“Probably. The Palazzinis have a plot.” Peachy threw her hands up in frustration.
“Interesting. Even that has been determined. Well, I didn’t get that far in my thinking. I never thought about dying because I wasn’t living.”
“So what is this that we have been doing all this time, if it wasn’t living?”
“Existing.”
“Okay.” Peachy put her head in her hands as though holding her brain would help it get around the idea of what was happening to her.
“You’ve been so patient. A smart man would’ve married you and given you what you wanted and worked hard every day to give you more as you dreamed it up along the way. But I’m not very smart. It’s taken me thirty years to figure out I’m unhappy.”
Peachy unsnapped her purse and fished out her handkerchief. “You couldn’t have figured this out three years ago? Binny Falcone got a letter from Chi Chi Alzaro saying he was in a godforsaken trench in France when he figured out Binny wasn’t for him. Turns out he never saw a trench—he was at a party with a French girl when he had his particular epiphany because it sat on his lap—but it turned out all right because Binny was young and had time to grieve the loss and get back out into the world to find a nice guy and get her dream. But it’s too late for me. It’s all over. It has passed me by—all of it.”
“That’s not true, Peachy.”
“Isn’t it? Look at me. I’m washed up like an old whore in a Laundromat who’s out of soap and quarters.”
“You will find happiness, Peachy.”
“You can get everything back in this life but time. It’s gone, Nicky, and there’s no replenishing what has been lost.”
“I’m sorry.”
“This is what you do to a girl who had half her family locked up in an internment camp in New Mexico? Really? My family hasn’t been through enough? They lived in a chicken coop for two years and ate beef knuckles and rye bread and wept, and all you can say to me is you’re sorry?”
Peachy stood up and walked to the car, flung the door open, and got in. Nicky got into the driver’s seat.
“Do not speak to me.”
Nicky drove Peachy home in silence. He could hear the drip of her tears as they hit her patent leather purse.
Nicky pulled up in front of her house. “Peach.”
Peachy opened the car door and swung her legs out before Nicky could open the door on his side of the car. She was halfway up the steps on her parents’ porch when he got out. She had her key in the door before he could run around the front of the car. He was halfway up the walk when Peachy slammed the front door behind her from the inside. He heard the snap of the bolt.
Nicky stood back and watched, as he had many nights, under different circumstances, the lights going on inside the dark house as Peachy made her way up to her bedroom. As always, the light in the hallway flipped on and off as she climbed up to the second story; the overhead light upstairs turned on and off as she went into her bedroom. She turned on her bedside lamp. But this time, instead of going to the front window and blowing Nicky a kiss, she pulled down the shade and walked away, leaving a rectangle of light in the blue darkness.
Act II
The course of true love never did run smooth.
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream
6
Hortense bowed her head and tapped out the code, using the lever, as she took down the telegram coming in over the wire. She spun in her seat to the typewriter, typed out the message, and looked up at Nicky. “Those are the same clothes you had on yesterday.”
“I had a bad night.”
“You shouldn’t go out when you have the early shift.”
“I pray I will never have a night like that ever again.”
“Then do yourself a favor and lay off the liquor. There’s nothing worse than a young man with a sauce problem, unless it’s gambling. Then you’re both drunk and broke.” She peeled the message off the Western Union ribbon and glued it to the letterhead. “You up for a ride to Roseto, Pennsylvania?”
Before Nicky could answer, they heard the thunder of footsteps on the metal stairs up to the office. Aunt Jo and Uncle Dom, followed by Dominic, Gio, and Nino, crowded into the office.
“You’re in trouble, Nicky,” Uncle Dom panted.
“Al DePino is on his way over here to kill you,” Gio announced.
“You broke off with Peachy?” Aunt Jo took her nephew by the shoulders.
“Last night.”
“You’re lucky the old man didn’t come over here and stab you in your sleep.” Gio went to the window, as he was experienced at surveillance.
“I didn’t sleep.”
“It isn’t going to matter to him,” Uncle Dom said. “He’s gonna take you dead or alive.”
