“The house looks gorge,” cousin Marlene says, drinking in my winter wonderland. “It’s a lot of red, but I don’t feel engulfed.”
“Good.” Oh, shut it, Marlene, I think. You have the worst taste in the family. You did your living room in black and white. It’s like sitting on the inside of a sock.
The doorbell rings again. Toot answers it. The party started at 8:00 P.M., which means every cousin I have (fifty-seven confirmed) will arrive within three seconds of one another for the next ten minutes, making the house look like the last round-up in a Joel McCrea western. The di Crespis are nothing if not prompt.
“B! City people!” Toot calls from the door. I excuse myself from a conversation with cousin Marlene about eczema and head for the door.
“Eydie, darling!” I shout.
Eydie is swathed head to toe in ruby-red velvet. “Pa rum pum pum pum!” I say approvingly as I kiss her on both cheeks.
Eydie is accompanied by four handsome men in tuxedoes. “Thank goodness you have the originality to throw your bash on a Monday night. These are the lead dancers from Hello, Dolly!, and this is their dark night. This is Mark, Averell, and Sam. And this is the dance captain, Ronnie.”
“We also sing,” Sam says with a grin.
“Well, you’d better. My aunt Edith didn’t schlep three blocks to watch you eat ring baloney on rye toast,” I tell them.
The quartet bursts into “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” in perfect four-part harmony.
“Oh, sing another, please!” Toot begs.
“After some vodka,” Averell (I think) agrees.
“Get these chan-toozies some drinks!” Toot yells helpfully.
I mix four vodka collinses at the self-serve bar. On cue, my cousins pour into the house, chattering like wind-up Halloween teeth. I load the Hello Dollies’ drinks on a tray. As I worm my way through the crowd, I hear my cousin Frannie give Marlene a quick holiday recipe. “All you do is get a block of Philadelphia cream cheese.”
“Okay,” Marlene says, concentrating.
“Take it out of the foil and put it on a plate. Then you bathe it in cocktail sauce, you know, ketchup, horseradish, and a shot of fresh lemon juice.”
“You put that over the cream cheese?”
“Uh-huh. Bathe it. Make sure you use a big enough plate—you don’t want the cocktail sauce runnin’ all over the table. You know what? Use a platter and fan a box of Triscuits around it. Dip them in the cream cheese and cocktail sauce, and honest to God, you don’t even miss the shrimp.”
I shoot them a look. To bring up a cut-rate hors d’oeuvre recipe at my top-shelf party is not cricket.
Eydie has commandeered a drink from Uncle Petey, who had a few before the party (who are we kidding, he had a few before lunch), so he’s genuflecting on the ottoman, whispering something into her ear. She smiles politely, and then I see him unfurl his purplish tongue into her ear canal. “Uncle Petey, really!” I thunder. “Go into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee immediately!” He scoots out quickly. “Sorry about that, Eydie.”
“It’s okay. It was just a little tongue.”
“It starts with a little tongue, and then you know what happens.”
“What?”
“Pretty soon he’s playing horsie.” She looks at me. “You weren’t here last year. After a couple of highballs, he almost rode Aunt Georgie into the sunset.”
“B! The door!” Toot hollers from corner of the dining room where she is holding court about how to jog over the age of fifty without giving yourself a heart attack.
I tear myself away from Eydie and go to the front door. “Rufus. Pedro.” I shake their hands. “Welcome to the Villa di Crespi, where the wine is flowing and the women . . . well, you pick.”
Rufus gives me a bottle of wine in a chic silver sack. Pedro hands me a carved wooden box. “It’s from Mexico,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Rufus, the haircut is a winner.” From the neck up he looks like a Roman soldier, with his thick hair brushed back. From the neck down he is Princeton (on work study), natty in charcoal-gray wool trousers, a blue shirt, and a navy blue blazer. Pedro wears black slacks, a white shirt, and a black jacket.
“I didn’t know you hired a valet,” cousin Marlene says from behind me.
I spin around and whisper, “It’s not a uniform. He’s a guest.”
Marlene shrugs. “I couldn’t tell. Sorry.”
