The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  After a pause, Josie glanced toward the station. “Why don’t we go inside? Get a cup of joe at the Oyster Bar. Whaddya say?”

  Her tone achieved casualness, but her preference to sit for the conversation only heightened Shan’s apprehension. He gestured with his hat. “After you.”

  She led him through the station, neither of them speaking until they took their seats in the bustling restaurant. She’d requested a corner table with relative privacy. As soon as the waitress brought their coffees, Shan cut to the point.

  “Josie, if you know what’s brought me here, I wish you’d tell me. Lina wired about some emergency. But when I called—”

  “It was me,” Josie broke in. “The telegram. I sent it.”

  Shan sat back in his chair. Learning he’d been tricked made him even more wary.

  “I just didn’t know how else to get you to come. And Lina said it was okay to use her name—”

  “Well, I’m here. Now tell me why.”

  She took a sip of coffee, her crinkled chin conveying a desire for something stronger. Finally she looked him in the eye. “It’s Nick. I’m worried about him.”

  “Nick?”

  “He’s been in plenty of pickles before and always came out okay. But I really think he’s in over his head this time.”

  Shan’s resentment now felt justified. He had spent the entire train ride fretting over Mr. Capello’s finances and well-being, even considering problems that might have befallen Lina and her mother. Instead, the “emergency” referred to an inevitable bind for a guy with a penchant for playing loose with the law.

  As if reading the thought, Josie added, “Believe me, Tommy. He truly needs your help.”

  “And he told you that. Right?”

  She gave a helpless shrug. “This is Nicky we’re talkin’ about. You know he won’t ask for help from nobody.”

  “So why would he suddenly take it from me?”

  “Because,” she said, “you’re his brother.” Her reply was so matter-of-fact it seemed she’d forgotten what had split them all apart.

  Shan shifted his gaze away. A couple of kids seated across the room were laughing between bites of custard. The warmth in their interaction underscored how opposite Shan and Nick’s had been for years, even before their fallout.

  Josie leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m no dummy, all right? With you and the family, I’ve always known there’s more to it. That you were adopted or somethin’. But Nick cares about you. More than you know.”

  Her words, their undeniable sincerity, moved Shan unexpectedly. He felt the spark of old regrets, yet snuffed them out. While he couldn’t discount the many years he’d thought of Nick as family, the guy had made it clear that Shan no longer held that title.

  Besides, there was no guarantee Shan could help, assuming Nick allowed it. Who knew how deep a hole he’d dug for himself? If he and Max weren’t bootlegging anymore, no doubt they had found some other lucrative scheme, and Shan knew all too well how Nick treated warnings.

  “Let me guess. The feds finally caught up with him.”

  She smiled wanly. “I wish that was all.”

  Curiosity trumped Shan’s aversion to hearing more. “What, then?”

  Josie gripped her cup on the table and lowered her voice. “At the club, word has it, some of the guys were caught skimming off the top. And that Nick was one of ’em.”

  “Stealing from Max?” Shan caught the spike in his volume. “Nick wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. Times have been tough. The liquor’s still selling—all legit now. But the club’s been slower, and folks got a lot less to gamble. Shop owners, I imagine they’re hurtin’ too. That means less dough all around.”

  “So he got desperate,” Shan murmured. This, he hated to admit, was something he understood. “How much did he take?”

  “I tried to find out more. Went to his place when he didn’t come to work last week. Told him I was worried.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he was fine. Wouldn’t say nothin’ else. But then, I’m not one he’d confide in . . . ever since . . .” She let the reference dangle, not needing to expound. “All I can say is, he didn’t look good, Tommy. As long as I’ve known him, I never seen him like that.”

  “Does the rest of the family know?”

  “Just Lina. I told her all this, too. And she agreed you were the one to help.”

  Shan definitely didn’t share their enthusiasm. But at least they hadn’t burdened Nick’s parents yet, Mr. Capello in particular.

