Despite Mr. Capello’s reservations, and with the help of his wife’s deft coaxing, Nick and Shan accepted the job offers from Max Trevino. Or, in Nick’s case, at least arranged by Max. Initially Nick wasn’t elated over being a delivery boy for the drugstore below the club, far less glamorous work than Shan’s comedic shows. But it did get Nick’s foot in the door and also appeased his father with steady wages.
Thus, while Nick ran medications around town, Shan presented his acts at the Royal three times a week. Twice, he even performed with George Cohan himself—who thankfully didn’t recognize him from the alley—and once with the legendary Billy Murray. Even Steve Porter came through on occasion. With events so surreal, part of Shan always feared the gig wouldn’t last.
And it didn’t.
At the tail end of that first summer, Mrs. Capello came to watch, having enjoyed the show a couple of times before. Already disconcerted by the brazen atmosphere influencing a boy his age, she was hardly pleased to discover a fan waiting in Shan’s dressing room.
This alone might not have been detrimental if the teenage girl had been wearing a stitch of clothing. The awkward incident, combined with Mr. Capello’s distrust of men like Max, brought Shan’s stint at the club to a decisive end.
Shan’s disappointment, however, was short-lived, as he had learned what to prize in life. Thereafter he earned money from random jobs: yard work or errands or painting fences for neighbors. And he joined Mr. Capello on plumbing appointments when an extra hand was needed—occasionally those “appointments” being secret jaunts to the tracks.
In short, Shanley Keagan—as Tommy Capello—became just another wop kid in Brooklyn, with few ties to his true past.
Never returning to the naval office, he chose to forever abandon his photo of John Lewis, along with delusions of a worthwhile search. When Nick amazed Shan by rescuing his satchels from the Cohan Theatre, Shan kept the sixpence and books but discarded the sailor’s letter. Why save it when he’d already found his place in a real and loving family?
Although Mr. Capello wasn’t the most affectionate sort, and remained unbending on a variety of topics, his care lay closer to the surface than that of many Italian fathers, whose quick tempers Shan was just fine to do without. In turn, while not inherently a baseball fan, Shan learned to enjoy the game that brought the man such joy, particularly since Nick had no interest. Shan even surprised Mr. Capello now and again with game tickets at Yankee Stadium. In the stands, the man would rattle off predictions before every batter’s turn and always follow with praise or critiques. Once, when a pitcher threw a beanball too close to Ping Bodie’s head, Shan had to all but hold Mr. Capello back from charging the field.
Mrs. Capello, on the other hand, was quieter about her passions. The great pride she divided among her faith, cooking, home, and gardening went without question. As did the fact that each of them provided her little value without relation to her family. Shan wound up spending many weekends helping her in the community garden. He’d originally viewed his main role as being the puller of the wagon, toting all the fruit and vegetables she had picked for the week. But listening to her speak about plants she’d grown, here and in Italy—also sprouting other tales from her old country—was in truth his greater contribution.
For Nick, Shan was also a listener. The topics typically centered on the latest pretty girl or his big ideas for the future, his fears of failing often belying his words. But mostly Nick liked to play cards. This was how Shan came to learn strategies in canasta, bridge, pinochle, gin rummy, and at least a dozen versions of poker. In between rounds, while Nick shuffled the deck, Shan would toss out jokes he borrowed or created, and together they would laugh until the late hours of night—often when Mrs. Capello would appear, groggily ordering them to bed. On weekends, he and Nick would also find entertainment watching vaudeville acts on Broadway or silent pictures at a movie palace.
As for Lina—now, she was different. For she was an observer like Shan. She would gather what she saw in journals, telling stories through a sketch or a poem, a quote she overheard or a detail missed by most. Like the way a grizzled man at a diner would straighten all of his silverware before eating his meal, or how one button on the coat of a woman at the market didn’t match the rest. As a collector of tales, she gradually made her way through all of Shan’s books, which he would share and discuss with pleasure.
