Rococo (9 page)

“It’s a relief to know that besides her job ironing vestments, she has now become my Orwellian Big Brother.”

Two laughs. “Nellie’s always looking for dirt.”

It’s a sin to have favorites, but Two is special and not just because he’s my namesake. He has always been reasonable and steady, a cool head in a crisis. He was with Toot when she caught Lonnie at an American Legion clambake with a date after they’d just returned from a marital retreat in the Catskills for Catholic couples in crisis. It was quick-thinking Two who got Toot out of there before she poured a pitcher of beer on Lonnie’s head. The woman did not fare as well. Toot yanked off her pillbox hat and filled it with empty clamshells before throwing it against the wall.

Two doesn’t look like the rest of the di Crespis, which may be why he commands a certain amount of attention. He has light brown hair in loose curls to his shoulders, green eyes, and the demeanor of a benevolent king. At six feet two, he is the tallest di Crespi of his generation.

“Ma said the parish is buzzing about the announcement in the bulletin.”

“Let them buzz. Father signed a contract with Patton and Persky, so it’s over.”

“I can’t believe you’re not going to fight.”

“No one has ever fought the Holy Roman Church and won. Look at Martin Luther—they almost killed him before he started his own church. And now what’s he got? A paltry worldwide membership compared to the Baptists, who could take the Lutherans two to one in a softball tournament any day.”

“But you’ve done so much for that church.”

“Remember this always, Two. Put out your hand to help someone, and when you pull it back you’ve got no fingers. I told Father Porp I had ideas about the renovation, and he was completely dismissive. Of course, now I realize that he had already made his decision. He played me like a rube.”

“Screw him,” Toot says from the doorway. “I can’t stand that guy, even if he is a priest. I remember when he came to me and asked me to annul my marriage to Lonnie. He told me I couldn’t have the sacraments if I didn’t get the annulment. Little did he know that Father Wiffnell over in Brielle gives me Communion and confession whenever I want it, no questions asked. He’s the same guy that let our cousin Connie With The Curvature have birth control pills because with her back, if she had a sixth baby, she would have wound up in a wheelchair, and then who would have taken care of those kids? I told Porp when he pressed me to file the paperwork. ‘Annul
this,
Father.’ ”

“I had no idea.”

“Oh, yes. I grew golden gottz after Ma and Pop died. I might have played along when they were living, but trust me, I’ve had it with the rules and the regulations and the hypocrisy. Out of respect for you, my devout brother, I’ve kept my mouth shut about all things Roman Catholic. Now I can say what’s in my heart. You’re too good for those people. You don’t need Father Phoney to talk to the man upstairs. Pray direct. With no entreaties—”

I stop and think before correcting her. “You mean encumbrances?”

“All I’m saying is, talk to God whenever you want. That’s what I do. And I know my goddamn sins are forgiven. Where’s the cake?”

“How did you know I made it?”

Toot looks at me. “You gonna go through a trauma of this magnitude without cake? What home did you grow up in?”

“It’s in the kitchen under Ma’s server.”

“I’ll be right back.” Toot disappears down the hallway.

“I had to beg her not to go to the rectory,” Two says quietly.

“It won’t do a bit of good. Remember when our cousin Finola Franco wanted to marry that Methodist from Pennsylvania? Father Porp had him investigated and found out he was divorced. Finola knew, but she didn’t care. Porp told her she’d fry in the bowels of hell if she married the guy. Her life was ruined. She got that disease where she never left her house again. Dried up in there like an orange peel.”

“Why do you put up with this?” Two asks. “Why don’t you write to the bishop and get Porporino moved?”

“Oh, there have been letters and calls and meetings for years. But Porp is untouchable.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Two stretches out on my chaise longue. “This is really comfortable.”

“It’s stuffed with goose down and lined in Lee Jofa’s silk chamois number seventeen.”

“Okay, waitress coming through.” Toot puts a tray of coffee and cake on the bed. She gives me a slice, then serves Two. She fixes my coffee and puts it on the nightstand, gives Two a mug, and pulls my straight-backed chair from the desk to sit down. We eat the cake and don’t say much.

