Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “It’s a knockout.” Nicky held the bottle like a treasure.

  “The label is something else. I had an artist render the canal and the gondola. That’s the real Villa Hortensia right there on the label. I think Minna would like it.”

  “Why wouldn’t she? It’s Italian.” Nicky smiled.

  “Do you ever think you’ll come home to visit?”

  Nicky was glad it was dark out, so Hortense wouldn’t see his face flush with shame. “I have such a crazy schedule.”

  “I know. But it would mean a lot to your aunt. You’re one of her own, and you’re the only bird that ever flew out of that nest. I think it traumatized her.”

  “They come up for the show. We have dinner.”

  “It’s not the same. She wants to do for you. She wants to make the bed for you and do your wash. Press your handkerchiefs. Cook a good meal. Have the whole family around the table telling stories until it’s too late to do anything but go to sleep. That’s the only gift you can give that lady. The gift of you.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Mooney.”

  “I know you will.”

  A group of middle-aged women in hats and gloves tiptoed up behind Nicky. “Mr. Carl?”

  Nicky turned to them, smiling warmly. “Yes?”

  “We’re your biggest fans!” the ladies shrieked.

  Hortense laughed.

  “Could we trouble you for an autograph?”

  “We never miss Love of Life!”

  The women began to snap open their purses to fish out pens and scraps of paper. They spoke over one another, in harmony lines of commentary about Love of Life, characters they liked, others they didn’t, and was Artie the cabdriver going to end up with Alice the nurse? Nicky tucked the jar of tomato sauce under his arm as he signed his name. His most ardent fan, a cheerful woman who was built like a packing box and dressed in a beige wool suit, pulled Nicky close and kissed him on the cheek.

  Nicky turned to Hortense and winked. “Don’t wait for me, Mrs. Mooney.”

  “All right. I know this thing has a meter.” Hortense nodded as the driver opened the door on the town car for her.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Nicky said as he handed the pen to one of the fans. He went to Hortense and embraced her. Hortense hugged him for a long time, realizing she had never, in all the years of knowing Nicky, ever taken him in her arms since he was a boy. She made up for all the years in that moment by holding him closely and tightly.

  Hortense gave Nicky back to his fans and slipped into the car. The driver closed the door behind her. She rolled down the window, wanting to say something more to Nicky, but the gaggle had consumed him once more. There is no fame like the fame that comes from being on the television set. When you appear in someone’s home, you belong to them.

  As the car pulled away, Hortense turned to look back at Nicky.

  “Do you need to go back?” the driver asked her.

  “No sir.”

  “You looked like you forgot something.”

  “I didn’t forget. But it can wait.”

  “You can always call him,” the driver offered.

  “Or I could send him a telegram.”

  “Do people still send telegrams?” The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. All Hortense could do was smile.

  As the town car pulled into traffic, Hortense removed her gloves and hat and placed them on the seat. She smoothed her hair and opened her purse, removing her handkerchief, a gift from Jo Palazzini. In the corner, Jo had embroidered “HM” in glorious purple whipstitches in honor of her retirement. Hortense saved this handkerchief for church and special occasions. Tonight had been a very special occasion.

  As Hortense’s eyes filled with tears, she dabbed them with the handkerchief. What she wanted to tell Nicky could wait, because it would always be true, because it always had been true.

  Hortense Mooney loved Nicky Castone as though he were her own son. It’s not that he had replaced the one she lost, but the time she spent with Nicky had made the loss of her own son bearable. She wanted him to know that he had healed her.

  And, like all good mothers, Hortense had prayed for Nicky’s happiness more than her own. She could see that he had finally found the thing he loved to do, and he was happy. It filled her heart to bursting.

  * * *

  Nicky walked back to his apartment, carrying Mrs. Mooney’s jar of spaghetti sauce. He moved through the revolving door, past the white-gloved doorman, and took the brass-trimmed elevator to the heavens, the twenty-first floor. He entered his apartment.

  Ralph Stampone had decorated it in black, white, and silver in the Art Deco style, sparing no expense. Every surface gleamed, reflecting the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bridges of the East River that Nicky had driven across daily as a cabdriver. He often shook his head in wonderment that his first home in the sky reminded him of his humble start.

  Nicky put the jar of sauce on the counter of his modern kitchen. It was outfitted with all the latest equipment, which he hardly used. Life as a bachelor was sad that way. He could make anything he desired in that kitchen but it was no fun eating alone. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket. He hung both in the closet, which was full of the latest shirts, ties, and suits from Bronzini’s, where all the men who worked in television shopped for their clothes. He rearranged the marble ashtray, the sculpture of gold-leafed Capri coral, and the small stack of velvet-covered Shakespeare plays that Ralph had artfully arranged on the black lacquer coffee table, before he picked up the phone.

  “Aunt Jo? Did I wake you?”

  “No, not at all. Are you all right?”

  Nicky chuckled to himself. If he wasn’t all right, the last person he would alarm was his aunt. “I’m fine. I was thinking of coming down this weekend.”

  “You mean it? Everyone would love to see you.”

