t tell for sure. After all, Lonnie and Toot have been schtupping under my nose, and I didn’t get so much as a whiff of it. So maybe I’m seeing something that isn’t there. Amalia and Christina close the church door behind them. “Chris is a great girl,” I say.

“She is.”

“So?” I press.

“So what?”

“Is there something between you?”

“Now, B. Do I look like a guy who kisses and tells?”

“No.”

“Then let’s leave it,” Rufus says, tactfully changing the subject. “You know, the painting of Our Lady of Fatima on the wall here isn’t a fresco.”

“It isn’t? What is it?”

“It’s a painting. The artist adhered a canvas to the wall and then did a treatment over it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t taken it down yet. I just peeled a corner at the top. That technique was used when churches changed the art around a lot.”

“That’s the only art that ever hung in this church,” I say, wondering what Michael Menecola had up his sleeve.

That evening Rufus and Pedro drive over to Aurelia’s and I follow in my station wagon. It’s wonderful to spend time with the guys. It occurs to me that I’ve been surrounded by women all my life. At home it was Ma and Toot, at school Capri, on weekends Christina, and then when I became a decorator I mostly dealt with women clients. It feels good to have Rufus and Pedro around. I’m surprised Rufus and I have become so friendly, and relieved that there’s finally another man in town who is as passionate about art as I am. I really enjoy our conversations, and I try not to think about how I’ll miss him when he leaves.

I park behind Rufus in Aurelia’s driveway. Rufus and Pedro follow me up the front steps and through the front door, which Aurelia always leaves open for me.

“This is a palazzo,” Rufus says as he looks around.

“French Norman. And don’t miss the Monet in the living room. All the art is real. There’s more paintings hanging in here than there are at the Met.” The guys follow me into the foyer, where they take a good look around. We hear shouting from the kitchen.

“Ma, I don’t understand!” I hear Capri yelling.

“I won’t have it!” I hear Aurelia shout back. “I simply won’t have it!”

“Wait here,” I tell Rufus and Pedro. Pedro looks lost as he holds his bottle of wine for the hostess. I walk past the dining room where the table is set with a tablecloth, flowers, china, and crystal, into the kitchen, where the argument between Capri and Aurelia has escalated.

“How could you do this to me!” Aurelia is sitting at the table, her face buried her hands. Capri stands behind a chair, holding it for strength.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Capri insists.

“What is the matter, ladies?” I ask from the doorway.

“Go away, B,” Capri cries.

I turn to go. “No, stay,” Aurelia orders.

“What’s going on here?” I demand as I pivot to face them.

Aurelia points at her. “She took up with the spic!”

“Are you speaking of our friend Pedro?” I ask evenly. I motion to Aurelia to lower her voice so Pedro won’t hear the slur. She ignores me.

“And it’s all
your
fault!” Aurelia directs her rage at me. “You brought these . . . these people here.”

“He’s a good man and a talented artist, Aurelia. Pedro is a stained-glass window expert, a true craftsman. He’s brilliant.”

“Don’t start with me, B. I don’t want my daughter with a Mexican.”

I begin to speak when Pedro appears in the doorway. “Mrs. Mandelbaum?” he says.

“Pedro, please,” Capri says to him softly. “Go.”

“I want to talk to you, Mr. Alarcon!” Aurelia walks toward him.

“Mother!” Capri tries to stop her.

“This is my house and I will say whatever I please.” Aurelia turns to Pedro. “I want you to stop seeing my daughter.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” Pedro says quietly.

“I didn’t raise her to do this.”

“To do what, ma’am?” Pedro says respectfully.

“You know exactly what I am talking about, young man!” she thunders.

“You raised me to be alone,” Capri says. “It’s like I’ve been pickled! I’ve been waiting forty years for someone to open the jar and let me out! You betrothed me to Bartolomeo, for godsakes. Talk about limbo.”

She makes an engagement to me sound like a death-row sentence, but now is not the moment for my ego to be assuaged. “I’m sure we can work this out,” I say diplomatically.

“It’s too late.” Aurelia turns to Pedro. “You’re sleeping together! For shame!” She points her finger at Capri. “Your father would be so ashamed of you. I want you out. Both of you. Get out of my house!”

In an instant, Capri’s body fills with strength. She seems a foot taller as she lifts her head high. Her spine, which is usually collapsed like an accordion, stretches long, giving her a look of fierce determination. She takes Pedro’s hand and leads him out of the kitchen. She does not look back, merely shouting, “You’ll be sorry!” before she slams the door behind them.

Aurelia collapses in tears as Rufus comes into the kitchen. I motion for him to go.

“Aurelia?”

“This is all your fault, B. You wouldn’t marry my daughter, and now this happens. You did this!”

