Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  10

  Three Years Later

  December 21, 1952

  New York City

  There wasn’t a star to be seen over Queens as night fell. The sky was peppered with charcoal-colored clouds as Nicky Castone drove his cab onto the lot of the Woodside Taxi Company to park after his shift. The air had the scent of an oncoming snowfall. Nicky flicked his cigarette out the open window before rolling it up. He grabbed the fare envelope filled with cash and got out of the car.

  Strands of red, green, and navy-blue Roma Christmas lights swung haphazardly over the fleet of bright yellow cabs as he dropped the keys into the can outside the dispatcher’s hut. He slipped the envelope of cash through the deposit slot of the entrance door, which was crisscrossed with silver tinsel. Nobody ever accused hacks and grease jockeys of having an eye for holiday decorating, and if they saw the hut, they still wouldn’t.

  Nicky waved to the attendant inside on his way off the lot. He pulled on his gloves as he passed the familiar storefronts on his way to the train station. The shop windows were fogged from a combination of steam heat and holiday crowds clustered inside at the cash registers. Bells jingled on the doors as customers exited with their packages. Christmas music poured out of speakers attached to the roof of the toy store. Only the rumble of the subway train on the elevated tracks overhead, its wheels heavy with a cargo of standing-room-only passengers, interrupted the Christmas din.

  A flurry of snowflakes began to swirl around Nicky as he trudged up the steps to catch the train back into Manhattan. He groaned at the possibility of a white Christmas. The Woodside mechanics had already installed chains on the cab tires, so no matter what happened weatherwise, he was set.

  Nicky squeezed on to the hot, crowded train car and grabbed the pole as it pulled out of the Woodside station and jerked onto the tracks over the expressway. He looked out the window and took in Manhattan’s skyline, which looked like a stack of blue velvet jewelry boxes sprinkled with pearl dust. Snow or not, the twinkling city at nightfall always gave him a lift and filled him with a sense of his own potential, even though his big dreams had not panned out as he had hoped.

  When Nicky got off the train, he was in no hurry, so he stepped aside and allowed the rush-hour throng to flow past him like the rushing waters of a mighty river. He imagined their lives, husbands on their way home from work, stopping for milk before dashing home to their wives and apartments filled with children. The guys at the cab company reminded him he was lucky to be free, but Nicky knew luck had nothing to do with it.

  Nicky stopped at the deli on the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street and Third Avenue and bought a turkey sandwich on a roll with two dill pickles on the side, one serving of rice pudding, and a cup of hot coffee. As he walked home, the pockets of his trousers were heavy with quarters, his own version of Christmas jingle. Holiday shoppers were always good for tips. There was probably fifteen bucks’ worth of coins that day, two shifts straight on the streets of Manhattan. He had earned every dime; this hack was beat.

  Nicky went down the steps to his building and pushed through the common door. He stopped at his mailbox and flipped the brass plate. Finding his box full of envelopes, he stuffed the mail into his coat pocket before heading downstairs to his basement apartment.

  “Surprise!” His neighbors, the Silverbergs, a young married couple who lived on the second floor, and the bachelor Ralph Stampone, a handsome bon vivant who lived on the first, stood next to Nicky’s dining table, decorated with a birthday cake and a bottle of wine alongside paper cups, plates, and napkins printed with balloons and stars.

  “What would I do without my neighbors?” Nicky gave Mary Silverberg a kiss on the cheek and shook Mark’s hand and then Ralph’s. “I’d be a forgotten man.”

  Nicky placed the sack from the deli in the refrigerator. The studio apartment was painted almond white, the same color used in the garbage room of the building, but a shade warmer than the odd pale green used on the walls in the hallways. There was a table with four chairs near the efficiency kitchen. A twin bed was made neatly under the only window in the apartment, which had a view of the sidewalk. As he lay in bed, Nicky could see people’s feet as they walked by. He had almost become an expert in guessing the whole of passersby based upon their footwear and gait. All the art was outside the window, as there were no paintings or photographs on display in the apartment, no hi-fi or record collection either. However, there were books from the Twenty-Eighth Street branch of the New York Public Library. Lots of them.

