Kiss Carlo

  “Need a lift?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Why the sprint?”

  “I’m late.”

  “Then you need a lift. Get in.”

  “No thank you.”

  Calla sped up her pace to ditch Nicky, but her shoe flew off her foot when she tripped avoiding a gap in the sidewalk. She stumbled and fell forward onto the concrete landing on her knees.

  Nicky pulled over and jumped out of the cab. “I’m sorry,” Nicky said as he retrieved her shoe. “I distracted you.”

  Calla sat on the ground, her stocking ripped at the knee. “I told you I didn’t want a ride.”

  “Okay. All right. Okay.” Nicky handed her the shoe. He put his hands in the air. “Just trying to help.”

  “I don’t need help.” She stood, placed the shoe on the ground, and slipped her foot into it. As Calla walked away from Nicky, he noticed her fine figure, her curves in the simple skirt and sweater. He hadn’t noticed Calla Borelli before, not in this way, or in this light. Maybe his single-minded fidelity to Peachy DePino had kept his eyes in his head, or maybe they had stayed there because before this morning, he had never seen Calla in a skirt and wasn’t even sure she had legs. Besides that, she wasn’t exactly girlish. Calla was either bossing people around, or covered in paint, or struggling to keep a grip on the double-brush buffer on the terrazzo floor in the theater lobby, which bounced like a jackhammer with a short in its cord. She was in constant motion, less like a ballerina than one of the Pep Boys at the service garage.

  “Hey Calla,” Nicky called after her.

  She turned to him, her impatience clear in her rigid posture. “Yes?”

  “Cute haircut.”

  She forced a smile. “Thanks.” She waved him off, more a salute than a good-bye.

  * * *

  Dom and Jo Palazzini’s middle son, Gio, paced nervously back and forth in the garage below, gingerly peering out the open door from side to side without stepping out onto the sidewalk on Montrose. Gio, in his early thirties, was short and shaped like a packing box; the thick wool of the Western Union uniform did him no favors. What God took away in height, He gave him in hair. His black waves were shiny and thick, tamed twice a day with Wildroot.

  Gio stopped long enough to fish the Pall Malls out of his breast pocket, give it a shake and pull a cigarette out of the pack between his lips. It dangled from his mouth as he patted down his pockets in search of matches. When he couldn’t find any, he left the cigarette unlit, buried his hands in his pockets, and continued to pace.

  Hortense watched the familiar scene from her office and shook her head. Gio was in trouble again. No matter what measures were taken, the man couldn’t shake his gambling problem. Nothing cured him—not a stint in the seminary in Spring Grove, where he was thrown out for taking bets on who would be elected pope; not his exemplary military service in the Battle of the Bulge, where he’d fought valiantly but postvictory was caught point shaving in intramural softball and confined to quarters; and not even his love for Mabel, who, as a condition of their marriage, made her husband meet with a priest once a week in hopes a force more powerful than the lure of winning the pot of a random pickup game would force him to change.

  Every manner of rehabilitation had been offered to Gio, but none of them could keep him from poker, pinochle, blackjack, bingo, and other games of chance. If the swallows were intent on Capistrano, the green felt on the tables of Big John Casella’s Social Club called for Gio Palazzini to return every payday.

  Nicky pulled into the garage as Hortense appeared at the top of the stairs with a telegram. “Don’t cut off the motor,” she hollered, waving the envelope.

  “I’ll take it,” Gio offered.

  “Nicky will take it.”

  “I said I will take it, Mrs. Mooney,” Gio insisted.

  “You’re not good off the grid, Gio.”

  “I can read a map as good as anybody.”

  “Since when? You get lost in the garage on the way to the men’s room,” Hortense said impatiently.

  “I need to get out of town,” Gio admitted as the tic over his left eye began to pulse.

  “Not again.” Nicky looked at his cousin.

  “It got away from me. I was at Casella’s—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Nicky put his hand in the air.

  “Who is delivering this telegram? I have a duty,” Hortense bellowed from above.

  “We’ll both go. Get in, Gio.”

  “Swell,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat of No. 4.

