“Good for you.”
“Anyhow, I found this one book, the story of the richest man in Araby. He was a sultan. You know, with a silk tent and a harem. He lived in a desert so vast you needed full sun or a full moon to find anything in it. In the middle of that desert, he had a palace. A palace so huge you couldn’t count the rooms. People would visit and get lost in there and show up years later. That’s how vast the inside of this cat’s palace was! Everything inside was made of something rare from some exotic island or foreign land. Elements like fine marble, hand-painted enamel, tiny mosaic tiles made of turquoise and jade. He was so rich, he even had a gold toilet. Gold seat. Gold flushing handle and chain. Gold lid. A golden commode. I sat with that thought for a while. And I thought what it might be like to be so rich that you think you need a gold toilet.
“Common sense tells us that even if a man has great power and genius and cunning and possesses all of the treasures of the Orient, the last thing he needs is a gold crapper, because shit is shit. There’s no way to make it into anything more. But rich people believe they are better than you and me, and therefore everything they make is more important than it actually is, including their own dirt. Now, you keep your wits about you. You remember where you came from, and you’ll be all right. And if you don’t need all that money you’re making, give it to somebody who can use it.”
“I think I can do that.”
“There’s a lot of need out there.”
“I’m sure there is.”
“You have an old friend in dire straits right now.”
“I do?”
“Calla Borelli has to sell the theater.”
“When?”
“Soon. I hear it’s going up for auction. Poor kid.”
*
Nicky held the door for Hortense as they left Quo Vadis.
“I can get the bus back to the Port Authority from here,” Hortense said.
“You’re not taking the bus.” Nicky motioned for a black town car to pull up to the curb. “You get a royal coach, Mrs. Mooney.”
“Do tell.”
“I always wanted to do something nice for you. I never got you that Lilly Daché hat.”
“There’s still time,” Hortense teased, “This isn’t enough, but it’s something.” Hortense reached into her handbag and gave Nicky a jar of Villa Hortensia Fine Italian Tomato Sauce. “This is the very first jar of my tomato sauce. See there? It has a gold number one on the lid. I had that put there just for you. You can use the sauce—just save the jar.”
“It’s a knockout.” Nicky held the bottle like a treasure.
“The label is something else. I had an artist render the canal and the gondola. That’s the real Villa Hortensia right there on the label. I think Minna would like it.”
“Why wouldn’t she? It’s Italian.” Nicky smiled.
“Do you ever think you’ll come home to visit?”
Nicky was glad it was dark out, so Hortense wouldn’t see his face flush with shame. “I have such a crazy schedule.”
“I know. But it would mean a lot to your aunt. You’re one of her own, and you’re the only bird that ever flew out of that nest. I think it traumatized her.”
“They come up for the show. We have dinner.”
“It’s not the same. She wants to do for you. She wants to make the bed for you and do your wash. Press your handkerchiefs. Cook a good meal. Have the whole family around the table telling stories until it’s too late to do anything but go to sleep. That’s the only gift you can give that lady. The gift of you.”
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Mooney.”
“I know you will.”
A group of middle-aged women in hats and gloves tiptoed up behind Nicky. “Mr. Carl?”
Nicky turned to them, smiling warmly. “Yes?”
“We’re your biggest fans!” the ladies shrieked.
Hortense laughed.
“Could we trouble you for an autograph?”
“We never miss Love of Life!”
The women began to snap open their purses to fish out pens and scraps of paper. They spoke over one another, in harmony lines of commentary about Love of Life, characters they liked, others they didn’t, and was Artie the cabdriver going to end up with Alice the nurse? Nicky tucked the jar of tomato sauce under his arm as he signed his name. His most ardent fan, a cheerful woman who was built like a packing box and dressed in a beige wool suit, pulled Nicky close and kissed him on the cheek.
Nicky turned to Hortense and winked. “Don’t wait for me, Mrs. Mooney.”
“All right. I know this thing has a meter.” Hortense nodded as the driver opened the door on the town car for her.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Nicky said as he handed the pen to one of the fans. He went to Hortense and embraced her. Hortense hugged him for a long time, realizing she had never, in all the years of knowing Nicky, ever taken him in her arms since he was a boy. She made up for all the years in that moment by holding him closely and tightly.
Hortense gave Nicky back to his fans and slipped into the car. The driver closed the door behind her. She rolled down the window, wanting to say something more to Nicky, but the gaggle had consumed him once more. There is no fame like the fame that comes from being on the television set. When you appear in someone’s home, you belong to them.
As the car pulled away, Hortense turned to look back at Nicky.
“Do you need to go back?” the driver asked her.
“No sir.”
“You looked like you forgot something.”
“I didn’t forget. But it can wait.”
“You can always call him,” the driver offered.
“Or I could send him a telegram.”
“Do people still send telegrams?” The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. All Hortense could do was smile.
As the town car pulled into traffic, Hortense removed her gloves and hat and placed them on the seat. She smoothed her hair and opened her purse, removing her handkerchief, a gift from Jo Palazzini. In the corner, Jo had embroidered “HM” in glorious purple whipstitches in honor of her retirement. Hortense saved this handkerchief for church and special occasions. Tonight had been a very special occasion.
As Hortense’s eyes filled with tears, she dabbed them with the handkerchief. What she wanted to tell Nicky could wait, because it would always be true, because it always had been true.
Hortense Mooney loved Nicky Castone as though he were her own son. It’s not that he had replaced the one she lost, but the time she spent with Nicky had made the loss of her own son bearable. She wanted him to know that he had healed her.
And, like all good mothers, Hortense had prayed for Nicky’s happiness more than her own. She could see that he had finally found the thing he loved to do, and he was happy. It filled her heart to bursting.
*