The rest of Shan’s time was spent in school, mindful of good marks and keeping his nose clean. Nick would razz him at times, calling him “St. Thomas” for steering clear of smoking and booze, both being indulgences Nick came to relish—largely for the thrill of sneaking them. But for Shan, it wasn’t a question of morality as much as an aversion to sharing his uncle’s fate.
Perhaps this haunting possibility was the reason Shan never felt fully settled. Even now, a sophomore in high school, he kept his friendships at a distance. The same applied to courtships, all of them brief. Since many of the girls’ families attended the same church as the Capellos, at times this created an awkward Mass, though never to the level faced by Nick.
On one particular Sunday, three girls from the congregation discovered Nick was secretly dating them at the same time. You could feel their glares, as sharp as saws, cutting across the pews. It was a miracle, Lina had said, that they refrained from throwing their communion wine right at his face. Unfortunately, not everyone who felt wronged by Nick Capello showed that much restraint.
Today was one of those cases.
Shan realized it now as he emerged from the Capellos’ house, headed for the library. Scowls from the two guys waiting outside made it clear they hadn’t come to discuss the unusually nice March weather.
“I got no gripe with you,” the brawny one said, “but I’m gonna teach your brother not to try and steal another guy’s girl.”
Before Shan could reason with him, Nick strolled up with a casual smile. “Can I help you, fellas?”
There was no discussion after that. The brawny guy pounced on him with jabs and right hooks. In contrast to the night Shan and Nick had met on the ship, this time Shan didn’t think twice about jumping to Nick’s defense. Predictably, the brawny guy’s pal joined in, and the battle was on.
This wasn’t Shan and Nick’s first brawl as a team. Fights for any boys were inevitable, but especially in Brooklyn. The conflicts would start with insults, name-calling being the most convenient: Polacks, dagos, micks, kikes. If given the chance, Shan still preferred to walk away. But the same couldn’t be said of Nick. Not that either of them had the option right then, when fending off a vengeful boyfriend and his crony.
In essence it resulted in a draw, though no one would have known from seeing Nick and Shan afterward, with their bruised jaws, split lips, and swollen eyes. Back in the house, Mrs. Capello told Lina to fetch rags and iodine, bandages and clean shirts, trying desperately to contain the damage before her husband came home from work.
But they could only do so much.
At the dinner table, Mr. Capello’s glower shrank Nick and Shan down to the size of toddlers. Fittingly so, since Mr. Capello viewed their behavior as reflective of two-year-olds. His wife’s attempts to help, emphasizing that the other boys had started the fight, went unheard.
The supper lasted an eternity. In place of talking, they all drank more wine, Shan included. He had acquired the taste for it as an accompaniment to meals and was especially glad for it just then.
Eventually the trill of the telephone sliced through the room. Mr. Capello rose to answer, as he always did, bringing a dash of relief to the table. When the ringing halted, Shan could hear the man’s greeting, then a lag of quiet.
“I see,” Mr. Capello said repeatedly between pauses. His tone grew more clipped with each, and finally: “How long is this happening?”
Based on a single side of the conversation, it seemed a rare case of an unhappy customer. Such a thing would only worsen the mood. The family passed worried looks around, much as they would a bread basket.
Then Mr. Capello said, “This is for how many classes?”
Therein the topic became clear. Nick clutched the linen napkin on his lap.
“Yes, I understand,” Mr. Capello said. “I will speak to my son. Thank you, Mr. Gelow, for calling.”
The moment was inevitable, yet the ruse had gone without consequence for so long, Shan had started to believe, or at least to hope, otherwise.
With impossibly slow steps Mr. Capello returned to his seat. Audible exhales through his nose indicated plenty of words were mounting inside.
“Mama. Lina.” He did not look up from the table. “Leave us.”
His wife hesitated. But after a moment, she stood and quietly ushered her daughter up the stairs.