  Nicky took the steps two at a time to retrieve the envelope from Hortense.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Hortense whispered. “What if you get tailed?”

  “I’ll hand him over.”

  “If only that were true. Be careful, Nicky.” Hortense gave him the telegram and the folded map of the Pennsylvania interstate. “I mean it. Gio is chock full of nuts—you don’t have to go down with him. In fact, don’t.”

  Gio ducked down in the front passenger seat, his face on his knees, as Nicky tooled through the streets on his way out of the city. As the cab cleared the circle outside the Philadelphia Museum and Nicky turned off onto the highway, Gio sat up.

  “What kind of trouble are you in now?”

  “Ah. Nothing to worry about.” Gio rolled down the window and inhaled the fresh air.

  “You’re on the lam again.”

  “It will pass.”

  “There’s a comfort.”

  “When I hit it, I’m Caesar. When I lose, it’s a problem. It’s a simple equation.”

  “You lose a lot more than you win.”

  “I don’t brag when I win.”

  “Gio, you have to stop. The day will come when some thug isn’t going to be willing to wait for the bank to open on Monday morning so you can pay your marker and they’ll hurt you.”

  “Nah. They wait.”

  “You have a baby on the way. Think of your child. And Mabel.”

  “Mabel’s all right.”

  “For now. But you’re testing her patience.”

  “Don’t talk to me about patience. You’re not even married yet.”

  “I’m almost there.”

  “You want some free advice?”

  “Sure.”

  Gio shook the cigarette pack until one emerged. He offered it to Nicky, who took it. He shook the pack again and pulled one out with his lips. He lit his cigarette with the car lighter, then offered the lighter to his cousin. “Don’t do it.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Marry Peachy.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m looking out for you.”

  “How?”

  “I know what it’s like on the inside. Stay where you are. Stay in your room in the basement with your radio and your freedom. You got a cocoon. A cocoon is nice for one. For two? Not so much. It gets cramped.”

  “I want to get married, Gio.”

  “So did I.”

  “Don’t you love Mabel?”

  “It would be a little late not to.”

  “I agree.”

  “I love her. And she’s having our baby. This is how life goes. And I go with life.”

  “You have some say in the matter. Life doesn’t just unfold like a stack of baseball cards.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since always.”

  “That’s not been my experience. I’ve been told what to do since I was born. If it wasn’t my parents ordering me around, it was my brother Dominic, and now it’s Mabel.”

  “Or the bookies.”

  “Them too. Somebody’s always after me for something. I’m pecked at from morning until night.”

  “Because people want their money.”

  “Regardless. It’s my natural state. Pecked like a seed stick by a flock of starving canaries. That’s me.” Gio ran his hands through his thick hair, then pulled at it, as if dollar bills could have sprouted from his head if he yanked
hard enough. “You can’t change nature.”

  Nicky looked at him. “You could change. You could stop gambling.”

  Gio’s neck snapped so quickly in Nicky’s direction, both of them heard Gio’s vertebrae crack. “I can’t stop. It’s in me.”

  “You have to fight it.”

  “I do. Sometimes. I try. I keep the urge at bay for a while, and then it comes roaring back worse. It’s almost better if I sit in on a few games a week, blow a few bucks and a little steam. It evens out the need. If I hold back, it’s all I think about, and then I give in, and it’s like a levee breaks, and I’m back at the table, consumed to the point of drowning.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m a prisoner of my own thirst to win at all cost. I disgust myself. But it also thrills me, and that’s the rub, cousin.” Gio flicked the stub of cigarette out the window. He leaned back in the seat, pushed the brim of the Western Union cap over his eyes, and fell asleep so quickly, it seemed like a hypnotist’s trick.

  While Nicky marveled at Gio’s ability to sleep while he owed God only knows how much money to the most nefarious characters at the Casella Social Club, he also pitied him. Gio was depleted; his emotional resources were shot, and his bank account was drained. He and Mabel only fought behind closed doors, but the doors at 810 Montrose were so thin everybody knew when Gio had a bad week—and, for that matter, when he had a good one. Nicky imagined it must be devastating to crawl home penniless after losing a week’s pay at one of Casella’s tables instead of rushing home a winner, flush with cash, into the arms of your wife. No wonder Gio didn’t want Nicky to marry; he himself found no comfort in it—at least not when he lost.

