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“Come home,” my brother says. “It’s time.”

22

Home to Lake Como

The taxi dropsme off at my parents’ house. As I step out of the car, two emotions, anticipation and dread, ricochet around inside me with equal force. I remind myself how far I have come. I am not here to settle scores or seek absolution or forgiveness; I am here to honor Aunt Lil.

I packed light, so it’s easy to navigate my rolling suitcase up the sidewalk to the front door, the portal to my old life. This was the door I was carried through (finally) on the day I came home from the hospital, seven weeks after I was born. It is the same door I went through every morning on my way to school. This is also the door that opened to reveal me in my bridal gown on the day I was married, in the video my mother still watches from time to time.

The bay window is lit up like a department store display selling crystal. The cut-glass globes and collection of crystal bowls and vases shimmer in the light. Every time someone dies, another piece of their crystal lands in the window, a sparkling reminder of the beauty of inheritance. The grief wreath, fresh greens roped with a large blackvelvet ribbon at the base, hangs from the brass door knocker, a sign to all who live on the lake that we have lost a loved one.

This house and yard meant everything to me as a child; it meant that we had a stake in the land on the lake that we loved, that we were part of the Cap and Baratta clans, that we were part of something bigger than our small stretch of the loop around Lake Como. Whenever I looked up and down this street, I had a sense of security and belonging because of my extended family.

I look down the block at Aunt Lil’s. The lights on the walkway are dark; the house falls into shadow. A small lamp is lit in the front window, no doubt a strategic decision to make it look like there was someone inside, if only to ward off looky-loos and burglars. The breeze off the lake is cold for spring in Lake Como, or maybe my sadness at the loss of Aunt Lil makes it feel that way.

The front door flies open. My mother comes out on the porch. She wears a black dress and bedroom slippers. She covers her eyes and squints, “Giuseppina? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Ma, it’s me.”

“Joe? Joe? Get out here. She’s back!”

Soon the doorway fills with family: my father, my brother, his wife, my sister, her husband, their children. They jump up and down calling my name. Cleopatra had a less enthusiastic welcome into Rome, but I’ll bet she didn’t cry. Before I can roll my suitcase to the steps of the front porch, my family runs down the walkway and surrounds me, welcoming me home.

On Eagle’s Wings

The altar at Saint Catharine’s Church is decorated with baskets of pink and white lilies. Family came from all over to honor Aunt Lilat her funeral Mass. I pray with the white pearl rosary Aunt Lil and Uncle Louie gave me on my confirmation. I found it in the nightstand of my old room, where I had left it. The repetition of the prayers keeps my mind off the histrionics going on around me. As we lose more of our beloved relatives in my mom and dad’s generation, our grief escalates to operatic. We don’t get better at losing people over time; we get louder.

I pick a small fiber of lint off Lisa Natalizio’s LBD. Almost six months later, it remains, hanging in the cedar closet of my old bedroom; at least Ma moved it up from the basement, though she was supposed to return it to the beauty salon. The good news? The dress fits without cinching now. Must be the truffle hunts, the hikes in the Valle di Scalve, and the long walks in Carrara. Life is better without a car. That’s just the truth.

I relax into the ritual of the Mass of Christian Burial like a warm bath. My faith is something I can count on, even when I forget I can. The priest blesses Aunt Lil’s casket, draped in white linen, with the holy smoke. I make the sign of the cross when the frankincense wafts my way.

I look down the row at my family, sitting erect in their black suits and dresses, like a flock of black crows balancing on a wire. Our funerals are as important as our weddings and baptisms and confirmations. Maybe more so. We’re a family that can’t let go; we fear that when we do, we will fall off the wire. This morning, we hold on tight to our sacrament and one another.

