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 has since married Aunt Carmella’s hairdresser, a portly blonde named Cha Cha Cerami. The word is they’re very happy.
I decorated Christina’s home on Cheshire Lane shortly after she married. English Tudors are, by nature, a design challenge because they’re so dark and dreary. Most people are tempted to cheer them up with modern furniture, but it’s a mistake. Contemporary just winds up looking ridiculous. (Always suit the interiors to the architectural style of the home. It’s an obvious concept, but you’d be surprised how many people put a flokati rug in a Victorian or hang Renaissance tapestries in a split-level.) A Tudor with low-slung dormers, wrought-iron details, dark alcoves, and tiny nooks can feel like a claustrophobic dungeon, made creepier by the stucco plaster walls, rounded doorways, and menacing coffered ceilings. Why did Romeo and Juliet kill themselves? Because they lived in depressing English Tudors and couldn’t take it another minute!
I brightened up Christina’s house with pin lights, paint, and a color scheme of soft corals and earthy greens. Botanicals succeeded in giving it a garden feel. I bleached the dark brown wood floors a sandy off-white and painted the floorboard trims a light, toasty cinnamon color, which perked up the place considerably. You feel like you’re entering Sherwood Forest when you walk into this house. I challenge any decorator here or abroad to do better than me with classic English. I may have the soul of an Italian and the joie de vivre of a Frenchman, but I have the classical eye of a Brit.
I went traditional with the fabrics—an array of calicoes in golden yellow (Greeff is the best with fine English prints) and sturdy linen in pale green (Rose Cummings has a knockout Fresh Meadow, #15677)—to offset the coral.
Christina’s kitchen was so gloomy you would swear you had just missed the mutton-chop lunch following the guillotine matinee. I yanked all the dark cabinets out and put in a lime-green-and-white hutch, a bright matching dish rack on the wall to display all that wedding china (Haddon Hall by Minton), and lots of shelves covered in natural grass paper. I opened up the room with lots of low, warm, glowing brass lamps placed down the center of a long, rustic farm table. I painted the low-backed benches antique white and put a rocking chair in the corner with a crazy Pucci green paisley cushion and a standing brass lamp. The result is fizzy and fun. My inspiration: a crème de menthe cocktail.
As I pull into the driveway, I see Christina’s daughter, Amalia, sitting under the maple tree with books spread around her, paper and scissors in her hands. I love to visit the houses I’ve decorated unannounced and see my work shining amid the grind of daily life. Amalia hears my car and looks up. She doesn’t run to me like she used to; instead, she just looks at me with boredom. Of course, she has hit that age where droll is in and warmth is out. She is twelve.
“You look busy,” I call to her as I get out of the car.
Amalia is slender with freckles and long coppery braids. She puts down her scissors and examines a leaf. Her coloring might be Irish, but her black eyes are Italian. “I have a science project. I’m doing a report on indigenous trees of New Jersey. I’m bringing in examples.”
“Well, you don’t have much of a selection here. You only have maple in your yard.”
“I know. I’ll copy the shapes in the book and cut the leaves to look like they’re from all different trees.” She holds up the butchered maple leaves. “See? Elm. Chestnut. Birch.”
“Your teacher might notice that the leaves are doctored.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But that’s cheating.”
“So?”
“Do they still have an honor code at St. Ambrose’s Middle School?”
“No one checks.”
“Then do what you will,” I tell her pleasantly. It’s not my problem if my second cousin gets punished by the heinous nuns of St. Ambrose. I did my bit in that POW camp of a school for twelve years. She’s on her own.
“You got a new car,” she says, looking at my new navy blue Dodge station wagon, fully loaded. The gold family crest underscored with my business’s name is painted on the driver’s side door. It looks impressive, if I do say so myself. “Why do you call your company the House of B?”
“Because everybody calls me B.”
“You should have a flashy name, not just a letter. How about the Prince of Chintz.”
“That’s taken.” New York designer Mario Buatta was lucky that someone anointed him with a catchy title. He’s in more magazines than Pat Nixon. “Who died and left you in charge of BusinessWeek?” I ask a little testily. Honestly, if I have to start taking advice from a pipsqueak, I’ll quit.
She ignores the comment. “Did you bring me M&M’s?”
“Of course.” I reach into my portfolio and give Amalia a sack of M&M’s. “Where’s your mother?”
“Inside.” Amalia says. “She’s still depressed.” She pitches her long braids onto her back. “She’s always gonna be depressed.”
“Nonsense! Your mother will be back, I promise you. You must have faith.”
“Faith? What’s that?” She snorts. “God sits up there on a cloud and picks people to die. What a job.”
I don’t know whether to smack this kid or hug her. I haven’t had this kind of philosophical discourse since I studied the essays of Montaigne under Father Otterbacher in the OLOF Catholic-college prep course I took my senior year of high school.
