Grief was the alpha and the omega of all that resided in between thought and feeling, and between inertia and action. There was room for nothing else in the presence of grief except understanding. Understanding was the deepest level of empathy. Perhaps—and Nicky would have to think about this—this was what he had to summon within himself if he was going play a part, if he was to become an actor. He would have to show an audience what it was to feel what it meant for a man to go through something. He knew it was possible, because he had seen it from the wings when an actor, using the words of a playwright, told a story that belonged to the audience.
Calla had her theories about the theater, but Nicky had begun to have his too. He’d play the scene as she blocked it, listen to his fellow actors, and stay in the moment. If he did those three things, he might become Sebastian in Twelfth Night. If he didn’t, Nicky was certain he’d lay the biggest egg South Philly had ever seen.
*
Nicky pulled the new No. 4 cab up in front of 832 Ellsworth Street and grabbed the brown bag off the front seat before making his way up the walk. He knocked on the screen door. “Mr. Borelli?” He knocked again. The interior door was open. Nicky peered in. He saw a light on in the kitchen. “Hey? Mr. Borelli?” He knocked harder.
Nicky had been around enough old people to know that one didn’t hesitate to check on them. He pushed the screen door open and continued to call out to Calla’s father as he made his way back to the kitchen. There, he looked through the window and saw Sam sitting in the backyard. He exhaled a sigh of relief.
Nicky had turned to go outside to join Sam when he saw a toolbox opened, with the contents in disarray, scattered on the kitchen table. “Mr. Borelli!” he hollered on his way out to the backyard. “Calla sent you dinner. Said to tell you she’d be late. Tony’s wife made a platter of roast pork sandwiches.”
“My favorite.”
“So I heard. And there’s a couple of pizelles in there.”
“Thanks. How are you doing in the play?”
“I can’t tell.”
Sam smiled. “That’s good. A man that thinks he has the world by a string ends up being choked by it.”
“I was less terrified in France in a foxhole.”
“You’ll get past that. You have to fall in love with the words. When you do, you’ll serve them.”
“Good to know. Rehearsal was rigorous but the actors were really helpful. Do you want me to get you something to drink?”
“There’s a beer in the fridge. I’ll get it.” Sam stood up. “You want to join me?”
“Sure.” Nicky followed Sam into the kitchen. “You fixing something?”
“Tried. Something wrong with the sink. I was waiting for Calla’s fella to come over and take a whack at it, but you know the old saying, a shoemaker’s kid goes barefoot, well, the contractor’s girlfriend’s father doesn’t get his sink fixed.”
“I’ll take a stab at it. But get me that beer. I’m not a professional.” Nicky took the flashlight, got on his knees, and looked under the sink. “You need a new joint. The rivets are shot.”
“That’s all?”
“I think so.” Nicky rummaged through the tool kit and found the pieces he needed to fix the pipe.
“I don’t want to leave this place a wreck.”
“Where are you going?”
“When I die.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to leave Calla with a mess. The theater is enough of a responsibility. If I leave this house in pretty good shape, my daughters should be able to sell it.”
“Where would Calla go?”
“I hope that she’s settled soon.”
“That’d be nice.”
“It’s what you want for your children. You want them to have security—even when you’ve lived the life of an artist.”
“What’s that like? To be an artist?” Nicky asked.
“All it means is that you did what you wanted with your life and you didn’t make any money. Not a bad trade off. It’s what Twelfth Night is about. Every character in the play is trying to find happiness.”
“Love.” Nicky peeked out from under the sink.
Sam nodded. “Or meaning. Shakespeare answers the question ‘Why do I matter?’ by the end of the play. That’s a big freight for a comedy.”
“I’ll say. If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Borelli, why the impostors? Why all the disguises and mistaken identities?”
“I think Shakespeare was saying find truth however you can, put on a different hat, or suit or mask, and see where it takes you. It may lead you to the life you should be living. It will lead you to what is pure and noble.”
Nicky emerged from under the sink. He ran the water in the sink, knelt down, and checked the pipe.
“You fixed it. Thank you!” Sam was impressed.
“Have Frank take a look anyway. I believe in experts having the last word. I better shove off.”
“What about that beer?”
“I’ll be back for it.”
“Could you do one more thing for me? Could you take these tools back to the theater? I had Calla loan them to me from the scene shop.”
“Sure.” Nicky loaded them back into the toolbox.
Sam reached into the refrigerator, pulled out two more bottles, and handed them to Nicky. “My daughter likes a cold beer at the end of a workday. Would you mind bringing her one?”
*
The only entrance open at Borelli’s was the stage door, which had been propped open with a brick. Nicky pushed it open with his hip. He carried the toolbox onto the stage, where Calla was sitting cross-legged against the proscenium wall, reading a ledger, with her prompt book opened and propped on the floor. The work lights were on full blast.
“Miss me?” Nicky sat down next to her.
“No.”
“I fixed your sink.”
“You did?”
“Your dad paid me with two beers. But he said to give you one of them.” Nicky handed her one of the cold beers that he’d placed in the toolbox.
“He’s a piece of work.”
“He sure is.” Nicky snapped the lid off Calla’s beer and then his own.
“The man has no patience. I told him Frank would swing by tomorrow to fix it.”
“Too late. Your father had all the tools out like a surgeon.”
“But he has no idea what to do with any of them. I always wondered what it would be like to have a father who could fix things. The knob on our bedroom door fell off when I was eight, and it still hasn’t been replaced.”
“One man can’t be everything. Can’t do everything.”
“It’s worth the search, though, don’t you think?”
“If you’ve got the time. And you’ve got the time. You have youth and beauty and that long list of unreasonable demands on your side.”
“I’ve got time.”
“You can’t take a compliment.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Say thank you. I think you’re pretty. What’s the big tingle?”
“It’s not a big tingle at all,” Calla said defensively.
“Sounds like it. You almost curdle. You fold up. You recoil. You can’t take a social nicety.”
“I can!”
“You don’t. You close your eyes halfway.” Nicky demonstrated. “Your lids go down by half. Like garage doors.”
“Lovely.”
“I think so.”
“Are you flirting with me?” Calla kept her eyes on the ledger.
“No.”
“Good. Because you’re about to get married to Miss DePino.”
“You’ve heard of atomic bombs?”
“Yeah.”
“The day I marry Peachy DePino, a giant pink gas cloud is going to explode over Our Lady of Loreto Church. It will burst forth from the heavens in a fireball made of lace and smoke and rose petals and Jordan almonds. No one will survive it. Not even you.”
“Will you?”
“Nope. We’re all going down for the cause.”
“But a worthy one. A man. A woman. A sacrament. True love. Nothing like it.”
“You’ve seen enough Shakespeare to know.”