Theater was the volatile, dangerous, and restless sea in the world of all art forms. Depending upon mood and context, emotion and delivery, the play, as written and directed, could change night to night, it could transform, in color, shade, and meaning; it could die or explode, dazzle or fizzle, surprise and delight, anesthetize and bore, same script, same actors, didn’t matter, you never knew. That mutability was the very thing that had hooked Nicky Castone. He loved being near the danger, observing it from the wings. Even though curtains, a podium, the script in a binder, and a small bright desk light separated him from the thrill of what was happening onstage, he was grateful to be close enough to the fire to feel the heat.
Nicky’s real life was predictable. After his mother died, his life fell into place as he fell into the world of the Palazzinis. Army training wasn’t that different from the drill on Montrose Street. Life, when he returned home, was one of order and routine: at work, pick up, collect the fare, drop off; at home, macaroni on Tuesday nights, fish on Fridays, and Sunday dinners after ten o’clock mass. But inside Borelli’s, he reveled in uncertainty, shifts of mood, and displays of emotion. Nicky ran on the highs of adrenaline, the lows of disappointment, and the moments of triumph, and he didn’t do it alone. He had a company of actors and a crew of artisans to share it with, a theatrical family. They relied on one another, as he had his fellow soldiers in the war. A working life in the theater was harder than one in the military in his estimation. As a soldier, he’d worried about being killed. In the theater, death came if you were dull. Working at Borelli’s forced Nicky to ponder where feelings originate, and to watch as the director coached the actor to challenge the audience with that discovery through the story. It was the only place in his life where that pursuit was even possible.
*
Peachy DePino wandered into the theater, holding her ticket. She looked up at the ceiling, squinted at the stage, while she waited at the top of the vom for the usher. The usher took her ticket and led Peachy to her seat. She sat down and wriggled out of her Easter coat, a light pink voile swing number with a ruffled collar. Underneath, she wore a white cotton blouse and dark pink cotton skirt. She adjusted her pink silk cocktail hat, with a large organza camellia over one ear, and smoothed her hair.
Peachy was a feral Philly girl, thin from the war and nerves. Her black hair was rolled under in marcelled waves, her brown eyes were so large they took up half of her face. Her nose was Calabrian in length and Roman sharp, a combination of her father’s and mother’s prominent features. When she smiled, anything within a block inside Bella Vista lit up. Nicky had fallen in love with Peachy because of that smile.
Nicky watched his fiancée as she read the program. She was a fast reader who went to the library once a month and picked up the latest bestsellers; she called herself somebody in the know. However, on this particular night, she wasn’t. Peachy had no idea why Nicky had invited her to the theater.
Sitting in the seat and trying to appear as if she belonged, she looked around for a clue that might help her understand why Nicky had left a single ticket for her at the box office. She removed her wristwatch and gently wound the gear with her thumb and forefinger as she waited for the curtain to rise. Nicky’s heart filled with feeling for her as he observed her all alone, as if warm pancake syrup flowed through his veins.
“Hey, I’m going to get into place.” Tony turned and pointed to his back. “Give me a zip, will ya?”
Nicky zipped up Tony’s costume, a gold tunic he wore over pale green tights and brown boots.
“How’s the house?”
“Orchestra is full,” Nicky told him, fudging a bit. But Tony was just nearsighted enough to believe him.
“Great.”
In character as Orsino, the Duke, Tony strode onto the stage and took his position on the set, a castle on the island of Illyria. The trompe l’oeil windows and doors painted on the flats gave the illusion of dimension while hues of gold and soft coral suggested opulence. Tony jumped up and down on his toes and shook out his hands. He rotated his head on his neck to loosen up his vertebrae.
The cast drifted up from the dressing rooms, taking their places in the wings to await their cues, bringing with them the lingering scent of last cigarettes, talcum powder, and Jack Daniel’s straight in a paper cup.
Hambone Mason swore he only needed liquor to bolster his confidence onstage at night, but evidently he also needed it to get through tax season at his accounting office during the day. The bald sixty-year-old leaned forward and touched his toes, reached his arms high above his head, inhaled, and exhaled, misting the stage-left wings with his tap-room breath.
As the actors joined Tony onstage, Calla manned the pulley for the curtain and Enzo Carini took his place on his mark downstage right. When the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose, he held a trumpet up to his lips. The follow spot found him as he blew a stately flurry of notes before he announced to the audience:
“Twelfth Night, or What You Will.”
The stage lights pulled on until the set glistened. Tony turned downstage and walked into a puddle of intersecting pale blue beams and began to perform the opening speech. Nicky followed the lines in the script using a ruler to keep his place.
The pace of the play that evening was brisk. The actors were on top of their cues, the backstage crew was prepared, and it seemed all was well in Illyria and Borelli’s.
As the scenes progressed, the actors and actresses moved like the gears on a large set of gang mowers, coming on and off the stage left or right into the wings with precision. By the first intermission, Nicky had finally caught his breath. He helped the crew move the flats, flipping the castle around to reveal a pastoral setting of rolling hills. Nicky was so consumed with the details of the production that he hadn’t had a chance to gauge Peachy’s reaction to the play, but he couldn’t wait to hear her thoughts.
“How’s it going?” Calla whispered behind Nicky as he assumed his stance behind the podium.
“Might be the best performance yet.”
Calla nodded in agreement.
“Homestretch, kids,” Nicky said softly to the actors in the wings.
The company took their places for the final scene of the fourth act, which left the last act in the capable hands of Tony and the great Norma Fusco Girolamo, the leading lady of the company, who was playing Viola.
Nicky did a quick head count. “Where’s Menecola?” he asked.
“Yell down for Menecola,” Tony turned to the prop master.
Josie, who was playing Maria the maid, clopped up the steps. “Peter Menecola left.”
“What do you mean? Is he outside?” Nicky asked.
“He’s gone. His mother’s knees locked on her at Novena. She tripped on the choir steps, wiped out the tenor section like dominoes, and broke her hip in the fall. Here.” She handed Calla his costume.
Calla turned to Enzo.
“I can’t go on for him. I’m already covering for Paulie Gatto as the priest in this scene. Remember he’s out? Gall bladder surgery.” Enzo pulled the black cassock of the priest over his head.
“Cut the scene,” Hambone suggested.
“We can’t cut the scene. It’s the marriage of Sebastian and Olivia.” Nicky was frustrated as he flipped through the script.
“Nicky, you do it,” Tony proposed.
“From here?”
“No, onstage. Act. You know the words. Play Sebastian.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Good idea,” Calla said.
“I’m not doing it.”
“You have to.”
“I’m not an actor.”