He lay in the dark, holding her. He looked at the clock. Hours had passed, but it seemed like minutes, and yet, in other ways, lifetimes. Everything that had transpired between them that night was effortless. He hadn’t felt the tug of guilt or the exhaustion that comes from compromise.
The moment Nicky gave Peachy her engagement ring, she offered herself to him, with certain “stipulations”—and she called them that—so her fiancé might pay attention. Peachy had her own code; just as Mrs. Mooney used Morse code, Peachy had invented her own list of rules about what she would and wouldn’t do with Nicky physically, concocted from her religious upbringing, her mother’s fear-based admonitions, and whatever romantic tips she’d gleaned from Modern Screen magazine.
Peachy knew how to relieve Nicky’s sexual frustration without having to admit to it in confession, but it wasn’t the kind of romantic interlude he dreamed of or imagined. When his former fiancée reached into his trousers to relieve him of his misery, the look on her face was identical to the expression she had when she fished for spare change at the bottom of her purse to pay for the toll on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. She was determined, but her mind was somewhere else. His pleasure was not her joy but a mindless exercise in friction, with Nicky receiving what her gloved hand could provide. She wasn’t annoyed by it or stimulated by it. It was executed swiftly, confidently, and without deviation from her skill set. Her clothes stayed on, usually her hat, and always her glove.
Nicky slipped out of Mamie’s bed. He covered her gently, dressed in the dark, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, he opened the icebox and found plenty of leftovers. He chose a chicken leg, a bowl of cold mashed potatoes, a heel of bread, and a bottle of beer. He sat at the kitchen table with the gray Formica top and matching chairs. A large red leather button was centered in the back of each chair.
There was a stack of children’s books on the seat of the chair next to him. He lifted them up and rifled through them, smiling when he saw Too Many Mittens. He had given that to Elsa and Dom when their son was born. He leafed through Pinocchio, flipped through The Sword in the Stone, and lifted an illustrated volume of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and placed it on the table.
Something about the artwork in the book of fairytales conjured his past. He wondered if he had read this book before. He’d have to think about it. It was getting harder to recall the details of his childhood.
Nicky finished his snack and placed the dishes in the sink. He washed them and put them in the drying rack. He liked the way Mamie kept her home: neat, clean, and uncluttered. He could think clearly in her house. He couldn’t imagine ending up with a wife like Cha Cha, who covered every surface in her home with a saint on a doily.
Nicky went into the living room. He took in the chintz sofa. The background color was tan, and it was covered with pink roses. What was it about Mamie Confalone and flowers?
She had a record player, an RCA Victor with a brown leather flip top and a gold mesh sound panel on the front. It stood on four aluminum legs. He opened the top carefully.
Now he knew who was buying the new .45 records. They were all being sold to the widow on Garibaldi Avenue in Roseto. He shuffled through the stack. “Buttons and Bows” by Dinah Shore, “You’re Breaking My Heart” by Vic Damone, “Mona Lisa” by Nat King Cole, several by Rosemary Clooney (something else they had in common), the Mills Brothers, Tony Bennett, Glenn Miller, Perry Como, Frankie Laine, Sammy Kaye, Artie Shaw, and Edith Piaf’s hit “La Vie en Rose.” That record didn’t surprise Nicky—it had a flower in the title.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” Mamie asked. She wore a blue nightgown printed with yellow daisies, tied at the neck with a loose satin ribbon. She was barefoot.
“I was restless.”
“You should get going.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you’re dressed.”
“Right.”
“So you must want to go.”
“I have to.”
“You have your big speech.”
“I do.”
“Your sock should be in the bushes.”
“I’ll get it on my way to the car.”
Nicky had moved to the door to go when he thought better of it and turned to say good-bye, but Mamie was already there, next to him.
“Everything you own has flowers on it. Why?”
“I like them.”
“You like them a lot.”
“My name is Rose.”
“Why do they call you Mamie?”
“Mary Rose. My birthday is August fifteenth.”
“The Feast of the Assumption.”
Nicky took Mamie into his arms and kissed her. He had the strange feeling that this kiss would have to last for a while.
“Thank you, Nick,” she said.
“Why would you thank me?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Nicky walked out of Mamie’s house with a bare foot in his left shoe and a sock on his right. He walked down the porch steps and around to the side of the house, where he found the missing sock hanging in the boxwood bush like a flag and stuffed it in his pocket.
When he got into the sedan, he sat still. The whole of his body felt as though it were moving, but he wasn’t jittery. This was a new sensation. He closed his eyes and wondered, could a man his age have a heart attack? Is this what it was? Would he be found dead in the Palazzinis’ only sedan, in a town where he was posing as a dignitary from another country? Is this how his journey would end?
Nicky found himself fishing in his tip cup in the glove compartment of the car. He found the cup full of dimes. He started the car and cruised down Garibaldi until he found the only phone booth on the Avenue.
“Operator, Bella Vista 8-5746. Thank you.”
Calla was in a deep sleep when the phone rang in the foyer, down the stairs from her bedroom. She sat up in bed. She jumped out of it and raced down the stairs, hoping to get to the phone before it woke her father.
“It’s Nicky.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you calling?”
“I had to talk to someone. To you. I need a friend.”
Calla held the receiver up to her ear with one hand and held her head with the other. She sat down on the steps. “What happened?”
“I met a woman.”
“Nicky, this could wait.”
“No, no, it can’t wait. I don’t understand what just happened, and I feel badly now, and I need to tell you about it.”
Calla heard a creak in the floorboards above her. She looked up and saw her father in his bathrobe. She motioned for him to go back to sleep. “Go on,” she said into the phone.
“She is a widow. She has a little boy. And I stayed with her.”
Calla stood up and peered around the corner to the clock in the living room. It was close to four. “Stayed?”
“You know.”
“Okay.”
“I just feel bad about it.”
“Because you love Peachy.”
“Why do you keep saying that? You’re like one of those jackhammers they use to build railroads.”
“I’m hanging up the phone.”
“Don’t!” Nicky was desperate. “I get impatient because you say it like it’s true. But I don’t have that. Not from Peachy. Not from any woman. I don’t have love.”
“Nicky.” Calla was impatient now. “You just did.”