Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “That’s how you get good.” Calla picked up a stack of flyers. “Could you do us a favor and take some of these and hand them to your customers?”

  “That’s only about sixty people a day.”

  “It would help.”

  “Why not think bigger?”

  “You want to take all the flyers?”

  Nicky picked up the large cardboard posters advertising the show stacked on the table. “I’ll ask my uncle if we can put the posters on the cabs. We’re all over South Philly. I think that would get the word out faster.”

  “You’d do that?”

  Nicky nodded and tucked the posters under his arm. “I’ll see you Saturday night.” He pushed through the door.

  Once Nicky was outside, Calla could hear him whistling. She heard the motor turn in the cab, followed by the crunch of the gravel as Nicky drove off. She flipped the switches in the light box, stepped outside the door, and fished for her ring of keys to lock it. The key clicked in the lock, and when it did, her heart broke. She couldn’t imagine closing the theater for good but she also was running out of ideas about how she might save it.

  * * *

  Nicky drove back to the garage slowly that night, taking his time. He needed to think about what he had learned in rehearsal before joining the family on Macaroni Night. His stomach growled. The thought of Aunt Jo, serving the spaghetti, lifting it with two long serving forks hot from the bowl, high in the air in a graceful movement like an orchestra conductor, made his mouth water. He yawned as he pulled into the garage and parked over the big red 4.

  Peachy was sitting on the office steps wiping tears from her eyes. He jumped out of the cab.

  “Are you all right?” Nicky said, running to her.

  She looked up at him, her black eyes charcoal pits where her mascara had run. She looked like Theda Bara in a silent picture, forlorn, miserable, and all eyes. “Where were you?” She leaned toward him. “Beer breath. You’ve been drinking.”

  “I had one beer.”

  “We had an appointment at the bridal registry at Wanamaker’s tonight.”

  “Oh, Peach, I’m so sorry! I forgot.”

  “Nobody could find you. Not your aunt, your uncle, or the colored lady.” Peachy pointed up to the dispatch office. “Nobody knew where you were. Where were you?”

  “I was at the theater.”

  She put her head in her hands. “I thought they fired you.”

  “I was cast in the play. I did pretty good the night you saw me and . . .”

  Peachy cut him off. “You’re in the play?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t ask me?”

  “It happened so fast.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t do this on purpose. I just forgot to tell you.”

  “Nick, we got to register. Silverware. Glassware. Goblets. Linens. Folderol!”

  “Honey, you know what you want. The Lady Carmine plates.”

  “Carlyle.”

  “Just sign up for it. What do you need me for?”

  “I didn’t get engaged to do all of this alone. The point of engagement and marriage is to be one, to do everything together. That’s the joy of life. The merge! I want you to see the stuff—hold it in your hands, because that’s what you’ll be eating from and drinking out of and using in our home for the rest of your life.”

  “But I trust your taste, Peach.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t understand why we even have to register at all. Just let people give us whatever they want.”

  Peachy’s eyes bulged out of her head in disbelief. “Stop right there, Nicholas. We will have three hundred and fifty guests including Canadians who won’t know what to give us, and if we don’t pick the stuff ourselves, we’ll wind up with a pile of crapola from Woolworth’s! We will be lowballed with pressed glass when we deserve lead crystal! It happened to Rosemary DeCara when she didn’t register. She lives in house with a junkpile of dreck she didn’t pick. And she kicks herself to this day for not making the effort.”

  “I’ll go with you tomorrow,” Nicky said wearily.

  “You have to quit the play. You can’t work and have that hobby and be a fiancé. It’s too much.”

  “Let me take you home.”

  “I have my father’s car.”

  “You’re in no condition to drive.”

  “I can drive. I dried up. I wept like my aunt Shush who was put in an asylum because she couldn’t stop crying. Okay?”

  “That was the aunt with the goiter?”

  “Yeah. The one with the neck of a linebacker. I was so traumatized I imagined you bludgeoned on the side of the road like an animal, hairless and abandoned, dead, nothing left but the carcass and that got me through.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better, Peach.”

  “I don’t want you to feel better. I want you to feel lousy, so this never happens again.”

