Why had it taken leaving them to see who they were? Why hadn’t Nicky seen them clearly when he sat at their table every night? He wanted them to love him, and they had, they did, and they always would. Why had it taken Nicky so long to believe it? Nicky Castone had been raised by the Palazzinis, and he’d become one.
Grief and its tangled vines of regret, hopelessness, and fear had grown wild around his heart since the day his mother died. The only way to crush the vines was to kill them at their root, to cut off the source of their growth, the guilt that fed them. Nicky could, at long last, let go of the wish that his life had been different. He let go of the self-recrimination that had haunted him as he blamed himself for his mother’s death.
For years, he’d believed that he wasn’t worthy of a home and a family to call his own. He had been abandoned; the circumstances were unimportant compared to the displacement he lived with because of it. Nicky had learned that the security that comes from knowing where your parents are when you lie down to sleep at night isn’t a given, but a gift. He realized now, as a man, that he had missed out on very little as a boy, because he was loved, and yet even with all the attention and reassurance nothing could replace his mother. Yet in her youthful wisdom his mother had made sure he had what he needed. His mother had chosen her replacement wisely. There was nothing in his heart but gratitude for Aunt Jo, the woman who raised him, and for her husband, who stepped in to father him, and for his cousins, who had been brothers all along.
“You’re famous, Nicky. My sister would be so proud.”
“Are you?” Nicky asked Jo, knowing that her high opinion mattered to him as much.
“More than I can say,” Jo assured him.
Nicky embraced his aunt before turning to the group. “Who’s hungry?”
The Palazzinis began to talk over one another, weighing in where to go, what to eat, and how hungry they were. Nicky ignored the cacophony, the music that had underscored his life growing up in South Philly. He led them out of the studio to the restaurant next door and the reservation he had made for his family. No longer the guest, Nicky was, at long last, the host.
*
The purple leaves on the red maple tree flew off their branches, cascading slowly to the ground outside Mamie’s kitchen window that afternoon. Autumn had come early in Roseto. Mamie snapped the kitchen window shut and opened the valve on the radiator beneath it, releasing a whoosh of warm steam. She placed her hands on the cold metal as her husband, Eddie Davanzo, pushed the door open, handed his wife a loaf of fresh bread from LeDonne’s Bakery, and kissed her on the cheek before hanging up his policeman’s cap.
“I’m warming up the soup.”
“Augie’s staying at school.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“The nuns asked a few of the boys to move some boxes for them. Sister Ercolina said she’d feed them.” Eddie removed his gun and holster and placed it on top of the refrigerator.
Mamie smiled and ladled the soup into a bowl.
“When Augie’s happy, you’re happy,” Eddie remarked.
“You’ll be the same when the baby’s born.” Mamie placed the bowl of tomato and rice soup in front of Eddie. She handed him a cloth napkin before slicing the fresh bread. Eddie slathered the slice with butter and dipped it into his soup. Mamie poured her husband a small glass of red wine. She examined the apples in a wooden bowl in the kitchen window, and chose a ripe red one. She sat down next to her husband and sliced it into sections for him.
“I can’t wait to go back to work,” Mamie admitted.
“When the baby’s born, you won’t miss your job.”
“I think I will.”
“You’re the only woman I ever knew that didn’t complain about working at the mill.”
“I feel like I accomplish something there. How many times can I wax the floor? It’s like an ice rink in here.”
Mamie got up and went into the living room. She turned on the television set. The Philco hummed warming up before the picture appeared. Mamie returned to the kitchen and picked up the cruet of olive oil from the set on the table.
“Is your skin dry?” Eddie asked her.
“A little.” Mamie went back into the living room with the olive oil. The picture on the television was now clear, in shades of gray, black, and white. Jinx Falkenburg was selling a Buick Skylark. Mamie liked her hat. It had a leopard band and a snap brim of black velvet. She leaned in closely, figuring the hat was an original by Helen Rosenberg. When she went back to work, Mamie would buy herself one.
Mamie placed a few drops of olive oil in her palm and rubbed her hands together to warm it. She reached under her maternity blouse and was massaging her stomach gently when a male voice announced, “And now our story.”
The screen filled with the main title Love of Life.
“Eddie, get in here! The show is on!”
“I have to get back to work.”
“You can watch for a minute.”
Eddie stood in the doorway. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Mamie, so he joined her on the couch.
“This is not for me,” he said.
“You like The Lone Ranger.”
“That’s got adventure. This is like going over to my mother’s and we sit at the kitchen table and listen to her and her sisters gossip.”
“It’s a little like that.” Mamie squinted at the set. “There he is!”
“Yep, that’s him,” Eddie confirmed.
“He got thin.”
“Starving artist.”
“Professional actor.”
“You think so?”
“He’s on every day. He’s doing fine.”
“How many people watch this show? Can’t be that many.”
Mamie watched Nicky intently as he played his scene. He had a specific talent, a way of being, that transcended the muddle of the charcoal images. Nicky emerged sharper, more clear somehow; the light hit him, and his face lit up like the moon in full on a black night.
“You miss him?” Eddie asked offhandedly.
“Oh God, no.” Mamie turned to look at her husband and patted his thigh. It had been a few years since the Jubilee, but the memory of the two Carlos remained.
“Why do you watch, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s the only famous person I ever met.”
“But he was an impostor.”
“That sounds criminal.”
“He pretended to be somebody he wasn’t.”
“But he had good reason.” A smile curled Mamie’s lips, as she remembered the moment she first heard Nicky’s funny accent, and the moment he dropped it in private just for her.
“I don’t know what spell he cast over the women around here,” Eddie complained.
“Eddie.”
“I’m curious. I’d really like to know. It’s like he raised women from the dead. A pack of Lazarus ladies in half slips.”
Mamie motioned to Eddie to be quiet as she watched the show. Eddie took the olive oil, warmed a few drops in his hands, and rubbed it onto Mamie’s stomach. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his touch, and the smooth heat of the oil as it penetrated her skin.
“I can feel him kicking,” Eddie said proudly. “Muscle tone.”
“He never stops, this baby.”
“I wonder what he’s thinking in there.”
“He’s thinking he’s safe,” Mamie said, lifting her husband’s hands to kiss them.
“Well, he is. His father is a cop.”
“And he lives in Roseto, where no harm will come to him.”
“Because we take care of our own.”
“That’s what Nicky said.”