Nicky had delivered enough telegrams to enough houses to notice that every home, and therefore every family, has a scent. One house might smell like wet wool, another like creamed corn, and yet another like lemon oil.
Mamie Confalone’s home had the scent of anise and vanilla, the plain cookies shaped like half-moons that anchored every holiday cookie tray and appeared on the saucer of espresso like an additional cup handle. Nicky wanted to share this observation with Mamie, but couldn’t quite form the words; there was no opportunity to do so, between the urgent kisses exchanged in the dark at the foot of her stairs and the utter lack of thoughts in his head.
She slipped out of her leather shoes, which had a slight heel, a bow, and a strap. Nicky tried to remember what they were called—he knew they weren’t Mary Lous, but that it was close. His mind was racing because he couldn’t believe Mamie Confalone had invited him inside. His body was keeping up with his emotions, and yet he was in a state of disbelief that his heart’s desire had actually manifested into a real-life experience, and that something wonderful was going to happen that he had wished for from the moment he first saw Mamie Confalone.
Mamie took his hand and led him up the stairs. The sway of her skirt was rhythmic as she moved. The skirt was made of a fabric covered with flowers—most of her clothes were—but in this instance there was a sheer overlay of blossoms, leaves, and vines on some kind of material underneath, which might have been satin, since it had a shine, like the inside of the petal of a flower.
When they reached the top of the stairs, a ceiling fan was circulating slowly overhead, not from electricity but from the movement of the night air. He unbuttoned the bodice of Mamie’s dress, and it fell away effortlessly, like a veil.
She stepped out of her dress; it cascaded to the floor. Mamie invited him into her bedroom and pulled him toward her and onto her bed.
There was no moon, but the streetlight outside her window helped him see. He had never seen a woman this way before; there was always draping, or an article of clothing, or more, but Mamie was a work of art, her gentle curves sculpted of fine marble and her skin as soft as Trussardi’s most delicate silk.
As she removed his shoes, he looked around her room, lovely, simple, and uncluttered. It had a high ceiling, higher, it seemed, than the sky itself. There were windows on three sides, and they were open, the sheers fluttering in the breeze.
The bed was made with a simple cotton coverlet, cool to the touch and soft, like Mamie. She laughed when one of Nicky’s socks was stubborn on his foot, and he laughed when she finally removed it, tossing it over her shoulder with such force it went out one of the open windows.
They were old lovers who had just met. There was a history and yet they weren’t burdened by one. They made love not in discovery but in familiarity, a knowingness that comes from time, which they had shared so little of but had not wasted either.
Mamie, at long last, was young again.
Nicky held the warmth and tenderness of her so close, he was no longer afraid that he would always be alone. She kissed him, her hair grazing his face, then kissed his neck and his hands before resting on her pillow. Nicky pulled her close.
“Do I have to go back to the Tutololas’?”
“You’re a guest. It would be rude.”
“They have the worst accommodations in the country.”
“That bad?”
“I almost died over there. If suffocation didn’t get me, a Christmas star would’ve sliced my head open, or Rosalba would have pounced and sucked the breath out of me like a cat. Did I mention the Capodimonte? Everything in the room has eyes.”
“Tomorrow is the finale of the Jubilee. I think you’ll be safe until then.”
“I have to give a speech.”
“And then home to Philadelphia.”
“Or Italy.”
“That’s imaginary.”
“True.”
“Have you ever been?”
“I stopped on my way home from the war. I never wanted to leave, except I missed Philadelphia.”
“Which branch of the service were you in?”
“The army. Served four years.”
“Where were you?”
“France and Germany.”
“My husband was in the army too. He was in Poland when he was killed. I try not to be angry at him for dying and leaving me behind. Augie was very stubborn. But that goes hand in hand with loyalty—you can’t have one without the other.”
“What happened to him?”
“I was told they were liberating a village. They sent my husband and three of his fellow soldiers into a house to let the family know that they were free. The war was over. It was a trap. It was a safe house for German soldiers. My husband went in first, he figured it out, hollered to the other three, they took cover, but my husband was killed. He was coming home the next day. After three years of staying alive, at the very end, they got him.”
“He sounds like a great man.”
“He had his faults. He wasn’t a saint. But he was all mine.”
“Did he know his son?”
“I sent him a letter when I found out I was expecting, but it didn’t get there in time.”
“You named him after your husband.”
“Tradition. His boy is just like him. And my son misses him. It’s heartbreaking. A son without a father, I can never make up that loss.”
“You can’t. But he’s a good kid.”
“I’m trying. Augie knows the story of his father, as much as I’ll tell him, but he still plays guns and war like it’s a game.”
“All boys do.”
“I know. When anyone asks him what he wants to be when he grows up, he says he wants to be a soldier like his dad. I’ll break him of that.”
“I hope you do.”
“I won’t lose two of them.”
“How do you get through it?”
“I don’t know. I went back to work, and that helped. Each day I got a little better at focusing on the job. I have to pay attention to details. Every blouse has to be flawless, every stitch has to be straight, every collar has to be even, every placket has to lie flat, every armhole, sleeve, and cuff has to line up with the bodice and the seam in the back, the buttonhole and the button have to be set just so, and the routine of that got me out of my misery. As much as anything can.”
“There’s more to work than just making a living.”
“It can be your salvation. I know it was mine.”
Nicky rolled back onto the pillow.
“Perelli’s steak sandwich is better than any Philly cheesesteak. That’s the final word on that subject,” Mamie said.
“You’re out of your mind.”
Mamie kissed him. “Good night.”
She curled up and went to sleep. Nicky had never seen anything like it in a human being. Cats, yes. Dogs too. Even goldfish, who float open-eyed along the surface of the tank in peaceful rest. Only Cousin Gio could nod off this fast, but he was never serene.