Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  The Roseto Jubilee was his first step out into the wider world, beyond the safety of Montrose Street. Sam Borelli’s words to his actors in the rehearsals of long ago echoed in Nicky’s head: Stay in the moment. If you do, it will lead you forward.

  As Nicky drove down the block in the sedan, he saw Hortense waiting on her porch like a good soldier, dressed primly in black in a matching hat and shoes. He was pleased with his casting of the attaché.

  Nicky pulled up in front, jumped out, and circled around to open the back door for Hortense. She climbed aboard for an adventure that had no itinerary, only a destination.

  As they drove off, her next-door neighbor, the schoolteacher Jean Williams, peered out her curtains and shook her head. “Hortense Mooney. Black suit. Black car. Black day.”

  * * *

  Frank Arrigo stood under the chandelier in the lobby of Borelli’s while he waited for the engineer to come down from the mezzanine. He tapped his foot on the terrazzo floor, impressed with how well it had held up over decades. Frank appreciated quality, but he believed the standards for construction were changing. There wasn’t a need for a floor surface to last for a hundred years when a modern design was implemented. He was open to new ways—cheaper, faster, better.

  “She’s an old beauty.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frank Arrigo agreed.

  Ed Shaughnessy came down the staircase and joined him. “We’re looking at a serious renovation here. There are leaks in the upstairs restrooms. Pretty substantial plumbing issues. The theater itself is in pretty good shape. The mezzanine needs reinforcement. There weren’t codes prior to 1916, so who knows if the structure can hold the seat allotment? I don’t know. Roof is all right. The catacombs where the dressing rooms are aren’t up to code either.”

  “So what would it cost?”

  “It would be cheaper to tear it down and start over. Unless someone cared about the history of the place and wanted to fund a restoration.”

  “We’re putting up an apartment complex over on Pierce Street. We’re not done yet, and we already have them all rented to vets. We could do double the business building apartments on Broad. This is a great location. The loading dock behind the building would make great parking.”

  “I see how you’re thinking. You could do a tear-down but you could save the facade,” Shaughnessy offered.

  “Why would I?”

  “History.”

  “History never made anybody any money, Ed.”

  “No, but people are attached to these old barns.”

  “Yeah. But you’d be surprised. You put up something new, and they never miss what was here.” Frank opened a small notebook he carried and jotted down a few notes. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this between us. Calla is a little emotional about this place, and it’s going to take a little finessing to get her to understand what’s best.”

  “I understand. Not a word from me.”

  Peachy DePino pushed through the glass doors of the lobby, wearing a full cotton skirt with bold red-and-white stripes, a cropped red shell, and a Venetian gondolier hat. She wore sunglasses.

  “Good afternoon.” She forced a smile.

  “Peachy, right?”

  “Yes. You’re Frank. Where’s Calla?”

  “She’s downstairs in the costume shop. Say hello to Ed Shaughnessy, engineer with the city.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “He’s here to check the building for repairs.”

  “I almost fell through the ladies’ room floor when I attended a play here. Maybe you can do something about that. Excuse me.” Peachy gave them a tense smile before marching off.

  “If that isn’t an advertisement for a tear-down, I don’t know what is.” Ed chuckled.

  * * *

  Peachy burst into the costume shop to find Calla sitting cross-legged on the cutting table, sorting through swatches of fabric.

  “Calla, I think we should talk.”

  “Are you all right, Peachy?”

  “No. I am not.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why do I have a haunting feeling you already know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Where is my fiancé?”

  “I don’t know. Is there a problem?”

  “He broke up with me last night.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  Peachy was taken aback by Calla’s response, so much so that she sat down on a work stool, pulled off her hat and sunglasses, folded her arms on the table, put her head down, and cried.

  “He’s an idiot to break up with you. You’re a great girl, Peachy. I saw you with the Palazzinis. The only thing I can say is that he must be having a mental breakdown.”

  Peachy pulled a hanky from her bra strap and wiped her tears. “Maybe there’s a growth. A fatty tumor. My uncle Jerry had one. One day he woke up and was fluent in French.”

  “Nicky is a fool.”

  “I did everything right. I kept quiet. I didn’t pressure him. I waited. I tiptoed around, made sure he felt good about himself. And he drops me.”

  “Stupid, stupid man.”

  “I know. They all are, you know.” Peachy blew her nose.

  “We can’t change them.”

  “My father’s going to kill him.”

  “Not really?”

  Peachy nodded. “He didn’t like him to start with. He feels like he sacrificed seven years, too. He wants to wring Nicky’s neck with his bare hands.”

  “Violence never made a dope think.”

  “True. But it will make my dad feel better.”

  * * *

  The rolling green fields outside Philadelphia gave way to the foothills of the Poconos, thick with laurel, bursts of pink peonies, and wild orange tiger lilies. In the distance, the peaks and crests of the Blue Mountains filled the horizon with a stripe of deepest purple.

  The air was fragrant with smoky pine that morning. Nicky was making good time on the road to Roseto. If Hortense weren’t so nervous, she might have enjoyed the ride through northeastern Pennsylvania on the cusp of summer. Instead, she sat low in the back seat, and tried not to fidget.