There had been plenty of lectures over the years at this table, occasionally directed at Shan or Lina, but mostly at Nick for his various antics: whether arriving late for supper, violating curfew, or ignoring his mother’s requests for tidying one thing or another. Still, never had those reprimands involved anyone leaving the area.
Mr. Capello finally lifted his eyes, his voice tight and measured. “The principal says my son Nick Capello has been missing many days of school. He says several of his marks are not passing, and now he might not graduate in June. I am thinking this is not possible, because I have seen the cards with my own eyes. And this would mean my son has been lying to me.”
“Pop, please,” Nick reasoned, “if you’ll just listen—”
“No! It is you who will listen.” Mr. Capello’s fists landed on the table’s edge, rattling the dishware. His gaze cut to Shan. “Did you know this? You will tell me the truth.”
Shan tensed under the question. Yes, he had known. For the classes in which Nick wasn’t able to sufficiently charm his teachers, the guy had honed the craft of altering his grades—with a razor blade, eraser, and pen—into ones that would satisfy his parents, preventing a lecture just like this.
But before Shan could voice the admission, Nick interjected. “He didn’t know, Pop. All right? I did it on my own. Either way, I don’t see the big issue.”
The attention shifted from Shan, yet there was no cause for ease. Nick’s flippancy widened Mr. Capello’s eyes. “And you think lying to your father, this is not a big issue?”
“No—I just—I meant about school.” Nick stumbled through his point, his own frustration growing, and not just from today. “Friends of mine quit a long time ago. They’re making money for their families, same as me. Only difference is I’m doing both. Hell, I’m eighteen years old, but you still treat me like a kid, with curfews and even makin’ my damn bed.”
It seemed once the words flowed out, he couldn’t dam the rest. “The teachers ain’t no different. They act like we’re in grade school. And what do they teach? Latin and chemistry. It’s nothin’ I’m gonna use. Truth is, the only reason I’m there is because Ma has some ridiculous idea it’s important, even though it don’t amount to a hill of beans in the real—”
“Enough!” Mr. Capello shot to his feet and swiped his hand at a wineglass. It flew across the room and shattered against a wall.
Shan scrambled to stand, as did Nick, who knocked over his chair.
“Benicio,” Mrs. Capello urged, suddenly in the room. The word bordered on a plea.
But Mr. Capello gave no acknowledgment. He continued to stare at Nick, seething. Wine dripped red streaks down the cream wallpaper. When he spoke, his voice took the form of a deep rasp, a struggle to rein in his anger.
“You will not speak this way under my roof. You think you are too grown to be here? Too old for rules? That because you earn pay, you have a right to disrespect your parents? Maybe, then, it is time to see how a real man lives—on your own.”
Shan caught the startled look in Nick’s eyes and, more than that, the hurt. But Nick quickly concealed both. Through tightened lips he replied, “I’ll get my stuff.”
Nick had barely turned for his room when his father said, “Oh? And what stuff here do you own?”
In Mrs. Capello’s face was an impulse to intercede, tamped by awareness that it wasn’t her place.
Nick laughed darkly under his breath. “You’re right. Keep it all.”
“Niccolò, no,” Mrs. Capello said. She stepped toward him with tears welling. Yet without a glance, he stormed from the house.
Seconds later, Lina scurried in, her gaze bouncing between her father and the open door. “He’s coming back, isn’t he? Papa? Isn’t he?”
There was no answer.
Shan couldn’t stand by without at least trying to help. “I’ll talk to him,” he told Lina, an assurance also for her mother. He started for the door, but Mr. Capello gripped his arm. The redness in the man’s features began to slip away, replaced by a shadow of sadness.
“Let him go,” he said.
“But Nick was just angry. I’m sure he didn’t mean—”
“Tommy. No.”
Shan had long grown accustomed to the name, from schoolmates and teachers and others who knew him as nothing else. He’d accepted it as a moniker of sorts, never truly feeling he had taken someone’s place.
