It would have been so easy, but he hadn’t thought to do it. Nor had he had the impulse to stop by the department store on the way back from Ambler to the garage. He could have picked up the phone in the office at the garage, but he hadn’t. There were phone booths on every block when he delivered the telegrams that night; he could have easily slipped into any one of them and called her to see how she was, and, for his own part, for reassurance from her, support from the woman who loved him after a terrible day. But he hadn’t done it. There was no good excuse. Peachy had slipped his mind. He felt worse knowing he had put seven dimes into his tip jar. Nicky even had the change to make the call.
Instead, he’d found himself at Borelli’s, led there by something he didn’t understand. It was just a feeling. He went where he found peace, where he could think. Nicky believed he had that kind of solace in Peachy, he really did. But that day, that belief hadn’t led him to her. It had led him to the theater and his friend Calla Borelli.
Calla could be a smart aleck and she always had a comeback, but she was all right. She was cute. He thought about her body, how flawless it was in the beam of the work light in the wings—was it just the light and the way it fell across her like lace? It wasn’t the light, it was her.
Her body enchanted him like the silver Pierce-Arrow hood ornament that had arrived at the shop in layers of padded brown paper when he was a boy. Knowing the contents, Nicky had carefully unwrapped the ornament and marveled at the sleek lines and smooth polish of the silver. He remembered holding the ornament and not wanting to put it down.
Calla’s clothing, like the paper, was just fabric covering a work of art. He thought about where her body might take him, but before it became real, he shook his head, trying to erase the image of her from his mind. What kind of a guy examines his conscience to pinpoint his sin and then, without apology, throws himself headfirst into lust like he’s bobbing for apples?
Nicky said a fast prayer to Saint Maria Goretti in hopes she might help remove the image of Calla Borelli’s fantastic form from his mind’s eye. But prayer was a weak bleach; it could not remove the stain. Devotion hadn’t helped much—Calla came to him uninvited in a dream; nor did his spiritual habits protect him much when he needed to stay awake on a long shift. When he was exhausted behind the wheel, he’d think of Calla in the wings, stepping into the gown, and his eyes would pop open and the barely dressed image of her gave him a boost of energy to complete the run. It’s not that he didn’t imagine his fiancée in provocative ways too, here and there now and then—of course he did. But the Borelli girl was different.
Nicky didn’t want to compare Calla to Peachy—well, he wouldn’t. He was betrothed to Peachy. He had chosen her. She had said yes. They had made a deal. The banns of marriage had been printed in the church bulletin—in essence, page one of the final contract to be signed in the church book on their wedding day had already been negotiated.
He made the sign of the cross to ward off further impure thoughts of Calla Borelli, and any disloyal ones toward Peachy DePino. But he knew lusty thoughts were like waterskiing. It only took one distraction to loosen his grip on the bar, and once he did, the ride was over, he’d for sure go under and drown.
Occasions of sin of a sexual nature in the venial variety would unspool in his mind like a B movie, and soon Nicky would find himself in the capable hands of a faceless vixen with a willing body, who would make love to him in ways he imagined satisfying, reckless, and athletic, which in turn would lead to her ecstasy, his ruin, the fall of the Holy Roman Church, and the crumbling of all nations. And all of this mayhem and degradation triggered because Calla Borelli innocently placed her hands on his shoulders in the costume shop. He felt sick within himself.
Nicky couldn’t finish the beer, and he didn’t want his dinner. He’d lost his appetite entirely. He crawled into bed and flipped off the light, leaving the radio on, which he never did. But that night, he needed the company.
*
Calla sat on the straight-backed chair outside the Calabrese & Sons accounting office on Vine Street. The waiting area had two chairs, a small console table painted black, and a flower arrangement of blue plastic roses in a chinoiserie vase set upon a handmade doily.
She placed the box of ledgers from the theater on the floor beside her feet. She sat up, removed her short white gloves and placed them in her purse, patted the hem of her best skirt, and straightened the buttons on the jacket.
“Calla, come in,” Joe hollered from inside his office.
Calla picked up the box and stood up tall and straight, mustering her courage. She smiled before entering.
“Anna sends her best. She wants you to come see her on the Jersey shore this summer.”
“I’d like that.”
“She has a place in Tinton Falls. You know it?”
“Nope. But I can find anything on the South Shore bus line.”
Joe Calabrese was wiry and trim. He wore eyeglasses, and his straight black hair was thinning, but he was attractive for an egghead. “The cousins have to stay close. You know, with your mom gone, it’s going to be a challenge.”
“She brought everybody together.”
“What do you have there?”
“The ledgers for the last two seasons.”
Joe leaned back in his chair. “I took this place over from my dad, and I had to update everything. He had his ways, and I have mine.”
“Dad did a good job with the theater.”
“But he didn’t make any money.”
“He owns the real estate.”
“Calla, the place needs a lot of work. Even to sell it.”
“What are you saying?”
“You’re burning daylight over there. I think you should shut it down. Try to rent the building out. And prepare to sell it.”
“Joe, I didn’t come to you to find a way to close the theater. I came to you to help me to find a way to make capital improvements and keep it open.”
“I don’t see any profit here. Not for years. ”
“Because Dad plowed it back into the theater. We lived off it all my life.”
“It’s not a failure, then. That’s good. But I’m telling you, based upon your numbers, your operating costs, your box office receipts, and your debt, you have no choice. Why are you saddling yourself with this?”
“It’s my life.”
“It’s your father’s life.”
“So you can’t help me.”
“I’m an accountant. I do numbers, not miracles. What do you want me to do?”
“I was hoping you could take me to a bank and help me get a business loan. I understand that the banks are loaning money now that the war is over.”
“How would we convince them that you could make money at the theater?”
“I could add shows. Advertise. I thought about a touring company. I don’t have the resources to grow it. If I had help, I could do it. I know I could.”
“The only assurance you can give a bank is past performance. Those ledgers show an occasional break-even at best.”
The tone she heard in her cousin’s voice was all she needed to know that he was not going to help her any further. “Well, thanks for taking a look at everything.”
“I’m not going to charge you.”
“Please do.” Calla stood and picked up her box of ledgers.
“I don’t want this to cause friction.” Joe stood up to see her out.
“It won’t.”
“I’m glad.”
Calla got to the door and turned to her cousin. “You know, Joe, there is something you could do to help that has nothing to do with the books.”
“Sure.”
“You could come see a play sometime. You never have.”