Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  Nicky embraced Elsa. He picked up his suitcase.

  Aunt Jo called out, “Wait. We have a present for you.”

  Gio emerged from the basement kitchen, holding a large box with a bow on it. Nicky’s cousins burst into applause as he opened the gift. Nicky lifted the lid off a box of a full set of dishes, service for twelve, white ceramic with a daisy-chain pattern on the edge.

  “You were supposed to get them at your wedding shower,” Mabel blurted. “But that went south.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Jo.”

  “Don’t thank her. Thank the First National Bank of Philadelphia.”

  Nicky climbed the stairs with his dishes and his suitcase. The cousins followed behind him, single file, until they made it upstairs to the kitchen and into the light.

  “You know? His room ain’t half bad,” Uncle Dom said to Aunt Jo on the stairs. “We could rent it out.”

  “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “It could be a honeymoon suite.” Dom pinched his wife’s behind.

  “On the other hand, we could rent it out,” Jo decided.

  The family followed Nicky through the dining room on his way to the front door. Nicky knelt next to Nonna’s chair in the dining room. She was napping under the afghan. “Nonna? It’s Nicky.”

  Nonna opened her eyes.

  “I’m moving out. I’m going to start a new life. I’m going to New York City to be an actor.”

  “Be good and don’t take any shit off of anybody,” Nonna said, then went back to sleep.

  “The wisdom of the ages,” Uncle Dom said, “that goes for all of you.”

  * * *

  Nicky carried the box of dishes on his right shoulder and the suitcase on his left, balancing the load, as he descended the porch steps onto Montrose Street, where Hortense was waiting for him on the sidewalk.

  “I see. You were going to sneak off.”

  “No, I was going to stop by.”

  “No, you weren’t. You left your keys on the hook in the office.”

  “I was going to sneak off,” Nicky said sheepishly.

  “You don’t like me to get upset. Guess what. Neither do I.”

  “I don’t know where I’m going, and I couldn’t face a round of questions.”

  “You’re going to go to New York City, you’re going to make friends, and you’re going to find something to do that makes you happy.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “You have to.”

  “I do?”

  “Because you blew up everything in Philly, and we had to leave Roseto in a bail jump, and you’re running out of options. There’s only so much of the East Coast left for you to torch, so you have to make something of yourself in New York City.”

  “I feel worse.”

  “Don’t. I believe in you, Mr. Castone. I know you are capable of great things.”

  “I bet you say that to all the hacks that leave the garage.”

  “No one’s ever left before.”

  “Must be a good company.”

  “It was. There was a time when it was the best. Now, like everything else that ever once was new, it’s on its way out. That’s just life. That’s just the world. That’s just the way it goes.”

  “Come see me in Manhattan.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you do.”

  Nino pulled up in Car No. 3. “Let’s go, cousin.”

  Nicky put the box and his suitcase in the trunk of the cab. He got into the front seat next to Nino.

  “Be careful,” Hortense said to both of them. “The traffic around the train station is always a little squirrely.”

  “I know, Mrs. Mooney.” Nino pulled out into the street.

  Nicky looked back at Hortense. She was still standing on the sidewalk, watching them drive away, when Nino made the turn onto Ninth Street.

  * * *

  “Nino, can we swing by Broad Street? I need to make a quick stop at Borelli’s.”

  “Sure.”

  “Take that turn there in the alley.” Nicky got out of the cab, the russet leaves crunching under his feet. He climbed the steps to the stage door. The bare lilac branches twisted over the door, as gray as the drainpipe. Nicky thought the place looked shabby, and it made him sad.

  Inside, the set crew was painting a series of flats lined up on the stage wall. Nicky looked around until he found Calla, sitting cross-legged on the prop table, looking at her prompt book. A pang of regret pierced his heart when he saw her.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been over since I got back from Italy.”

  Calla looked up from her work. At first she was happy to see him, but then her mood changed. “I know you’re busy. We’re all busy. I hear you’re moving to New York City.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  He looked at his watch. “The four-ten train.”

  “You’re a piece of work, Nicky Castone. Were you going to tell me?”

  “This is it. I’ve stopped in to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Nicky.” She looked down at her reading.

  “Give my best to Frank,” he said.

  Calla put the prompt book down and looked at him. “You’re on your own with that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I broke up with him months ago. When you were in Italy.”

  “You were going to marry him.”

  “He tried to sell the theater out from under me. He wanted to tear it down and build apartments.”

  “I’m sorry.” Nicky suddenly felt helpless. And trapped. And oddly responsible.

  Calla could read his feelings in his body language. “I got through it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Why would anyone do anything unkind to someone they supposedly cared about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you find the answer to that one, please let me know. I can’t find it in any of the Shakespeare folios. And I’ve looked.”

  Nicky felt terrible. “Calla, I—” His voice broke.

  Calla could hear the wind-up of excuses about to roll, so she put her hand up in the air to stop him before he humiliated himself and infuriated her.