I make a mental note to scratch her off my guest list permanently. Marlene is positively backward.
“Hi, cousin.” Christina, looking like a goddess, gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“B, I made an ornament,” Amalia says, handing me a glittering red construction-paper bird. “Don’t worry. It’s red.”
“Go put it on the tree.” Before she turns to go, I pull her aside. “You look very pretty,” I tell her.
“I do not.” She blushes.
“Your father would be very proud of you.” She smiles at me. “Now, go hang that bird.”
Rufus and Pedro are at the buffet table, where Christina joins them. In a simple black sleeveless shift and white pearls, her hair in an elegant upsweep, she is a real lady. I look over at Toot, who walks toward me hiking up the heart-shaped bodice of her strapless with both hands.
“B, say hello to Sal,” she says gaily.
“Merry Christmas, Sal.” I find myself looking away quickly, because now I don’t see the face of my sister’s boyfriend but a walking plumbing problem.
“Isn’t he a peach?” Toot drapes herself across Sal like a car tarp. Sal has a round face and a square body, reminding me of the first clown I ever drew. He is bald with long sideburns and not very tall (it doesn’t matter, Toot is five feet four). He wears a dark blue suit with a red tie. Toot points to my face and makes a circle around it. “B looks like Mama.” She points to herself. “And I look like Daddy. Go figure.” Sal laughs. He seems genuinely entertained by my sister.
“Who are you?” Toot takes one look at Rufus McSherry and sashays over to him, extending her gloved hand.
“Rufus McSherry.”
“May I call you Sir Scrumptious? B, you didn’t tell me Mr. McSherry was so ruggedly handsome,” Toot says, practically purring. The strapless has really brought out her wild side. I’m mortified.
“I wanted you to see for yourself.” I make my way around the sofa and yank open the windows, now that Toot is throwing more heat than a coal stove. “The buffet is in the dining room. The bar is in the den. If you go home hungry or sober, it’s your own damn fault,” I tell Sal. “Try the punch. It’s Aunt Vi’s recipe. She lived to be ninety-nine and swore it was the punch.”
SANTA’S HELPERS
Aunt Vi’s K.O. Christmas Punch
Two 6-ounce cans frozen pink lemonade concentrate
1 cup fresh blueberries
16 maraschino cherries
1 quart raspberry ice or sherbet
2 bottles rosé (or any pink table wine)
Sugar
1 bottle sparkling rosé wine, chilled
Make one can pink lemonade from directions on the can. Fill 4 ice-cube trays with the lemonade. Drop one blueberry or maraschino cherry in each square. Freeze. In a punch bowl combine the sherbet, rosé wine, and the other can of lemonade concentrate, and stir until blended. Add sugar to taste. Right before serving, pour in the sparkling rosé, drop in Santa’s presents—the lemonade ice cubes—and serve at once.
“Hello, Tootsie.” Lonnie and Doris kiss Toot.
“Oh, I had no idea you were coming,” Toot says, looking at me.
“I saw Doris at the A&P and we were fighting over the last tube of fig paste,” I explain. “What can I say? They’re family.”
“Thanks, B.” Lonnie says, smiling. Doris squeezes my hand.
“Well, since we’re having a love-in, Lonnie, Doris, I’d like you to meet my . . . boyfriend, Sal Concarni.”
“Of Belmar?” Doris asks.
“That’s me.”
“I think you fixed th
e pipes at my townhouse once.”
“Oh yeah, yeah,” Sal remembers. “You had that bilevel number in the Sea Girt Estates.”
“Oh, I love a man who can roll up his sleeves and fix a clog,” Toot says. “Sal is very talented.” There is a long silence.
“Where would we be without sewage?” Lonnie makes an attempt at party chitchat. “Really, think about it. What kind of a stinkin’ world would this be without pipes and drains and septic tanks and what have you?”
No one knows what to say. After what seems like an hour, I manage, “Why don’t you have something from the buffet? I made veal parm, Doris. I know you like it.”
Happy to be released, Doris leads Lonnie to the food.
“Look,” Toot whispers.