I look around my bedroom, decorated in serene white with silver accents. I pulled a real Elsie de Wolfe in here. It is spare, simple, and sleek. There’s a bed, a desk, a chaise longue, and that’s it. There’s never clutter—this is my haven. I can hear the ocean from my window, and even in winter, I sleep with it cracked to let in the fresh air. I look at my sister and my nephew eating their cake with the intensity of scientists sampling atoms in search of radium. The looks on their faces make me smile.

Whenever I’ve felt sadness or despair, I’ve always turned to my work for solace. The rituals of my craft help me keep my mind on what’s important. Since my rejection at church a few days ago I’ve put together several corkboards with swatches and samples for my clients. I’m keeping busy.

As I drive to the Baronogans’, I think about the House of B.

Every decorator has a signature piece, something that he can place in any house, in any period, in any style that somehow defines who he is to the creative community. While I am known for my overall design (authentic historical) and point of view (freewheeling fun), my signature piece is The Ottoman.

I hate coffee tables. If you find a decent one, please let me know. In twenty years and in hundreds of homes, I’ve never seen one that I thought was artful. But they perform a necessary function. You need them for drinks, books, magazines, feet, what have you. In desperation, I once sawed the legs off a Shaker dining table for an Early American home I was doing in Shrewsbury because I couldn’t find one that suited the room. Determined to never ruin another gorgeous room with a substandard table, I came up with an alternative. Why not take a traditional ottoman and give it a new purpose?

I select an ottoman (or settee or upholstered stool) in a shape that works with the furniture configuration. I like a large piece with a good-sized surface, and a circular shape creates a better flow. Then I deal with the legs; black lacquer on the feet works in any decor, it makes the legs disappear. Then I let my imagination go wild. I upholster the ottoman with whimsical fabrics, adding wild trim (fringe, gimp, covered buttons, dangling crystals). After festooning, I have a piece of thick glass made to go on top, creating an instant multipurpose coffee table. When you need extra seating, simply remove the glass.

I park outside the Baronogans’. I pull their final bill out of my file folder and go to the front door. Midge Baronogan greets me at the entrance with a kiss. I follow her inside. The living room looks lovely but needs some adjusting in the placement.

So, I push the sofa in the Baronagans’ living room back about two feet, then take the floor lamps and anchor them at either end of the couch. I scoot the ottoman closer to the sofa.

“Oh, B. I am cuckoo nuts for the ottoman!” Midge Baronagan, a tawny Filipina around seventy years old, steps back as I rearrange the pillows on the sofa. She is Geoffrey Beene chic in her simple pantsuit, a flowing white chiffon blouse over stovepipe white chino pants. A chain belt grazes her hip, then dangles to her knee. She wears delectable jeweled slippers in pale silver with a demi heel. “I love what you do! Such an artist!” Midge claps her hands. Her husband is a quiet man, chief surgeon at the best hospital in Trenton. I’ve met him only once, and he said whatever makes Midge happy makes him happy, including the ultra-expensive Japanese waterfall and goldfish pond I installed outside the dining room. This house is the jewel of Spring Lake.

“I’m glad you like it.” I adjust the glass top to fit perfectly over the seams of the ottoman. I had a ball with this one, oval with simple wooden legs. I covered it with a deep blue satin brocade embroidered with a multicolored bird-of-paradise design. I used a six-inch silk fringe in pale blue from the base to the floor, then added a kicky ball fringe in gold around the top seam to give the piece movement. I covered forty-seven large buttons in cornflower-blue velvet and staggered them on the sides, giving texture to the satin. It’s a triumph.

Midge puts her arm around my waist; her head fits into the crook of my arm. “Look at this room. It’s a masterpiece.”

I have to agree. Midge loves blue. People who tend to decorate with blue as their base color are usually very upbeat, while clients who choose rosy reds are first in line for the straitjacket. Here I used shades of azure throughout the house and in the artwork. I found some casement fabric samples from Dorothy Liebes through a friend who had seen them in San Francisco. I took these squares woven with raffi and set them in rough-hewn frames, filling an entire wall.

The home is an architectural wonder, a Modern Prairie style with movable inside walls (which I covered in a cornflower-blue toile chinoiserie wallpaper depicting the ancient healing arts I found at Houles) and glass-brick room separators that give an icy twist to the cool blues.

