“Depends on the family. Sometimes a family can drop you too. I’ve seen that happen. Nothing is what it seems from the outside, Calla. There’s always a story when the door closes or the curtain comes down.”
Sam went to talk with the cast, who were huddled in a corner, smoking and laughing. He wanted to congratulate them too.
Calla leaned against the box office window just as Rosa DeNero raised the shade. The snap startled Calla.
“I have a question,” Rosa said through the glass.
“Yes, we have a night drop at our bank. We’ve just never had to use it.”
“I know all about that. I have it all set to go. I have another question if you don’t mind. Do we have a colored section?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We do now. I sold a lady a ticket. A single. I put her in the mezz.”
“Did she mind?”
“No, she liked it. Left during the curtain call.”
“Hat with a long feather?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“Nicky does.” Calla beamed. Hortense Mooney had made it. Nicky had more than a big extended family, he had a world behind him, lucky guy, and it was in color.
*
Nicky leaned into the circle curve as he drove around the Art Institute to the lot nearest the Fountain of the Sea Horses. He parked the sedan near the Azalea Garden as the orange sun rose in a pink sky. The purple lace of azalea blossoms poked through the green along the winding white gravel path. In the morning light, the stones under his feet looked like gold nuggets.
He didn’t hear the familiar whoosh of sheets of fresh water rushing over the fluted urn at the top of the fountain. He quickened his step to find that the shallow bowl beneath the pedestal was dry. The marble sea horses that held up the bowl were dry as well; no rivulets of water flowed over the carved scales of their smooth backs and tumbled into the pool beneath them.
Nicky walked around the base of the fountain and found a repairman working on the limestone lip of the pool beneath the sea horses, filing a small section of the stone with a wire brush.
“What’s the problem?”
“There’s a crack at the base. We went in yesterday and patched it.”
“I thought this fountain was indestructible.”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“I don’t know. Italian travertine. Isn’t it the most durable of all stone? And it was carved by the great artisans.”
“Great sculptors aren’t God. They make objects of beauty, but they can’t make them last forever. Well, I might have to include God in that group. Look at women.”
“A woman’s beauty is a matter of perspective, not age.” Nicky shrugged.
“I’m just joking with you. The problem here is the exterior. The carving is superb, but the foundation is under stress from the weight of the sculptures, and then you add the water. Eventually we’ll have to take the entire thing apart and shore up the central disc.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“And expensive. That’s the problem with something like this—it’s built to impress. Nobody thinks, ‘How’s it going to work over the long haul, how will it survive ten, twenty years in the elements?’ They don’t know from a Philadelphia winter in balmy Rome. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“Anything that lasts has to be built with strength from the inside out. The veneer—”
“Is just a veneer?”
“The builder had to have a way in to work on the stone over time—you’re not looking at one solid piece of stone on these dishes.”
“I spend a lot time on that bench over there. It’s interesting to know the facts. Thanks.” Nicky turned to go.
“Were you going to make a wish?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Were you going to make a wish this morning? You know, throw a coin in the fountain.”
“I just came here to think.”
“You got the look of somebody who already made a decision.”
“I do?”
The man laughed. “That, or you expected to meet somebody here.”
“I’m alone.”
“You came here to think.” The man stood back from his work. “I wish I could tell you I’ll have the water flowing soon. But as it stands, I’m behind. Even with overtime, I can’t get the work done.”
“Do you like your job?”
“I work so my wife can spend. I’m lucky. I have a good pension coming. I’ve been an engineer with the city since I was twenty-six years old. You married?”
“No.”
“Would you like to be?”
“To the right girl.” Nicky kicked the gravel with his shoe. Now that the sun was up, the stone path was back to gray, the gold lifted away with the morning light.
“When Bernini built the original fountain in Rome, a woman had just broken his heart. And the sea horse is the only male species that can reproduce without a woman. There was a message in the ravioli there.”
“I’ll say.”
“Did you get your heart broken?”
“I’m afraid I might be the one doing the breaking.”
“You want a piece of advice? Don’t do it on her birthday, your birthday, or a holiday, or in a place she frequents.”
“Sounds like you’ve been in my predicament.”
“And back again. I made the mistake of choosing the wrong day, time, and place. It backfired.”
“How did it work out?”
“Married thirty-two years in December.”
“Congratulations.” Nicky extended his hand. “Nicky Castone.”
“Ed Shaughnessy. Everybody calls me Big Ed.”
*
Uncle Dom leaned back in the driver’s seat of No. 4 as though it were the flannel-covered club chair in the corner of the garage where he’d sit and nap or listen to the Dodgers games on the radio. He had one arm propped on the driver’s-side door, the steering wheel nestled in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, and his other arm slung over back of the passenger seat. As he joined the line for the car ferry, Dom’s stomach grumbled. “Nicky, root around in that basket your aunt packed, will you?”
“Sure.” Nicky reached behind the front seat and pulled the picnic basket onto his lap. “She put all kinds of stuff in here.”
“Like what?”
“Cavazoons. There’s ham-and-butter sandwiches. Olives. Cookies.”
“To drink?”
“Limeade.”
“That’s my girl. Nick, when you do get married, whether you marry Thin Melba—”
“You mean Peachy?”
“Yeah, the DePino kid. Peach Melba. Whether you marry her or not, marry a girl that can pack a basket for a car trip.”
“What would you like?”
“We’ll save the sandwiches and the savories for the trip home. Let’s have a cavazoon. That’ll tide us over. I like a little uptick of sugar before a negotiation.”
Nicky unwrapped the large half-moon-shaped pastry, which Aunt Jo had cut in half. The flaky crust was filled with a fluffy mixture of whipped ricotta, egg, and vanilla. The uncle and his nephew bit into the delicacy and chewed. There weren’t words for how light and delicious a treat the cavazoons were, so they ate them in silence.
“Uncle Dom, did you know my dad?”
“Yeah. I knew him. Not well. But I knew him.”
“What was he like?”
“A fine fellow. Why do you ask?”
“I wonder about him.”
“You never asked me about him before.”
“I didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“Why?”
“You know how it is, there are things you can ask and things you shouldn’t.”
“You can ask me anything, kid. I’m an open book with torn pages. Your mother was a beautiful person.”