  Nicky found nothing on the radio that he cared to listen to as he spun the dial like a safecracker, so he rolled down the window and let the fresh air wash over him as he drove. Nothing woke his cousin, not even the sharp curves Nicky took at the base of the Pocono Mountains.

  Signs with arrows pointing to the cluster of small villages in the folds of the foothills of the Poconos, including East Bangor, Bangor, and Roseto, were lined up on a single pole outside Stroudsburg. Nicky took the turn onto the road over the mountain toward his delivery destination.

  Nicky came upon Roseto suddenly, a wishbone-shaped street taking him right to Garibaldi Avenue, the village’s main drag. An orange sun burst through pink clouds, its rays of gold and fuchsia illuminating a town decorated to welcome an important visitor. The porches of the homes were dressed with hanging baskets bulging with flowers, flags blew in the breeze, the Italian standard next to the American one, and twists of red, white, and green silk crisscrossed over the avenue as far as Nicky could see. There were hand-painted signs everywhere:

  Welcome Ambassador Guardinfante!

  Che Bello Ambasciatore!

  Viva Italia!

  Roseto Valfortore Eterna!

  Nicky drove slowly up the street, stopping at the top of the hill at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, the obvious architectural crown jewel of the town, which had a bell tower, an intricate rose window, and walls of stately gray granite, split with inlays of stained glass in swirls of ruby, emerald, and deepest blue. The church plaza was decorated for a celebration, the steps flanked with topiaries and more baskets of flowers, the handrails braided with ribbons.

  As Nicky parked outside the entrance, the tires grazed the curb, waking Gio.

  “Are we here?” Gio asked, startled.

  “Not yet.”

  Gio looked out the window and squinted at the enormous church and its imposing granite facade. “Did I die?”

  “No, this is just a church. I’m going inside to say a prayer.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you serious, Gio? One of us is in dire need of spiritual intervention.”

  “Sorry to hear you’re going through a tough time.” Gio pulled the cap back over his eyes and went back to sleep.

  Nicky stood inside the vestibule of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The scent of beeswax and incense hung in the air, reminding Nicky of his own church, and of the comfort he found there. Inside, the sanctuary was a baroque showpiece of gold marble with red velvet accents. Pale ivory pillars lined the center aisle. The pews were bedecked with more ribbons, the altar with sprays of red roses, white carnations, and fronds of green. He looked over at the statues of the saints, mounted on the walls along the side aisles. They hovered over the pews like umpires on a baseball diamond.

  Nicky knelt in the last pew. He made the sign of the cross and sat back on the bench, and on to a stack of commemorative booklets for the town Jubilee.

  Nicky opened one and read the story of Roseto, falling into the story of the place as though it were a fairytale. A lot happened in this little burg. There were photographs of the women who worked in the town blouse factories, the priests of the parish, and the Monsignor from nearby Nesquehoning, the nuns of Saint Joseph and the men of Roseto working in the local slate quarries. He tucked the booklet into the breast pocket of his uniform before genuflecting at the end of the pew. On his way out, he picked up a flyer listing the Jubilee’s events by the door, thinking it might be fun to take a drive back to Roseto with Peachy and attend the carnival. It was just the kind of date she enjoyed.

  When Nicky returned to the cab, the slam of the car door didn’t wake his cousin, so he nudged him. “Time to deliver.”

  “Yeah.” Gio sat bolt upright.

  “You never get a decent night’s rest, do you?”

  “I’m a spotty sleeper at best.”

  “Because you stay out too late.”

  “I got a lot on my mind.”

  “It’s a lot of pressure, thinking up new places to hide.”

  “You are correct, cousin.”

  Nicky took the turn onto Truman Street, a cozy block of two-story clapboard houses painted pastel colors, separated by two-family brick homes with colorful striped awnings. Nicky pulled up to 125 Truman, a single-family home, and handed the telegram to Gio.

