Rococo by Adriana Trigiani Read Free Book Online Page B

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    “Father is going through with the renovation of the church, and I wondered if you could put a good word in for me.”
    “To do the design?”
    “Yes.”
    “Of course I will.”
    “I’d appreciate it,” I tell her.
    “You’re a devoted parishioner. I can’t imagine a better choice for the job,” she says.
    With Aurelia Mandelbaum and Zetta Montagna on my side, I’m certain I can overcome Father Porp’s unexpected silence on the subject.
    Zetta walks over to the alcove next to the side altar and kneels before the statue of Saint Michael. What a saint he was, with his silver doublet and sword hoisted high in the air, his big feet planted firmly on the ground, and his mighty thighs lunging forward to defend the faith. Michael is our Superman, while Saint Theresa of the Little Flower, who hovers on a stand close by in her chocolate-brown nun’s habit holding a spray of pink roses, is our Lois Lane. Pray to Saint Michael to save you from harm, and to Saint Theresa for what you want. They have never failed me in either department.
    As Zetta makes the sign of the cross and kneels at the statue’s feet, I remember that her husband’s name was Michael. I feel the tip of my nose heat up, but I take a deep breath, swallowing the tears.
    Whenever I see people humble themselves in prayer, I feel something deep within me stir, a sort of charismatic empathy that makes me want to sit down next to them and cry. You can imagine what a minefield of emotion Sunday Mass is for me, with all the kneeling and genuflecting. Perhaps it’s best that I became an interior decorator instead of a priest. Who needs to call on Father Weepy when they have a problem? I want my religious leaders strong and at the ready. My temperament is better suited to making art than saving souls.
    My first cousin Christina Menecola (related by marriage to Michael Menecola, who painted the church’s fresco of the dreamy Virgin Mary) is my favorite relative, which is no small feat, as there are hundreds of di Crespis, not to mention the Crespys, who are related but, after some medieval falling-out, dropped the “di” and later replaced the “i” with a “y
,”
probably because it Americanized them, giving them a leg up in business or when applying to fancy country clubs.
    Christina and I have always been close. I was nearly five years old and allowed to be present at the hospital when she was born prematurely. (Not because I was ready to be around childbirth, but because Toot had a date and couldn’t be bothered to babysit me, and Daddy had pressing business out of town.) I was ultimately glad for the experience because it gave me my first window into the power of prayer. I remember my mother on her knees in front of the incubator praying for Christina to survive. I also remember the nasty look the nurse shot at me when I asked if they could give the baby a blanket instead of a lightbulb for warmth.
    Christina just turned thirty-five. I have a basket of childhood memories with her: collecting shells after the clambake at the Legion Hall, and taking them home, washing them up, and drawing lips on them to create a shell choir; rides on the Scrambler at Asbury Park, where we held hands (afterward, I would throw up and she would laugh); watching the fireworks at the St. Rocco picnic and being hustled back to the station wagon by my mother when the two of us accidentally discovered two teenagers having sex behind the security fence; swimming at the shore; and even starting up an imaginary business in her basement where we sold cement (her father was a bricklayer, so the materials were handy). We called ourselves the Mixmasters.
    Christina’s mother, Auntie Carmella, was a statuesque knockout who made cheese at the Hodgins dairy in Bradley Beach. She twisted glorious Italian love knots that looked like white satin bows out of fresh mozzarella. She died shortly after my mother, of a massive stroke following a terrible argument with her husband—who