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I see everything, but there’s no point in bragging about it. A worldview doesn’t do you much good when you live in a small town, unless your passport is current. When it comes to Lake Como, New Jersey, the Capodimonte and Baratta families own North Boulevard. My Cap grandparents lived two houses down while the Baratta grandparents lived three houses down in the other direction. They’re all gone now; the Baratta homestead went to our cousin Carmine in 2019, while the Cap house has not been touched since Grandma died in 2022. We call it the Lake Como Museum because it remains intact; not a single teaspoon has left the premises since her death. Around the loop of the lake, the rest of the houses are filled with relatives.

Whenever we had a block party, we closed down the street and became a version of the Villa Capri in Paterson on their All You Can Eat Family Night. We were an Italian American a-go-go minus the floor show, free hors d’oeuvres, and two-drink minimum. Beyond our social lives, our family shares the street, a canoe, andour devotion to the Blessed Mother. A statue of Mary can be found in every yard on the lake. It may appear the patriarchy is thriving, but Italian Americans know it’s the mother who has the power. Philomena Capodimonte Baratta, my ownmamma mia Madonne, is proof of that.

“What’s with the jacket?” Uncle Louie gives my outfit a once-over.

“Connie gave it to me.”

“You’re still in your sister’s hand-me-downs?”

“Does it look bad?” I smooth the navy linen with my hands.

I am not up to Uncle Louie’s sartorial code. Never have been. Louie Cap is the last of a group of Italian American men who came up on the Beatles but never forgot Louis Prima. He’s a sharp dresser, Rat Pack debonair. He wears size 8 suede loafers like Frank Sinatra and three-piece suits like Jerry Vale, altered for a streamlined fit on his trim frame. He is never without a fitted vest under his suit jacket because he likes the feeling of being cinched in.

“Clothes make the woman,” Uncle Louie reminds me. “What the hell happened over here? You’re Depression Central.”

“I’m working on it. I signed up for Thera-Me. It’s an online therapy program. I got so many Instagram ads for it I must be in their target market.”

“Whatever that means,” Louie groans. “My goal is to make it into the arms of my Savior without having to install another app.”

“I was assigned to Dr. Sharon over Zoom.”

“Is she a real doctor?” Uncle Louie asks.

“Board-certified. She had me draw a self-portrait. And she asked me to journal. Wants me to write down my memories, the happy ones and the painful times. She said past experience is the foundation of future mental health.” I show Uncle Louie my self-portrait.

Uncle Louie glances over as he drives. “That don’t look like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d take another run at it.” Uncle Louie makes a face.

“Too late. I already turned it in.”

“Is this therapy operation expensive?”

“Around the cost of a gym membership.”

“Hmm. What a racket. Why do you need a therapist when you have me? I’m like a priest. At my age, there isn’t anything you could tell me that would even slightly shock me.”

“There are things I can’t talk to even you about.”

“Even though I have a very sensitive female side?”

“Not funny, Uncle Louie.”

Uncle Louie’s phone rings. He taps speaker. “Yo, Googs.”

“I got a couple sleeves of black granite. You got a need?” Googs sounds far away, like he’s calling from the moon.

“Putting a floor in over in Basking Ridge. How much you got?”

“Ten by six. Looks like I have six sheets total. Foyer? Small?”

Uncle Louie looks at me. I confirm that we could use the stock.

“For a price,” Uncle Louie says into the phone. “Don’t soak me, Googs. I’m not in the mood.”

“Text the address and I’ll deliver.” Rolando “Googs” Gugliotti hangs up. He is one of Uncle Louie’s oldest work colleagues. He would be the Joey Bishop in Uncle Louie’s Rat Pack. He shows up, does his business, and disappears like a vapor until you need him again, or he needs you.