Rococo by Adriana Trigiani Read Free Book Online Page A

paten.
    I move the squat candles on their flat brass holders from the credence table to the altar. One candle has burned down haphazardly, probably from a draft, so I trim it with my pocketknife so it matches its mate. I walk around to the front of the altar to check the hems and placement. There is a large spray of pink gladioli and waxy green leaves behind the altar. I trim off a few dead leaves and arrange the flowers. Much better.
    “Bartolomeo?” Father Porporino’s gravelly voice says from the doorway.
    “Yes, Father?” My voice squeaks. I was raised to be in awe of priests, and therefore was always scared of them. After all, they held the keys to my salvation. The last thing I wanted them to do was drop those keys down a sewer hole, so I always did my best to be perfect in their eyes. Still do.
    “Father, I noticed the church bulletins are old.” I hand him the stack from last week. Father Porp looks like a slim Mario Lanza with his full head of wavy gray hair and nice teeth.
    “I haven’t put the new ones out yet.”
    “Is there a problem? Marie Cascario said we need a new mimeograph machine.”
    “Marie needs to learn how to operate the thing. I’ll put them out later.”
    I smooth the hem of the altar cloth. “Father, I was having dinner at Aurelia Mandelbaum’s, and she told me about the renovation of the church.”
    “And?” He looks at me.
    “Well, I’d like to come and talk to you about it sometime.” Father does not respond, just looks at me, so I fill up the silence with babble. “You see, I have a lot of ideas, and I’ve already spoken to some of the members of the parish council. I could make this holy place dazzle.” I think I see Father raise an eyebrow, but it’s hard to tell in the slowly vanishing light. “I could come by next week, if that’s all right. If that’s not good, you can call me and we’ll set up another time.” Father Porp looks down the main aisle as though he’s searching for something. I feel the creeping warmth of humiliation overtake me. I do what I always do when someone makes me feel uncomfortable. I chirp. “Well, see you at Mass, Father.” I close my hand around the wax shards and rotten leaf stems I’ve collected and genuflect a final time. Father goes back into the sacristy. I shiver.
    A beam of bright white light fills the foyer as Zetta Montagna pushes the brass door open. She wears a chapel veil studded with jet beads, even though head coverings for women went out with Vatican II. Once the chapel veils came off, the guitar Masses came in. No more Latin, no more fish on Fridays, and bareheaded women are no longer an affront to God.
    Zetta’s slim frame casts a long pencil-like shadow down the aisle. She is probably the most important person in our church besides Father Porp. Zetta is president of the sodality, the women’s group that maintains the church, plans all the receptions, and sponsors the annual Cadillac Dinner, the fund-raiser for the Fatima elementary and middle schools. She is also the widowed mother of nine children, all of them grown, two of them doctors, and one, alas, a drug addict somewhere out west. Her beloved husband keeled over of a heart attack at the age of thirty-four, leaving her to raise all those children on her own. She is a woman who does not wear the tragedy of her life in any way; she always looks fresh and stylish. She might be sixty but looks fifteen years younger. She genuflects at the Communion rail.
    “Hello, B. The altar looks lovely.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Who did the glads?”
    “Fleurs of Fatima.” I make a face.
    “Awful,” she agrees.
    “I know. I trimmed them up. But you can’t really balance glads and waxy leaves and wind up with a decent arrangement.”
    “Were the vestments all right?”
    “Perfect.”
    “I worry. Nellie’s eyesight is going.”
    “Well, she can still handle a hot iron,” I reassure her. “Zetta, I hope you don’t think this is bold of me . . .”
    “What is it,