Kiss Carlo

  “I’ve never done anything like that.”

  “I think you could. My husband does too.”

  “If you think I can do it.”

  “It’s not a big part. But I call it glue. You’ll play a cabbie. A hack. Who moves the characters through the action by driving them around off camera. It’s a notion I had that I think might work.”

  “I know how to play a hack. I’ve been one long enough.”

  “The show is called Love of Life.” Gloria fished in her purse for a subway token. “You’ll have to change your name.”

  “Why?”

  “More people will see you on television in a week than all the audiences that saw all of Shakespeare in his lifetime and ever since.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “It is. You need a name that they can spell and that you can give away without missing it. Keep Nicky Castone for you. You’ll be glad you did.”

  “But I’m proud of my name.”

  “I understand. I’m Italian too. Montemuro is my name.”

  “That means someone who climbs mountains.”

  “It does. But that wouldn’t be enough for me. I had to change it. See, Gloria Monty wants to rule the world.”

  “Mondo-muro,” Nicky offered.

  “Right. Perfect, but not as a surname. Just as a philosophy.” Gloria swung her legs off the desk and grabbed her purse. “Lock up. And see you tomorrow. And don’t cut that mug shaving. The television camera is unforgiving.”

  As Nicky buffed the floor, he began to whistle. Television. The thought of it made him nervous, but he’d follow Gloria and Robert anywhere. As he concentrated on buffing the floor, a pang of guilt pealed through him. He remembered giving Calla Borelli the business for cleaning the theater, thinking it beneath her, and here he was, doing the same job. It was almost like a penance for having judged her.

  * * *

  The monthly potluck dinner in the Philadelphia Freewill Baptist Church Fellowship Hall was full to capacity for the last supper before it was suspended for the summer. The Ladies’ Guild had set the tables with bright centerpieces of white lilies, daisies, and black-eyed Susans, crisp white tablecloths, and the church’s good china. The basement was hot; the windows were propped open, and fans whirled to move the air through.

  Hortense, who chaired the food committee, stood behind the buffet table. She kept an eye on her contribution to the meal: a large chafing dish filled with cavatelli dressed with Minna’s Venetian gravy. As chairwoman, she had control of placement, so the cavatelli had a prime spot next to the macaroni and cheese, which was served in order next to the fried chicken, stewed tomatoes, cornbread stuffing, fried okra, and collard greens.

  Hortense knew that the folks of her church held certain expectations regarding the menu. There had to be coconut cake for dessert, with an option of banana pudding, sweet tea, and hot coffee. The entrée was always fried chicken. The side dishes had been consistent since the ground was broken for the church in 1897, not a single change. Cavatelli with red sauce had never been served. Hortense figured God-fearing Baptists would give her an honest opinion about her product. She figured if they liked it, she had something special.

  When the ninth person in line passed over her cavatelli and went straight for the macaroni and cheese with the buttery bread-crumb topping instead, Hortense picked up a serving spoon and got to work.

  “Sister, do try my dish,” she said sweetly, ladling a sample onto a churchgoer’s plate. She placed the spoon back in the chafing dish, as a potluck was self-serve, but gently insisted her fellow Baptists try her dish by offering the handle of the cavatelli serving spoon to them. As they processed through the line, some took a small sampling to be polite, but the chafing dish remained full.

  “Hortense, you’re trying too hard. You’re being pushy,” Louis whispered as he stood in the line with his plate.

  “As deacon of the congregation, you could help. You could make an announcement about my cavatelli.”

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  “I didn’t ask you to cook it. I asked you to tell the folks it’s available to taste. As a favor to me.”

  “Nobody likes that kind of food here.”

  “They would if they tried it.”

  “Well, give me some, and I’ll talk it up at the men’s table.”

  “Thank you.” Hortense ladled the cavatelli onto her husband’s plate.

  When the last of the congregation had gone through the line, Hortense fixed herself a plate. Her friend Willa Turnbough waved to her from the corner table where she had saved Hortense a seat.

