Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I’m a contractor.”

  “But he wants to be mayor of Philly someday,” Calla added.

  “Years from now. You know, when I learn every pipe and joint and grid in the city.”

  “Have you mastered the plumbing in Bella Vista yet? We have a problem over on Montrose you need to address,” Nicky complained. “They’ve been digging trenches for months. And we’ve had some backup in the basement. I should know. That’s where my room is. Maybe you can come over and do some pumping.”

  Calla laughed. “He’s not a plumber.”

  “But he probably has a snake. You have a snake, Frank?”

  “Sure.”

  Nicky looked at Calla. “See? He has a snake.”

  “We get it. He has a snake.” Peachy pinched Nicky to get him off the subject. Nicky had no instincts when it came to knowing the difference between important people and regular people, and what’s appropriate to say to one group as opposed to the other. Frank Arrigo obviously was on his way to being important, but Nicky would be the last person to figure that out. It was one of the little things about her fiancé that annoyed her, but Peachy was confident she could fix his poor social instincts after the wedding.

  Nicky was sizing up Frank Arrigo, like an older brother might have if Calla had one. Frank seemed all right. Calla’s feelings toward Frank, however, were hard to read, and Nicky wondered if she knew something he didn’t.

  * * *

  Frank Arrigo sat on the worktable in the costume shop at Borelli’s as Calla prepped and organized a few pieces for the next day’s performance. Frank fiddled with the dial on the freestanding radio until he found a clear station playing Perry Como.

  The costume shop was a large room in the basement of the theater, as much a museum of memorabilia of past shows as it was a factory for the important work of the designer and her crew.

  A large flat table surrounded by metal stools took up the center of the room. There was a bin with large bolts of plain beige muslin, next to another filled with bolts of cotton cloth in shades of turquoise, yellow, orange, and deepest blue. Shelves were stacked with sheaths of fabric remnants, and boxes marked buttons, zippers, and thread. The walls were decorated with photographs of actors in all manner of Elizabethan costumes.

  A floor-to-ceiling corkboard held the sketches of the costume designs for the current production. Next to the sketches, Bonnie had posted a list of the stock pieces from the inventory closet including gowns, tunics, cassocks, skirts, and knickers used in Twelfth Night.

  A large round clock with a constant tick hung over a three-way mirror and standing stool. There were clocks in every workroom in the theater to encourage the crew to press through to hit their deadlines, or perhaps because a wealthy patron had died and left all her clocks to Borelli’s, and Sam’s philosophy was anything donated was used.

  Frank picked up a cloth tomato stuffed with fitting pins and examined it. “Do you do everything around here?”

  “Sometimes I have to. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of help. But things have changed. We used to have big crews, but not anymore.” Calla turned a velvet tunic inside out and placed it on the worktable, smoothing it flat. She misted it with a solution before hanging, tagging, and placing it on a rack marked “Chorus.”

  “Do you do this every night?”

  “Once a week. The actors are great about taking care of their costumes. But we can’t afford to send them out to be dry-cleaned until the end of a run, so we maintain them ourselves.” Calla shook the glass bottle with a mister nozzle on the end. “Vodka.”

  “Usually on a date, the vodka’s in the lady’s cocktail I’ve bought her. She isn’t spraying it on costumes.”

  Calla laughed. “Sorry, Frank. Welcome to the theater. This is an old trick my mom taught me.” Calla turned Viola’s finale costume, a sumptuous purple silk taffeta gown with a train and gold Edwardian braiding, inside out. She gently laid the garment on the table. “This costume has been used in our shows for as long as I can remember. Every leading lady has worn it. Every Luciana and Desdemona and Ophelia. We change the trim or add a different collar or a new sleeve. The audience is never the wiser.” Calla carefully misted the lining without making the fabric too damp.

  “You know I don’t know anything about theater.”

  “Would you like to learn?”

  “Do I have to?”

  Calla laughed. “That’s honest.”

  “But I am interested in you.”

  Calla blushed. “How could you be interested in me and not what I do?”

  “Do you like cleaning septic tanks?”

  “No.”

  “And I wouldn’t expect you to—but it’s part of my job.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We have enough in common to keep us interested in one another.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it. See, you have exactly three freckles on your perfect nose.” Frank jumped off the table and, catching Calla off guard, swept her into his arms. “My folks fell in love at the Saint Donato Dance in 1917 before my dad went to fight in the Great War. Do you dance?”

  Before Calla could answer, Frank spun her around the costume shop, accidentally stepping on her toes.

  “Was that lead foot mine or yours?”

  “It’s your fault. You were leading.”

  “I was not!”

  “It couldn’t have been me. I took lessons,” Frank said proudly.

  “You should ask for your money back.”

  “No refunds.”

  “That’s unfortunate for your bank account and my feet.” Calla curtsied and went back to working on the costume.

  “How old are you, Calla?”

  “Twenty-four. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  Calla whistled.

  “Too old for you?”

  “No. That’s the age my dad was when he took over the theater.”

  “And he retired from here?”

  “He worked here all his life.”