  Nicky flipped on the radio to underscore the surprise party. “I’m glad you let yourselves in, and made yourselves at home.”

  “You really should lock your door,” Ralph said, looking around, “though there’s nothing in here to steal.”

  “This is a bachelor apartment,” Mary reminded him. “Very few frills.”

  “It’s a prison cell. I’m a bachelor, and I have furniture. A sofa. Sconces. And lamps with shades.” Ralph eyed the studio, imagining what he could do to make it presentable. “It doesn’t take much to make a cinder-block room a home.”

  “I’ll get to it someday,” Nicky promised. “Or you will.”

  “That’s right. You’re a decorator,” Mark reminded Ralph, not that he had to. “To you, every room is a blank canvas. Including a prison cell.”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Nicky teased Mark defensively.

  “You know what I meant.” Mark chuckled.

  “In the world there are those who make beauty and those who appreciate it. You see a lowly medicine cabinet, and I see the hall of mirrors at Versailles. It’s all about the imagination,” Ralph mused.

  Nicky clapped his hands. “Let’s have cake.”

  “Have you had dinner?” Ralph felt badly he hadn’t made a dip and brought crackers. He looked at Mary, who made a face.

  “I’ve got a sandwich.”

  “How were the streets today?” Mark uncorked the wine.

  Nicky emptied his pockets into his can of change. “Passengers were generous. Stop lights were long. Green lights were brief. And I squeezed my share of lemons.”

  “There’s a color scheme for you.”

  “Those are the last three colors I want to see when I come home,” Nicky assured Mark.

  “Why don’t you get another job?” Ralph suggested. “You’re a capable person.”

  “I know how to drive.”

  “So do I, but I don’t do it for money.”

  “Maybe he likes to drive,” Mary defended Nicky gently.

  “It’s a terrible job,” Ralph insisted. “Surly people. Crowds. Traffic jams. I don’t know how you don’t go crazy.”

  “My mind is elsewhere.”

  “Daydreaming.” Mary cut the cake.

  “A great philosopher, I don’t know who, or maybe it was a playwright, I don’t know who he was either—”

  “Mark, this may be the worst windup to a birthday toast I have ever heard.”

  “Sorry, honey, I can’t remember—anyway, whoever it was, he said that in your daydreams you will find your purpose.” Mark poured wine into paper cups.

  “If that’s true, I should be in a hut in Honolulu, sipping a Singapore Sling and eating wild boar off the bone roasted on a spit on the beach,” Ralph joked.

  Tropical drinks made Nicky think of Peachy DePino, which managed to make him feel even worse on his birthday.

  “How old are you, Nick?” Mary handed him a piece of cake.

  Ralph took a bite of his slice. “Must we go into the gory details?”

  “I didn’t ask you, I asked him.”

  “I am thirty-two years old.”

  “You’ve still got lots of time,” Mary assured him.

  “For what?” Nicky wanted to know.

  “To hit it big.” Mary toasted him.

  “Oh yeah. That’s why I’m here.” Nicky toasted his friends. “And that’s why you’re here: to remind me why I’m here.” The tap of the paper cups sounded as hollow as his birthday wish, so
this year, Nicky wouldn’t make one.

  * * *

  Nicky lay in bed, smoking a cigarette. Across the room, on the kitchen table, his birthday cake had been reduced to pink rubble on the gold cardboard doily. The scrape of the snow shovel on the sidewalk outside was getting on his nerves as the super pushed it back and forth in front of his window. Nicky could see Mr. Guarnieri’s pajama pants peeking out over his galoshes where his coveralls fell short of the top of the boots. It gave Nicky no comfort that somebody in the world actually had a worse job than he did.

  Nicky figured he was destined to live underground for the rest of his life. He had lived in the basement on Montrose Street, and here he was again, subterranean, like a rusty pipe. The same was true of his career as a hack. Evidently he had a hard time breaking with tradition. He knew the streets of Manhattan and its five boroughs as well as he knew the grid of Philadelphia. Nicky Castone’s map of the world was anyplace he could take a fare on a meter.

