“Dad, what did you do?” She made it to her father’s side. He had a cut over his left eye. She checked his pulse. He was barely breathing. She tried to revive him. His face was slowly turning gray. She ran into the house and called an ambulance.
Calla ran back out into the yard to stay with her father until the ambulance arrived. She knelt down in the grass, took off her sweater, and gently placed it under his head. Calla laid her head on his chest to listen for his heartbeat. She had no idea how much time had passed when the paramedics came, but it hadn’t been long. It seemed like forever, because she was losing him, and she knew it. Time was seeping away, and she could not control it.
She wanted to hold on to him, to do whatever she could to make him stay, but she knew, even as they placed him on the gurney and lifted him into the ambulance, that he had made his choice. The moment she had dreaded had arrived, and there was nothing she could do. She laced her fingers through her father’s and held on as they hoisted him into the ambulance. Then she climbed in beside him, hoping that if she held on, she could pull him back to her.
As the ambulance careened through the streets of South Philly, they sped past the Borelli Theatrical Company.
“Dad, we just passed the theater.” When Sam did not stir, Calla’s eyes filled with tears. “I remember every play you directed. We can do them all again. We’ll do the ones you didn’t get to—okay? You never directed Cymbeline. I know it’s not one of the better plays . . .” She began to cry. “But if anybody could redeem it and put on a first-class production, it’s you. Don’t leave me, Dad.”
The ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance. Within seconds, the doors flew open, and Sam was lifted out, wheeled into the hospital, past the nurses and the check-in desk, and into a small room that filled with nurses and doctors. Calla watched as they conferred, until she was pulled away by a kind nurse who put her arm around her waist and, taking her hand, led her out into the hallway. The last time Calla saw her father, his hands were open, accepting what was to come.
*
Nicky stood outside the sedan parked in the alley behind Borelli’s and carefully placed the uniform he’d worn as Ambassador Guardinfante on a hanger. He whistled as he climbed the steps to the stage door, and was irritated to find it locked.
Nicky walked around the building and entered through the lobby, carrying the costume. Rosa DeNero was sitting on her perch in the box office, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper, when Nicky passed by.
“Rosa, how’s it going?” He breezed by without waiting for her answer.
She came out of the ticket booth and called after him. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Sam Borelli died this morning.”
Nicky’s voice wavered. “What happened?”
“Calla found him in the yard. He had been trying to put up the summer awning. He must’ve fell. They think he had a stroke. She went with him to the hospital.” Rosa looked around. “This is it for the theater. It’s over now. As long as Mr. B was alive, we had a chance. But now, there’s no way it will make it.”
“Shut up, Rosa.”
Nicky pushed through the glass doors of the lobby and went outside. Familiar, old sadness began to move through his body. Grief had its own veins and capillaries, as regret filled his heart. He had meant to visit Sam, spend time with him and seek his counsel. Instead he had been caught up in events that didn’t matter. Sam Borelli mattered and now, like all the sages in Nicky’s life, he, too, was gone.
*
When Nicky knocked on Sam Borelli’s front door on Ellsworth Street he heard laughter pouring out the open windows through the living room. He peered inside. The house was full to overflowing with members of the theater company as well as mourners he didn’t recognize. The folks could not be described as mourners; they were celebrating Sam as they ate, drank, and danced. Nicky had never witnessed such a wake.
Nicky went inside. Tony Coppolella immediately wrapped him in an embrace. “Sam gave me my first job. Cast me in my first show. I was Guildenstern in Hamlet.”
He patted Tony on the back and gave him a smile of reassurance. Actors mark everything that happens to them, no matter what it might be—falling in love, getting married, death of a loved one, or birth of a child—with whatever role they happened to be playing at the time. They view their lives through the wings, either entering a scene or exiting one. Sam’s exit forced Tony to remember his first entrance.
Nicky wove through the crowd. Members of the crew patted him on the back in solidarity, and others expressed their grief with an embrace, but all Nicky wanted to do was get to Calla.
He made it through the kitchen and out to the back porch to the backyard where he found her talking with her sisters and a small cluster of friends. Frank Arrigo was serving drinks and working the crowd.
Nicky tapped Calla on the shoulder. When she turned and saw him, she began to cry. He took her into his arms. “It’s going to be all right,” he assured her.
“How?”
“It just will. Trust me.”
“Okay.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Just stay.”
“You got it.”
Nicky made himself useful. He went into the kitchen and warmed up food, placing it on the table for the guests. Theater folk are always hungry, so as the trays and casseroles poured in, Nicky set them out and the plates filled up. Nicky took a tray and went through the rooms, picking up plates and glasses. He returned to the kitchen, threw a moppeen on his shoulder, and washed dishes to keep up with the volume of guests who came to pay their respects to the family of Sam Borelli.
Frank hauled a bag of ice through the kitchen. “Thanks for helping out.”
“Of course.”
“You’re a good friend to Calla.”
“She’s very special.”
Frank smiled. “I know.”
“You better be good to her, Frank.”
“I hear that a lot. I’ve heard it about forty times this afternoon.”
“Theater people might wear tights, but they can take you down in a dark alley.”
“I’ll bet.”
Frank lifted the cooler of ice and went out into the backyard. Nicky watched him from the kitchen window. Calla’s sisters seemed impressed with him as he freshened their drinks. Nicky wondered if Sam had liked the guy.
“Nicky.”
He turned away from the window. Josie Ciletti, wearing a plunging V-neck cashmere sweater, pulled him close to her chest. “I’m a mess.”
“Sam thought you had talent, Josie.”
“He plucked me from the bowels of Cremon Street by the airport and turned me into an actress. I owe him everything,” she sobbed.
Nicky gave her his handkerchief.
“The theater won’t last without him.”
“Sure it will.”
“You know something?” Josie’s left eyebrow shot up. “You heard something?”
“No, I just know Calla. She’ll keep it going.”
“I hope so. I need the stage like macaroni needs gravy.”
“What does that say about the cheese, Josie?”
“Nothing. The cheese stands alone.”