Since the house gets so much sun, I made simple eggshell-colored muslin draperies, double-sided. The filmy muslin feels modern and young and gives the home a layer of softness and movement against the knotted-pine floors and stainless-steel accents.

The walls are a shade of white I call “Movie Star Teeth,” so white it’s blue. I mixed the color myself using a flat white enamel, adding deep blue with an eyedropper until I achieved the perfect shade.

I covered Midge’s twenty-foot L-shaped sofa in a cuddly navy blue chenille, her pillows in a Stroheim & Roman pale-green-and-midnight-blue stripe, a lovely combination in a woodsy setting. I found area rugs at Saxony, large squares of off-white and moss green with ribbon etching in a pale salmon. My pal Helen McNeill had to twist arms to find what I was looking for; we wound up sewing smaller area rugs together because we couldn’t find ones large enough.

“Now we’re done,” I say to Midge. My voice breaks a little—I’ve enjoyed this job so much I hate to see it end.

“But I don’t want to be done!” Midge swats my arm affectionately. “I want to start all over again.”

“Now you know how I feel. If I could decorate every house in New Jersey, I would. And then I’d start over. There are millions of possibilities for every home, and in a lifetime we only get to try a few.”

“It’s a shame.” Midge shakes her head.

“Ah, well. As my dear mother used to say, our homes on earth are just hotel rooms until we get to our permanent home in the promised land.” I place my bill on the side table.

“No, I mean, it’s a shame what happened at Our Lady of Fatima.” Midge gestures for me to sit down. “Shame on them! Here, right under Father Porporino’s nose, is the best interior decorator in New Jersey. The old saying goes, a king is never a king on his own island. They don’t appreciate you!”

“It’s all right. I’ve come to terms with it.”

“It’s wrong.” Midge looks at me with a steely gaze, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I recommended a pink dining room in her otherwise blue house.

“I appreciate your concern.”

She puts her hand on her heart. “I’ve been a Catholic all my life. The priest always has too much power! It was the same in the Philippines. Priests are nothing but little potentates, ruling over their kingdoms with God as their judge. Sometimes they go too far.” Midge pats me on the back. “This time he blew it.”

I wonder if people know how painful it is for me to be reminded that I was passed over to renovate Our Lady of Fatima Church. I would never go into a bank and say to the teller, “Did you ever find that nine dollars you were short yesterday?” Or tell the guy at the gas station after he cleans my windshield, “Hey, you missed a spot.” Nor would I say to Dr. Wallace, “Hey, sorry about those four cancer cells you missed that cost Aunt Snooky that additional four feet of colon.” No, I would never hurt someone who was doing his or her best.

The problem is, I’m a
stewer
. I can hold a grudge longer than a lifetime (an incentive to embrace reincarnation now that I’m stepping back from Catholicism). I’m certain I’ll be taking several grudges with me into the next world, with matching axes to grind them. It’s like that peach pit I swallowed when I was six. I’m sure it’s still sitting in my gut like a stone and will be there on the day I die. I hold on to things!

After a week of chronic anger, which led to sleepless nights, daytime dyspepsia, and a gassy, distended abdomen, I decide to take the bull by the horns. Sometimes there has to be a reckoning before one can move forward. Father’s day of reckoning is here.

The red light is on outside my Lucky Confessional Booth Number Two, which means some sinner is in there, so I slip into the back pew to wait my turn. It’s funny how the place has changed in my perception. In just a few days, the church I’ve loved all my life now seems old and tired.

I’ve spent years making this place beautiful in the details: well-placed altar linens and seasonal flower sprays made special with offbeat accents like grapes during Advent and cotton pods in the summer. If I didn’t do the flowers myself, I’d often stand behind the florist, giving instructions. Now all I see from font to altar are the flaws, the design missteps (like the cheap brass-toned light fixtures that replaced the old crystal ones), and the neglect (the peeling paint over the radiators and the toddler teeth marks on the backs of the pews). But these are no longer my problems. Let Patton & Persky figure out how to make this place look regal again.

When Mr. Fonti, the bulbous town tree surgeon, exits my confessional, he heads directly for the altar of the Blessed Lady, where he kneels with his head in his hands. He must have committed a doozy of a sin to get what looks like a major penance. I heard he likes go-go dancers, a bad habit for a married father of nine.