At first I don’t recognize the woman, then I realize it’s my niece, Ondine. She is so puffy her face looks like a pancake with two chocolate chips for eyes. “What happened?” I ask Toot.
“Water weight. It’s gotta be a girl.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s stealing her beauty.”
I go to Ondine and give her a Christmas hug. “I’m enormous, B,” she whines. “Look at my hands. They look like catcher’s mitts.” She holds them up. They do. “I can’t wear my rings anymore, and Nicky has to shave my legs.”
“Oh, dear.” What is it about the women in my family? Have they no discernment?
Ondine continues, “It’s horrible. Nobody told me.”
“It will all be worth it when the baby gets here,” I say.
“That’s what everyone keeps saying. I hope they’re right. What if the little slugger has hooves like that kid in Rosemary’s Baby?”
“Now, now, only think nice thoughts. And remember, only see happy movies. The baby must be surrounded by pretty—even now. So, you go and have a meatball hero and relax. Where’s your husband?”
“They started a card game in the kitchen.”
I holler to my sister, who is showing off her boyfriend to the sodality ladies. “Toot, your sons are in my kitchen playing cards. Please go and remind them that the three wise men didn’t stop for a game of five-card stud before they visited the manger. I want their asses in here. Now. Thank you!”
“Oh, B!” Capri gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got so much to tell you.” She looks like an adorable elf in her green velvet pants and a red sweater with a wreath brooch.
“Where’s your mother?” I ask.
“She wasn’t feeling well because I moved out the last of my stuff today.”
“For crying out loud, you’ve been moving out since August.”
“I’m trying to ease Mom into it. But it’s not working. It’s always something. First it was her birthday. Then it was Dad’s tree ceremony at B’nai B’rith. Then it was the anniversary of Daddy’s death. Then she got a kidney stone. I thought my luck was changing when she passed it, but then she got slight anemia, and now they’ve come for the final boxes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Come with me. I want you to meet some genuine New Yorkers.”
Eydie, Rufus, and Pedro have formed a little club with Christina, who seems to be giving them the lowdown on all things OLOF. “Say hello to Capri Mandelbaum,” I say.
“What a beautiful name,” Pedro says, rising to shake Capri’s hand. He drinks her in like cousin Marlene did my Christmas tree.
“It’s after the island. My parents went there on their honeymoon, and here I am. Something happened in the Blue Grotto, and it wasn’t a night swim.” Capri holds on to Pedro’s hand a little too tightly, then moves on to Rufus, then Eydie.
“May I get you a drink?” Pedro asks Capri.
“I’ll go with you.” Capri smiles. I haven’t seen this smile on Capri since she climbed aboard Eddie Pinetti’s speedboat in the Gulf of Genoa.
“Do you know where the bar is?” I hear Pedro ask her.
“I know my way around the villa,” she tells him. He puts his hand on Capri’s back and follows her through the crowd.
“This is quite a party.” Father Porporino greets me and hands me a Mass card.
“Glad you could make it.” I am warm with Father, but I still feel a slight distrust. I don’t ever want him to think he can push me around. “The artisans I hope to work with on the renovation are here. I’d like you to meet them.”
“Of course, I’d be happy to.”
“B, you’ve outdone yourself!” Zetta Montagna says as she joins us. She wears a white blouse and a plaid skirt, made festive with Christmas-tree earrings and a matching pin.
“Father?” One of the Broadway dancers charges up. “I’m Mark Aquilino.”
“He’s in Hello, Dolly!, Father,” I explain.
“I’ve seen it twice!” Father beams, which I’ve never seen him do. “I’m sick it’s closing.”
“So are we,” Mark tells him. “But that’s showbiz. The boys and I were hoping you could do that Saint Blaise blessing on us—you know, the one for singers, where you crisscross the candles under our throats?”
“Now?” Father Porporino asks.
“We don’t want to be a bother, but we live and die by our pipes, so any extra something you could throw our way to keep us on the boards would be great. Sam is Jewish, but he’s willing to go for it too.”
“I’ll be happy to bless you,” Father says. “All of you.”
Mark turns around and throws his arms high in the air. “Windshield wipers up!” The other dancers follow suit.