“You have to hide,” Aunt Jo implored him.
“Good morning.” Calla Borelli stood in the doorway, holding a bakery box of pastries. “I brought over a little thank-you gift for filling the theater. We closed the show in profit, thanks to you.”
“Not now!” Dom thundered.
“We got a matter of life and death here!” Gio added, but took the pastry box from her.
“I can come back later.” Calla turned to go.
“No, stay,” Nicky implored her.
Mabel came through the door in her bathrobe, panting. “Nicky, you got to get out of here. You are dealing with volatile people. I have a cousin on my Polish side—”
“I thought you were Irish,” Nino said, surprised.
“I have one Polish grandmother. That’s why I can bake. Anyhow, my cousin crossed Al DePino—nobody’s seen him since.”
“We’ve got a telegram to deliver to Roseto, PA. Who is taking it up there?” Hortense said impatiently.
“You’re not worried about this?” Aunt Jo turned to Hortense.
“I have a terrible anxiety. Inside, my organs are collapsing on each other, but somebody around here has to stay calm,” Hortense said evenly.
“What’s in the telegram?” Gio asked.
“I’m not allowed to tell you. All right. I’ll tell you. The ambassador that was scheduled to attend the Jubilee is sick and can’t make it.”
“That’s the guy you look like!” Gio punched Nicky’s arm. “The guy on the banner!”
“I look like the guy who can’t make it.” Nicky looked at Calla. “I have a twin.”
“I’m bonded by Western Union to make sure this telegram gets to Chief Burgess to alert him that the cat can’t make it for their Jubilee. So who’s delivering the telegram?”
“Mrs. Mooney, forget the telegram. We have to hide Nicky,” Aunt Jo cried.
“Put him in a trunk. Ship him to New Jersey. The Spatuzzas have a farm,” Gio offered.
“I saw that in a Van Johnson picture,” Dom commented.
“Me too. I couldn’t make that up.” Gio sorted through the pastry box, choosing a cannoli.
“I can’t do trunks. I’m slightly claustrophobic.”
“So’s a casket, if we don’t hurry. And that’s a permanent residence.” Uncle Dom drummed his fingers on the wall.
“Take the telegram to Roseto,” Gio said. “Or don’t.”
Nicky’s eyes moved like pinballs in his head as he hatched the scheme. “I take the telegram, but I don’t deliver. I deliver me. I become the ambassador. I perform the part, hiding in plain sight. The village gets their Jubilee and their honored guest, and I get the role of a lifetime, and save what’s left of it. By the time I return, Al DePino calms down and realizes he doesn’t want me for a son-in-law anyway, and life goes on as it always has.”
“It’s a terrible idea. It has more plot holes than Cymbeline. Don’t do it!” Calla implored him.
“I have to do something.”
“And somebody has to make this delivery,” Hortense added.
“Take a breath. Stay calm. Think this through.”
“Give me an alternative, Calla.”
“Go back to Peachy. Tell her you’ve made a mistak
e. Beg her forgiveness. Buy her a piece of jewelry as a penance. Tell her you love her and the wedding is on.”
“Thank you. That’s what I think!” Aunt Jo clasped her hands together. “She’s a nice girl.”
“I’m not marrying her. I’m not marrying anybody. I’m going to be”—he opened the telegram—“Ambassador Carlo Guardinfante of Roseto Valfortore, Italy. I’ll ride in a parade, kiss a couple of babies. How hard could this be?”
“You’ve only acted in one play,” Calla reminded him.
“But it was the right play. Mistaken identity,” Nicky said, feeling empowered by his own talent.
“He was pretty good in it,” Dominic commented.
“I was, wasn’t I?”
“Actors. Filled with hubris or self-loathing, nothing in between. Nicky. Listen to me. You were in a play with words and a plot. This crackpot plan you have—there’s no script!”
“I’ll improvise.”
“You’re stealing someone’s life,” Calla reminded him.