  “See, I was thinkin’,” she went on, “you could go and talk to Max. He’s always liked you a whole lot. I’m sure he’d listen, even work something out.”

  “Josie, I haven’t seen the guy in almost a decade.”

  “But you could try, though. You could do that, couldn’t ya?”

  Regardless of history, Shan dreaded to imagine the worst. He assured himself that Max was a businessman; given Nick’s long-standing relationship with him, surely the two would come to a sensible agreement.

  Shan wanted to say this, but the plea in Josie’s face impelled him to relent—as much as he was capable. “I’ll think about it.”

  After a pause, she nodded. Her expression dimmed from disappointment.

  Leaving his coffee untouched, Shan rose and tossed two dimes onto the table. “I’ve got to visit the rest of the family, seeing as they’re expecting me.”

  Thanks to Josie, as it turned out.

  “Of course,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

  He grabbed his suitcase, battling a rise of guilt, and walked away. Before leaving the station, he would buy a return ticket to Pittsburgh. One night here would be more than enough. The Capellos were good people, no question. They just weren’t a part of his world anymore, and he’d be wise not to forget that.

  36

  The welcome that waited at the Capellos’ didn’t meet Shan’s expectations.

  It far surpassed them.

  Mere seconds after he’d knocked, Lina swung the door open. The force of her embrace caused him to drop his suitcase. Before he could catch his breath, Mrs. Capello nudged her way in with a stern chiding.

  “What takes you so long to come home?” She held her fists on the hips of her apron, the joyous crinkles at her eyes betraying her. When Shan smiled, she cupped his face with ever-strong hands. Gray streaks through her bound hair attested to the passage of time.

  Mr. Capello approached the entry in silence. His hair, too, had silvered, and his cheeks and middle had slimmed. A few of the lost pounds appeared to have transferred to his wife, but both exuded a healthful glow.

  When Shan extended his hand, Mr. Capello ignored the offer. For the first time ever, he greeted Shan with a hug. It lasted but a moment, yet managed to weaken the defenses Shan had grown accustomed to upholding.

  Mrs. Capello ushered him inside. “Come, rest,” she said, closing the door. “Lina, help make lunch.”

  The two women—a description oddly befitting Lina now—headed for the kitchen. Not waiting for his wife’s orders, Mr. Capello swooped up the luggage and shuffled up the stairs. He appeared stronger than ever.

  Only then did Shan truly absorb his surroundings. The same davenport, sofa chair, and radio. Same dinner table and chairs. Yet it was the scents of meatballs and spices and simmering gravy that filled him with the greatest comfort. He’d forgotten just how much he had missed a home-cooked meal.

  There was one change, however, to the room. The wallpaper had been replaced with a fresh design of tiny flowers in misty green. The wine stain was gone. Same for the singes left from the fire.

  If a person didn’t know better, he would be hard-pressed to believe anything but happiness had ever filled this home.

  The afternoon passed with a feast of food and wine and words. At the table, Shan listened to Lina spill all the latest: who’d moved in and out of the area, which businesses had opened and closed, which teenage
children had been disowned over one transgression or another, from eloping in secret to working as a taxi dancer for ten cents a twirl.

  Mrs. Capello then spoke about the new variety of squash she’d planted, which apparently had earned a great deal of praise from other wives in the borough. She also described a recent date night with her husband at the Palace Theatre—among the last thriving stages for vaudevillians—as well as the latest films.

  Naturally, this led to a debate with Lina over the correct names of the titles and starring actors. To bring this to an end, Mr. Capello diverted to the subject of popular radio programs. Many comics were not only salvaging their careers this way but actually finding profound success.

  Mr. Capello proclaimed to Shan: “You should be on these shows.” As if it were that simple.

  “We’ll see, Pop. You never know.”

  Being a regular on the radio required laying down roots, an idea Shan had ruled out long ago. But here, now, sampling the comforts of a real home again, it seemed an option he just might consider.

