Calla sat in the costume shop, trying to decide if she should call Nicky Castone on his birthday. It had been ages since he’d left in a huff after kissing her good-bye without asking for her permission. She hadn’t seen him since. But she had seen Jo Palazzini at novena, and Jo had told her that Nicky was going through a rough time, which made Calla think about her old friend. If Calla Borelli was anything, she was loyal.
In between the arduous tasks of sewing beads onto the bodice of Norma’s gown and stitching the hem, she would stick the needle into the tomato pincushion, pick up the phone, place it on the worktable, and spin the dial without picking up the receiver to make the call. Buying time, she poked her finger into the hole of number 1 and spun it, and then 2, worked her way down to 0, which purred around the entire dial until it clicked to a stop. After an evening of vacillating, it was time to go home. Calla picked up the telephone to return it to the desk, looked at the clock, and realized very little time was left of Nicky’s birthday. If she was going to call him, the moment was now. She closed her eyes and imagined him out on the town, in a crowded bar, surrounded by fellow actors, the air filled with smoke and music. Nicky was being toasted and celebrated. The realization that Nicky wouldn’t be home to pick up the phone made her dial the number. Her Catholic conscience would be assuaged in the morning knowing she had made the effort. Calla dialed Nicky’s number, which Jo Palazzini had scrawled on the back of the church bulletin.
The phone rang in Nicky’s apartment. She was stunned when he answered.
“Happy birthday, Nick.”
“Who is this?”
Calla’s heart sank: he hadn’t recognized her voice. So, she spoke deliberately and loudly. “It’s Calla. Calla Borelli from South Philly.”
Nicky sat down at his kitchen table. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s me.”
“You remembered?”
“I ran into your aunt. She gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.” Calla’s face flushed. Maybe he wasn’t alone. This call was a colossal mistake.
“Sure, sure.” Nicky pressed the receiver to his ear so he wouldn’t miss anything she said. “How are you?”
“I’m doing just fine. Is this a bad time?”
“No.”
“Good. Well, I won’t keep you,” she said.
“I’ve got some time. How’s the theater?”
“Very busy.”
“What play are you doing?”
“A Winter’s Tale.”
“Good one.”
“For this time of year. I’m putting snowflake-shaped sequins on Norma’s gown.”
“She’ll sparkle.”
“Always does. How about you? How are you doing?”
“I love this city.” Nicky picked up a plastic party knife, lifted a section of the frosting border off what was left of his birthday cake, and spackled it to the cardboard plate. “So much to do. I’m hardly home.”
“Do you see a lot of plays?”
“I try. On my end, I’m still trying to break in. So much acting work here. Union work. It’s all good, all promising.”
“Do you get back to Philly much?” Calla hadn’t asked Jo Palazzini about Nicky’s visits. She didn’t want to know. He hadn’t been back to the theater to see his old friends or take in one of their productions. She assumed he had outgrown Borelli’s and his old friends, especially her. “I know you’re busy.”
“I haven’t been home.” Nicky hadn’t been back to Philadelphia to visit since he moved to New York City. He’d vowed he wouldn’t return until he had gotten a part in a play. “My cousins came up here to see me. That was nice. We went to Lüchow’s.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Calla said.
“It’s an institution. I don’t have time to leave the city, really. Got my eye on a couple of agents.”
“That’s terrific.” Calla remembered when her father signed with an agent. Nothing much had come of it, but Sam had high hopes at the time. “You need a representative.”
“Yeah. And I try to pick up extra shifts when I can. It gives me free days to go to open calls.”
“Shifts?”
“Yeah. I drive a cab to pay the rent.”
“Well, you’re good at it. And you have the livery license. Might as well use it.”
“I meet some characters. Sometimes I hit the jackpot. A couple weeks ago, Kitty Kallen got in the cab. The best girl singer around, I think.”
“I agree. She’s very special.”
“And a looker, too. Black hair. Like yours. And she wears English Lavender, like my cousin Elsa.”
“Maybe you’ll come home for Christmas?”
“Can’t make it this year.” Nicky winced as soon as he said it. The idea of being home with his family was a tonic to him, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face the Palazzinis, their hopes for him higher than his own for himself. If he went, they’d try to lure him back to Montrose Street. They had spent most of the dinner at Lüchow’s begging him to come back to South Philly, but Nicky wasn’t about to give up. He was as stubborn as he was talented.
“That’s too bad. We’re having a big cast party on December twenty-third. Everybody asks about you.”
“They do?”
“The acting company holds you up as the gold standard. You broke out of Philly and made it to Broadway.”
“I only drive on a street marked Broadway. I haven’t acted on Broadway yet.”
“You’re close.”
“I’ll get there.”
“I know you will. It just takes the right director to cast you in the right role.”
“Thanks for the encouragement, Calla.”
“Everybody can use a little of that.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Nicky laughed.
“I’d better get going. I have to finish my work.”
“But it’s late.”
“I don’t mind the hours.”
Calla hung up the phone after saying good-bye. She would sleep that night, soundly and deeply, having heard Nicky’s voice and knowing he was all right.
Nicky would not have restful slumber on the night of his thirty-second birthday. He would hear every footstep on the sidewalk as it crunched overhead on the snow and ice. He’d hear every siren and car horn and the clank of every dumpster on every garbage truck, blaming the city for his insomnia. The birthday cake hadn’t sat well on his stomach. The red wine had given him a slight headache. Nicky would blame everything but the truth for his inability to surrender to a peaceful night’s sleep: he needed a friend. He had not kept the close counsel of a trusted confidante since he left Philly. Sure he had made friends, but in the process he had revealed very little of himself to them. Like so many young men and career girls who moved to the city, he was struggling to survive and pursue the work he had relocated to do with equal focus. Time was passing and he wasn’t moving forward. It pained Nicky to look into the future. Nicky had so much more to say to Calla Borelli. He would have liked to ask her advice, but he was ashamed he hadn’t made it, landed that role, or hit the boards. Instead, he had done everything he could to avoid telling her what his life was really like in the most important city in the world, where he felt like the least significant person in it.