  Nicky had propped his birthday cards on the windowsill, just as he had done in his room in South Philly. He reached up and pulled the two cards off the ledge. A large one, with a felt yellow, black, and white bumblebee on the front, read Cousin, You are the Bee’s Knees and opened to say Have the sweetest birthday! It was signed by every member of the family residing at 810 Montrose, including Dominic III, who had written Hi in black crayon. Nicky set it aside and picked up the other card, which had a foil cake on the front with a message in blue glitter: You Are Special. Inside, the poem read:

  You are special

  Don’t forget it

  Here’s your cake

  Come and get it!

  It was signed: Happy Birthday, Nicky. We miss you around here. Mrs. Mooney.

  Nicky didn’t pine for his old life, because after three years in New York, he was living the same life he had been living in South Philly, except in this incarnation, he was isolated, without a family, a fiancée, a night job at Borelli’s, or his old friendships to sustain him. When he was brutally honest with himself, he admitted that he had only lost ground in his move to New York City.

  What Nicky did have was a routine. He went to work, drove a cab, returned home, and counted his tips. If he saw a pretty girl on the street, he might smile at her, but wouldn’t pursue it beyond the pleasantry. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had turned his head. He thought about calling Mamie Confalone, but he had nothing to offer her. When he went deep blue in his mood, and loneliness gnawed at him with a toothless hunger, he considered moving to another place entirely or even returning to South Philly. He imagined what it would be like to get an apartment near Montrose Street and look into the windows of 810 instead of out of them. That didn’t sit well with him either, so he stayed put.

  Tomorrow, he’d make a change. Nicky wouldn’t wait for the new year (1953!) to start over, like every other crumb bum in the world—no, he would beat the crowd and start over fresh in the morning, resolute to crawl out of this hole and find the light. With a glimmer of hope, he put out the cigarette, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He leaned over the sink, looked in the mirror, and thought, Everything must change.

  * * *

  Calla sat in the costume shop, trying to decide if she should call Nicky Castone on his birthday. It had been ages since he’d left in a huff after kissing her good-bye without asking for her permission. She hadn’t seen him since. But she had seen Jo Palazzini at novena, and Jo had told her that Nicky was going through a rough time, which made Calla think about her old friend. If Calla Borelli was anything, she was loyal.

  In between the arduous tasks of sewing beads onto the bodice of Norma’s gown and stitching the hem, she would stick the needle into the tomato pincushion, pick up the phone, place it on the worktable, and spin the dial without picking up the receiver to make the call. Buying time, she poked her finger into the hole of number 1 and spun it, and then 2, worked her way down to 0, which purred around the entire dial until it clicked to a stop. After an evening of vacillating, it was time to go home. Calla picked up the telephone to return it to the desk, looked at the clock, and realized very little time was left of Nicky’s birthday. If she was going to call him, the moment was now. She closed her eyes and imagined him out on the town, in a crowded bar, surrounded by fellow actors, the air filled with smoke and music. Nicky was being toasted and celebrated. The realization that Nicky wouldn’t be home to pick up the phone made her dial the number. Her Catholic conscience would be assuaged in the morning knowing she had made the effort. Calla dialed Nicky’s number, which Jo Palazzini had scrawled on the back of the church bulletin.

  The phone rang in Nicky’s apartment. She was stunned when he answered.

  “Happy birthday, Nick.”

  “Who is this?”

  Calla’s heart sank: he hadn’t recognized her voice. So, she spoke deliberately and loudly. “It’s Calla. Calla Borelli from South Philly.”

  Nicky sat down at his kitchen table. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s me.”

  “You remembered?”

  “I ran into your aunt. She gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.” Calla’s face flushed. Maybe he wasn’t alone. This call was a colossal mistake.

  “Sure, sure.” Nicky pressed the receiver to his ear so he wouldn’t miss anything she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing just fine. Is this a bad time?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Well, I won’t keep you,” she said.

  “I’ve got some time. How’s the theater?”

  “Very busy.”

  “What play are you doing?”

