“It’s still bad luck.”
“Hey. After all these years, I’d call it good luck—Nicky and Calla collected enough to spring him.”
*
Calla rolled over in bed. She’d woken up to the scent of bacon frying, eggs being scrambled, and buttery toast.
“I have the best husband.”
“It’s always a good idea to stand next to Gio when you want to be head of class.”
“Poor Gio.” Calla sat up in bed.
“Good thing we had la boost. Cash at the ready is evidently a requirement in night court.”
Calla got out of bed and went to her husband. She put her arms around him. “I could stay here forever.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I bought a house.”
“Nicky, I don’t want a house.”
“I know.”
“I want to live right here. You love this place too, don’t you?”
“This is very bohemian. We’re theater people, so good for us. We’re like jazz. Or the beat poets. We live in the crawl space of the theater. What could be more romantic?”
“I want to keep things simple.”
“I know you do.”
“I got a bad taste when my sisters divvied up my parents’ stuff. I don’t want a life of material things.”
“We won’t need much in this house that I looked at.”
“Is it small?”
“It’s not too big.”
“I don’t like ostentatious.”
“I understand. Why don’t you eat your breakfast? Get dressed, and I’ll show it to you. We still have time to wiggle out of the deal.”
“We do?”
“I’m never going to do anything to make you unhappy. Except maybe buy the wrong house.”
When Calla and Nicky jumped into his car, she looked back at the theater. She told herself she would look at the house Nicky found, politely thank him, but she had no intention of ever leaving Borelli’s. It was her heirloom, her lamp, clock, crystal, and formal set of dishes, the living meaning of the lives of her parents. She was one with their memory whenever she was inside the theater.
Nicky drove up Broad Street, remembering his days as a hack, and how he’d slow down at corners, hoping for a fare. The reflex remained, and occasionally caused him some aggravation when he tapped the brakes at a green light when a corner fare was imminent, even though he was no longer in the business, and there was no meter inside the convertible.
Nicky took a familiar left turn and slowed down. Calla sat up in her seat. She looked at him, the street, and the row of houses.
“You’re not serious, are you, Nicky?”
Nicky pulled up in front of 832 Ellsworth Street and stopped the car. The gray porch still sloped. The flowerbeds were still lousy. The walkway had a crack in the concrete that was a few feet long, with a chunk missing at the gate. The wood planks on the porch needed paint, and the whole house needed new windows. The elm tree in the side yard had died of blight; where there once had been bright green branches, there were now gray antlers.
“But the house sold.”
“I bought it back for you.”
Calla buried her face in Nicky’s neck.
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s all yours.”
“I’m afraid if I open my eyes, it will be gone.”
“And I’m afraid if we don’t get to work on this old barn, it will fall down from neglect.”
Calla opened her eyes. Her home was where it had always been, from the day she was born. She had lost it, when it seemed she had lost everything.
“You must really love me,” she said.
“You’ll never know.” Nicky kissed her. “We’re home.”
Epilogue
November 1953
South Philly
There was an oak tree shading the lot on Montrose that had caused the Palazzini brothers their trouble in 1933. So many dead branches had been cut away through the years to save the tree, its thick trunk was scarred with flat circles where the saw had severed the limbs. But somehow the mighty oak had survived, and there were plenty of new branches with bright green leaves and nut pods that shook like beads as the wind blew through.
Dom and Mike stood on the sidewalk, surveying the lot that had caused the rift that led to the fight that marooned them on the island.
“I passed this lot every day, you know,” Dom said after a while.
“It gave me pleasure to know it.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“But not anymore.”
“Why now, Mike?” Dom looked at his brother, who in his opinion had held up pretty good for a man of his age. Maybe there was something to living it up and enjoying life that put a glow in a man’s cheeks and a certain pep in his deliberate step. Maybe vacations were good for people; maybe rest and a proper period of relaxation shored them up for the hard work that awaited them when they returned. Whatever the case, Dom could see that the years had blown past his brother, barely ruffling that thick white hair. The same had not been true for him. Dom wore the years with more lines on his face than the bus map of Philadelphia.
“I started thinking about Ma.” Mike kicked a small pebble with his shoe, away from the lot and into the gutter in the street.
“Yeah?”
“I got these daughter-in-laws—nice girls, don’t get me wrong, but it’s all about their families, their holidays, their mothers. I’m a check-cashing service. I might as well sit in a glass booth and disburse funds all day instead of sitting in my lounger. The men don’t matter so much as life goes on.”
“I get you,” Dom agreed.
“Maybe it’s for the best. I thought Ma was more important than Pop. Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Pop had problems, so I don’t know if I can answer that. But Ma, she was a lady. We had nothing, you remember, but she made it seem like we had everything. She made Pop out to be a hero, like one of the Knights of the Round Table. He had sacrificed everything to come to America to provide for us. He was building bridges.”
“We thought he personally built America by himself, that he alone made transportation possible.” Mike smiled. “A welder with a union card.”
“You got to give him credit. Pop was brave because he worked high in the air without a net. And he sent every penny home to her. That stuck with me.”
“He missed her too, Dom.”
“You think so?”
“How could he not?”
“He had enough lady friends after she died.”
“He was lonely,” Mike reasoned.
“You always made excuses for him.”
“I probably always will.”