  Reality was, his current gig couldn’t last forever. Politicians were cracking down on risqué entertainment, specifically Mayor LaGuardia. Plus the competition was growing fierce. While a nickel could buy a whole day of shows from the top balcony, skits on the airwaves came free of charge. And for those who could afford it, talkies were becoming the main draw.

  But those thoughts could wait, for he could sense far greater concerns from Lina, her anxiousness growing for a private talk.

  A neighbor came calling just then, bringing the meal to an end. Mr. Capello followed the man out to assist with a clogged drain. As Mrs. Capello cleared the dishes, Lina excused herself to help Shan settle.

  And here it came.

  Once they’d entered his bedroom—rather, the room that used to be his—she closed the door. “I’m guessing Josie told you everything,” she blurted in a hush.

  “She told me what she knew.”

  Lina waited for more, pressing him with those deep eyes of hers.

  He lowered onto the desk chair. “As I said to Josie, even if I’m able to help, I don’t know why you both think Nick would let me. Our relationship—it was bumpy even before.”

  Lina tsked, just like her mother. “That was stupid jealousy. It’d be different now.”

  “Jealousy?” He stared, incredulous.

  Yeah, there was a time he might have harbored some envy over aspects of Nick’s success. The luxuries of his lifestyle weren’t exactly shabby. But those hadn’t come until later.

  “Is that what you thought?” he said. Then it dawned on him: “Because if you all think I went to Josie’s that night to prove something, or to try to become more like him—”

  Lina cut him off with a groan. “Not you, silly. I’m saying Nick was jealous.”

  After the initial shock subsided, Shan laughed. “Over what?”

  Lina lifted her chin, taking this as a challenge. “Your grades, for one. Your diploma.” She counted off on her fingers. “Your closeness with Pop, even working together. Then there was your fancy job onstage. For crying out loud, you’d entertain all their friends at parties. And all that time, Nick wanted Pop’s approval more than anything. He finally thought he could get it by becoming some moneybags. Why do you think he went to work for Max in the first place?”

  The unexpected recap sent Shan’s mind reeling. Perhaps this was the real reason she and Josie had demanded he return, because they viewed him as the cause.

  He stood up, defenses revived. “I had nothing to do with Nick’s choices, and I still don’t. He always hated school. And he sure as hell never wanted to lay pipes for a living.”

  “I know, you’re right—”

  “As for the club, he’s the one who insisted we go there for a job, not me.”

  “Hold on a second. I never meant you were to blame.” She raised her hands in a calming motion. “Please, just listen.” She glanced at the door, reminding Shan they weren’t alone. He felt heat creeping into his face.

  He folded his arms and perched on the edge of the desk. Although he had plenty to add, he merely waited as Lina crossed the room.

  She sat on the foot of Nick’s old bed. Clasping her hands, she said, “Did my parents ever tell you about Tomasso?”

  Shan was taken aback. How could this possibly relate? Wary of the detour, he shrugged. “A bit. When I first got here.”

  “Did you know he was Pop’s favorite?”

  Shan had to admit, he’d always sensed a special adoration from both parents, understandable given the circumstances. But he shook his head regardless.

  “Parents will tell you they love their kids all the same. But even when I was a little girl, I knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t Pop’s fault. He and Tomasso just had a special bond. And it was even more that way after Tomasso got sick. That’s when Nick figured out that bad attention was better than none at all.”

  Lina closed her eyes, just for a moment, and continued. “One night over in Siena, after Tomasso died, Nick got out of bed to pray. He must have been eleven back then. He thought I was asleep, but I heard him crying. He told God he wasn’t truly glad Tomasso was gone, that he was just angry and sad when he’d said it, and he begged God for a second chance.”

  A memory rushed back to Shan. He’d been with the Capellos barely a few weeks when he and Nick discussed Tomasso’s passing. There was something Nick had held back, and now Shan knew what it was.

  “Don’t you see?” Lina met his eyes. “When you showed up out of nowhere, needing a home and a family, even a name—you were his second chance. But then you and Pop got really close. Going on outings together, talking about baseball all the time. And the way you made him laugh . . .”