  “This is the worst audition for loyal friend that I’ve ever seen. Save it for the New York casting directors. They’re more likely to buy your line of bull.” Calla put her head down and went back to her reading.

  Nicky was incensed. He was probably going to miss his train after doing the right thing and stopping to say good-bye to an old friend. He crossed the stage to walk out the door. He heard Nino tapping on the car horn outside. He looked at his watch. He was late. But he was more furious than he was anxious about missing his train. Now he didn’t care if he missed the train and had to walk to New York City with those dishes on his back. How dare she? He turned around, went back to the prop table, took Calla’s prompt book out of her hands, and threw it on the floor. He was going to tell her off for good, but he looked at her, and her eyes were glassy, probably from autumn pollen, who knew? But her mouth was set like an empress about to call out the executioner. He was angry that she was the best girl he’d ever known and had the nerve to hold him accountable for his behavior. He swept her up off the table, into his arms, and kissed her.

  Calla’s feet were off the ground; she was flying in his arms. But when he gently placed her back on earth, she came back to her senses. The kiss was delicious, but she hated him. He hadn’t written her a single letter, sent a postcard or a telegram, or called her since he returned from Italy. He’d pulled a disappearing act, like the rabbit in the black felt hat in the magician’s kit she played with as a child. He had toyed with her. All the hurt she carried and stuffed down rose within her, and the abandonment she felt pained her anew.

  Nicky could see the hurt he caused, but he justified it. He hadn’t known Calla’s situation with big Frank, and since when was he responsible for her? Maybe there wasn’t an excuse—certainly not one that coul
d make up for being a lousy friend to someone who had been a good one to him. The only thing he could think of was that he couldn’t let her or anyone stand in the way of the life that lay ahead. She seemed like a walking conundrum, with her struggling theater and her box of grief that she carried around, reminding him of his own. He didn’t want to be reminded of the pain anymore. He wanted everything in his life to be easy! New! Uncomplicated for a change. He wanted to start over fresh, to reimagine his dreams and create a new life. That was his right. He didn’t want to be anchored to a girl who hung on to an old building and scrubbed the toilets because she couldn’t afford the janitor. He wanted more for himself than that struggle. The decision he had made was not an easy one. It took guts to leave Montrose Street, but instead of giving him credit for being courageous, she whined about some letters she had been sitting around waiting for. Calla Borelli was small-time. Nicky Castone turned and walked out the stage door, vowing to never look back.

  Calla watched him go, her pride freezing her in place. She didn’t call or run after him; she watched him go out the stage door and let him, knowing she deserved better than a hack who thought he’d move to New York, and the world of theater would bow down and take him, as though his talent would save them from film and television and whatever else the mad inventors threw in the path of quality. Even the thought of never seeing him again couldn’t make her run after him. Nicky Castone was cleaning out and clearing out—but what he couldn’t know was that Calla had beaten him to the punch.

  * * *

  Hortense climbed the steps up to the office. She sat down at her desk and looked out the window into the garage. Car No. 4 sitting empty in its parking spot was a sad sight.

  The board on her desk lit up. She picked up the phone.

  “Palazzini Cab Company. May I be of service?” she said in her honeyed tone.

  “This is Father Leone of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Roseto, Pennsylvania. I am looking for Mrs. Hortense Mooney.”

  “This is she. What can I do for you, Father?”

  “I’m calling with sad news.”

  “Don’t say it, Father.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mooney. Mrs. Viglione has died.”

  “Oh no. Poor Minna.”

  “Very peacefully, though. In her own bed. I was called over to give last rites yesterday afternoon, and she was ready.”

  “Thank you Jesus.”

  “Yes, thank God. Minna asked me to call you.”

  “She did?” Hortense reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, which wasn’t there, so she wiped her tears away with her hand.

  “Yes, and she said that you would understand this message.”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “The message is: one half a teaspoon of nutmeg.”

  “Nutmeg?”

  “Nutmeg. One half a teaspoon.”

  “Are you certain, Father?”

  “Absolutely. Minna made me repeat it, and she made me write it down.”

  “Well, then, that’s what she means.”

  Hortense hung up the phone. She straightened the string of Venetian beads around her neck. She had made a habit of wearing Minna’s gift to her to work every day. The beads were cool to the touch, shaped like pulled taffy candy, in colors that suited Hortense, strung in a length that didn’t interfere with the telegraph machine. The beads served a purpose besides adornment; they were like a string tied on her finger to remind her to push harder and stay focused on the dream. With Minna gone, it would be up to Hortense to define the terms of that dream and reach for it.

  A ray of light in the corner of Hortense’s soul dimmed at the loss of Minna. Hortense’s friend would not be here to encourage her on the journey. Hortense was alone now. She had to make her way as best she could on the merit of her own skills, without her mentor. It felt an awful lot like her first day at Cheyney College. This time, Hortense vowed the process wouldn’t take her five years. This go-round, she no longer had the luxury of time, the innocence of youth, and the energy to suffer fools and their silly obstructions to her goal. This time around, Hortense had her wits and the gift that comes with age: patience. She figured a lifetime of experience was as good an ingredient to add to the gravy as Minna’s secret nutmeg, though that, too, going forward, would make it into every pot.

