“So what do you say?”
“I never let myself think this might happen.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to be disappointed.”
“So now you don’t have to be. Ever again. What do you say? I’m hanging here like that flat on the stage wall. The one where the pulley never works right. One nudge in the wrong direction and I come crashing to the floor impaling Hambone to the prop table.”
“How are you going to explain this to all the other women?”
“Calla Borelli, you’re the only woman I’ve ever been sure of.”
“I’m broke.”
“I’ve been broke.”
“I have debts.”
“We’ll chip away at them.”
“I’m bossy.”
“I know.”
“I won’t change.”
“So henpeck me.”
“I think I know it all sometimes.”
Nicky nodded. “More often than not.”
“I cut my own hair.”
“That will stop.”
“I can’t see myself in the beauty parlor.”
“You’d better.”
“I’ve loved you all along, Nick.”
“You have?” He was intrigued. “How long?”
“Dad was directing As You Like It. Spring season, nineteen forty-eight.”
“Nineteen forty-six.”
“I’m not good with numbers.”
“This explains the problem with the bank.”
She ignored the comment. “And you came into the theater. You were very thin. Like all the guys back from the war. And Dad asked you what you wanted to do, and you said, ‘Anything but act.’ ”
“I don’t remember that.”
“And later Dad said that you were the first person that ever walked into the theater that didn’t want to be an actor.”
“I’ve done all right, Calla.”
“It wouldn’t matter to me if you hadn’t. You’re my best friend.”
Calla put her arms around Nicky. She meant it. She believed in Nicky Castone in ways that her mother believed in her father. Calla would love him always, but she didn’t want to give up her own dreams for that great privilege. How could she ever tell him this? She couldn’t. So instead she kissed him; she kissed his cheeks, his nose, his mouth, and as her lips grazed his, she let herself stay in the best moment she had ever known: the one that lasts a lifetime.
*
Nicky rapped on the priest’s door of the rectory with his left hand and held on to Calla’s hand with his right.
A young, fresh-scrubbed priest, wearing a new Roman collar and black cassock, answered the door.
“Father Rodo?”
“He’s on retreat.”
“Are you the priest on duty?”
“Yes.”
“Father, what’s your name?”
“Father Berry.”
“Beautiful name. Sounds like summer. Father, Miss Borelli and I want to be married.”
“You have to come and meet with Father Rodo, and for six weeks the banns of marriage have to appear in the church bulletin.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
“Those are the rules.”
“Father, I implore you, as a Roman Catholic from my first squawk to my last confession, to please marry us immediately. Calla is a Catholic in good standing at Our Lady of—”
“Good Counsel,” Calla finished the sentence.
“You see, we’re very devout.”
“You have to follow the rules.” Father Berry recognized Nicky.
“Nick Carl. Father, I am Nick Carl on Love of Life. I’m from South Philly.”
“No kidding.” Father Berry grinned.
“Do you think you could help out a native son?”
“And daughter?” Calla added.
“I’m sorry. The rules are, as you know, set in Rome. There’s no wiggle room.”
“None?”
“I could call Father Rodo if it’s an extreme situation.”
“I assure you, it’s extreme.”
“Do you have rings?”
“Yes,” Nicky lied.
“Come in.”
Nicky fished his key chain out of his pocket. He turned and ripped the keys off the loops, pulling two loops from the key chain as Father Berry went into his study. Calla shook her head. They waited until Father Berry emerged a few moments later.
“I can’t marry you. I’m sorry. Father Rodo says it’s impossible.”
“But nothing is impossible with God!”
“In this instance, unfortunately it is.”
“Tell him—and I’m sorry to tell you this, forgive me—Miss Borelli is going to have a baby. We’re already on the road to Bethlehem, Father. If you understand what I mean.”
Father Berry’s face lost all color. “I understand. That’s a different situation. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not having a baby,” she whispered.
“You will someday.” Nicky and Calla waited for the priest to return.
“Come with me.” Father Berry showed them the way into the chapel.
Calla, in her best hat, and Nicky, in his tight belt, were married by Father Berry before the small altar at Saint Mary Magdalen de Pazzi, at the foot of a stained-glass window, which in the light of the full moon threw shades of blue on the happy couple and the nervous priest. The priest blessed the rings without judging the cheap wire. Calla and Nicky took a moment to tighten the wire around their ring fingers before they kissed.
“I hope you’ll raise the baby Catholic,” Father Berry said solemnly.
“Dear Friar, you have my word,” Nicky promised.
*
Nicky and Calla kissed on the sidewalk outside the church.
“Where do we go?” Nicky asked her. “Montrose Street is a bus station.”
“You’ve never asked me where I live.”
“Where do you live?”
She smiled. “It’s your home now, too, Nick.”
“Are you a good cook?”
“A better baker.”
“I’ll take it. I’ve got two more grommets on this belt.”
Nicky was surprised when Calla guided him back to the theater. She flipped on the work lights and instructed him to follow her as she climbed the ladder in the wings to the crawl space above the stage.
She took his hand as she led him across the grid to a small door about five feet high, which she pushed open and ducked inside. He followed her in.
When Nicky stood inside the room, it was dark. Calla moved through the space, turning on small lamps that threw pink light onto the floor. Her home was an enormous room, beautifully appointed with the best furniture from her parents’ home, including a big four-poster bed, a dresser, and a large easy chair, covered in an afghan her mother had made. The kitchen was a simple sink and hot plate.
Calla went to the far wall and pulled a rope, not unlike the one that made the stage curtain rise and fall. As she did, a canvas tarp pulled away to reveal a glass ceiling, a skylight, a set of paned windows on the roof of the theater.
“What do you think?”
He kissed his wife.
“We used to play in this room as kids. This is where they stored the flats,” she explained.
Nicky held Calla close. “I would have liked to give you a big fancy wedding.”
“This was sweet.”
“What about the dolls on the cars and the cookie trays?”
“Not important.”
“The confetti?”
“I don’t need all that.”
“What about a diamond ring?”
“Someday, maybe.”