“From the sounds of this telegram, he’s not long for this world anyway. He’s doing me a kindness on his way out,” Nicky rationalized. “He dies so I can live.”
“But you’re not an ambassador. You don’t even know one.”
“I drove the vice mayor of Philadelphia once.”
“You’re not an Italian from the other side.”
“I can do an accent. I’ll just do my impression of Nonna.”
“It really cracks us up at the holiday dinners,” Dom admitted.
Nicky tried it out for them, “ ‘I so happy to be in America.’ See, I can do it. It’s the role of a lifetime. It’s three parts in one—it’s Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Comedy of Errors, and As You Like It. I saw all of those productions directed by your father. I know them by heart. I know how to play a twin. I’ll be in rep for the weekend.”
“You’re not experienced enough to pull this off.”
“Timing is everything, Calla. And I don’t have any. I have to get out of here. Al DePino is not nimble, but he owns a fast car.”
“And bullets move at the speed of sound,” Dom added.
“Are you with me or against me?”
“Against!” Calla folded her arms over her chest.
“Then you don’t get to come. Mrs. Mooney, will you come and play the nurse?”
“I don’t know anything about medicine.”
“You can be the maid, then. Shakespeare was loaded with them.”
“Why does the colored lady always have to play the domestic?”
“Be an attaché, then,” Nicky schemed.
“A briefcase?” Gio queried.
“No, an attaché, a person who assists an ambassador. She is accompanying me as a representative of the US government. Mrs. Mooney worked for . . . Eleanor Roosevelt.”
A collective sigh went up to the heavens from the dispatch office. A mention of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in this working-class household of New Deal Democrats was all it took to swing the vote to full support in Nicky’s direction, except for Dom.
“He never did much for the Italians,” Dom complained.
“He did fine by the Irish,” Mabel countered.
“I like what I’m hearing. Mrs. Roosevelt does like the Negro race. Go on.” Hortense rolled her hand like a hula dancer, as if to pull more information from thin air. “What’s my part?”
Calla turned to Hortense. “You will make the ambassador’s visit look official.”
“Oh, now you’re helping.” Nicky gently punched Calla’s arm.
“You’re nothing without a director.”
“Says the director,” Nicky sniffed.
“He can take the sedan,” Dom suggested.
“Do you have those little Italian flags from Columbus Day and the American flags from the Fourth of July?” Calla asked Gio.
“They’re in the supply closet downstairs.”
“Get them. That will make the sedan look official,” Calla said, surrendering to the stunt. Nicky smiled at her. “What? The ambassador to Guam came to a play during the war. I remember flags.”
“I’ll need my suit,” Hortense said. “My Sunday suit.”
“Let’s go,” said Dominic. “I’ll take Mrs. Mooney to her house. Nicky, pick her up in the sedan on the way out of town.”
Hortense skimmed down the office steps like a dancer as Dominic opened the back door of the cab.
“Tuck in Hortense!” Dom instructed from the landing.
Dom had never called Hortense by her first name before. She shot him a look before she ducked low in the seat as Dominic started the engine and sped out of the garage.
“Fire up the sedan, Gio!” Dom bellowed.
“I need clothes!” Nicky cried.
“I’ll get your suit!” Mabel clunked down the stairs.
“Don’t forget my dress socks, Mabel! And my razor!” Nicky called. “I need a military uniform. An official military uniform. The guy on the banner had a uniform.”
“I have the one we used for Prince Hal in Henry the Fourth. It’s in the storage room in the costume shop.”
“Thirty-four long?”
“It’ll fit.”
Nicky grabbed the telegram off the table and stuffed it in his pocket. “What are you going to do about Al DePino?”
“I’ll take care of him,” Dom said calmly.
“You’re not going to kill him, are you?”
“Of course not.” Uncle Dom cracked his knuckles.
Nicky and Calla raced down the stairs and jumped into the sedan as Mabel ran back into the garage with his suit and shoes and dopp kit. She threw them into the back of the car as though the items were on fire, stepped back, and rubbed her pregnant belly. Dom reached into his pocket and handed Nicky a wad of cash. “Stay out of Philly until you hear from me.”
