Nicky walked back to his apartment, carrying Mrs. Mooney’s jar of spaghetti sauce. He moved through the revolving door, past the white-gloved doorman, and took the brass-trimmed elevator to the heavens, the twenty-first floor. He entered his apartment.
Ralph Stampone had decorated it in black, white, and silver in the Art Deco style, sparing no expense. Every surface gleamed, reflecting the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bridges of the East River that Nicky had driven across daily as a cabdriver. He often shook his head in wonderment that his first home in the sky reminded him of his humble start.
Nicky put the jar of sauce on the counter of his modern kitchen. It was outfitted with all the latest equipment, which he hardly used. Life as a bachelor was sad that way. He could make anything he desired in that kitchen but it was no fun eating alone. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket. He hung both in the closet, which was full of the latest shirts, ties, and suits from Bronzini’s, where all the men who worked in television shopped for their clothes. He rearranged the marble ashtray, the sculpture of gold-leafed Capri coral, and the small stack of velvet-covered Shakespeare plays that Ralph had artfully arranged on the black lacquer coffee table, before he picked up the phone.
“Aunt Jo? Did I wake you?”
“No, not at all. Are you all right?”
Nicky chuckled to himself. If he wasn’t all right, the last person he would alarm was his aunt. “I’m fine. I was thinking of coming down this weekend.”
“You mean it? Everyone would love to see you.”
“If the family gets any bigger, you’ll have to move to another city.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It is. Now, listen, Auntie. Don’t fuss.”
“Of course not.”
“And don’t tell anybody.”
She squealed in delight.
Nicky hung up the phone. He went to the window and looked out over the city. He smiled to himself as he looked down and saw rows of yellow cabs cluttering the black streets. The cab, once his life, his job, and the way he moved through the world.
He had a spectacular view. This cityscape was exactly what he had pictured in his dreams when he was living in the basement on the Lower East Side. But tonight, as it lay before him, dazzling in its sharp, black lines, frosted glass windows, and angled rooftops, even New York City wasn’t enough—or perhaps it had been plenty, and Nicky had simply had his fill. Whatever the case, the answers were no longer here, in the stacks of black buildings floating in the clouds high in the night sky or even on the streets below, where if a young man was lucky enough, he found himself a part of things.
The secret of life, the joy of everything, lay elsewhere. There was little wonder in the way the moon rose behind the skyline and over the East River, as though it were a pearl loosed from a string of them. There was so much beauty, but it did not belong to him any longer.
It was time to go home again.
12
Nicky drove through the familiar streets of his old neighborhood in South Philly in his custom Ford convertible, painted the color of a stick of Dentyne gum. It was fully loaded with whitewall tires, silver chrome enhancements, and a dove-gray leather interior. A car for a star.
When Nicky turned on to Montrose Street, his heart sank. Aunt Jo had failed to tell him that there was a street fair blocking the house and garage. He squinted, trying to figure out how to navigate through the throng.
But it wasn’t a street fair or a holiday. It wasn’t the anticipation of a parade going by, with neighbors standing on their porches awaiting the spectacle. These folks were waiting for something else entirely, someone else: Nick Carl, their own Nicky Castone, who had left South Philly to seek his fortune and found it on the television set in New York City. Many had left South Philly to make it big, and some disappeared down the drain, but Nicky had put a stopper in it, filled the tub with gin, and was floating on top, with the rest of the winners from the neighborhood, including Buddy Greco, Gus Cifelli, and Al Martino.
Nicky was embarrassed by the attention but also moved by it, as his family and neighbors turned out to welcome him home, waving small American flags. He felt overwhelmed as he drove his car at a crawl through the crowd. The familiar faces gathered around, reaching for him, whistling, applauding, and blowing kisses, as though it were Palm Sunday, he was you-know-who, the small American flags were green branches, and his Pontiac was a donkey.
Aunt Jo stood on the steps of the porch of 810, her family behind her, the small army with which Nicky had locked steps all of his life. Of course she had not followed his instructions. Why would she? This celebration was as much about her love for her family as it was for Nicky, because when one Palazzini made it big, they all did.
*
Nicky parked his car outside the Borelli Theater in the same spot where he used to park his bike. He pushed the stage door open to find his fellow actors in costume, ready to perform the matinee. The company swarmed around him. He was the beacon, the Saint Malachy of this band of players, the one who made it out, made it to New York, survived, got cast in a television show, and was exalted in the art form, and no longer had to work two jobs in order to act in a show. He made his way through the house and out into the lobby, where Rosa DeNero was eating a doughnut in the ticket booth.
“How’s the house?” Nicky asked her through the ticket window.
Rosa dropped her doughnut. “Nick Carl.”
“Just plain Nicky to you, Rosa.”
“I cannot believe it.” She ran her fist delicately over her bottom lip to remove the powdered sugar.
“It took a television soap opera for you to believe in me?”
Rosa nodded in awe.
“How many tickets have you sold?”
“Thirty-three.”
“How’s the mez?”
“I haven’t sold a seat up there this entire run.” She leaned close to Nicky through the glass. “The days are numbered here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything is falling apart. Tax man came through. Or maybe it was a plumber. We’re not sure. All we know is that there’s no money to fix anything and no money coming in. It’s just too much for one woman to handle. That’s all I can say.”
“Did you ever get that washing machine?”
“I did. But now I’m saving up for the dryer.”
“When one dream is realized, there is always another.”
“Oh brother, that’s the truth.” Rosa went back to her doughnut.
Nicky took the stairs down to the basement, where he found Hambone Mason standing on a stool as Calla mended the hem on his tunic.
“Nick, old chum!” Hambone threw his arms around Nicky.
“Hambone, old rum!” Nicky held his breath until Hambone released him from his grip. “You old gin hound,” he teased.
“Only on show nights.” Hambone winked. “A little cheer keeps me clear. Can’t remember my lines without it.”
“You’re good to go.” Calla patted Hambone on the back. He grabbed his ruff, snapping it around his neck as he climbed the stairs to the wings.
Calla rolled the empty rack into the hallway. “Welcome back, Nick. Are you going to stay and watch the show?”
“Evidently I have my choice of seats. Anywhere in the house.”