Faking Life (18 page)

“You don't feel warm,” she said, confused as to where my sudden illness came from. “But let's take your temperature just in case.”

She led me into the bathroom and wiped my mouth. Handing me the thermometer, she kissed me on the forehead and closed the door. I heard her tell Gloria I'd be out in a minute.

While they chatted, I ran a thin stream of hot water from the sink and dipped the thermometer under it. I fake-retched some more and kept my eye on the mercury. When it hit 101.3, I shut the water off. Then I stuck it in my mouth.

“Mrrrm,” I moaned, putting on my best puppy-dog face. “I fink I'm drrrn.” She opened the door and read the thermometer. Her face turned pale and she felt my head again. Confused, she reread the thermometer.

“You don't
feel
warm, but let's get you into bed. I don't want to take any chances with that baby.” She brought me an extra blanket and some Advil, which I swallowed and chased with a glass of water.

“It's ok, Ma,” I said. “I'll see them another time.” She shrugged, dejected, turned off my light and closed the door. My heart pounded in my chest until I heard the front door slam shut.

I hadn't seen either Gloria or her son since.

That is, until the other day when I went to her home in New Haven. I'd heard from my parents she moved there, but like so many nuggets of information it never really processed. Or maybe I just let it slip away.

Once it all came back I knew I had to see her. I needed to shut that window. I ran an Internet search and came up with three Gloria Rimbauds living in New Haven. I called all of them. The first two were older women who hung up on me. But on the last try, when I hard that voice, I knew I'd gotten it right. I hung up without saying a word.

Fifteen years of holding it inside, pretending those things never took place, I never realized the toll it took. That baby caused so many sleepless nights, atrophying the muscle from my developing frame and leaving me a shell without substance, an egg without a yolk. All I needed was to see her and the child. I needed to know the truth.

My first thought was to confront her, to scream and holler and tell her how she could have ruined my life, how she was the most selfish person who ever lived. I'd make sure the kid knew just how evil his mother was. I wanted to put a blemish on his childhood like she did mine.

But I was wrong. Gloria isn't evil. She was a messed up kid back then, kind of like I am now. Not in the same way, but maybe she, like I do, needed a release. Maybe having a child was the turning point in Gloria's life, the moment she grew up and became responsible for more than just her own happiness. I saw the way she looked at her son. I knew she would give her life for him, the look in her eyes when she saw a stranger on their lawn. When she threatened to call the police, it wasn't for her own safety, but for his. The child isn't mine. I know that now. It's a cardboard box I can tape up, store away. Open it when I need to be reminded, never to be frightened again.

I have nothing to fear. Nobody else can dictate what I'm meant to feel. My whole life is ahead of me, and I want to live it on my own terms.

“I
t's freakin' depressing,” Frank Menegaro said, slamming the pages down on the desk. “All this stuff about sleeping with babysitters and then, what,
stalking
them? It's creepy. I don't like it.”

They were gathered in Nico's office, poring over the newest mailing from John Gillis, stale coffee in the air. Nico had run off copies and the readers were now giving their opinions. Esther, for one, was heartbroken. To her, this confession was as brave as anything she'd ever read.

Frank continued. “I mean the guy works in a bar, right? He's served drinks every day for God knows long and then he starts to write books. Swell, right? Maybe he can convince a bunch of hippie whiners to take up corporate finance, but this b.s. about his babysitter? Come on Nic, it just doesn't fit.”

Esther had long ago learned to ignore Frank's immature literary rants. She could never seriously consider the opinions of a man whose idea of a bad book was one where the hero didn't kill a lot of Arabs and sleep with at least two blonde government agents. She was much more interested in where Nico stood. So far he'd stayed silent, scribbling on a yellow legal pad and rereading his notes, mumbling under his breath. Esther waited anxiously, hoping he would look up and piss himself laughing at Frank's utter lack of comprehension. Instead when he looked up he stared right at Esther, an apologetic look in his eye. Her heart sank. She started preparing her rebuttal.