“Thank you, Uncle Dom. Don’t cry, Aunt Jo.”
“If something happens to you, I won’t be able to bear it.”
“If something doesn’t happen to me, I won’t be able to bear it.” Nicky blew his aunt a kiss before peeling out of the garage.
Calla hung on to the door handle as Nicky sped through the streets. “What did you mean by that? If something doesn’t happen to you—”
“You heard right. If something doesn’t happen to me, this life is all for nothing.”
“What’s wrong with your life?”
“Everything.” Nicky adjusted the rearview mirror.
“Why did you break up with Peachy?”
“I don’t love her.”
“Turn the car around.”
“What?”
“You didn’t mean it. Go to her. Tell her you made a mistake.”
“But I did mean it.”
“She’s a fine girl. She fits in your big family. She looks at you like you’re Marc Antony and you just parked the barge on her dock. Her love for you turned her into Cleopatra.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“Of course you do.”
“How would you know?”
“You have cold feet. She can warm them up. She lights up like a three-way bulb on three around you.”
“I’m going to be the ambassador.” Nicky gripped the steering wheel. “And you can’t stop me.”
“You’re not the ambassador.”
“What is wrong with giving people what they want? Why ruin a perfectly good Jubilee?”
“You’re deceiving people.”
“How is that any different from playing Sebastian?”
“You got bit by the acting bug, and now you believe it’s the answer to everything. Theater is your religion, and anyone who doesn’t believe has to get out of your way. But this is a mistake! When the glow wears off, you’ll realize Peachy is your destiny. You have a good job. You come from a family that loves you. You had a plan. You were excited about your new house and the parking space in front of it, and the wedding, and the Jordan almonds. It was an enterprise of true love for you. And now what have you got??
??
Nicky skidded into the back alley of the theater, taking the curve so quickly, it threw Calla against the passenger door.
He turned to her. “You okay?”
She nodded.
He jumped out of the car. “Hurry!” he shouted to Calla.
They bolted through the stage door, ran through the wings, peeled down the steps, and burst into the costume shop. Calla unlocked the costume storage room, flipped the light, and began shuffling through the racks, flipping through the men’s costumes on hangers.
“Faster, Calla. Faster.”
“Here,” Calla said, holding a Prussian-blue waistcoat with gold epaulets and long trousers with a white satin pinstripe on either side of the pant legs.
“It’s a little flashy, but it’ll do.”
“You’re not going to try it on?”
“No time.”
Nicky grabbed a wide white satin belt off an evening gown to wear as a sash over the regimentals. “Thanks, Calla.” He ran out of the shop.
Calla went out into the hallway and called out after him, “You could avoid all of this if you just made nice with your fiancée.”
“It’s over,” he hollered back.
“It’s a mistake!” Calla argued. She heard the stage door snap shut.
Nicky emerged from the theater, threw the uniform in the back seat, and jumped into the car, heading down the alley that connected Broad to Chestnut and would lead him through the backstreets to 103 Charlotte Street.
He had not felt this alive since he appeared for the first time onstage in Twelfth Night. He was desperate to take a chance, in a life that had been filled with decisions made for him. He was compelled to go to Roseto, to take the place of a dying man and assume his life as his own. Why not? He had the excuse, the guts, and the costume! Nicky was determined to be the dramatist of his future, to set in motion a series of actions based upon risk, not security. He yearned to build another character and play him, knowing that if he succeeded, he might be able to create the man he wanted to be.
Nicky Castone would break the cycle of expectations foisted upon every young Italian American man in South Philly. Becoming Carlo meant he wouldn’t be defined by his community’s markers of success: the steady paycheck, the nuptial mass, the two-family house, and the goal that gave him the chills: dying in one’s own bed at the end of a life lived to satisfy others with a parting gift to his loved ones of a pre-paid funeral. Nicky would break free by playing an Italian from the other side.