“Hey, wait a minute. I found the best artists in the country to come here and work on our church. This wasn’t some scheme I hatched to find romance for Capri. This is her choice. Why can’t you let her choose?”

“You gave her away.” She cries.

“Aurelia, you are overreacting. She’s not doing anything wrong.” There’s a part of me that can’t believe that Aurelia would treat her adult daughter like she’s a fifteen-year-old girl caught in the back of a car with a boy. Capri was right: Aurelia might as well have locked her in the attic like Rapunzel. I feel like a fool for letting her use me all these years to put Capri on ice. “You’re going to lose your daughter,” I warn her.

“She’s gone already,” Aurelia says, glaring at me. “She left me the night she went with him. Leave me alone.” I try to soothe her, but she pulls away. I go outside. Rufus stands by my car. “Pedro took the truck,” he says.

“Come on. I’ll buy you dinner,” I tell him.

The last time I was summoned to the rectory was the summer when I was fourteen and Father Dragonetto invited me in to discuss my potential future as a priest. He asked me if I had gotten “the calling.” I hadn’t, but that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. I remember it was so hot in his office that I couldn’t breathe. Finally, to break free of the meeting, I told him that I could never be a priest because insanity ran in my family and the church of Rome should not be saddled with a nut job. He never bothered me again.

“Bartolomeo, we’ve got a big problem,” Father Porp says from behind his desk. It occurs to me that the office hasn’t changed since the reign of Dragonetto, except that there is less clutter.

“What is it, Father?”

“Aurelia Mandelbaum is pulling her money out of the renovation.”

“What?”

I feel as though I have been socked in the gut. My shock turns to anger.

“She said that the church could keep the initial one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation, but she is not giving another penny. Do you know what this is about?” He looks at me accusingly.

“Capri has been seeing Pedro. Evidently Aurelia—who married a Jewish man!—doesn’t want a Mexican Catholic in her family.” I throw my hands in the air. “Can you talk to her?”

“I tried. And then she had her lawyer call me.”

“What are we going to do?” My heart races as I picture Rufus, Pedro, the church council, the congregation full of disappointment as they stand in the empty shell of Fatima Church.

“How much time before your money runs out?”

I do some rapid calculation in my head. “Another three weeks,” I tell him.

“Keep working. I’ll make some calls.” Father Porporino looks at me. “Now you understand why I wanted Patton and Persky. This is a disaster.”

I ignore his dig as I stand to go. “The diocese has deep pockets, Father. If there’s money for a new football stadium at Our Lady of the Snows in Piscataway, surely they can cough up the rest of the dough we need for the church.”

“I wish it worked that way, B. But it doesn’t.”

My heart feels like a lead anchor in my chest. My years of friendship with The Benefactor account for nothing. I am so angry I can hardly speak.

I cross the street to the church where the crew is hard at work. Two is helping Pedro remove the old stained-glass windows, to be replaced with temporary clear plastic as the molds are salvaged for the new windows. I go into the sacristy, where Christina is working on an order of supplies.

“Christina, we’re in big trouble.”

“What’s the matter?”

I pace the floor. “Aurelia pulled the money. It’s a little late in the game for bingo, car washes, and raffles. We’ll ask the parishioners, but that will only cover a fraction of what we need. Can you rework the budget and see if we can cut corners anywhere?”

“Every penny is accounted for.” Christina looks at me. “What happened?”

“She’s angry about Pedro and Capri.”

“Shame on her!” Christina raises her voice. “They’re in love. Aurelia’s a widow. She
knows
what it’s like to be alone. To wish that on her own daughter is cruel.”

“I’ve seen a side of Aurelia that I wish I hadn’t.”

“Come on, B. It was there all along. Everything she does out of the goodness of her heart—excuse me, bank account—has strings. She controls this parish and has for years. Everything from the landscaping at the cemetery to the foot pedals of the organs, she has bought and paid for, and it’s done to her liking. There isn’t a generous bone in her body.”

“She’s always been kind to me.”

“Oh, B. You do things out of obligation—not because you want to. You’ve humored her all these years, and there’s a little part of you that likes the big money because you know how to use it. I doubt very much that Aurelia’s castle would be gorgeous without your touch. You’re the one who always tells me that the people with money never know how to spend it.”

“I’ve had a bad day, Chris, I don’t need to hear about my shortcomings.”

“I don’t mean to insult you, I’m just trying to help you see what’s going on here. She gave you the money to redo this church, but it came at a price to your integrity. If you think for one moment you were able to be free with the renovation of this church, you’re crazy! She said she trusted you at the parish council meeting, but who do you think is pushing Father Porp to call you in and put the fear of God in you? It’s her. It’s always been her. Capri should run while there’s an open door. No good will come of her trying to please her mother.”