  Shan recalled one of the few times Mr. Capello had spoken of the boy. The resulting revelation struck like a winter gale, stealing his breath. “Was just like Tomasso,” he finished.

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  For the majority of Shan’s life, he’d prided himself on his ability to read people, mimic them, identify their traits and quirks. But somehow he hadn’t seen this—though it wasn’t difficult to guess the reason.

  Consciously or not, he had enjoyed the cozy spot he’d inherited in the Capello house, never affording much thought to what it might cost others. He’d been too preoccupied with how to keep what he had gained.

  In that light, perhaps Shan deserved more blame than he’d realized.

  37

  The drive to Nick’s apartment felt like a trip back in time. Little about the streets had been altered. Even the Model T truck Shan was steering hadn’t changed. And yet, shaken by a fresh perspective, the life he’d spent here now appeared very different.

  He parked in an open spot half a block from Nick’s building. Early evening sunlight speckled the street, filtered by intermittent trees. A woman strolled past with a baby buggy. Shan watched her disappear around the corner as he took an opportunity to assemble his thoughts.

  The first time he had run away from the Capellos, he’d been so angry at Nick. In truth, he’d been hurt. Nick had seemed determined to deflate any hope of finding Shan’s American father. Finally Shan knew why: Nick didn’t want to risk losing another brother.

  For years Shan had struggled to forget Nick’s eyes and voice at the hospital, an icy message that said Shan wasn’t good enough to be part of the family. Yet now Lina’s explanation implied just the opposite. The incident with Josie had simply been the last straw. Another perceived attempt to covet something Nick held dear.

  Maybe it was too late to make things right. Shan had no idea where to begin. But as Josie had said, he could at least try.

  Just then, Nick emerged from the entrance, carrying a duffel bag.

  Needing to catch him before he departed, Shan reached for the door handle. He was about to step out of the truck when three other men exited the building. Pockmarked cheeks gave the tall one away. Mel . . . no, Sal was his name. The fellow beside him had a stocky physiqu
e that also struck Shan as familiar. No doubt he was the same thug who had held up Mr. Carducci’s store. The third guy was slim and wore a toothbrush mustache like Charlie Chaplin. Shan didn’t recognize him but could surmise they all answered to the same boss.

  This knowledge, paired with the way they were looking around, casing the area from beneath the brims of their hats, caused Shan to sink into his seat. Their black trench coats seemed odd in this weather until the long barrel of a gun peeked out from Sal’s coat, draped like a cape. It was safe to assume he wasn’t the only one armed.

  The mustached one threw down his cigarette, not bothering to grind it out. Then he led the way to a parked Packard, where he took the wheel as Nick climbed inside with the others. The engine awoke with a soft growl. Seconds later, they pulled out and headed down the street, soon to vanish like the baby buggy, with no clue of a path.

  Shan knew he ought to stay put. Still, worry and dark curiosity swirled over the bag, the guns, the suspicious manner. The more he knew about Nick’s situation, the greater the chance he could help. With no time to debate, he eased the truck out and trailed at a distance.

  Before long, they entered a tunnel that went on and on in an endless stretch. When Shan realized he was driving below the Hudson River, he felt the arched walls closing in around him. He gripped the steering wheel and tried not to imagine a leak of water bursting into a flood.

  At the tunnel’s end, the sky was a welcome sight. He refocused on the direction of the Packard, three motorcars ahead. They had arrived in New Jersey and were still rumbling along. How far could the men be going? Shan considered turning around but persisted a little longer, and soon the Packard pulled over.

  Continuing past them, Shan again dropped down in his seat. He hoped he hadn’t been spotted. At the next street, he turned left and cautiously circled the block. With the side of the Packard in clear view, he rolled to a stop behind a parked Chevy.

  Shan peered through the windshield around the coupe. Nick’s driver remained at the wheel, but the passengers were gone.