“Not to me. The words change colors every time a different actor interprets them.”
“You’re nimble with a love scene. A lot of practice?”
“Just enough to be grateful.”
“You don’t have a nice girl?”
“I was engaged for seven years.”
“What happened?”
“I didn’t love her enough.” Nicky wrung out the mop and pushed the pail off to the side.
“And then you heard the siren’s call of the American theater.”
“I always leave that part out,” Nicky admitted.
“I’m working on something I think you’d be right for.”
“A play?”
“Not exactly. It’s a teleplay.”
“Television?”
“I’m directing something new in Midtown. It’s a saga. We film it every day. They’re very popular. We tape them, like a movie, but they go on the air live like the theater.”
“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.”