Kiss Carlo

  “France and Germany.”

  “My husband was in the army too. He was in Poland when he was killed. I try not to be angry at him for dying and leaving me behind. Augie was very stubborn. But that goes hand in hand with loyalty—you can’t have one without the other.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I was told they were liberating a village. They sent my husband and three of his fellow soldiers into a house to let the family know that they were free. The war was over. It was a trap. It was a safe house for German soldiers. My husband went in first, he figured it out, hollered to the other three, they took cover, but my husband was killed. He was coming home the next day. After three years of staying alive, at the very end, they got him.”

  “He sounds like a great man.”

  “He had his faults. He wasn’t a saint. But he was all mine.”

  “Did he know his son?”

  “I sent him a letter when I found out I was expecting, but it didn’t get there in time.”

  “You named him after your husband.”

  “Tradition. His boy is just like him. And my son misses him. It’s heartbreaking. A son without a father, I can never make up that loss.”

  “You can’t. But he’s a good kid.”

  “I’m trying. Augie knows the story of his father, as much as I’ll tell him, but he still plays guns and war like it’s a game.”

  “All boys do.”

  “I know. When anyone asks him what he wants to be when he grows up, he says he wants to be a soldier like his dad. I’ll break him of that.”

  “I hope you do.”

  “I won’t lose two of them.”

  “How do you get through it?”

  “I don’t know. I went back to work, and that helped. Each day I got a little better at focusing on the job. I have to pay attention to details. Every blouse has to be flawless, every stitch has to be straight, every collar has to be even, every placket has to lie flat, every armhole, sleeve, and cuff has to line up with the bodice and the seam in the back, the buttonhole and the button have to be set just so, and the routine of that got me out of my misery. As much as anything can.”

  “There’s more to work than just making a living.”

  “It can be your salvation. I know it was mine.”

  Nicky rolled back onto the pillow.

  “Perelli’s steak sandwich is better than any Philly cheesesteak. That’s the final word on that subject,” Mamie said.

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  Mamie kissed him. “Good night.”

  She curled up and went to sleep. Nicky had never seen anything like it in a human being. Cats, yes. Dogs too. Even goldfish, who float open-eyed along the surface of the tank in peaceful rest. Only Cousin Gio could nod off this fast, but he was never serene.

  He lay in the dark, holding her. He looked at the clock. Hours had passed, but it seemed like minutes, and yet, in other ways, lifetimes. Everything that had transpired between them that night was effortless. He hadn’t felt the tug of guilt or the exhaustion that comes from compromise.

  The moment Nicky gave Peachy her engagement ring, she offered herself to him, with certain “stipulations”—and she called them that—so her fiancé might pay attention. Peachy had her own code; just as Mrs. Mooney used Morse code, Peachy had invented her own list of rules about what she would and wouldn’t do with Nicky physically, concocted from her religious upbringing, her mother’s fear-based admonitions, and whatever romantic tips she’d gleaned from Modern Screen magazine.

  Peachy knew how to relieve Nicky’s sexual frustration without having to admit to it in confession, but it wasn’t the kind of romantic interlude he dreamed of or imagined. When his former fiancée reached into his trousers to relieve him of his misery, the look on her face was identical to the expression she had when she fished for spare change at the bottom of her purse to pay for the toll on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. She was determined, but her mind was somewhere else. His pleasure was not her joy but a mindless exercise in friction, with Nicky receiving what her gloved hand could provide. She wasn’t annoyed by it or stimulated by it. It was executed swiftly, confidently, and without deviation from her skill set. Her clothes stayed on, usually her hat, and always her glove.

  Nicky slipped out of Mamie’s bed. He covered her gently, dressed in the dark, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, he opened the icebox and found plenty of leftovers. He chose a chicken leg, a bowl of cold mashed potatoes, a heel of bread, and a bottle of beer. He sat at the kitchen table with the gray Formica top and matching chairs. A large red leather button was centered in the back of each chair.

  There was a stack of children’s books on the seat of the chair next to him. He lifted them up and rifled through them, smiling when he saw Too Many Mittens. He had given that to Elsa and Dom when their son was born. He leafed through Pinocchio, flipped through The Sword in the Stone, and lifted an illustrated volume of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and placed it on the table.

  Something about the artwork in the book of fairytales conjured his past. He wondered if he had read this book before. He’d have to think about it. It was getting harder to recall the details of his childhood.

  Nicky finished his snack and placed the dishes in the sink. He washed them and put them in the drying rack. He liked the way Mamie kept her home: neat, clean, and uncluttered. He could think clearly in her house. He couldn’t imagine ending up with a wife like Cha Cha, who covered every surface in her home with a saint on a doily.

  Nicky went into the living room. He took in the chintz sofa. The background color was tan, and it was covered with pink roses. What was it about Mamie Confalone and flowers?

  She had a record player, an RCA Victor with a brown leather flip top and a gold mesh sound panel on the front. It stood on four aluminum legs. He opened the top carefully.