  “How did it make it?”

  “There were times when we didn’t have a lot. A flop can set a family back. But Dad would figure out how to turn it around. Usually it involved mounting a comedy.”

  “People like to laugh.”

  “They do. And they used to go to the theater.”

  “I just bought a television set.”

  “Really?” Calla was intrigued. “What’s it like?”

  “I’ll have to show you sometime. It’s fascinating. Now, maybe that’s because it’s a new gizmo. But you can see Martin and Lewis and all sorts of entertainers that you’d have to wait to see in a club or in the movies—but now you can sit at home and see them. I’m thinking it could take off.”

  “I was hoping it would fail.”

  “So your business would pick up?”

  “So the world wouldn’t change so fast.”

  “What’s wrong with change?”

  Calla shrugged. “What’s wrong with holding on to a ritual that’s been around as long as people? There’s something sacred about an audience coming to see actors tell a story. It used to be enough just to tell the story well. But audiences want more. I wish I knew how to bring audiences in to see the shows. I think if they saw one, they’d want to come all the time.”

  “Maybe the theater is too old-fashioned,” Frank suggested.

  “Maybe the theater is just fine but people would rather stay home and watch their television set.”

  Frank leaned across the worktable closer to her. “Or maybe people are idiots and don’t appreciate quality when it’s offered to them.”

  “I think you just said that because you want to kiss me.”

  “No. I would just kiss you because life could not go on if I didn’t.”

  “You should definitely run for mayor. You know how to play to the bleachers.”

  Frank came around the end of the table and stood next to Calla. He folded his arms, mirroring hers as she looked a
t the rack of costumes. “I would only kiss you if you wanted me to.”

  She turned to face him and smiled. “I’d like that.”

  Frank kissed Calla tenderly.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked her.

  “Always.”

  “Me too. But where does it go on you?”

  “I leave it on the stairs between the mezzanine and the basement. If I had one wish . . .”

  “Yeah?” Frank said, hoping she was thinking of him.

  “I’d put in a lift. A platform elevator.”

  “Okay.” Frank nodded.

  “I saw a lift at the Philadelphia Opera Company, and I don’t like to think I’m an envious person, but it made me feel that way. I do a lot of hauling around here.” Calla returned the vodka bottle to its hiding place in the cubby of the Singer sewing machine. If she left it out, Hambone Mason would help himself to an intermission cocktail, not just a misting. She turned off the lights in the shop. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I thought we’d go for a drive.”

  “I have my car.”

  “We’ll drop yours at home and take mine. Then we’ll go to Palumbo’s for a late supper. Sound good?”

  Calla liked that Frank was decisive; she spent her days and nights at the theater making decisions about everything from lighting to costumes to sound to how to remove gum from the lobby floor. It was nice for a fellow to make a plan, and it was even better when she knew in advance that he was a good kisser. Frank Arrigo had potential.

  * * *

  Nicky balanced Peachy on the handlebars of his bicycle across South Ninth Street. Peachy held on to her hat with one hand while gripping the bar with the other as Nicky navigated through the traffic.

  When they reached Pat’s Steaks, he gently braked to a stop. Peachy jumped off and waited as Nicky leaned the bike against a table. He put his arm around her as they got in line to order their sandwiches.

  “I saw you make a friend in the audience.”

  “Yeah. Very nice lady. Works at Wanamaker’s too.”

  “In accounting?

  “Nope. She’s in sales. She gave me her card. Never saw her before, but get this. She’s in Bridal Registry. Is that fate or what? I figured we could go and see her together.”

  “Anytime you want.”

  “Well, you can’t really make an appointment until you have a wedding day, otherwise they just have a bunch of random people on file who may or may not actually ever marry which makes a lot of paperwork for the department without the benefit of sales. You need an actual guest list to register our china, English Chintz by Royal Albert—”

  “Let me guess, it’s pink.”

  “Naturally. Then there’s our silverware, Williamsburg by Towle, and the rest of the stuff a young couple on the move needs, like an ice bucket and a cocktail shaker and lead glass beer steins. We need six. But I can’t do anything until we know what we’re doing.”

  “Peach. You know what you’re doing,” Nicky teased her.

  “Everything hinges on the date.”

  “I understand.” Nicky leaned into the window and ordered two cheesesteak sandwiches, hers without peppers, his with peppers, and both with mozzarella, and two bottles of cold birch beer.

  “I was thinking October twenty-ninth for our wedding day,” Peachy said gently.

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “It is?”

  “I like the fall.”

  “It’s cooler then, and the wedding party can wear velvet. Velvet is my favorite fabric.”

  “Whatever you want, Peachy.”

  “You know my mom. Her only request was that we marry at a time of year when sleeves are required.”

  “Really? That’s her only request?” Nicky joked.

  “Let her have some fun. God knows she’s waited long enough.”

  “I went over and looked at the houses going up on Wharton,” Nicky admitted.

  “You did?”