When Uncle Louie died last fall, I was a mess. I wanted to get up and eulogize him, but I couldn’t. But today I am on a mission. I will honor my aunt and, in so doing, my uncle too. I had a plane ride to think about them and all they meant to me. I have learned to stand up for myself, but real strength comes in standing up for others. Aunt Lil, like me, was anotherin the family. Today, I will let folksknow who Lil really was, not just a lady who wore good jewelry and had the unlined face of a woman who did not raise children.

The priest nods at me and takes his seat near the altar. I make the slow walk up to the lectern. My heels click against the Carrara marble, reminding me of the foundation of my family life, indestructible builder’s stone. I am surprised that my nerves have left me; instead, I am determined to share Lil’s story. I stand tall in my three-inch black suede stilettos. I place my phone, which holds the eulogy I have written, on the pulpit and look out over the mourners. Their sad faces galvanize me. I read.

Aunt Lil was the most dazzling woman in our family, and one of the most glamorous I have ever met. She stood at four foot eleven but moved through the world like a comet; in a quiet blaze of white light, she lit up the night sky like one of her beloved diamonds.

Liliana Filippelli Capodimonte was born on August 15, 1948, in Hoboken, New Jersey. Her father, Sal, was a florist, and her mother, Tess, managed the home. Her mother was of Sicilian descent and her father Pugliese. She has a beloved sister, Carmel, and a niece, Marina, whom she adored. She had a fabulous childhood. Because her dad was the neighborhood florist, their dinner table always had a fresh bouquet of flowers. Aunt Lil’s favorite floral combination was ruby-red roses and blue delphinium. She also appreciated a hearty pink lily in season, as you can see from the altar sprays today. She approved of greenerybut disliked baby’s breath in any arrangement. She called them weeds. As girls, Lil and Carmel worked in the shop together and wove the rose crown by hand for the Blessed Mother statue for May Day. Lil took this job seriously, as her birthday fell on the Assumption of Mary. She took this as a sign and was devoted to the Blessed Lady all her life. I believe, when she passed, she was welcomed home and, once there, was cloaked in the Blessed Mother’s blue mantle.

Uncle Louie used to say that every city was a woman. If I were to choose the woman that is Lake Como, New Jersey, it would be Aunt Lil. A classic beauty with an Italian American twist. She wore white after Labor Day, diamonds with a sweatsuit, and sequins when she was in the mood for sparkle. As fashionable as she was, Aunt Lil was not superficial. She cared about others. She often said nothing, which, in most instances, wisely says everything.

Aunt Lil loved New Jersey. She went to the wedding of one of Uncle Louie’s business associates in upstate New York in the early nineties. When they returned from their weekend “abroad,” I asked Aunt Lil how the wedding went. She said, “Every expense was spared.”

The congregation laughs. Jess takes a deep breath and goes on.

Aunt Lil knew me from the day I was born. She and Uncle Louie didn’t have children, but in a sense,she had sixteen of us, the grand total of cousins who lived up and down North Boulevard in what was then called South Belmar. We were welcome in her home anytime, day or night, without invitation. She was a better baker than a cook (according to her), and whether she created a Venetian table on Christmas Eve or made our birthday cakes into works of art, she understood the importance of making everyone she knew feel special. My sister, Connie, and I were the beneficiaries of her Barbie cakes. The skirts were made of frosting. Barbie had her hands in the air, in a V for victory, holding our names on a small gold banner. When Joe’s birthday rolled around, she would bake G.I. Joe into a jungle motif.

Who can forget her zeppole? They were light and sweet, and never dense. In her honor, we printed up her recipe to share with you today. This recipe was kept secret her entire life, and now it’s yours. My nieces and nephews will hand the coveted recipe out to you now.

The children rise from their seats, and in school-test-day style, they fan out to the aisles with copies of Aunt Lil’s recipe. They position themselves on the ends of the rows to hand the stacks of recipes across. There is chatter and laughter as the cards are passed through the pews and the mourners read the recipe penned in Aunt Lil’s perfect Palmer penmanship.

Lil’s Zeppole

Hoboken-style

Makes 30–35 zeps