  Now he knew who was buying the new .45 records. They were all being sold to the widow on Garibaldi Avenue in Roseto. He shuffled through the stack. “Buttons and Bows” by Dinah Shore, “You’re Breaking My Heart” by Vic Damone, “Mona Lisa” by Nat King Cole, several by Rosemary Clooney (something else they had in common), the Mills Brothers, Tony Bennett, Glenn Miller, Perry Como, Frankie Laine, Sammy Kaye, Artie Shaw, and Edith Piaf’s hit “La Vie en Rose.” That record didn’t surprise Nicky—it had a flower in the title.

  “Couldn’t you sleep?” Mamie asked. She wore a blue nightgown printed with yellow daisies, tied at the neck with a loose satin ribbon. She was barefoot.

  “I was restless.”

  “You should get going.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “But you’re dressed.”

  “Right.”

  “So you must want to go.”

  “I have to.”

  “You have your big speech.”

  “I do.”

  “Your sock should be in the bushes.”

  “I’ll get it on my way to the car.”

  Nicky had moved to the door to go when he thought better of it and turned to say good-bye, but Mamie was already there, next to him.

  “Everything you own has flowers on it. Why?”

  “I like them.”

  “You like them a lot.”

  “My name is Rose.”

  “Why do they call you Mamie?”

  “Mary Rose. My birthday is August fifteenth.”

  “The Feast of the Assumption.”

  Nicky took Mamie into his arms and kissed her. He had the strange feeling that this kiss would have to last for a while.

  “Thank you, Nick,” she said.

  “Why would you thank me?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Nicky walked out of Mamie’s house with a bare foot in his left shoe and a sock on his right. He walked down the porch steps and around to the side of the house, where he found the missing sock hanging in the boxwood bush like a flag and stuffed it in his pocket.

  When he got into the sedan, he sat still. The whole of his body felt as th
ough it were moving, but he wasn’t jittery. This was a new sensation. He closed his eyes and wondered, could a man his age have a heart attack? Is this what it was? Would he be found dead in the Palazzinis’ only sedan, in a town where he was posing as a dignitary from another country? Is this how his journey would end?

  Nicky found himself fishing in his tip cup in the glove compartment of the car. He found the cup full of dimes. He started the car and cruised down Garibaldi until he found the only phone booth on the Avenue.

  “Operator, Bella Vista 8-5746. Thank you.”

  Calla was in a deep sleep when the phone rang in the foyer, down the stairs from her bedroom. She sat up in bed. She jumped out of it and raced down the stairs, hoping to get to the phone before it woke her father.

  “It’s Nicky.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why are you calling?”

  “I had to talk to someone. To you. I need a friend.”

  Calla held the receiver up to her ear with one hand and held her head with the other. She sat down on the steps. “What happened?”

  “I met a woman.”

  “Nicky, this could wait.”

  “No, no, it can’t wait. I don’t understand what just happened, and I feel badly now, and I need to tell you about it.”

  Calla heard a creak in the floorboards above her. She looked up and saw her father in his bathrobe. She motioned for him to go back to sleep. “Go on,” she said into the phone.

  “She is a widow. She has a little boy. And I stayed with her.”

  Calla stood up and peered around the corner to the clock in the living room. It was close to four. “Stayed?”

  “You know.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just feel bad about it.”

  “Because you love Peachy.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? You’re like one of those jackhammers they use to build railroads.”

  “I’m hanging up the phone.”

  “Don’t!” Nicky was desperate. “I get impatient because you say it like it’s true. But I don’t have that. Not from Peachy. Not from any woman. I don’t have love.”

  “Nicky.” Calla was impatient now. “You just did.”

  “It won’t stay. Or I’m afraid it won’t stay.”

  “You need to grow up,” Calla began. Sam sat down next to her on the steps. “You’re running around acting like you can do whatever you want, without any regard for a woman’s feelings—whether it’s Peachy or this lady. What kind of a man are you?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “It’s about time you decided. Now I have to get off the phone, because I don’t want to yell at you.”

  “I’m sorry, Calla.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology.”

  “For calling. For waking up your father.”

  “Oh, right, that. I’ll tell him.”

  Calla hung up the phone.

  “Who was that?”

  “Crazy Nicky Castone.”

  “Did they figure out who he was and run him out of town?”

  “No. He enchanted a woman.”

  “The upside of acting on the road.”

  “That’s the only upside.”

  “Why’s he calling here?”

  “He needed a friend. That’s what he said.”

  “You’re the only one he’s got?”

  “Maybe this is the only number in South Philly he could remember.”

  “I doubt that. He’s all right. I like him fine.”

  “You do?”

  “He’s honest.”

  “Not at this moment. He’s conning an entire town.”

  “Maybe they need to suspend their disbelief for a moment. Maybe they have their reasons. People need to believe in a man sometimes, even when he is not what was advertised.”

