“But I did mean it.”
“She’s a fine girl. She fits in your big family. She looks at you like you’re Marc Antony and you just parked the barge on her dock. Her love for you turned her into Cleopatra.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“Of course you do.”
“How would you know?”
“You have cold feet. She can warm them up. She lights up like a three-way bulb on three around you.”
“I’m going to be the ambassador.” Nicky gripped the steering wheel. “And you can’t stop me.”
“You’re not the ambassador.”
“What is wrong with giving people what they want? Why ruin a perfectly good Jubilee?”
“You’re deceiving people.”
“How is that any different from playing Sebastian?”
“You got bit by the acting bug, and now you believe it’s the answer to everything. Theater is your religion, and anyone who doesn’t believe has to get out of your way. But this is a mistake! When the glow wears off, you’ll realize Peachy is your destiny. You have a good job. You come from a family that loves you. You had a plan. You were excited about your new house and the parking space in front of it, and the wedding, and the Jordan almonds. It was an enterprise of true love for you. And now what have you got?”
Nicky skidded into the back alley of the theater, taking the curve so quickly, it threw Calla against the passenger door.
He turned to her. “You okay?”
She nodded.
He jumped out of the car. “Hurry!” he shouted to Calla.
They bolted through the stage door, ran through the wings, peeled down the steps, and burst into the costume shop. Calla unlocked the costume storage room, flipped the light, and began shuffling through the racks, flipping through the men’s costumes on hangers.
“Faster, Calla. Faster.”
“Here,” Calla said, holding a Prussian-blue waistcoat with gold epaulets and long trousers with a white satin pinstripe on either side of the pant legs.
“It’s a little flashy, but it’ll do.”
“You’re not going to try it on?”
“No time.”
Nicky grabbed a wide white satin belt off an evening gown to wear as a sash over the regimentals. “Thanks, Calla.” He ran out of the shop.
Calla went out into the hallway and called out after him, “You could avoid all of this if you just made nice with your fiancée.”
“It’s over,” he hollered back.
“It’s a mistake!” Calla argued. She heard the stage door snap shut.
Nicky emerged from the theater, threw the uniform in the back seat, and jumped into the car, heading down the alley that connected Broad to Chestnut and would lead him through the backstreets to 103 Charlotte Street.
He had not felt this alive since he appeared for the first time onstage in Twelfth Night. He was desperate to take a chance, in a life that had been filled with decisions made for him. He was compelled to go to Roseto, to take the place of a dying man and assume his life as his own. Why not? He had the excuse, the guts, and the costume! Nicky was determined to be the dramatist of his future, to set in motion a series of actions based upon risk, not security. He yearned to build another character and play him, knowing that if he succeeded, he might be able to create the man he wanted to be.
Nicky Castone would break the cycle of expectations foisted upon every young Italian American man in South Philly. Becoming Carlo meant he wouldn’t be defined by his community’s markers of success: the steady paycheck, the nuptial mass, the two-family house, and the goal that gave him the chills: dying in one’s own bed at the end of a life lived to satisfy others with a parting gift to his loved ones of a pre-paid funeral. Nicky would break free by playing an Italian from the other side.
The Roseto Jubilee was his first step out into the wider world, beyond the safety of Montrose Street. Sam Borelli’s words to his actors in the rehearsals of long ago echoed in Nicky’s head: Stay in the moment. If you do, it will lead you forward.
As Nicky drove down the block in the sedan, he saw Hortense waiting on her porch like a good soldier, dressed primly in black in a matching hat and shoes. He was pleased with his casting of the attaché.
Nicky pulled up in front, jumped out, and circled around to open the back door for Hortense. She climbed aboard for an adventure that had no itinerary, only a destination.
As they drove off, her next-door neighbor, the schoolteacher Jean Williams, peered out her curtains and shook her head. “Hortense Mooney. Black suit. Black car. Black day.”
*
Frank Arrigo stood under the chandelier in the lobby of Borelli’s while he waited for the engineer to come down from the mezzanine. He tapped his foot on the terrazzo floor, impressed with how well it had held up over decades. Frank appreciated quality, but he believed the standards for construction were changing. There wasn’t a need for a floor surface to last for a hundred years when a modern design was implemented. He was open to new ways—cheaper, faster, better.
“She’s an old beauty.”
“Yes, sir,” Frank Arrigo agreed.
Ed Shaughnessy came down the staircase and joined him. “We’re looking at a serious renovation here. There are leaks in the upstairs restrooms. Pretty substantial plumbing issues. The theater itself is in pretty good shape. The mezzanine needs reinforcement. There weren’t codes prior to 1916, so who knows if the structure can hold the seat allotment? I don’t know. Roof is all right. The catacombs where the dressing rooms are aren’t up to code either.”
“So what would it cost?”
“It would be cheaper to tear it down and start over. Unless someone cared about the history of the place and wanted to fund a restoration.”
“We’re putting up an apartment complex over on Pierce Street. We’re not done yet, and we already have them all rented to vets. We could do double the business building apartments on Broad. This is a great location. The loading dock behind the building would make great parking.”
“I see how you’re thinking. You could do a tear-down but you could save the facade,” Shaughnessy offered.
“Why would I?”
“History.”
“History never made anybody any money, Ed.”
“No, but people are attached to these old barns.”
“Yeah. But you’d be surprised. You put up something new, and they never miss what was here.” Frank opened a small notebook he carried and jotted down a few notes. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this between us. Calla is a little emotional about this place, and it’s going to take a little finessing to get her to understand what’s best.”
“I understand. Not a word from me.”
Peachy DePino pushed through the glass doors of the lobby, wearing a full cotton skirt with bold red-and-white stripes, a cropped red shell, and a Venetian gondolier hat. She wore sunglasses.
“Good afternoon.” She forced a smile.
“Peachy, right?”
“Yes. You’re Frank. Where’s Calla?”
“She’s downstairs in the costume shop. Say hello to Ed Shaughnessy, engineer with the city.”
“Pleasure.”