  “If the family gets any bigger, you’ll have to move to another city.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It is. Now, listen, Auntie. Don’t fuss.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And don’t tell anybody.”

  She squealed in delight.

  Nicky hung up the phone. He went to the window and looked out over the city. He smiled to himself as he looked down and saw rows of yellow cabs cluttering the black streets. The cab, once his life, his job, and the way he moved through the world.

  He had a spectacular view. This cityscape was exactly what he had pictured in his dreams when he was living in the basement on the Lower East Side. But tonight, as it lay before him, dazzling in its sharp, black lines, frosted glass windows, and angled rooftops, even New York City wasn’t enough—or perhaps it had been plenty, and Nicky had simply had his fill. Whatever the case, the answers were no longer here, in the stacks of black buildings floating in the clouds high in the night sky or even on the streets below, where if a young man was lucky enough, he found himself a part of things.

  The secret of life, the joy of everything, lay elsewhere. There was little wonder in the way the moon rose behind the skyline and over the East River, as though it were a pearl loosed from a string of them. There was so much beauty, but it did not belong to him any longer.

  It was time to go home again.

  12

  Nicky drove through the familiar streets of his old neighborhood in South Philly in his custom Ford convertible, painted the color of a stick of Dentyne gum. It was fully loaded with whitewall tires, silver chrome enhancements, and a dove-gray leather interior. A car for a star.

  When Nicky turned on to Montrose Street, his heart sank. Aunt Jo had failed to tell him that there was a street fair blocking the house and garage. He squinted, trying to figure out how to navigate through the throng.

  But it wasn’t a street fair or a holiday. It wasn’t the anticipation of a parade going by, with neighbors standing on their porches awaiting the spectacle. These folks were waiting for something else entirely, someone else: Nick Carl, their own Nicky Ca
stone, who had left South Philly to seek his fortune and found it on the television set in New York City. Many had left South Philly to make it big, and some disappeared down the drain, but Nicky had put a stopper in it, filled the tub with gin, and was floating on top, with the rest of the winners from the neighborhood, including Buddy Greco, Gus Cifelli, and Al Martino.

  Nicky was embarrassed by the attention but also moved by it, as his family and neighbors turned out to welcome him home, waving small American flags. He felt overwhelmed as he drove his car at a crawl through the crowd. The familiar faces gathered around, reaching for him, whistling, applauding, and blowing kisses, as though it were Palm Sunday, he was you-know-who, the small American flags were green branches, and his Pontiac was a donkey.

  Aunt Jo stood on the steps of the porch of 810, her family behind her, the small army with which Nicky had locked steps all of his life. Of course she had not followed his instructions. Why would she? This celebration was as much about her love for her family as it was for Nicky, because when one Palazzini made it big, they all did.

  * * *

  Nicky parked his car outside the Borelli Theater in the same spot where he used to park his bike. He pushed the stage door open to find his fellow actors in costume, ready to perform the matinee. The company swarmed around him. He was the beacon, the Saint Malachy of this band of players, the one who made it out, made it to New York, survived, got cast in a television show, and was exalted in the art form, and no longer had to work two jobs in order to act in a show. He made his way through the house and out into the lobby, where Rosa DeNero was eating a doughnut in the ticket booth.

  “How’s the house?” Nicky asked her through the ticket window.

  Rosa dropped her doughnut. “Nick Carl.”

  “Just plain Nicky to you, Rosa.”

  “I cannot believe it.” She ran her fist delicately over her bottom lip to remove the powdered sugar.

  “It took a television soap opera for you to believe in me?”

  Rosa nodded in awe.

  “How many tickets have you sold?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “How’s the mez?”

  “I haven’t sold a seat up there this entire run.” She leaned close to Nicky through the glass. “The days are numbered here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everything is falling apart. Tax man came through. Or maybe it was a plumber. We’re not sure. All we know is that there’s no money to fix anything and no money coming in. It’s just too much for one woman to handle. That’s all I can say.”

  “Did you ever get that washing machine?”

  “I did. But now I’m saving up for the dryer.”

  “When one dream is realized, there is always another.”

  “Oh brother, that’s the truth.” Rosa went back to her doughnut.

  Nicky took the stairs down to the basement, where he found Hambone Mason standing on a stool as Calla mended the hem on his tunic.

  “Nick, old chum!” Hambone threw his arms around Nicky.

  “Hambone, old rum!” Nicky held his breath until Hambone released him from his grip. “You old gin hound,” he teased.

  “Only on show nights.” Hambone winked. “A little cheer keeps me clear. Can’t remember my lines without it.”

  “You’re good to go.” Calla patted Hambone on the back. He grabbed his ruff, snapping it around his neck as he climbed the stairs to the wings.

  Calla rolled the empty rack into the hallway. “Welcome back, Nick. Are you going to stay and watch the show?”

  “Evidently I have my choice of seats. Anywhere in the house.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You haven’t sold any.”

  “We’ve sold thirty-three seats.”

  “Big deal.”

  “It is to me.” Calla went back into the costume shop and began clearing the worktable.

  “You’re in over your head, Calla.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Simple arithmetic.”

  “Don’t you have an accountant who does that for you?” Calla queried. “Can you still do math?”