  * * *

  Mamie Confalone led the ladies from the Our Lady of Mount Carmel sodality down Garibaldi Avenue to Minna Viglione’s house to provide the sympathy dinner for the grieving family.

  Mamie had a white damask tablecloth tied around her waist in a giant bow. Inside the pouch of the cloth she carried the dishes and cutlery. Following behind, the ladies carried the components of the meal, in various pots, pans, and covered ceramic dishes. As they turned onto Minna’s sidewalk, they were met by her son and daughter-in-law.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Confalone.”

  “It’s our honor to make dinner for you, Mr. Viglione, and for your family.”

  Minna’s daughter-in-law thanked Mamie and the ladies and offered her help, which they refused. The ladies followed Mamie into the house and back to the kitchen, where they fanned out and took over every surface to serve the meal. Mamie went into the dining room, untied the bow around her waist, and placed the dishes and utensils on the server. She laid the tablecloth neatly on the dining room table and began to set the table for twelve.

  “Need a hand?” Eddie Davanzo came into the room with a small arrangement of red roses for the center of the table. “Marie Poidomani said to place this vase dead center.”

  “Always follow Marie’s instructions.”

  Eddie placed the flowers on the table. “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Could you teach me to speak Italian?”

  “There’s a class at Northampton Community College.”

  “I didn’t do too well in school. I’m better one-on-one.”

  Eddie’s flirtation caused Mamie to put the soup spoon in the wrong spot on the place setting. Eddie reached over and put it in the correct spot. “What do you say?”

  “I’ll think about it.” Mamie turned away so Eddie wouldn’t see her blush, but he caught her reflection in the dining room mirror over the server. When she looked up, her eyes met his. “Don’t you have a beat to walk?”

  “I’m on my break.”

  “How lucky for me.”

  “I’d say so.”

  Marie Cascario, a lean blonde, stood in the doorway with a tray of glassware observing the pair. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No, no,” Eddie and Mamie chimed in unison.

  “It sure looks like it. And it’s about time.”

  “I’ll take those.” Eddie took the tray from her.

  “Good. Because I’m boiling penne in there.” Marie turned to go, but not without taking one last look at Mamie and Eddie, and shaking her head.

  “Minna thought you’d be a nice boyfriend for me,” Mamie said as she placed the napkins.

  “What do you think?”

  “I like the idea of a man who can fix a furnace. I almost blew up Chestnut Street last winter when I lit the pilot light.”

  “So, you need a man around to fix things?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I can give you the number for the plumber.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you ever think about me?” Eddie asked as he set the wine glasses on the table.

  “As much as you think about me.”

  “Then you’re giving me some serious thought, Mamie. I’d like to take you and Augie to the Saint Rocco Feast.”

  “We’d like that.”

  The ladies of the sodality gathered in the doorway. “We’re ready to serve the meal, you know that’s why we came here.” Marie Cascario stood with her arms folded. “The girls have everything ready.”

  “Great. Call the family in.”

  “Are we doing this with a butler this time?” Marie crooked her head to indicate Eddie.

  “No
, I’m on my way, ladies.” Eddie waved on his way out.

  “Just checking,” Marie said, annoyed.

  Eddie left the dining room and went out the kitchen door through the garden.

  “I think he’s the most handsome man I ever saw,” Grace Delgrosso said longingly. She was seventy-seven years old and still had the muscle tone in her thighs to pump the pipe organ at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. “If I was twenty-five again, I’d set my cap for him.”

  “You would?” Mamie smiled.

  “I’d take him on a hayride that would never end.”

  As the Viglione family filed into the dining room, the ladies served them their sympathy dinner. The tradition of the sympathy dinner, which their mothers had brought from Roseto Valfortore, was one that made them feel useful in times of loss. They remained in the kitchen as the family ate their meal, taking turns serving the guests. After dessert and coffee, the women lined up in the kitchen, as the family came through to thank them for preparing the feast.

  Then, without fanfare, the ladies packed up the pots, pans, and ceramic dishes to take them home. The glasses were placed back in the basket unwashed. The dishes at the table were stacked, the silverware rolled inside a cloth napkin. Mamie set the centerpiece of roses aside and took the damask tablecloth, tied it around her waist, and knotted it with a large white bow. The ladies helped her load the pouch with the dishes and cutlery.

  Marie Cascario placed the fresh roses in the center of the empty dining room table and turned off the chandelier.

  They picked up their empty pans and formed a line, as they had when they entered the house. Led by Mamie, they left Minna’s home and, faithful to their tradition, did not disturb the household by washing the dishes before leaving; they carried them away so the family might rest before the funeral the next morning. There was not a crumb, a splash of gravy, or a lone olive on the kitchen counter. They left the house as they had found it: tidy and clean. They left it as Minna would have liked, in honor of her, in her memory.

  Act III

  Can we outrun the heavens?

  —Henry VI, Part 2