  “It won’t.”

  “This is supposed to be the happiest time in my life.” Peachy threw up her hands. “And it’s been the bleakest. I walk in a vale of tears. Details eat away at my gut like carbolic acid. I can’t eat. And I can’t sleep, because I’m wondering about you. It’s been a black and dismal period. And you are not helping me, Nicholas Castone!” Peachy dabbed away the fresh tears.

  “It will change, Peachy.”

  “It had better.” She dried her tears with the handkerchief that was tucked in the cuff of her coat. The white linen square was covered in splotches of black mascara. “Because I am not going to live like this.”

  “We won’t.”

  “Kiss me.”

  Nicky kissed Peachy and helped her to her feet. “Are you sure I can’t drive you home?”

  “No, I’m okay. I’ll call you tomorrow with the reschedule.”

  Nicky walked his fiancée out onto Montrose Street. He opened the door of the car, and she climbed in. She looked so small behind the wheel, with her tiny body and little hands. Even her head looked small. Her hat, a cluster of pink leaves, lay flat against her head. The hat had a green velvet stem protruding from the crown, which made Peachy’s head look like a hazelnut.

  Nicky stood on the sidewalk for a long time after Peachy drove off, thinking about what he had done. It was true. He kept forgetting Peachy. What was happening to him? What was happening to them? And why wasn’t he putting Peachy first? She had never done anything but love him. Why wasn’t that enough?

  * * *

  The Palazzini women were gathered in the family kitchen preparing dinner while the baby Dominic IV pulled himself to stand in his playpen in the mudroom. Elsa checked on her son through the open door. Nonna, Jo’s mother, was asleep in a rocking chair under an afghan in the dining room. Elsa looked in on her before turning back to the stove.

  As the Palazzini boys married, their wives folded into life inside 810 Montrose Street under the direction of Aunt Jo, who did her best to make them feel at home but was also clear that they had a stake in it, therefore the girls had responsibilities. Elsa, Mabel, and Lena had to cook, clean, garden, and do laundry for their husbands and themselves, as well as pitch in with the family meals.

  The five-story house was assigned by age, with the oldest closest to the ground. The first floor held the common kitchen, dining room, and entrance parlor. The second floor had the most rooms, configured with four small bedrooms and one bathroom.

  Aunt Jo and Uncle Dom were in one room; Nonna had another; and Dominic, Elsa, and the baby shared the other two. The third floor, where Mabel and Gio lived, had two rooms. Because Mabel was expecting, the second room was in the process of being turned into a nursery. They shared one bathroom with the fourth floor, where Nino and Lena lived in one large room. A staircase ran from the entrance parlor to the top of the house. Mail and messages were left on the steps, as were baskets of laundry to be carried up and down for convenience.

  In the kitchen, situated in the back of the house on the main fl
oor, the enormous black enamel pasta pot full of water was bubbling. Elsa added salt, which caused the water to crest into foam. “Lena, please tell Mom the water is ready.”

  Lena opened the basement door and hollered down to their mother-in-law, “We got a full boil, Ma.”

  “On my way,” Aunt Jo hollered back.

  “Look who’s here. The phantom Nicky,” Mabel said as she sliced the fresh bread and dumped it into a wooden basket lined with a starched cloth napkin.

  Nicky took a seat as Lena prepared the crudités: olives, celery, fennel, and carrots in a cut glass dish.

  “You look good, Mabel.”

  “I’m an ice truck.”

  “Don’t say that, Mabel,” Lena said supportively.

  “Look at my face. It’s like a wheel of Parm.”

  “You still have your cheekbones,” Nicky assured her.

  “Where? Who are you kidding? I picked up a book of nursery rhymes for the baby. He’s going to have a mother that looks like the dish that ran away with the spoon.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Elsa said quietly.

  “You hardly gained any weight with little Dominic. You’re long and slender like Dovina, like one of those exotic models from Europe. Probably because you are from Europe. They make them lean over there.”

  Elsa smiled and picked up the salad bowl to take into the dining room. She pushed through the doors gracefully.

  “Plus she has an air of mystery,” Mabel said softly. “War bride.”

