The room was a copy of a classic dining room in a Main Line mansion that had been modeled after the original decorated by Colefax & Fowler in London. Jo might have wanted something formal, but for Nancy, that meant grand. In 1932 it was decorated with the best furniture the Palazzinis could afford, a polished Georgian-style cherry-wood dining table and matching chairs. The seats were upholstered in gold-and-white-striped velvet, which Nancy and Jo installed themselves. The walls were covered in gold-flocked wallpaper hung by Dom and Mike. The Last Supper, framed in gold leaf and carved out of hammered silver, had been given to Jo and Dom by Nancy and Mike as a gift, the final Christmas they were friendly. It had been blessed by the parish priest.
The table seated sixteen. The chandelier dripped daggers of crystal. Nancy had the same model in her own home, which meant she had gotten a two-for-one deal, which pleased the brothers. The crystals reflected the fine bone china Jo had collected through the years. Later on, Jo made the draperies, pale yellow silk jabots gathered off to one side with a thin braided cord. The single-panel draperies swept off to one side were inspired by Veronica Lake’s peekaboo hairstyle. Nicky remembered when Aunt Jo unveiled them and Uncle Dom said, “I’d rather have Veronica Lake eating off my china than these curtains.”
The gold-leafed sideboard was used to display desserts, and no matter when you passed through, the cookie jar was filled with biscotti and the cut glass candy dish was filled with bridge mix. When a meal was finished, the daughters-in-law cleared and washed the dishes, and Aunt Jo would set the table for the next meal. The tablecloths were pressed and hung in a linen closet in the kitchen on hangers. When Nicky was an altar boy, he noticed that the vestments of the priests got the same treatment.
That evening, Aunt Jo had left Nicky two stuffed peppers and a baked potato in the oven. Nicky pulled the hot meal out of the oven and placed it on the tray Aunt Jo had prepared.
In many ways 810 Montrose was like a boardinghouse, though Nicky had never stayed in one. The closest he had come was the barracks in the army in Alabama, where he moved through training with a group, sleeping and eating on a schedule set by the officers in command of the platoon.
Aunt Jo ran the Palazzini household with her version of military precision. She had to—with all her sons married, she had three daughters-in-law to help her, and three meals a day to serve. There was laundry to do, cleaning, food to cook, the garden to tend, and the first grandchild to raise. And there would be more children.
Nicky balanced his plate, bottle of beer, and utensils on the tray and went down to his room in the basement through the kitchen.
Aunt Jo had painted his basement room a cheery yellow. The windows that ran along the ceiling were ground-level and let in very little light. But Nicky had a double bed, a rocking chair, a chest of drawers, a mirror, an armoire for his hanging garments, and best of all, his own bathroom, with a standing shower stall.
Nicky placed his dinner on the dresser and emptied his pockets before changing out of his work clothes. He placed his change in a tip jar and his cigarettes and lighter next to the ashtray. He almost threw the pickup order for the Allisons in Ambler into the wastebasket, but thought better of it and put it in his drawer. He wanted it to remember this day, even though he doubted he could ever forget it.
Nicky turned the dial on the radio and heard Dinah Shore’s satin-smooth voice bounce off the concrete walls. He lowered the volume.
He hung up his suit, placed the shoe trees in his work oxfords, and put on his pajamas. Aunt Jo had placed his clean laundry on top of the dresser. The clean scent of borax and hints of bleach that made his undergarments bright white filled the drawer as he placed them into the dresser.
Nicky opened the bottle of beer and took a swig. He pushed the door to the basement kitchen open and flipped on the light. The daughters-in-law had made pasta that day, and the wooden dowels were draped with long, thin strands of linguini for Sunday dinner. Cavatelli, small hand-rolled pasta tubes resembling beads for stringing, were laid out on the enamel worktable on fresh white cotton sack cloths sprinkled with cornmeal.
Nicky took in the women’s handiwork. He went to the table and studied the macaroni as though it were art. Flour and egg and a bit of water, kneaded and pressed into dough, was the only tactile memory he had of his mother. If he concentrated and used all of his senses, he could see her at the table in this room, wearing an apron with red pockets in the shapes of hearts. He could inhale the scent of the flour, touch the soft dough snakes on the cold table, pinch a taste of it, feel the sting on his hand when Aunt Jo lightly smacked it and the warmth of his mother’s embrace that followed the smack.
Most precious to him was the laughter his mother and Aunt Jo shared as they gossiped while making ravioli in the presses or folding tortellini or standing at the stove and making the crepes for manicotti. If he closed his eyes, he could hear them as they bantered over the worktable. What he missed the most about his mother was surely the sound of her voice. He remembered when she spoke, it had a lovely timbre, light and clear, like the gold church bells rung by hand at the altar at Holy Communion. Nicola Castone’s voice was soft when she read to him, and firm when she scolded him, but never brusque. He remembered she was tender and kind. A lady.
Nicky turned out the light and pulled the door closed. One radio show had ended, and it was Rosemary Clooney’s turn to fill the air over South Philly with her velvet sound. Nicky preferred her to Dinah. Rosemary sang like she knew what it was to be alone, and in hearing her, Nicky felt less so.
He leaned back in the chair without rocking, the legs creaking under his weight. Nicky stared at the ceiling, filled with a nagging sense of guilt. The presence of guilt meant his conscience was reminding him to claim responsibility for wrongdoing, or so he had been taught on the eve of his First Confession by the parish priest. So, as he had done since his seventh birthday, he reviewed the day’s events in search of the source of his sin. Whom had he offended, dismissed, disregarded, or treated poorly? Not for nothing, Nicky was proud of himself for sticking around for Mrs. Allison. He thought about the sound of the wings, thinking that might have been a mystical experience, though he couldn’t be sure. Nicky sat up in the rocker and remembered. Peachy. He had forgotten his fiancée in all the turmoil. He hadn’t called her, even though there was a phone booth in the waiting area of the hospital. Why hadn’t he called her? Wasn’t it Peachy who always said, “One thin dime. Take the time”?