  “Dad, you don’t have to worry about me. I have good judgment. I’m going to marry Frank Arrigo.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I wouldn’t marry a man I didn’t love.”

  “So there’s your answer.”

  “Am I allowed to have doubts?”

  “I wish you didn’t.”

  “I want to be secure. Frank will give me that.”

  “The thing about security, it’s all well and good if the person that makes you feel that way is the person you love. All the money in the world can’t make you secure, but all the love in the world can. Funny how that works. Do you want to build a life with him?”

  “I want to build a theater with him. He wants to renovate Borelli’s and turn it into the showplace it was when you were a boy.”

  “Good for him. He’s young. He has the energy.” Sam pulled himself up by the banister and turned to go upstairs. As he climbed, he said,

  Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

  Nor the furious winter’s rages;

  Thou thy worldly task hast done . . .

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  “Really, Dad? Cymbeline?”

  “It’s all I can remember. You get what you get. Good night, Calla.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  Calla crawled into bed. She pulled the blankets and sheets around her and nestled into the pillows. She wished she hadn’t told her father she wanted to marry Frank. He didn’t seem too keen on it, or maybe he wasn’t because it was four o’clock in the morning, and at this hour who could be enthusiastic about anything? Maybe once the blueprints were done, her father would be excited about the possibilities of Frank joining the family.

  * * *

  Minna stood in her living room with Hortense. She looked out the window through the heavy lace curtains.

  “I’m so glad you got a sunny day for the finale.”

  “The ambassador will make his speech, and off we’ll go.” Hortense turned to face her hostess. “Minna, I never slept as well as I have in the apartment over your garage.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “And the food you prepared was so delicious. The macaroni. The frittata for breakfast. And I don’t know what that dessert was in the little ceramic dish—”

  “Panna cotta.”

  “I may have to let this skirt out when I get home.” Hortense tugged at the waistband. “I know I will.”

  “We had so much fun.”

  “And I’m so grateful for the gravy recipe.”

  “You make it and think of me.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Share it with as many people as you can.”

  “We have a healthy two hundred and seventy-eight members at my church.”

  “Beyond your church.”

  “Sometimes we do have an ecumenical gathering. Tri-state. We make a bus trip. I could serve it at the interfaith service. We do a dinner.”

  “Beyond even that.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Minna.”

  “I think you may have found your purpose.”

  “Chile, I am not opening an Italian restaurant.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Then what are you talking about? If you know my purpose, why won’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know it. It will come to you. All you will have to do is recognize it.” Minna placed a string of turquoise and green and yellow beads around Hortense’s neck.

  “These are for you.”

  “You don’t have to give me a present.”

  “I want you to remember our visit. They are magnificent on you.”

  “They are my colors.”

  “This is my purpose,” Minna admitted.

  “You don’t say.”

  “I make jewelry from Venetian glass beads. They came from the island of Murano, close to Venice.”

  “I’ll wear them every day.”

  “Someday, go to Italy. To Venice. You must see it for yourself. The blue in this glass reminds me of the sky t
here. And the gold, the architects used on the trim of the palazzos. You see it shimmer in the sun as it reflects off the water in the canals, and you think anything is possible.”

  “When I’m with you, I know anything is. Minna, will you come with me to the grandstand today?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Would you make an exception?”

  “If I was going to leave this house, I would do it for you. And of course, in honor of Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  “I know that.”

  Hortense picked up her suitcase and hat box and walked out the front door of Minna’s house, where Nicky waited for her at the curb in the sedan. He jumped out to help Hortense with her bags.

  Hortense turned to wave to Minna one last time, but the front door was closed, the curtains covered the window glass, and she was gone.

  * * *

  Nicky and Hortense sat on the grandstand at the top of Garibaldi Avenue as the Pius X High School Marching Band played “God Bless America.” From their perch, the village of Roseto looked like the opening number of a spectacular musical. Colors exploded on flags, banners, and balloons, and in gardens where daisies, roses of Sharon, and peonies burst open in glorious pink and red. The sun dazzled like a spotlight in the clear blue sky against the rooftops made of blue and gray slate that matched the sky no matter its mood, no matter the weather.

  The entire town of Roseto had turned out for the finale of the celebration, to witness the ambassador’s farewell and the blessing on the town by Father Leone, followed by the Jubilee Parade, the finale of the celebration.

  The floats were lined up down Division Street. There was a giant pink crepe paper cake made by the sodality of Saint Rocco in Martins Creek, a gaggle of small children dressed head to toe in red, white, and green who, when in formation, became the Italian flag, and a float of a model of an enormous sewing machine, in honor of the millworkers. People had fussed, but of course they felt obligated, since the ambassador had made a sacrifice to come all the way from Italy to be with them.

  Nicky wore his uniform and sash, and Hortense wore her Sunday suit, hat, and a commemorative sash along with her Venetian beads. The dignitaries joined them on the grandstand, along with a contingent of mayors from neighboring towns and the borough council, who also wore official sashes.

  Rocco went to the microphone to give his welcome.