  “Can you?” Nicky shot back.

  “Let’s see. You took off for the big city, went on the television, began making big money, and who’s heard from you? Oh, there was that article in the paper that showed you in your new digs. Art Deco. All shiny. Leather couch. A big painting by some modern artist, and lamps that look like upside-down feet.”

  “Actually they’re modernist Italian.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They look like feet.”

  Nicky shook his finger at Calla. “There it is. The old bait and switch. You make all this about me and my deficiencies, so it’s not about the theater and how you’ve bungled this enterprise and driven it into the ground like those pipes they’re laying over on Wharton.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Calla plunged the needle into the pincushion.

  “The place is falling apart.”

  “I hope you didn’t drive in from New York to tell me that.” Calla grabbed her notes and went up the steps. “Because that was a waste of gas.”

  “War’s over. No more rations.”

  “It’s a waste of your time.” Calla grabbed a basket of props and went up the stairs.

  “I’m beginning to think so.” Nicky followed her. “I have my own problems, you know.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Look. I have enough to do, enough to worry about without a swell-headed television star coming in here and looking for sympathy for I-can’t-imagine-what. I am doing what I can do here. I was in the red when Dad was alive. And it’s only gotten worse. I got an offer on the building, and I turned it down. You see, for me it’s about keeping the theater going, the history, the legacy, the family line. It’s not about the money. If I wanted to be rich, there are ways.”

  “You could marry it.”

  “Aren’t you a modern man?”

  “I can be.”

  “Just not right now. Just not with me. Ever.”

  “You’re tough.”

  “Circumstances made me this way. If you must know, I’m trying to find someone to buy it who will let me rent it so we can continue our work.”

  “What work, Calla?”

  “The plays of Shakespeare. Performed in repertory. Year-round. With a permanent and professional company in residence.”

  “Reaching an audience of tens. Sometimes an audience in pairs.”

  “You can’t hurt my feelings by being rude.”

  “This is a business, you know.”

  “Oh, should we try and get sponsors? Like television? Lux soap? Lucky Strike cigarettes? American Steel?”

  “It’s worth exploring.” Nicky followed her through the theater.

  “Ugh. You’ve become a snob. The driver is now being driven.”

  “I’m going to ignore your jabs. You think you can continue to put out a product however you want, and just because you decide it’s good, the audience should show up just because you say so. That makes you the snob, Calla.”

  “I don’t have a fancy apartment decorated by some snooty guy named Ralph in the Sunday magazine of the Inquirer—”

  “It was syndicated by the AP!”

  “I don’t even know what that means, and I don’t care.”

  “Associated Press.”

  “It’s telling that you live on the twentieth floor.”

  “Twenty-first.”

  “High up in some glass building. Your feet haven’t touched the ground since you went on the television. You aren’t a real person anymore. You forgot the groundlings. I live among them. I am one! I create for them!”

  “You had your picture in the paper with the mayor.”

  “That was months ago.”

  “Still, you have a connection to the hoity-toity. Why don’t you ask Big Frank Arrigo to get in here and fix this place? He knows plaster guys a
nd marble people and Sheetrock installers.”

  “I don’t ask for favors.”

  “You should start.”

  “You too? What is it with you guys? If a woman isn’t needy, you can’t relate to her? What’s wrong with a woman who can run the show?”

  “Nothing, if she can actually run the show.”

  “You know what, Nicky? I don’t need this. I don’t need you coming around here, telling me what to do when you haven’t lifted one finger to help.”

  The cast clustered in the wings as Calla trudged across the stage and kicked open the stage door. The afternoon sun threw a bright beam of light across the dark stage. Nicky stood in it.

  “You can direct as well as anyone—any man. But you are not good at bringing in money. That’s a different skill. Your father didn’t have it, and neither do you.”

  The cast, stunned at Nicky’s barb, inhaled a collective breath. Their eyes turned to Calla, who they were certain would explode. Instead, Calla looked at Nicky. She put her hands in her pockets calmly.

  “Maybe he didn’t. And maybe I don’t. But we are devoted to our work. We stay here, we do our best, and we don’t give up. We believe that South Philly deserves a live theater that mounts the classics. We don’t run away, because there’s a certain nobility in serving people. I don’t expect you to understand this, because you’ve made other choices.”

  “Hold it right there, Calla,” Nicky protested.

  Calla held up her hand. “Instead of badgering me with questions, I have two for you. Who’s seen you? Who’s heard from you?” Calla pointed to Tony, Norma, Josie, and Hambone, who kept their eyes on the stage floor. “Has anyone?”

  Nicky looked over at his old friends, who would not look him in the eye. He had thought about calling Tony and having him come into the city to see the show and meet Gloria, but he hadn’t done it. He knew that Norma would have loved to participate in a weekend workshop at the Abbe Theater, but he had never sent her the flyer. Hambone would have enjoyed watching the soap, and Josie would’ve glided for months on one postcard of the Statue of Liberty with a message that read Hope you and Burt are well. But he hadn’t sent it. He hadn’t done any of those things. Thinking about them was not the same as doing them. He was a lousy friend.