I am temporarily mortified, but Father Porp seems to take no offense. In fact, who knew Father Porp liked American musicals? I took him for an Agatha Christie fan. “Padre’s gonna send up a flare to Saint Blaise!” Mark declares. “I think that calls for a song.”
They sing “Hello, Dolly!” a cappella. My living room and dining room are filled wall to wall with family and friends riveted by the performance. As the boys hold the final note, Toot’s voice sails over the crowd, “Cripes, Sal. If there’s a problem, fix it. I gotta lotta life left in me yet! Get yourself to the doctor.” There is an awkward silence until I shout, “How about something Christmasy!” The boys launch into an upbeat “Jingle Bells,” and I hope it helps everyone forget that Sal Concarni has a little problem down south.
A few guests remain in the living room, chatting around the fire. The last of the relatives have left, and with them, the last of the cookies. My family never leaves a crumb of dessert behind. This includes the chocolate Kisses that decorate the cookie trays. They each take a napkin and stuff it full of fig bars, almond biscotti, brownies dusted with powdered sugar, and coconut balls for snacking on the ride home or for dunking in gabbagule (espresso and hot milk in a bowl) for breakfast. Every family party concludes this way. You never get a good-bye hug, only a kiss on the cheek, because the guests are juggling their booty of sweets. My mother used to take leftover cake too, which required stealing a plate. When she died, we found a full set of mismatched dessert plates in her server. Instead of photographs in a scrapbook, my mother remembered people through the china she stole from them. Every once in a while she would hold up a plate: “Look, Zia Ola’s Pfaltzgraff!”
I take the enormous ceramic conch full of melted ice where the shrimp cocktail was (all that’s left are the rosettes carved out of lemon peels) into the kitchen. Toot has on rubber gloves and is washing dishes. “Don’t do that,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“You don’t want to wake up to party dishes. I’m almost done.”
“Where’s Sal?”
“I made him drive Aunt Edith and Marlene home. Marlene made a fool out of herself with the show people.”
“What did she do?”
“Lifted her skirt and showed them her legs. She told them the story of Uncle Noog pulling her off the bus to New York City when she was seventeen and going in to audition for the Rockettes.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, she even told them how he locked her in her room and called the priest. And ho
w no one thought it strange when the priest didn’t come out of her room for twelve hours. They were riveted.” Toot snaps off the Playtex gloves. “I’m going home.”
“Isn’t Sal coming to get you?”
“I told him to go on home after he did shuttle duty. I drove myself over anyhow.”
“But what about . . .”
“Some holiday nooky? I know, look at me in a strapless. What a waste. Well, he was tired. So there’s no sense going back to my place and hearing him snore all night long. It dawned on me when I was helping him read the dosage on his blood-pressure medication that I may have to find somebody younger. This is too hard.”
“I’m sorry, Toot.”
“When’s it gonna be about me? When?”
“In the new year. We hope.”
Toot gives me a kiss on the cheek, anchors her fur shrug over her shoulders with a yank, and goes out the back door. I turn on the porch lights and follow her out until she’s safely in her car.
Rufus and Pedro have pulled two of my dining room chairs over to the loveseat in the living room where Capri and Christina sit. They laugh under a hazy cloud of cigarette smoke that hangs over them like a canopy. I blow out the candelabra on the dining table (two tapers are missing—Father Porp must’ve blessed the dancers’ throats after all) and join them.
“I’m starving,” I announce. “I never eat at my own parties. Anyone for pancakes at the Tic-Tock?”
My favorite thing about my Festa di Crespi is when it’s over. I seize a moment to breathe and reflect on the fun. As I watch Capri and Christina dig into their pancakes, it dawns on me that I have never seen Capri so happy or Christina so animated since Charlie died. Boy oh boy, nothing like a couple of swinging bachelors from the big city to get the local girls’ blood pumping. Can it be that I’m the man they tell their troubles to, so I never see them at their flirtatious best?
“Where’s Amalia?” I ask Christina.
“She went home with cousin Cathy. Her kids love when Amalia stays over. My daughter would give anything to live in New York.”
Rococo Page 18