  “We’re all war brides,” Elsa said as she returned, catching her sister-in-law gossiping.

  “Sorry, Elsa.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. We all married soldiers, so we’re all war brides.”

  “That’s a good point,” Nicky said. “And now you’ll all be peacetime mothers.” He fished an olive out of the jar and ate it. “The family expands.”

  “Along with my waist.” Mabel patted her stomach.

  “It doesn’t matter what size you are. You look sharp,” Lena assured Mabel.

  “Thanks to my wardrobe. My mother made me twelve maternity tops—all from the same pattern. Simplicity Number 512, if you’re interested. One day you’ll see me in gingham checks, the next day stripes, a few solids here and there, and even florals that will be easy to convert into table skirts when this is over. So far, I’ve only worn this one, and I’m already sick of them.”

  “They’re cute,” Lena chirped.

  “You think so? I’ll save them for you. Have you ever seen a collar this big? My mother said if you have a big collar on a maternity blouse, people look at your face and not lower. I say they look at the big collar.”

  “All the magazines are showing pilgrim collars and mutton sleeves,” Lena offered.

  “Gio thinks I look like one of the guys that signed the Declaration of Independence. But what does my husband know about fashion?”

  “Not much,” Nicky confirmed.

  “Go easy. The man is color-blind. Anyhow, it’s impossible to look stylish in this condition. They should sell graduation gowns in the maternity department. Save us all a lot of heartache. ”

  “And it would encourage you to have a smart baby,” Nicky said, chewing a slice of the fennel.

  “I’m not worried about that. Our baby will be very good at arithmetic. Have you ever watched Gio take bets? His mind holds more numbers than a bingo drum.”

  “How are we doing, girls?” Aunt Jo pushed through the basement door carrying a tray of homemade cavatelli. Elsa took the tray from her and carefully folded the pasta into the pot of boiling water.

  “Call the boys,” Aunt Jo instructed Nicky.

  “Will do.” Nicky moved to leave the kitchen.

  “You don’t kiss your aunt when you haven’t seen her in weeks?”

  “It’s been a couple days, Aunt Jo,” Nicky said, but embraced her and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re very needy.”

  “You’re her favorite,” Elsa assured him.

  “Yes, he is,” Aunt Jo agreed.

  “You love him more than your own sons,” Lena teased.

  “At least as much. Right, Aunt Jo?” Nicky gave her another quick hug.

  “At least.”

  Jo went into the mudroom and lifted her grandson out of the playpen and brought him into the kitchen.

  “He needs a bottle, Elsa.”

  “It’s ready.” Elsa lifted the bottle of milk out of the warmer and tested it on her hand on the way to handing it to her mother-in-law.

  “May I feed him?” Jo asked.

  “Of course.”

  Jo took her grandson into the dining room as Mabel, Lena, and Elsa worked in sync to bring Macaroni Night, always on Tuesday evenings, to the table. Elsa lifted the cavatelli off the stove and drained it in a colander in the sink. Lena prepared the pasta bowl with grated cheese, as Mabel arranged the meat platter with fragrant Italian sausage, delicate meatballs, and succulent pieces of pork smothered in the marinara.

  Elsa ladled the thick tomato gravy onto the cavatelli in the bowl as Lena cranked fresh Parmesan cheese over the mixture. Elsa lifted the bowl and carried it into the dining room. Her sisters-in-law followed, carrying the platters of meat, bread, and salad. Dominic poured homemade red wine into the glasses. Jo leaned down and kissed her ninety-two-year-old mother on the cheek before taking her place at the head of the table. She cradled her grandson in her arms, and fed him a bottle.

  Gio entered from the living room, dressed up in an Italian suit, a silk shirt, and a flashy yellow tie, followed by Nino, who wore the gray pants of the Western Union uniform, with his pale blue work shirt opened at the collar.

  Nino was lean, with the sparkling black eyes, regal nose, and full lips of the Sicilian side of the family. The brothers took their seats at the table as Dominic poured them each a glass of wine.

  “Elsa, can he try a little of the cavatelli tonight?”