  “I don’t like sitting back here.”

  “You’ll draw attention if you’re in the front seat.”

  “How much do you know about this ambassador?” Hortense asked as she flipped through the Jubilee booklet.

  “Just what’s in there.”

  “He looks wealthy.” Hortense looked at the suit on the seat next to her. “Do you think this costume is going to fool these people?”

  “It has to.”

  “What is a Cadillac Dinner?”

  “It’s a fund-raiser for the town. They raffle off a Cadillac at the end.”

  “Nice.”

  “I have to dance with the ladies. That’s when I wear the regimentals.”

  “Lord, have mercy. What do I do while you dance and give away a car?”

  “Stand there and look official.”

  “All right. I can do that. But know this. Small towns aren’t very welcoming to colored folks. We don’t like to be places where they can corner us.”

  “You’ll impress them. There will be no cornering.”

  “That’s what you think. I’ve gotten my hopes up before. When they find out you aren’t a servant, all hell breaks loose.”

  “You stick with me, and nobody will give you any trouble.”

  “Mm-hm,” Hortense grumbled.

  “I mean it.”

  “Nicky, I’ve been colored all my life, and the only thing I know that remains true is that there are no surprises. I always know what I’m walking into.” Hortense chuckled. “Well, not always. I got sandbagged once. You know, old man Rotundo of the trucking outfit tried to steal me away during the war.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Rotundo had heard Palazzini’s had a crack dispatcher and a first-class operation. So he called the office and told me to name my price. So I did. He said, ‘No problem. Come and see me.’ When I walked in th
e door, his face went puce, and then the color left his face entirely, which took a while because he’s southern Italian, so he’s on his way to being as dark as me. Anyway, he took one look at me and said the position had already been filled. The very one he offered to me over the telephone. I kid you not. That money would have been nice, too. At the time I had both the girls at home, and we needed a new furnace. So I walked back to Montrose Street and straight to your uncle and told him about Rotundo and the offer and said I needed a raise. He gave me an argument, but I stood my ground. I got my raise. I wasn’t ever going to be rich, but I got my furnace.”

  “Would you rather be rich or respected?”

  “Both.”

  “If you had to choose.”

  “Respect is more important, of course.”

  “I don’t care about money,” Nicky said, and meant it.

  “You don’t?”

  “I really don’t. As long as I have enough to survive, that’s fine with me. Peachy bought government bonds during the war, and she bought stocks, she saved up money. She’s a saver. She’d talk about that stuff, and I was so bored.”

  “She’s a very responsible young lady.”

  “She’s thirty-four.”

  “She’s a very responsible lady.”

  “You could look at it like that. Or you could look at it like once we were married she’d be waiting by the door every Friday with an empty jar ready to fill with my tips.”

  “She might have changed if you married her.”

  “She would have. For worse.”

  “You did the right thing, then.”

  “Do you think her father will kill me?”

  “If every father killed every son that did a woman wrong, there’d be no men left to marry. Al DePino may slap you around a little. Loosen a couple of teeth. You may get your arm twisted and your nose broken. But you’ll survive.”

  Nicky swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

  “I’m getting older by the day, and I’ve yet to see a couple bust up where both people wanted to leave at the same time. It’s always one or the other. So one person always ends up irate at the end of a love affair. Why is that? Just move along. The globe is crawling with people, you mean to tell me you can’t find somebody else who spins your wheels? I never understood it.”

  “I should have had you talk to Peachy.”

  “I would have talked plain. I have a feeling you puttered around. You can’t putter around when you want to end something. You have to get to the point.”

  “She didn’t want to accept it.”

  “There’s that, too.”

  “She had everything planned. The future came with a recipe.”

  “That’s too bad. You need wiggle room in life, because you don’t know what you’re going to get thrown your way.”

  “Look at my parents.”

  “That’s right. They died so young, which means they went to heaven before their marriage gave them hell.”

  “Or maybe they were happy,” Nicky countered.

  “I’m sure they were.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

  “Nothing wrong with believing in fairy tales, Nicky. Pretty pictures make pretty thoughts.”

  The pair rode in silence as Nicky drove along narrow roads that edged the Delaware River. After a bit he asked, “Why did you agree to come with me to Roseto, Mrs. Mooney?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A little adventure never hurt anyone.”

  “I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

  “You’re entirely welcome. I’ve worked at the garage for twenty-three years. And I’ve witnessed what I’d call an Italian opera. The battles. The dialogue. The ice-cold silences broken by the smash of glass on cement followed by more screaming and yelling. The choreography. The sight of a wrench whizzing through the air like a bird. The denouement. A cold cock to the jaw, followed by remorse, ending in forgiveness. Borelli’s isn’t the only theater in South Philly. There’s always something going on in the garage. Must be what it’s like to live on Mount Vesuvius. You never know when things are going to blow. But the Italians are good people, I do know that.”

  “How did you get the job with Uncle Dom?”