  “Does anybody like my dish?” Hortense asked as she sat down.

  “The red sauce?” Willa asked. “I think it’s tasty. Ladies, what do you think?”

  The ladies nodded politely.

  “The membership seems to be enjoying it,” Willa lied.

  “Willa, are you at the same covered dish as me? Look over at that serving table. I still have a chafing dish full of my macaroni. It’s like the loaves and fishes. Every time I serve a spoonful of cavatelli, it seems to multiply in the dish.”

  “Why are you so determined for everyone to eat it?” Willa wondered.

  “I’d like to sell it.”

  “Nobody pays at a potluck.”

  Hortense lowered her voice. “I mean to the public.”

  “You opening a restaurant?”

  “No. I want to sell the sauce. I want to put it up in jars and put it in stores. I just don’t know how.”

  “Did you pray about this?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’ve been praying about it. I’m not getting the sense our dear Lord is a red gravy fan either.”

  “I’m about to retire from the employ of Edna Oldfield,” Willa said proudly. “Thirty-two years of service for the one family. Her husband died years ago and left her the family business. The family food business. They are the Oldfield Food Company.”

  “The soup people?”

  “Soup. Sauce. Canned vegetables. You name it,” Willa assured her. “They do it all.”

  “Can you get me a card?”

  “What are you going to do with a card? You need to get over there and see the missus. She owns the joint. But you need to hurry.”

  “I can be there. Name the day.”

  “You have to take the bus. It’s far. Main Line. You have to change buses. There’s a wait.”

  “I can do it.”

  “There’s rumblings she is going to hand the entire operation over to her son very soon. You could say my boss and I are retiring together.”

  Hortense’s mind raced with the possibilities of a meeting. She had a lot of work to do before she took the bus to meet Mrs. Oldfield. Hortense didn’t even have to pray about it; this opportunity felt right. As the membership split into groups to play Torch Bearers and Bell Ringers, led by Louis, Hortense stayed in her seat. She couldn’t participate in any games, her mind was on a much greater prize.

  * * *

  Hortense climbed into bed next to her husband, who was asleep with his back to her. She adjusted the collar on her flannel nightgown and lay back on the pillow.

  “Hortense?”

  “Yes, Louis?”

  He rolled over to face her.

  “I thought you were asleep,” she said softly.

  “I can’t sleep. You made a fool out of yourself today at the covered dish.”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. You pushed that macaroni. Nobody wanted to eat it.”

  “I wanted folks to try it. That’s all.”

  “Hortense, you need to stop. You’re not going to sell that sauce.”

  “Louis, I know I can sell it. It’s special. It’s delicious. It’s easy to prepare.”

  “What makes you think you can sell anything?”

  “I’ve been in the work world for almost forty years of my life.”

  “Selling what? Doing what? Working for somebody else.”

  “I run the office
. I handle all the money. I do the books. I learned Morse code.”

  “And I don’t need to hear that every time you talk about work. I know all about you and Morse code.”

  “It’s a skill, Louis.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You should give me some credit from time to time. It wouldn’t kill you, and it would do me some good.”

  “That’s your problem. You need praise all the time. You think the world is all about Hortense Mooney. Well, you need to look inward and be more Christ-like. You think about yourself and your earthly needs too much. You got to look up for your purpose.”

  “God doesn’t want me to fail.”

  “He wants you to work hard and do the job you know how to do. He wants you to take care of your family. That’s it. You don’t need to do anything else.”

  “I want to do more.”

  “You don’t have it in you, Hortense. You got no follow-through. You never have. Not since the day I met you. You start all kinds of projects around here that you never finish. I had to finish the tile in the bathroom. I had to paint the steps when you ran out of steam.”

  “Poor Louis.”

