The Edge of Lost (12 page)

But for one reason or another, Mr. Capello replied with a smile, “
Veramente.
A true gift.”

18

F
or once, Shan appreciated the noise and bustle of the streetcar, relieving any pressure to talk the whole ride home. At the racetrack, he and Mr. Capello had already said so much.

When finally they entered the house, where Italian spices fragranced the air, Shan breathed in the new scent of home.

Nick was reclined on the davenport. “That errand sure took a while.” His casualness as he flipped through a magazine—this one appropriate for family viewing—suggested nothing buried in the comment.

Shan shrugged. “I ran into your father.” An honest answer without specifics. A harmless secret to keep.

In the entry, Mr. Capello removed his hat and pointed for emphasis. “And now he knows why Italians have made this world great. Without them, we would not have the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We would not have democracy, or even America for that matter—”

“Papa, not again,” Lina groaned from the sitting room rug, where she stopped in the midst of dressing a doll. “We’ve heard all of this a thousand times.”

“Oh? A thousand, eh? Then you must only listen to it one thousand more.”

It was difficult to judge from his expression if he was teasing. Before Shan could decide, Mrs. Capello emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “
Bene,
you are both here. Supper will be ready in twenty minutes. I will put out olives and nuts—”

“No,” her husband cut in.

“But … I am keeping the prosciutto for supper.”

“No,” he repeated. “You are not making supper.”

Shan’s confusion was reflected in the faces of the others until Mr. Capello clarified. “I am taking my family out to dine.”

From the stillness pervading the room one would think he had announced plans to jump from the Tower of Pisa.

He flicked his hat upward. “What are you waiting for?
Andiamo.
Get ready, we go.”

Breaking into a grin, Nick tossed his magazine aside. “Sounds dandy to me,” he said, and started for the entry as Lina sprang to her feet.

“Wait! I want to wear my favorite blue dress,” she said, already sprinting for the stairs.

“But—we cannot go,” Mrs. Capello insisted. “The food, it is cooking—”

“And we will eat it tomorrow,” her husband declared.

Not since childhood had Shan dined in an actual restaurant. The excitement of choosing from a full menu made his mouth water.

“I don’t know about you,” Nick said, pulling his coat from a wall hook, “but I could go for a big juicy steak tonight.”

Shan agreed, relishing the thought of his old favorites. “So long as it’s with a large heap of potatoes.”

Clearly outnumbered, Mrs. Capello marched back into the kitchen, muttering in Italian. Something about her terrible appearance and putting the food away and—if Shan understood correctly—money not growing on trees.

Shan and Mr. Capello traded a look, acknowledgment that the extra funds had come from elsewhere.

Twenty minutes later, the family arrived at the small but lively restaurant. The irony of Mr. Capello’s choice was not lost on Shan, nor on the rest of the family.

“But, Papa,” Lina pleaded as they were guided to their table, “we eat Italian food all the time.”

“This is not Italian,” he said. “This is Sicilian.”

Over the wall murals of Italy hung decorative strings of garlic and peppers. The ingredients, like the aroma, matched those in the Capellos’ kitchen, just three blocks away.

Shan quietly asked Nick, “Is there a difference?”

“What do
you
think?”

The waitress left them at a red-and-white-checkered table in the corner, a white candle aglow at its center. Opera music played faintly in the background.

Still standing, Nick said, “Pop, why can’t we just go out for a hamburger? You want us to be seen as good Americans, right?”

Shan caught the glimmer in Nick’s eyes, an awareness of using the man’s theories in the rest of the family’s favor. Hopefully it would work.

“But you are not just Americans,” Mr. Capello said, taking his seat. “You are Italian Americans. Now, sit.”

Shan obeyed, still grateful for the luxury of the outing, and the others followed. Though Mrs. Capello proceeded without complaint, over her face passed a message that at home they’d have been eating similar food by now at a lower price. Her husband’s claims that Palermo Ristorante was rumored to be one of the finest eateries around did nothing to alter her stance.

Before long they all placed their orders, and soon the meals arrived. Only then did Shan recognize the true value of the outing: Mrs. Capello was able to eat without delivering dishes, clearing the table, or tidying the kitchen. Aside from a brief remark about her own sauce being better than the one on her ordered ravioli—likely rooted more in pride than in taste—she wound up looking as pleased as the rest of the family.

Even Shan had to admit his “tomato pie,” made of thick, rectangular bread covered in sauce, anchovies, and cheese, was rather delicious. He just wished the same could be said of the grappa.

At Nick’s urging, Shan had accepted the after-supper drink, which appeared as clear as water. Unimpressed by the smell, he’d decided that downing the small glassful, as he would cod liver oil, would be wiser than drawing it out. Yet when he gulped it down, the liquor caused his chest to flame and his face to scrunch as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

Lina and Nick snickered, and their father couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Capello chided Nick for not giving Shan a proper warning. But then she promptly tucked her chin and used a napkin to wipe her mouth, long enough to suggest a grin.

Once Shan recovered, his delight at seeing the family this way increased the lightness in his head caused by the grappa. It had been a good while since he’d been the source of people’s laughter. He had forgotten the satisfaction of entertaining a crowd, knowing he was directly responsible for the smile in their eyes.

Perhaps he had more to offer the Capellos than he’d thought.

He straightened in his seat and puffed his chest. From weeks of observing Mr. Capello, Shan lowered his voice to mimic the man’s accent and declared, “Why are you laughing this way? Always Capello men are serious. For five generations, this is how we survive.”

The family halted as they registered the likeness.

“Papa, it’s you!” Lina suddenly laughed, as did Nick, who pressed for more.

