“You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”
“Nothing wrong with believing in fairy tales, Nicky. Pretty pictures make pretty thoughts.”
The pair rode in silence as Nicky drove along narrow roads that edged the Delaware River. After a bit he asked, “Why did you agree to come with me to Roseto, Mrs. Mooney?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A little adventure never hurt anyone.”
“I’m glad you did. Thank you.”
“You’re entirely welcome. I’ve worked at the garage for twenty-three years. And I’ve witnessed what I’d call an Italian opera. The battles. The dialogue. The ice-cold silences broken by the smash of glass on cement followed by more screaming and yelling. The choreography. The sight of a wrench whizzing through the air like a bird. The denouement. A cold cock to the jaw, followed by remorse, ending in forgiveness. Borelli’s isn’t the only theater in South Philly. There’s always something going on in the garage. Must be what it’s like to live on Mount Vesuvius. You never know when things are going to blow. But the Italians are good people, I do know that.”
“How did you get the job with Uncle Dom?”
“I worked for both your uncles. I like them both. I graduated from Cheyney with a degree in teaching. When I went there, way back in 1905, it was called the Institute for Colored Youth. I came out of there and wanted to work in a business—I was done with classrooms, but I spent the next few years teaching. I was looking for something new. Your uncles posted the job with the city. They used to have boards back then at the Jobs Administration. I went for an interview and got the job.”
“You must like it.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But you never left.”
“Mr. Mooney has a job where they need him around the clock and then not much. My job always covered the not much. I’m half kidding you. I did like it when the telegraph office went in. That challenged me.”
“I’m glad you’re up for new challenges. We don’t know what we’re walking into here.” Nicky adjusted the rearview mirror so he might look Hortense in the eye. “Mrs. Mooney, I learned a lot at Borelli’s, but here’s the most important thing. You have to commit to your role. You’re in the play now. And that means you accepted the part, which means you have to do the job and stay in it until the curtain falls. You can’t flinch. You have to stick with the story. You must not panic. You can’t leave the stage.”
“If anybody is going to be flinching and panicking, it won’t be me. I’ve been put on the spot in my lifetime. I know how to wheedle.”
“Good. Just follow my cues.”
Hortense looked out the window and muttered, “Any fool can do that.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I can do that.”
It wasn’t long before Nicky passed Easton and followed the signs north for Roseto. Finally they got to town, and he drove up the incline and took the turn onto Garibaldi Avenue. “This is it,” he said quietly.
Hortense placed the black straw hat on her head. It had a wide brim and a tall crown decorated with a wide, grosgrain ribbon and a large, flat bow. She secured it in place with a hatpin, pulled on her formal white gloves with the scalloped wrist detail, and adjusted the collar of her black serge suit, her Sunday best. She straightened the cloth flag pin on her lapel that she had received as a free gift when she made a donation to the Negro Armed Services Relief Fund, hoping it looked official enough to get her through whatever Nicky had in mind for her, as she posed as a representative of the United States government.
Hortense reached into her purse and pulled out a small silver flask of Evening in Paris perfume. She pumped the rubber ball lightly on her neck, returned it to her purse, and snapped the clasp shut.
“That smells nice,” Nicky commented.
“Mrs. Roosevelt gave it to me for Christmas.” Hortense folded her gloved hands on her lap. “She’s thoughtful that way.”
Nicky grinned. Mrs. Mooney was ready for the Jubilee.
*
Nicky intended to drive directly to 125 Truman Street, the home of Chief Burgess Rocco Tutolola, but the sedan was met on Garibaldi Avenue by a hundred locals who had gathered to welcome the ambassador.
“What is this?” Hortense looked up at the streamers, the banners on the houses, and the welcome signs, feeling overwhelmed. “This was not in the booklet.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are we in a parade?”
“No, that’s tomorrow.”
“Take me back, Nicky. I can’t do this.” Hortense felt trapped.
“It’s only a weekend. You can do this.”
“I mean it. Let me out of this car.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“I am going to call your uncle to come and get me.” Hortense pulled the brim of her hat down over her face.
Nicky braked the car, while the Rosetani crowded around them, and turned to face Hortense. “Please, Mrs. Mooney.”
Hortense kept her head down. Outside the sedan’s windows, a sea of Italian Americans pressed forth to greet them. Hortense quickly realized that even if she was able to get out of the car, it was unlikely they would let her use a telephone. She accepted she was in deep. “Let’s go through with this. But we’re out of here first thing Sunday morning. Promise me that,” she whispered.
“I promise.”
Nicky drove the sedan slowly up Garibaldi Avenue. The crowd backed away and stood against the curb, forming a ribbon on either side of the street. As Nicky smiled and waved to them, the townspeople became animated, cheering and shouting words of welcome to the long-awaited visitor.
He pulled up in front of 125 Truman Street, followed by the throng, which had grown to fill the street from one end to the other. Before Nicky could get out of the sedan, Chief Burgess Rocco, with thick brown hair like pine needles, flinty black eyes, a pointed nose, and a warm smile, emerged from the house wearing a suit with an official sash across his chest.
Hortense peeked out from under her hat. “They followed us,” Hortense whispered. “The whole town is out there.”
“Pull yourself together, Mrs. Mooney,” Nicky said, before getting out of the car to greet the chief burgess.
“My-uh Paisan! My-uh friend!” Nicky said in an Italian accent, a combination of his pal Ben Tartaglia’s grandfather, who worked in a butcher shop on Wharton, and Nicky’s grandmother.
“Ambasciatore Guardinfante, come sta!”
“No Italian. I learn-uh the English. We speak English please on this vee-zeet.”
“Very good. But we were ready for you—one of our ladies is fluent. We arranged to have her by your side throughout your visit. Most of us in Roseto speak the dialect from your province.”
“Not-ta necessary. I must-uh practice my English. So, I speak-uh the English for you.”
“Bravo!”
Nicky wagged his finger. “Remember. No EE-talian!”
“No Italian. I am—”
“Rocco Tutolola.” Nicky embraced him, disarming his host.
“Yes, did you receive my letter?” Rocco asked.
“I did not.”