  “A Winter’s Tale.”

  “Good one.”

  “For this time of year. I’m putting snowflake-shaped sequins on Norma’s gown.”

  “She’ll sparkle.”

  “Always does. How about you? How are you doing?”

  “I love this city.” Nicky picked up a plastic party knife, lifted a section of the frosting border off what was left of his birthday cake, and spackled it to the cardboard plate. “So much to do. I’m hardly home.”

  “Do you see a lot of plays?”

  “I try. On my end, I’m still trying to break in. So much acting work here. Union work. It’s all good, all promising.”

  “Do you get back to Philly much?” Calla hadn’t asked Jo Palazzini about Nicky’s visits. She didn’t want to know. He hadn’t been back to the theater to see his old friends or take in one of their productions. She assumed he had outgrown Borelli’s and his old friends, especially her. “I know you’re busy.”

  “I haven’t been home.” Nicky hadn’t been back to Philadelphia to visit since he moved to New York City. He’d vowed he wouldn’t return until he had gotten a part in a play. “My cousins came up here to see me. That was nice. We went to Lüchow’s.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Calla said.

  “It’s an institution. I don’t have time to leave the city, really. Got my eye on a couple of agents.”

  “That’s terrific.” Calla remembered when her father signed with an agent. Nothing much had come of it, but Sam had high hopes at the time. “You need a representative.”

  “Yeah. And I try to pick up extra shifts when I can. It gives me free days to go to open calls.”

  “Shifts?”

  “Yeah. I drive a cab to pay the rent.”

  “Well, you’re good at it. And you have the livery license. Might as well use it.”

  “I meet some characters. Sometimes I hit the jackpot. A couple weeks ago, Kitty Kallen got in the cab. The best girl singer around, I think.”

  “I agree. She’s very special.”

  “And a looker, too. Black hair. Like yours. And she wears English Lavender, like my cousin Elsa.”

  “Maybe you’ll come home for Christmas?”

  “Can’t make it this year.” Nicky winced as soon as he said it. The idea of being home with his family was a tonic to him, but
he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face the Palazzinis, their hopes for him higher than his own for himself. If he went, they’d try to lure him back to Montrose Street. They had spent most of the dinner at Lüchow’s begging him to come back to South Philly, but Nicky wasn’t about to give up. He was as stubborn as he was talented.

  “That’s too bad. We’re having a big cast party on December twenty-third. Everybody asks about you.”

  “They do?”

  “The acting company holds you up as the gold standard. You broke out of Philly and made it to Broadway.”

  “I only drive on a street marked Broadway. I haven’t acted on Broadway yet.”

  “You’re close.”

  “I’ll get there.”

  “I know you will. It just takes the right director to cast you in the right role.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement, Calla.”

  “Everybody can use a little of that.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Nicky laughed.

  “I’d better get going. I have to finish my work.”

  “But it’s late.”

  “I don’t mind the hours.”

  Calla hung up the phone after saying good-bye. She would sleep that night, soundly and deeply, having heard Nicky’s voice and knowing he was all right.

  Nicky would not have restful slumber on the night of his thirty-second birthday. He would hear every footstep on the sidewalk as it crunched overhead on the snow and ice. He’d hear every siren and car horn and the clank of every dumpster on every garbage truck, blaming the city for his insomnia. The birthday cake hadn’t sat well on his stomach. The red wine had given him a slight headache. Nicky would blame everything but the truth for his inability to surrender to a peaceful night’s sleep: he needed a friend. He had not kept the close counsel of a trusted confidante since he left Philly. Sure he had made friends, but in the process he had revealed very little of himself to them. Like so many young men and career girls who moved to the city, he was struggling to survive and pursue the work he had relocated to do with equal focus. Time was passing and he wasn’t moving forward. It pained Nicky to look into the future. Nicky had so much more to say to Calla Borelli. He would have liked to ask her advice, but he was ashamed he hadn’t made it, landed that role, or hit the boards. Instead, he had done everything he could to avoid telling her what his life was really like in the most important city in the world, where he felt like the least significant person in it.