Until that moment.
21
Aslew of bitter words, a handful of minutes, and the Capello family was never the same. Three years had passed since Nick had moved out, first living with a friend, then later on his own. But even now, seated off in a corner of the sitting room, Shan could see the wine stain on the dining room wall. Faded from scrubbing and time, it resembled a scar left from a wound that might never heal.
“Save me.”
The words snapped him back to the present as Lina slid into the chair beside him.
“It’s absolutely maddening. That woman just won’t give up.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mrs. Sarentino. Who else?”
Shan twisted around and spied Mrs. Capello. Amid the mingling crowd, she listened to her friend rattle away.
Lina flicked Shan’s knee, almost knocking over his plate of cake. “Don’t look or he’ll come over here.”
But Shan kept looking until locating “him.” For a celebration of Lina’s sixteenth birthday, Mrs. Sarentino had brought a special gift: her gangly son, whose thick glasses were as prominent as his overbite.
“C’mon, he’s not that bad.” Shan returned to Lina, trying not to smile. “You know, one of these days he could inherit his father’s whole bowling alley.”
“I don’t care if he inherited Woolworth’s. His mother is pazzo.”
It wasn’t difficult to see why any mother, sane or not, would aspire to pair her son with Angelina Capello. Her features, which had once been sweet and dainty, had gained her mother’s elegance. The full lips, the defined cheekbones, the sleek black hair worn in finger waves down to her shoulders. Recently her figure, too, had grown more womanly, though part of Shan felt odd even noticing the change.
Lina went on, “Can you believe she actually complimented me on the width of my hips?”
Shan nearly stammered. “Your hips?”
Lina arched a brow. “For giving birth.”
“Ahh, right,” he said. “Well, that’s understandable. They are pretty wide.”
Lina’s mouth dropped open. When Shan laughed, she shoved him in the chest, her smile barely suppressed. “Eat your dumb cake.”
Her tone indicated a desire to stuff the piece into his face. And she likely would have if not for the need for propriety among their parents’ friends. It was a typical festive gathering, abundant with food, wine, and kisses on cheeks. A guest’s mandolin was leaned up against the davenport, awaiting a performance later in the night. “Tommy, a song,” someone would call out, and he would indulge them with a repertoire of silly tunes and Italian folk favorites. But for now, the ladies would talk about recipes or gardening and the neighborhood’s latest gossip. The men would speak of President Wilson and baseball and Mussolini’s impact on Italy. And always there were stories. In that way, the Irish were no different.
The men listening to the tale laughed heartily. They appeared oblivious to the glances Mr. Capello kept aiming at the front door.
Shan knew those looks well. They occurred during Sunday suppers when Nick neglected to join them, which was most Sundays now. It had taken Shan several months after the familial rift to persuade Nick to visit. The initial reunion made for a strained meal, in no way aided by the perfunctory nature of Nick’s apology. But over time the family’s interactions progressed from civil to pleasant. In fact, given Nick’s extensive work hours, Mr. Capello didn’t even demand anymore that he attend church with the family, despite Mrs. Capello’s wishes to the contrary. Nor did he blow a gasket when Nick could stay only an hour for Thanksgiving dinner a week ago.
The extent of such latitude, however, had its limits. This much was clear from the current agitation in Mr. Capello’s eyes; his son’s absence from the party was not as easily dismissed.
“Any word from Nick?” Lina suddenly asked. She, too, must have noticed her father’s displeasure. But then, she was always good at observations.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon. I know he planned to come.”
She nodded and put on a smile bright enough to fool others.
“Oh, hey—I’ve got a little something for you.” Shan reached over and grabbed the gift from the end table, a small distraction. He had kept it separate from her other presents piled on the coffee table, not wanting to miss when she opened it. “I was going to wait for the excitement to die down, but that might be a while.”
“You know you didn’t have to.”
He shrugged. “It’s just to hold you over, until you publish your own someday.”
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