  Gio adjusted the official cap of the Western Union telegraph service as he sauntered up the sidewalk and rapped on the door. The house’s red-and-tan-striped awning looked sharp and clean against the brick. Nicky made a mental note to purchase awnings for the house he’d picked out for Peachy on Wharton, as they gave the exterior of a house a real flair.

  “We’re good,” Gio said as he got back into the car.

  As they drove to the top of Garibaldi Avenue to take the road out of town, Nicky took in the field roped off for a carnival. There were empty stands with signs advertising torrone candy for sale, sausage and pepper sandwiches, and zeppoles by the bag. Streamers decorated with small triangles of Italian flags flapped in the breeze. An empty Ferris wheel spun slowly in the distance, the sun peeking through its bright blue spokes.

  “Cute town,” Gio said. “Must be celebrating something.”

  Nicky stopped the car at the stop sign and pointed up, not wanting to miss a chance to educate his cousin beyond his expertise in the world of craps. “It’s a Jubilee, Gio.”

  “How do you know?”

  Nicky pointed to the banner that read Welcome to Roseto’s Jubilee.

  “Hey, that guy looks like you.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy on the banner. The faccia. What do you know?”

  Nicky peered up at the banner stretched across the street, welcoming Ambassador Carlo Guardinfante. The painted image of the ambassador, framed in a laurel-leaf medallion, was impressive. Gio was right, the man’s face had the unmistakable shape, forehead, lips, and nose of a Castone.

  “He has your hair. Your Ameri-gan hair.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” Nicky didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so he was fascinated to see a picture of anyone who resembled him.

  “Everybody’s got a twin. Well, we found yours, didn’t we?”

  “I guess we did. And mine wears an impressive uniform. I’m glad if somebody looks just like me; he’s a man of substance.”

/>   “I wish I had a twin,” Gio said wistfully.

  “So you’d have someone to cover for you when you were on the lam?”

  “That’s one consideration. I’d also like a twin to run things by. Talk to him—see if what I’m thinkin’ is what I should be thinkin’.”

  “You already have a guardian angel.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Who do you think gets you out of your scrapes?”

  “Mother luck.” Gio shrugged.

  Nicky drove down Garibaldi Avenue slowly taking in the quaint houses. At midmorning, the streets were empty; the men were at the quarries busting rock, the children were in school, and the women were working in the blouse mills.

  “Cute little place,” Gio commented. “I could never live here.”

  “Not enough action?”

  “Nowhere near enough.”

  “I’m sure they have poker here. They have cards everywhere, you know.”

  “Yeah, but do they make their own cheese? I don’t know if I could live in a place where they don’t make their own cheese.”

  * * *

  The girls of Saint Mary Magdalen de Pazzi’s eighth-grade class were lined up in rows of ten across on Broad Street, leading the annual May Day procession. They wore pink eyelet ballerina-length dresses and carried bright blue prayer books in their white-gloved hands. On their heads, they wore crowns made of pale pink baby roses woven with white satin ribbons that cascaded down their backs, fluttering in the breeze as they walked.

  Father Perlo walked behind the girls, moving from one side of the street to the other, dipping the sprinkler into the holy-water pot and blessing the crowd as he went.

  The May Queen, Carol Schiavone, a fragile thirteen-year-old beauty selected by the nuns, stood proudly with one arm around the statue of the Blessed Mother, under an arch of red paper roses on the flatbed truck the class had decorated for the occasion. Beneath their feet was an Aubusson rug, in rich shades of ruby red, coral, and green borrowed from the convent entrance hall.

  The Schiavone girl wore a formal white gown with long sleeves, a fitted bodice, and skirt made with layers of white tulle that were fluffed to look like a dollop of whipped cream. Anchored atop her deep brown curls, she wore a crown of white roses woven into delicate strands of gold wire, identical to the one on the statue. The Blessed Mother, her plaster robe freshly painted ice blue, loomed against the fawn-colored sky speckled with tufts of clouds.