Relying on details he had collected, both consciously and not, Shan continued the impersonation. “Just look at the success of the Romans, eh?” He pinched invisible coins. “You think they build a great empire by laughing all day? No. And what of Michelangelo? He would be hired to paint only the … the pope’s bathroom ceiling if he sat around, listening to silly jokes.
Capisci?
”

Mrs. Capello covered her mouth while giggling, this time her amusement clear—unlike her husband, who gave no hint of a reaction. For a second, Shan worried he might have offended the man. But then a glimmer entered Mr. Capello’s eyes, and Shan knew he was safe.

“Do that again,” Nick demanded through his laughter.

Shan had no issue proceeding, but would sensibly vary his target. He leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his neck, taking up space. “Pop, it’s like I told ya,” he said, shifting to Nick’s tone. “If you’d have just let me borrow some dough, I could’ve bought the paint to decorate that, uh, Sistine Chapel joint myself.”

Finally Mr. Capello’s lips crept into a smile. Lina was pointing at Nick, saying Shan had captured him perfectly, despite her brother’s weak protests that it hadn’t come close.

The waitress delivered their desserts while Mr. Capello finished off his grappa. He ordered another as Shan presented warmhearted portrayals of Mrs. Capello, then Lina. The candle on the table was melting into thin white streaks. Its flame accentuated the glow in Mrs. Capello’s face.

“Do something else now,” Lina said following a brief quiet, not wanting the evening to end. And really, neither did Shan.

He glanced behind him to view the restaurant from their corner table. The opera music had ended, and many of the diners had cleared out after their meals. He supposed he could pull out a song or two.

Boosted by the old buzz of performing, Shan started with “Foolish Questions” in the style of Billy Murray. He stood up now and again, when action enhanced the humor. Mrs. Capello was in the midst of eating her cannoli when Shan reached the line about falling down the elevator shaft. Her resulting giggles sent the confectioner’s sugar from her dessert straight into Lina’s hair, and the whole family burst into laughter.

Once they were settled again, Shan moved on to a slew of jokes. Some he had forgotten about until they all came rushing back. Of course, he tailored the show for his audience, skipping the more unsavory parts as well as impressions only Irishmen would appreciate.

This concluded the act, and Shan took an exaggerated bow. But the Capellos weren’t the only ones who applauded. He twisted toward the tables behind him, where strangers were clapping and raising wineglasses. Cheeks warming, he offered a few bows with his head and swiftly slid back into his chair, facing the other way.

In a flash, a man appeared at their table and introduced himself as the owner. Above his low apron, he wore a white long-sleeved shirt with a black bow tie and vest. His personal attention would have seemed a compliment if not for his tight-lipped expression.

A song request was surely not in the cards. Shan lowered his eyes, preparing to be ushered out.

But then the owner gestured across the room. “Signore Trevino said he would be very pleased to meet the young boy.” In the opposite corner, three men sat at a table in pinstriped suits. At the center of the trio, a fellow smoking a cigar lifted his ample chin in greeting. Everything about him projected importance.

The owner waited for approval from Mr. Capello, who looked uneasy with the invite.

“I’m sure it will only take a moment, signore,” the owner contended. “In the meantime, I will be happy to prepare your check if you would like. The grappa, of course, is free of charge.”

“Free?” Mr. Capello said.

“
Si.
For the boy’s entertainment.” Even as he said this, the owner did not smile.

At Mr. Capello’s reluctance, Nick scooted his chair back and stood. “Ah, Pop, don’t worry. I’ll go with him. Like he said, it’ll just take a minute. What’s the harm?”

Shan waited for the go-ahead, his mind still reeling.

Under the pressure of the owner’s gaze, Mr. Capello nodded. “Only until payment is done.”

Nick gave a slap to Shan’s shoulder. “Well, come on,” he said, and Shan rose to follow him over. The two men flanking Signore Trevino were focused on their meals, one eating a layered pie—called lasagna, Shan had learned—and the other twisting long noodles with a fork.

Shan and Nick hadn’t quite reached the table when Signore Trevino reclined in his chair, away from his bowl of clamshells. He wiped his thick fingers one at a time with a napkin. “So, kid. You like to put on shows, huh?”

Despite the amiable tone, Shan felt like a horse from the track being sized up for its odds.

“Sometimes, I guess.” He’d made a habit of suppressing his brogue, but now, without intention, he caught himself sounding a bit like Nick.

“Yeah? Well, I got a supper club in the Bronx, just off Third. Called the Royal. Ever heard of it?”

When Shan hesitated, Nick jumped in. “Who hasn’t?” He said this with such confidence that Shan knew he was fibbing. And so did Signore Trevino, based on his smirk.

The man drew from his cigar and exhaled a cloud of earthy smoke. “So, whaddya think?”

Somehow Shan had missed the question. “Sir?”

“About making some dough with that stuff. Becoming a regular act.”

A week ago, when Shan was out on the street begging for an audition, he would have answered with a resounding yes. But now, fed and housed and free of desperation, he reminded himself there was a vast difference between amusing a family over supper and performing on demand, as he’d done in a hundred seedy pubs.

“I’m not really sure,” he said in truth.

Slight surprise betrayed the man’s even expression, but not the offended kind. He tapped his cigar on an ashtray. “Well, when you make up your mind, you come see me at the club. I’m around most weekends. Just tell them Max sent ya.”

Shan nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and kid. This is for you.” Max sent a look to one of his companions, who promptly stopped eating.

The slender fellow had to be in his early twenties, his pockmarked cheeks suggesting scars from smallpox. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he produced a leather billfold and pulled out five one-dollar bills. He tossed them onto the edge of the table with the ease of emptying lint from a pocket.