  “Yes, poor me. Without me, what are you? You need to think about somebody besides yourself around here. ”

  Louis rolled over. At first, Hortense was so furious, she couldn’t move. But she thought about the words he’d said to her, and she was more wounded than angry. She turned away from him, tucked the pillow under her chin, and wept without making a sound.

  * * *

  Mabel Palazzini moved through the grocery store like a shot, grabbing ingredients to make her daughter’s birthday cake. She turned into the dairy aisle and ran into Peachy Arrigo.

  “Hey, Mabel.” Peachy looked at Mabel, her enormous brown eyes narrowed into ovals like black jelly beans.

  “Peachy?” Mabel was taken aback. Peachy was very pregnant, and about sixty pounds heavier than she’d been when Mabel last saw her, years ago, bent over Nicky’s chest of drawers in his basement bedroom searching for clues as to his whereabouts before he blew town to pose as an Italian ambassador.

  “It’s me.” Peachy circled her face with her hand, framing it. “I’m in here somewhere.”

  “You look good,” Mabel lied.

  “How can you say that? I have arms like canned hams. I’m fat all over. Like a globe. If I started spinning, I’d knock this one off its axis.”

  “But it’s good fat—I mean, weight. You’re having a baby,” Mabel said supportively.

  Peachy looked Mabel up and down enviously. “You slimmed down.”

  “Giovanna is four years old today.”

  “Dear Mother of God, has it been that long since Nicky dropped me?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Tell me he’s miserable.”

  “Not exactly. He’s on television.”

  “What?”

  “Television.”

  “I know all about the television. We have a Philco. ”

  “He’s on that daytime serial Love of Life.”

  “I don’t watch during the day. I like Milton Berle.”

  “Me too. But I watch Nicky when I do the ironing. He changed his name to Nick Carl.”

  “That’s a stupid name,” Peachy blurted.

  “He had to. They didn’t like Castone.”

  “I didn’t either, to tell you the truth. Peachy Castone sounded like a pit got stuck in somebody’s gut.”

  “I like Castone. It’s a fine Italian name, if not simple. Try spelling Palazzini when you’re talking to the phone company.”

  “Arrigo isn’t easy either.” Peachy sighed.

  “Is it true you’re putting in a pool?”

  “It’s in.”

  “Diving board?” Mabel queried.

  “Yeah. Slide for the kid when he gets here. A fieldstone fountain that drips fresh water into the deep end and lights up at night. Frank is very particular about the accoutrement. It looks like a crypt in Sorrento.”

  “We go to the public pool on Broad.” Mabel put her hand on her heart. “You are so lucky.”

  “Lucky is if I can fit in a swimsuit to enjoy the water next summer.”

  “You will. You’ll go right back to your skinny self.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s called body memory. Tucked inside all that fat and fluid is slim-sational Peachy. And even if that weren’t true, look at me. It falls off when you’re chasing children around. And if you cut out bread, replace it with melba toast, and eat cottage cheese until you think you’re going to turn into a curd, you’ll be slim in no time.”

  “If you say so.” Peachy remained unconvinced.

  “Peachy, you don’t sound happy.”

  “I get in moods with this pregnancy. I imagine killing people with my bare hands, and then a minute later I’m weeping for the poor pagans around the world. I never had these mood swings when I was working at Wanamaker’s. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out to be a housewife.”

  “Who is? Your moods will settle down.”

  “My husband is praying they will. Poor honey.”

  “Well, come and see us sometime, will ya?” Mabel offered.

  “That would be awkward.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. It really wouldn’t.”

  “And inappropriate, too. I don’t ever want to set foot in 810 Montrose again. It’s like quicksand for me. I’m sucked down to the bowels of my deepest shame every time I think of Nicky Castone. I actually churn within myself with regret.”

  “Then we’ll meet somewhere for a cannoli. Sound good?” Mabel said brightly.

  Mabel pushed her cart to the checkout, in a rush to get home and make her daughter’s cake. She looked back at Peachy, who stood in the harsh light of the dairy case, shaped like the volcano in tintype on the brochure for the trip to Honolulu the Knights of Columbus were offering in their fall circular. Poor Peachy. But not really. Mabel couldn’t feel too sorry for her—she had a swimming pool.

