“No, I was going to stop by.”
“No, you weren’t. You left your keys on the hook in the office.”
“I was going to sneak off,” Nicky said sheepishly.
“You don’t like me to get upset. Guess what. Neither do I.”
“I don’t know where I’m going, and I couldn’t face a round of questions.”
“You’re going to go to New York City, you’re going to make friends, and you’re going to find something to do that makes you happy.”
“That would be nice.”
“You have to.”
“I do?”
“Because you blew up everything in Philly, and we had to leave Roseto in a bail jump, and you’re running out of options. There’s only so much of the East Coast left for you to torch, so you have to make something of yourself in New York City.”
“I feel worse.”
“Don’t. I believe in you, Mr. Castone. I know you are capable of great things.”
“I bet you say that to all the hacks that leave the garage.”
“No one’s ever left before.”
“Must be a good company.”
“It was. There was a time when it was the best. Now, like everything else that ever once was new, it’s on its way out. That’s just life. That’s just the world. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Come see me in Manhattan.”
“Oh yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
Nino pulled up in Car No. 3. “Let’s go, cousin.”
Nicky put the box and his suitcase in the trunk of the cab. He got into the front seat next to Nino.
“Be careful,” Hortense said to both of them. “The traffic around the train station is always a little squirrely.”
“I know, Mrs. Mooney.” Nino pulled out into the street.
Nicky looked back at Hortense. She was still standing on the sidewalk, watching them drive away, when Nino made the turn onto Ninth Street.
*
“Nino, can we swing by Broad Street? I need to make a quick stop at Borelli’s.”
“Sure.”
“Take that turn there in the alley.” Nicky got out of the cab, the russet leaves crunching under his feet. He climbed the steps to the stage door. The bare lilac branches twisted over the door, as gray as the drainpipe. Nicky thought the place looked shabby, and it made him sad.
Inside, the set crew was painting a series of flats lined up on the stage wall. Nicky looked around until he found Calla, sitting cross-legged on the prop table, looking at her prompt book. A pang of regret pierced his heart when he saw her.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been over since I got back from Italy.”
Calla looked up from her work. At first she was happy to see him, but then her mood changed. “I know you’re busy. We’re all busy. I hear you’re moving to New York City.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
He looked at his watch. “The four-ten train.”
“You’re a piece of work, Nicky Castone. Were you going to tell me?”
“This is it. I’ve stopped in to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Nicky.” She looked down at her reading.
“Give my best to Frank,” he said.
Calla put the prompt book down and looked at him. “You’re on your own with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I broke up with him months ago. When you were in Italy.”
“You were going to marry him.”
“He tried to sell the theater out from under me. He wanted to tear it down and build apartments.”
“I’m sorry.” Nicky suddenly felt helpless. And trapped. And oddly responsible.
Calla could read his feelings in his body language. “I got through it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why would anyone do anything unkind to someone they supposedly cared about?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you find the answer to that one, please let me know. I can’t find it in any of the Shakespeare folios. And I’ve looked.”
Nicky felt terrible. “Calla, I—” His voice broke.
Calla could hear the wind-up of excuses about to roll, so she put her hand up in the air to stop him before he humiliated himself and infuriated her.
“This is the worst audition for loyal friend that I’ve ever seen. Save it for the New York casting directors. They’re more likely to buy your line of bull.” Calla put her head down and went back to her reading.
Nicky was incensed. He was probably going to miss his train after doing the right thing and stopping to say good-bye to an old friend. He crossed the stage to walk out the door. He heard Nino tapping on the car horn outside. He looked at his watch. He was late. But he was more furious than he was anxious about missing his train. Now he didn’t care if he missed the train and had to walk to New York City with those dishes on his back. How dare she? He turned around, went back to the prop table, took Calla’s prompt book out of her hands, and threw it on the floor. He was going to tell her off for good, but he looked at her, and her eyes were glassy, probably from autumn pollen, who knew? But her mouth was set like an empress about to call out the executioner. He was angry that she was the best girl he’d ever known and had the nerve to hold him accountable for his behavior. He swept her up off the table, into his arms, and kissed her.
Calla’s feet were off the ground; she was flying in his arms. But when he gently placed her back on earth, she came back to her senses. The kiss was delicious, but she hated him. He hadn’t written her a single letter, sent a postcard or a telegram, or called her since he returned from Italy. He’d pulled a disappearing act, like the rabbit in the black felt hat in the magician’s kit she played with as a child. He had toyed with her. All the hurt she carried and stuffed down rose within her, and the abandonment she felt pained her anew.