  “I worked for both your uncles. I like them both. I graduated from Cheyney with a degree in teaching. When I went there, way back in 1905, it was called the Institute for Colored Youth. I came out of there and wanted to work in a business—I was done with classrooms, but I spent the next few years teaching. I was looking for something new. Your uncles posted the job with the city. They used to have boards back then at the Jobs Administration. I went for an interview and got the job.”

  “You must like it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “But you never left.”

  “Mr. Mooney has a job where they need him around the clock and then not much. My job always covered the not much. I’m half kidding you. I did like it when the telegraph office went in. That challenged me.”

  “I’m glad you’re up for new challenges. We don’t know what we’re walking into here.” Nicky adjusted the rearview mirror so he might look Hortense in the eye. “Mrs. Mooney, I learned a lot at Borelli’s, but here’s the most important thing. You have to commit to your role. You’re in the play now. And that means you accepted the part, which means you have to do the job and stay in it until the curtain falls. You can’t flinch. You have to stick with the story. You must not panic. You can’t leave the stage.”

  “If anybody is going to be flinching and panicking, it won’t be me. I’ve been put on the spot in my lifetime. I know how to wheedle.”

  “Good. Just follow my cues.”

  Hortense looked out the window and muttered, “Any fool can do that.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I can do that.”

  It wasn’t long before Nicky passed Easton and followed the signs north for Roseto. Finally they got to town, and he drove up the incline and took the turn onto Garibaldi Avenue. “This is it,” he said quietly.

  Hortense placed the black straw hat on her head. It had a wide brim and a tall crown decorated with a wide, grosgrain ribbon and a large, flat bow. She secured it in place with a hatpin, pulled on her formal white gloves with the scalloped wrist detail, and adjusted the collar of her black serge suit, her Sunday best. She straightened the cloth flag pin on her lapel that she had received as a free gift when she made a donation to the Negro Armed Services Relief Fund, hoping it looked official enough to get her through whatever Nicky had in mind for her, as she posed as a representative of the United States government.

  Hortense reached into her purse and pulled out a small silver flask of Evening in Paris perfume. She pumped the rubber ball lightly on her neck, returned it to her purse, and snapped the clasp shut.

  “That smells nice,” Nicky commented.

  “Mrs. Roosevelt gave it to me for Christmas.” Hortense folded her gloved hands on her lap. “She’s thoughtful that way.”

  Nicky grinned. Mrs. Mooney was ready for the Jubilee.

  * * *

  Nicky intended to drive directly to 125 Truman Street, the home of Chief Burgess Rocco Tutolola, but the sedan was met on Garibaldi Avenue by a hundred locals who had gathered to welcome the ambassador.

  “What is this?” Hortense looked up at the streamers, the banners on the houses, and the welcome signs, feeling overwhelmed. “This was not in the booklet.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are we in a parade?”

  “No, that’s tomorrow.”

  “Take me back, Nicky. I can’t do this.” Hortense felt trapped.

  “It’s only a weekend. You can do this.”

  “I mean it. Let me out of this car.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “I am going to call your uncle to come and get me.” Hortense pulled the brim of her hat down over her face.

  Nicky braked the car, while the Rosetani crowded around them, and turned to face H
ortense. “Please, Mrs. Mooney.”

  Hortense kept her head down. Outside the sedan’s windows, a sea of Italian Americans pressed forth to greet them. Hortense quickly realized that even if she was able to get out of the car, it was unlikely they would let her use a telephone. She accepted she was in deep. “Let’s go through with this. But we’re out of here first thing Sunday morning. Promise me that,” she whispered.

  “I promise.”

  Nicky drove the sedan slowly up Garibaldi Avenue. The crowd backed away and stood against the curb, forming a ribbon on either side of the street. As Nicky smiled and waved to them, the townspeople became animated, cheering and shouting words of welcome to the long-awaited visitor.

  He pulled up in front of 125 Truman Street, followed by the throng, which had grown to fill the street from one end to the other. Before Nicky could get out of the sedan, Chief Burgess Rocco, with thick brown hair like pine needles, flinty black eyes, a pointed nose, and a warm smile, emerged from the house wearing a suit with an official sash across his chest.

  Hortense peeked out from under her hat. “They followed us,” Hortense whispered. “The whole town is out there.”

  “Pull yourself together, Mrs. Mooney,” Nicky said, before getting out of the car to greet the chief burgess.

  “My-uh Paisan! My-uh friend!” Nicky said in an Italian accent, a combination of his pal Ben Tartaglia’s grandfather, who worked in a butcher shop on Wharton, and Nicky’s grandmother.

  “Ambasciatore Guardinfante, come sta!”

  “No Italian. I learn-uh the English. We speak English please on this vee-zeet.”

  “Very good. But we were ready for you—one of our ladies is fluent. We arranged to have her by your side throughout your visit. Most of us in Roseto speak the dialect from your province.”

  “Not-ta necessary. I must-uh practice my English. So, I speak-uh the English for you.”

  “Bravo!”

  Nicky wagged his finger. “Remember. No EE-talian!”