  * * *

  Hortense got off the bus at the Philadelphia Museum. She walked through the sculpture garden, past the fountain, which misted her face, carried by the summer breeze.

  Once inside, she showed her alumni card from Cheyney College, which gained her admittance, picked up a map, and moved into the atrium. The marble room was filled with pale blue natural light that poured in overhead from a skylight. As she moved through to the galleries, where the immaculate white walls were the backdrop for paintings by Caravaggio, she became enthralled by the colors: skies of turquoise, gold clouds with gleaming silver hems, a burgundy landscape speckled with lavender foliage. The characters in the paintings fascinated Hortense; their features reminded her of the colorful Palazzini clan, who showed emotion in matters great and small with the same intensity.

  Hortense did not wander through the galleries, or join a walking tour: she had a specific mission. A traveling show of ancient maps was making its way across America through the museum system and was on view.

  Hortense pulled a newspaper article out of her purse. The Philadelphia Bulletin explained that maps of Italy, dating back to 1350, including those of the Veneto region, would be on display, under glass, because they were very rare, and in delicate condition. The Carole Weinstein exhibit would only be on display for a month. Minna had wanted Hortense to visit Venice someday, but since that was unlikely, the maps would show what she was missing.

  Hortense skimmed past the bright murals, pastel paintings, and sculptures and found the maps. She waited her turn as a group of students huddled around them, stepping aside when a professor and his class from Temple University studied one.

  When the students had moved away from the display case at last, she took out pencil and paper, making a list of the names of the villages of the Veneto. She also wrote down the names of various streets, bridges, and palazzos in the city of Venice before she moved to a diorama depicting Treviso and the farms that crowned the hills at the foot of the Dolomites.
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  Her eye fell on a particular palazzo outside a town called Godega di Sant Urbano. Villa Hortensia, owned by the Borda family, had once been visited by Michelangelo.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Hortense mumbled to herself. She walked over to the window and wrote Villa Hortensia Fine Italian Tomato Sauce.

  Her dream now had a name.

  Hortense got on the bus for the return trip to Charlotte Street, disembarked, and changed to the crosstown. She bounced slightly up and down on her heels as she waited at the bus stop. She had pep, enough to go around and enough to spare. She climbed aboard the crosstown bus, taking a seat by the window. As it turned in to her neighborhood, it stopped at a light. She was looking out the window when she saw her husband on the corner of McDowell, standing alone and checking his watch. Hortense reached up to try to open the window to holler a quick hello, but the latch was stuck. She gave up and sat back down.

  A woman joined Louis. Hortense recognized her from church. It was the new lady—a widow, if she recalled. Hortense’s stomach dropped inside her as she witnessed her husband lean down and lightly kiss the new member of their church on the lips. She rose up out of the bus seat as Louis kissed the woman again.

  Louis Mooney offered the woman his arm, and she took it as naturally as the bus driver had taken Hortense’s fare. Louis had not offered his arm to Hortense in that manner in years. She watched as her husband behaved splendidly, like a duke. It was as if she were observing a man she had never met, displaying manners she had not seen since she was a girl, when her father deferred with similar respect to her own mother.

  Hortense broke out in an anxious sweat. The bus couldn’t move, locked in a traffic jam, as her life flew by. Every mysterious thing about Louis Mooney that had confounded her over the years came into focus. The bus lurched forward back into traffic, careening past the next stop and the next as Hortense’s mind reeled. The litany of excuses Louis had rendered regarding his whereabouts so poorly over the years began to line up in her mind like file folders, one after the other. Because she was a faithful woman, it took her eyes to convince her of the truth. She reached up and yanked the rope to stop the bus, then gripped the handle on the back exit bar tightly, fearing her legs wouldn’t hold her. She could not breathe.