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
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
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