  “I think you’d like them a lot. Nice and new. Backyard with a lot of room. You know, for kids and cookouts. A strong wooden fence. You can paint it whatever color you want, or stain it—a wood finish, pine or mahogany. You could even grow morning glories on it. There’s room enough for a cutting garden. Do you have a green thumb?”

  “My tomatoes grow tomatoes,” Peachy assured him.

  “Good. And I bet we’d get good neighbors on the other sides.”

  “Probably newlyweds like us.”

  “Probably.”

  Peachy threw her arms around Nicky. “I’m so happy.” Their order appeared in the window. He placed each cold soda bottle in one of his pockets and grabbed the bag of sandwiches. Peachy jumped back on the bike as Nicky pedaled across the bridge to the Fairmount Park and swerved through the Azalea Garden to the Fountain of the Sea Horses.

  The Art Institute, a majestic white sandstone building with rows of large windows overlooking the gardens, was fully lit from within, throwing light on the green lawn.

  “Hey, our bench is free,” Peachy said, taking Nicky’s arm. “That’s a sign. This is the very spot where I said yes.”

  Nicky kissed her. “Everything is going our way.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hey, it’s true.”

  “I get these black feelings of doom sometimes. I don’t know where they come from—they just move in. You know?” Peachy picked a loose thread off her skirt.

  “Well, get rid of them.”

  “Not so easy. I worry about us. You’re a flirt.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re my girl.”

  “I know. I got the ring to prove it.” She held up her hand and wiggled the ring finger fitted with her diamond. “But you, Mister, are very chummy with the girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “That Stella Corelli.”

  “Calla Borelli.”

  “Yeah, her. There are some sparks there between the two of you.”

  “There are no sparks.” Nicky was glad that Peachy wasn’t a mind reader, because if she was, she would have just seen Calla Borelli dance across the front lobe of his brain in her underpants. He opened the soda bottles and handed one to his fiancée. He took a swig from the other. “No sparks.”

  “Better not be. My father was unfaithful to my mother once, and it left a scar.”

  “On her or on you?”

  “Both of us.”

  “I’m true, Peachy. True to you.”

  “I have no evidence to the contrary. But don’t test me. I did not come all this way to have you blow us up like a stick of dynamite in a sewer pipe.”

  “There will be no explosions. I had enough of those in France. But I hope you take comfort that your mother and father made it through their dilemma.”

  “Barely. No charges were filed, but it was close.”

  Nicky unbuttoned his collar, feeling the air cut off from his windpipe. “Charges?”

  “My mother may appear demure—”

  Nicky sipped his birch beer. The last word he would use to describe his future mother-in-law was demure; in fact, she wasn’t de anything, not light, or airy, or even French. She was a pile driver.

  Peachy continued, “But when you challenge my mother, she will fight you like a wild alligator. She will lie in the depths and then when you least expect it, she opens wide and chomps.”

  “What do you mean?” Nicky’s voice squeaked.

  “She found out where the woman my father was seeing lived, and she went for a little visit. When the woman opened the door, my mother took off her shoe and began to beat the woman about the head.”

  “My God.”

  “She didn’t die.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Peachy shrugged. “She almost lost an eye, though.”

  “What?”

  “One of Ma’s heels came close to the eye socket. Whacked her nose instead. It didn’t break completely, but she got it good enough that the lady had to have it reset. That’s when the cops showed up.”
/>   Nicky stood up. “Your mother has a police record?”

  “She still votes.” Peachy pulled the sandwiches out of the bag. “So the moral of that story is—”

  “Don’t open the door when your mother is holding a shoe?”

  “You’re funny. No. The moral is: Don’t cross us.”

  “I have no intention.” Nicky sat down.

  “You know I’m looking into the Art Institute for our reception? Who needs the old catering halls? Let’s be original! I love this fountain so much.”

  “I saw the original fountain in Rome, you know.”

  “You did?”

  “During the war. At the end of it. Same artist made both of them—Bernini. But this one was given to the city by Mussolini.”

  “And we kept it?”

  “It was gifted to Philly before the war. Nineteen twenty-eight. It’s not the fountain’s fault it was commissioned by a fascist. Besides, it wasn’t from him, it was from the people of Italy. He happened to be in charge.”

  “I guess we had to accept the gift. That’s where we come from, those are our people,” Peachy said wistfully. “I wish we could go to Italy on our honeymoon.”

  “We’re getting the house.”

  “And that’s fine. I can’t be greedy. Atlantic City will do for our honeymoon.”

  “How about Niagara Falls?”

  “We’ll freeze to death, but if that’s your desire, we’ll freeze together. I’m starving,” Peachy said as she opened the bag of sandwiches. “You must be. You worked in the car all day.”

  “And then I pull double duty.”

  “So, did you get my ticket for free in exchange for helping out tonight?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “They want you to come back another time?” Peachy tucked the cheese that had oozed out of her sandwich into the bread.

  “Peachy, I’ve been working there for about three years.”

  “What do you mean, working?”

  “I’ve had a second job at Borelli’s since I came back from the war.”

  “All this time?”

  “A couple nights a week. Sometimes more. ”