“It’s not God’s job to make sure everything goes your way,” I remind her gently. “I know how hard it is to lose a father—”
“But your dad was old,” she interrupts.
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, but you had him around for a long time. Years longer than me. And my dad went fast. A car crash is instant. You can’t even compare it.” Amalia tries to sound defiant, but she comes off like a scared kid.
I would like to inform her that my father might have had dinner with our family every night, but he never said much to me. I recall no ball throwing, no trips to the movies, and no collect
ing fabric swatches to help me make uniforms for my iron soldiers.
On Saturday nights, Daddy had a mysterious ritual of getting all dressed up in his best suit. On his way out, smelling of citrus and patchouli, he’d give me a quarter, followed by a kiss on the head. After a quick wave to my mother, he’d climb into his freshly washed (by me) Buick, roll down the window, and say, “I have business up on Blue Mountain. I’ll see you in the morning for Mass.”
Toot, a teenager at that point, would simply shake her head when I told her Dad went up to Blue Mountain. When I pressed her repeatedly to find out exactly what went on up there in the Poconos, she would say, “You’re just a boy. Someday you’ll do dirty things like Daddy.” That was hardly the explanation I was looking for. Eventually I understood that Blue Mountain was code for “Dad’s got a girlfriend.”
I loved my father, I just didn’t know him very well. When he died, his comare (translation: girlfriend—I notice we use Italian words when we are ashamed, uncomfortable, or exhilarated—let’s put Daddy’s comare under the shame banner) showed up at the wake with a lily plant and wept into his casket. When my mother realized who she was, she grabbed the plastic pot out of her hands and threw it on the floor. No one said a word, we just went on saying our rosary aloud (sorrowful mystery, of course) while Dutch Schiavone, the funeral director, cleaned up the mess with a whisk broom. Evidently it wasn’t the first potted plant that had been tossed during a wake.
I studied the plant lady for the brief moment she was in my presence before Dutch showed her the door. She had shiny lacquered red hair in a chignon that didn’t move (even when Ma lunged at her), and no hips. That’s how I knew she wasn’t Italian. Italian women always have plump, peachy rear ends. My mother did and Toot used to (until it sank), not to mention all my girl cousins who had The Hips. For me, one of the characteristics of ideal feminine beauty is a plush caboose. This lady had none. You could have tucked her ass into the back of her boots.
Her red hair didn’t make her a non-Italian, by the way, because all the brunettes in my family go red as they age. You’ll never see an Italian woman with gray hair until the lid of her husband’s casket is snapped shut. That’s the moment she stops dyeing her hair. “What’s the use?” my mother said to me when I was shocked to see her black hair turn white so soon after we buried Pop.
“Okay, Amalia, you got me. Your father’s death was much worse than mine; you win the Sweepstakes of Suffering. Saint Amalia of the Maple Leaves.” Finally she smiles.
“What are you two talking about?” Christina pushes open the screen door and joins us in the yard.
“Death,” Amalia says.
“Oh, that.” Christina looks at me and rolls her eyes. Christina is a whisper of a thing, but her chestnut-brown hair and black eyes indicate she’s one of our tribe. Luckily her nose is razor straight, with no bulb on the tip. She is classically beautiful in every detail. Her lush eyebrows accentuate her almond-shaped eyes like black velvet piping on silk. “Toot called. I’m in charge of stuffed artichokes for your birthday party.”
I can’t respond, I’m so annoyed.
“Sorry, was it a surprise?”
“No, no surprise. I don’t want a party, that’s all. And my sister never gives me what I want. Now, if I wanted a party, you can bet I’d be sitting home twiddling my thumbs come May thirteenth.”
Christina smiles. “You know what she calls me now? Honest to God, she called and said, Cousin Christina The Widow! As if that’s my name!”
“Better to be Christina The Widow than Rosemary With The Lupus. Now, that’s a nickname a girl can never shake, short of a cure. I’m taking a ride into the city. You want to go?”
“No, thanks.”
There was a time when Christina would grab her purse, jump into the car, and come into Manhattan to shop for clients with me. She’d leave baby Amalia with her husband and we’d go. She was so spontaneous, we’d laugh all the way through the Holland Tunnel, have a quick bite in Little Italy, then head up the East Side to Scalamandré’s to find the perfect taffeta. I can’t tell you how much I miss our day trips. “I’m losing patience with you!” I say, trying to lighten the mood but not succeeding.
“Oh, B, I’ve lost patience with me.” Christina kneels and helps Amalia pick up her Picasso-esque maple leaves. Amalia juggles her pile of books and supplies and climbs the porch steps to go inside. I help Christina up.
“You know last week I told you I was getting better?” Christina plucks at a maple leaf. “Well, I got worse again.”
