Around midnight, Frank drove Hambone Mason home because he was so juiced, he couldn’t remember where he parked his car. Nicky swept the kitchen floor as the last of the dishes drained on the rack.
“This kitchen has never been so clean.” Helen, Sam’s eldest daughter, a striking redhead with brown eyes, looked around appreciatively. “We haven’t met.”
“Nicky Castone.”
“He worked at the theater for Dad.” Portia, a petite brunette, brought a tray in from the patio. “Right?”
“Yes. I wandered into the theater a few years ago, and he gave me a job.”
“That’s how Dad did his hiring. He thought if you showed up, you had been led there. He believed a life in the theater was a mystical calling.” Helen shook her head.
“It might be if you’re good at it,” Calla said as she brought a tray of glasses in from the living room. “Sorry, Nick. You don’t have to wash these.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“I’m going to head upstairs. We have a big day tomorrow.” Helen looked at her sisters. “Just leave the dishes. I can do them in the morning.”
“Go ahead. Don’t worry about it. Portia, go get some rest. You must be exhausted. We’ll finish up here.”
Portia and Helen went upstairs, leaving Nicky and Calla alone in the kitchen. Nicky went to the sink, filled it with hot water and suds, and began washing the glasses. Calla stood beside him with the dishtowel. As he rinsed, she dried, placing the sparkling glasses on the shelf over the window.
“Frank drove Hambone home,” she said. “He has a five o’clock call at work in the morning.”
“He’s not coming back tonight?”
“He’ll be at the funeral. You worried I’ll be alone?”
“That will never be a problem for you. I was afraid the floor would give, you had so many people here tonight.”
“They loved Dad.”
“That must be a good feeling, to have had a father that was so beloved by so many. He lived a life that brought joy to people. He entertained them. That’s something.”
“Is it?”
“Sure it is. What’s bigger than making someone feel something? How can you quantify the moment when a person laughs? Or when they cry? When they feel? You can’t. It’s the human experience. And your father was in the business of illuminating it for people. He showed them that what they were going through was important, and that their lives had meaning. That’s a noble undertaking.”
Nicky’s words went straight to Calla’s heart. She sat down at the kitchen table and wept into the dishtowel.
“I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. Can I tell you a funny story?”
She nodded.
“I was arrested.”
“What?” Calla put down the dishtowel.
“I almost never saw the sky again.”
“What happened?”
“We got caught. Mrs. Mooney and me. Evidently without a director, I’m a lousy actor. And your crummy Penn State band uniform didn’t help me, either.”
Calla laughed. “I forgot to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to. I heard all about it. There’s a lot of Nittany Lion fans in Roseto, Pennsylvania.”
“I’m sorry.” Calla laughed.
“There you go. Your dad would get a big kick out of my punishment. Let’s call it a penance.”
“What is it?”
“I’m going to Italy to build a road to the Ambassador’s hometown. Playing him in real life cost me everything. My money and my time.”
“Do you know how to build a road?”
“I’ll learn. I couldn’t act until I tried it. So, we’ll see.” Nicky took the dishtowel from Calla. “Come on, let’s get some air.”
Nicky put his arm around Calla as they took a walk on Ellsworth. They turned onto Broad. “I know everybody on this street. I wrote a song about it.”
“I didn’t know you could sing.”
“Not the best.”
Nicky launched into his aria on the Street of Names. He sang:
Farino, Canino,
Schiavone, Marconi,
Terlazzo, Janazzo,
Leone, Francone,
Ciliberti, Monteverdi,
Ruggiero!
and belting high notes, he sang:
Sempre Borelli!
“Shut up!” A woman of fifty, her wet hair rolled in strips of cloth, hung her Raggedy Ann head out of her second-story window. “You dying moose! Die already!”
“Sorry, lady!”
“You should be!” The woman slammed her window shut.
“No career in the opera for me.”
“You needed her to tell you?” Calla teased. “I’m glad Dad gave up the musical theater.”
“Don’t pile on, sister. I’m being nice to you with all you’re going through.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m your best friend.”
“You are, aren’t you?” Calla nudged him playfully. “My dad never wanted us to get too chummy with the actors.”
“Why not?”
“He always worried one of his daughters would wind up with one. Portia married a banker, and Helen’s husband is a teacher.”
“And you’ll best them both with a builder. A contractor who will be king of all this. You will do better than both of your sisters.”
“That’s not my goal.”
“It wasn’t for Lear’s daughters either.”
“I forgot about Lear.”
“You shouldn’t. Any dilemma a human being might face was dramatized by William Shakespeare. You don’t need a priest or a doctor, just read the folios. You’ll find all the answers there. I heard your father say that in rehearsal.”
Calla stopped and turned away from Nicky, suddenly in tears again. He put his arms around her. “You’ll be doing a lot of that. I didn’t learn that from Shakespeare.”
“I had him at home, you know, to turn to—I could ask my dad anything.”
“Therefore, you can handle anything. Your dad saw to it. Nobody can take that away from you—not in your life and not in your work. You’re the strongest girl I know, and I would know, because I live in a house crawling with them. You don’t need anybody to tell you what to do and how to do it. Not even your big lug of a boyfriend with the rag top knows more than you do.”
“I’m not going to tell him you said that.”
“Good, because he has about thirty pounds on me.”
“Of muscle.”
“I’m not hurt by that little dig, because I know you’re grieving.”
“I’ve been dreading this day.”
“Because you took care of your dad. Do you know how much he appreciated that? More than you’ll ever know. You’re going to be sad. Plenty sad. You just have to go through it.”
Nicky and Calla walked for a long time. They walked through the neighborhood and along Broad Street. If it had been up to Calla, they would have walked all night as she didn’t want to return to the house and face the sadness that filled every room. She dreaded the funeral mass and the burial. There would be no comfort in the Latin, the Kyries, the prayers and the hymns. “I’m an orphan now too.”
Nicky put his arm around Calla. “You are, aren’t you? Well, I’m sorry about that. It ain’t great. But stick with me. I’m good with grief. Had a life full of it.”
9
A blue jay landed on Hortense Mooney’s kitchen windowsill and stared at her. She looked up from the bushel of bright red tomatoes she was coring to boil and looked the bird straight in the eye.