  “No. We started him on bananas today. We’ll see how he does.” Elsa kissed her husband on the cheek.

  “You’re starving my grandson,” Dom thundered as he entered from the parlor. “Here,” he said as he handed a small box to Lena. “I was on the turnpike today. Stopped at Stuckey’s. Turtles for later.”

  “Thanks, Pop.” Lena took the box into the kitchen.

  “What, no ice cream?” Jo asked.

  “I didn’t have time to stop at Howard Johnson’s.”

  “I like their saltwater taffy,” Lena offered.

  “Well, tonight you get turtles.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  Dom took his seat at the opposite end of the table from Jo. “I ate pastina when I was two weeks old. Jo, have your mother instruct Elsa on the proper way to feed Italian babies.”

  “My mother doesn’t remember.” Jo winked at Elsa.

  “If she could, she’d tell you to give him pastina,” Dom barked.

  “Pop, he’s half Polish, so we’re going to wait to give him the pastina,” Elsa said agreeably.

  Nonna shifted in her chair by the server. Mabel tucked the afghan around her feet. Nonna sighed. Her health had been compromised by a stroke she endured during the war.

  “Do whatever you want.” Dom held up his hands in surrender, not meaning it. “My own mother, who rests with the angels, mashed up whatever was lying around and added milk to it and put it in a bottle and fed it to me just like that. She had to make the nipple hole bigger with a safety pin, but you do what you got to do when it comes to building strong bones in a boy.”

  “Thank you, Pop.” Elsa placed her napkin on her lap.

  Lena shot Mabel a look. Lena was a newlywed who would do whatever Pop ordered. Elsa had a way of doing what she wanted without directly confronting their father-in-law. Mabel and Lena considered the way Elsa handled Pop an art form.

  “Gio,” Dom said, turning toward his son, “Jack Carrao came to see me today.”

  “What for?” Gio swigged his wine.

  “I renewed the insurance on the shop,
and he told me that you’ve been playing cards over at Casella’s.”

  “It’s strictly a leisure activity, Pop.”

  “It can be, if you’re playing for pennies.”

  “I do a little wagering here and there. That’s all.”

  “Jack said the pot went to twelve hundred dollars Saturday night.”

  “Gio!” Mabel sat back in her chair. “That’s a house!” She threw her hands in the air, which made the collar on her maternity blouse flip up, nearly poking her in the eye. She patted it down. “You said you weren’t playing cards anymore.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t get in deep, honey.”

  “It stops today,” Dom ordered. “We aren’t the kind of people who work all day and piss away our profits at night. We work, we save, we live. Right, Jo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So knock it off, Gio.”

  “Okay, Pop.”

  Mabel stared at her husband across the table. Gio didn’t meet her gaze; instead he cut the sausage on his plate into thin circles before spearing them, putting them in his mouth, and swallowing without chewing as if they were pills.

  “I made a deal with Fiore’s Funeral Home today,” Nino announced.

  “You booked Gio’s wake?” Dominic joked.

  “That’s only in the event Pop kills him.” Nino played along.

  “Or I do,” Mabel said as she buttered her bread.

  The family laughed.

  “I’m not laughing,” Gio snarled.

  “What deal did you make, Nino?” Dom asked.

  “He needs an extra sedan from time to time for his bigger funerals, and he’s been using Pronto’s.”

  “Don’t say that name in this house. Who names a company after nobody?”

  “You took the Palazzini name, Dominic. It’s been sixteen years. Give it a rest already,” Jo said calmly.

  “Anyhow, Fiore told me the quality is not so great, and he’d like to use us. So I said we’d appreciate the business, and he’s coming to see you.”

  Dom shook his fork at Gio. “See that? See your brother? He brings business home, not consternation. I want you to clean up your act, Gio. I grew up with my father the bookmaker, banging on the party wall, tapping out bets on Christmas Eve. I remember a raid at Midnight Mass that scarred me. When you see your priest hauled off in handcuffs, you question your faith, believe you me. And when God’s replacement here on earth is parked in a prison cell next to your own father, your gut twists like a python. I don’t want the future generations in this family to live with that shroud over their heads.”