“I wish you’d go and see Father Porporino.”
“Oh, please.”
“No, you really should. He’s a mean bastard, but he’s good with grief and fund-raising.”
Christina laughs. “You’re crazy. You’re the only guy I know who still prays.”
“It can’t hurt.”
“Now, there’s a philosophy I can embrace wholeheartedly.”
“Do it for Amalia.”
“Everything I’m doing, I do for her. I get up in the morning, don’t I?”
There is nothing I can say. Since Charlie died eleven months ago, there is nothing I can do either. The shock hasn’t fully worn off, and if you had to name Christina’s stage of grief, it would be the one before acceptance. All her dreams are shot, the one where she would grow old with her true love, have a second baby, enjoy the fertile valley of her youth with a guy who made her laugh. Now she’s just another lonely woman, and it’s killing her.
“Try me again next week.” She smiles.
“I will.” I give her a hug. She holds on like a drowning woman. “You aren’t going to drag your tongue over my upper lip, are you?”
“Who did that?” Christina lets go of me, and for a second, she’s her old self again.
“Nicky’s girl. Ondine Doyle. She’s a gold band away from being my legal niece and she licks me.”
“Yuck!”
“You’re telling me. She’s like diesel fuel, that one—all over the highway. You know what I mean?”
Christina throws her head back and laughs, just like the old days, just like we were before everything changed.
Everyone has a place that calls to them, a place where they flourish, where their best self emerges and they remember true happiness. For some, it’s a college reunion under a beer tent being groped by an old flame. For others, it’s a summer share outside Atlantic City with an all-night poker game and cold pizza. For me, it’s the Scalamandré townhouse, home of the greatest hand-woven silks in the world, on East Fifty-seventh Street and Third Avenue in noisy, dirty, delicious Manhattan.
I try to get into town at least once a week. Tonight I make several stops before reaching the townhouse. I pick up samples of ceramic tiles at Kovack’s and wool rug squares at Roubini. I photograph a Grange settee at the furniture mart. I duck into Scalamandré’s just before closing time.
When I come to the city, I call friends, most of them in the design business, and we swap stories over a glass of wine and baked chicken at the Cattleman West Restaurant. I have had these friends since my days at Parsons, where I majored in fibers. I went on to take graduate courses, focusing on interiors. As the only designer in OLOF, I crave a peer group, fellow designers and artists with whom I can consult, share ideas, and discuss trends. Just because I live in a small town in Jersey doesn’t mean I can’t stay cosmopolitan.
New York City is the place where all art comes home to roost. This is certainly true in my trade, as there is not a fabric woven anywhere in the world that cannot be had in one of the showrooms here. When I earned my full ASID (American Society of Interior Designers) credentials, the first thing I did was push open the doors of Scalamandré’s. The words painted in gold leaf on the door say TO THE TRADE, but they might as well have said BARTOLOMEO DI CRESPI, COME ON IN! I felt like I joined the best club on earth. I may pray in Our Lady of Fatima Church, but I do my worshipping in the House of Scalamandré.
The windows are showstoppers. They combine classic e
lements with a touch of humor—usually there’s a chair covered in a signature pattern, backed by the latest wallpaper, with a chest, mirrors, and decorative boxes as accents. Once it was a moss-green velvet tuffet trimmed in a Medici floral print with a fringe knotted with crystals. On a plump canvas mushroom sat a bowl of porridge. A black velvet spider on a silver cord hung from the ceiling. Little Miss Muffet on Third Avenue.
Franco Scalamandré is not only a great weaver, he’s a serious historian in the field of fibers. His research of Italian antiquities often inspires his designs. He reissued silkscreen prints of velvets woven with metallic accents that were used in the Medici palaces in the 1500s. The collection was so luscious, there was a time when I used a touch of Medici in every house I decorated.
Scali’s is a typical Upper East Side townhouse, long and thin like the women who live in the neighborhood, and beautifully maintained. There is never a streak on the polished tables, a curl in the seam of the wallpaper, or a nick in the floorboards. It has the feel of a private home, with its round Roman foyer featuring fresh dahlias in a silver pitcher on the Biedermeier entry table. Over the table hangs a chandelier of smoked Venetian glass with bobeches so delicate they look like spun sugar. At the foot of a grand staircase is a bust of Marie Antoinette. The carpet runner is a kicky tan leopard print. Instead of a banister on the inside wall going up the stairs, they draped a wide silk satin cord attached with brass grommets. The spiral steps twist like a swizzle stick up to the fourth floor.
A sign at the foot of the stairs directs you through the building. The first floor is fabrics, the second, wall treatments (paneling, paper, and fabric murals), the third, trims and fringe, and the fourth, private offices. No decorator worth his salt ever takes the small service elevator for fear of missing a new display.
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