“I have mixed feelings,” he said, which was a polite way of saying he hated it but didn't want to risk offending her. A real politician's reaction. Esther wondered if he'd ever considered running for office. “Given the right circumstances, this story should certainly be brought to light.”

But
, Esther thought. There was a
but
coming up, she could feel it.

“But I'm not sure if this type of confession is appropriate, considering our plans for the book.” Frank nodded his head vigorously. Nico flipped through his notes again. Esther knew his only reason for doing this was to make it look like he'd considered every angle, that nothing could change his mind.

“Our plans? He hasn't even finished it yet,” Esther pleaded. Frank chuckled.

Nico said, “I spoke with Nancy Walsh over at Tribunal Press, the woman whose preempt I rejected. We had a nice chat about what our respective visions are for the project, and one thing everyone agrees with is that its potential goes far beyond the written word. I've already spoken to our Italian and German sub-agents. They're waiting to snap up translation rights, and that's just the beginning. We want to get him into the speakers bureau, start giving talks at conferences. Get him on talk shows, see how he handles himself. Maybe get a network to bite on a series. The one thing we don't want…”

“Is what?” Esther said. Nico cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. Esther was pleased her interruption had ruffled his feathers.

“The one thing we don't want,” he continued, “is to turn the book into a sappy melodrama. There are a million memoirs on the market about overcoming abuse. If I had a black suit for every book written by some middle-aged nobody whose mother used to eat his Frosted Flakes, I'd be Johnny fucking Cash. I don't want sad, I want trendy. Alcoholism and fat girls finding love, that stuff is out. People want
real.
” Nico let the comment sink in and then pointed to the empty chair. Esther took a seat. Frank went into the conference room and dragged a chair in to join them. Esther remained silent.

“I'm not undermining John Gillis,” Nico continued, his hands dancing like a trained conductor's. “But the fact is, an abuse subplot will
not
sell this book. Not the way we've envisioned it. To be inspirational, Gillis needs to evoke strength, not sympathy. If people know that his babysitter forced intercourse on him, they might
sympathize
with the author…but they won't look up to him. The image we want to project is a guy who took the proverbial ball and ran with it. You know which part I really liked?” Nico said, a huge grin on his face.

“What's that Nico? What did you really like?” Nico laughed. Esther felt like she'd missed something

“When he wrote about his mother after that trip to the hospital. Now t
hat
was dramatic. I could feel myself sweating with him. And when he said that event made him want to be a better son?” Nico looked at Frank, who nodded in agreement. “That was
good
. Exactly what we were hoping for. Professional bartender writes an inspirational memoir that will make millions want to jump out from behind the retail counter. Not 'poor baby, I hope he gets the help he needs'. Then he's just one of them, nothing to say that will affect anyone but himself.”

“Why do the two have to be independent? He got up and took charge of his life. I think
that's
what's inspirational. It took a lot of courage to find Gloria, “ Esther said. Frank scowled at her.

“Studies show most people don't identify with abuse,” Nico said. “If we keep that in, Gillis will receive a hundred fan letters a month from abuse victims who'll see him as a role model, but everyone else will be turned off. We don't want people to sympathize with John Gillis, we want them to
empathize
with him. We want them to say 'you know what, I've been there too.' I'm sure studies would show that more people identify with being dissatisfied than being felt up by an attractive 23-year old.”

Esther was stunned. Frank seemed to agree with Nico in spirit, at least that's what she assumed when she noticed him picking his nose with his pinky.

“Now please, I need some time to think.”

Nico took a pen and started scribbling on the manuscript, which meant he wanted to be left alone. Esther numbly walked back to her desk and took a half-completed manuscript from the shelf.

At twelve-thirty Nico stepped out, fresh cologne dripping off his body. His hair looked like a gel factory had exploded around it. He put on an overcoat and locked the door to his office. Frank peeked his head in from the other room. The look on his face reminded Esther of her old Shih Tzu who looked forlorn when her mother left for work.

“I have a meeting,” Nico said. “Be back around three.”

“Who're you meeting with?” Frank asked. Nico either didn't hear the question or simply ignored it. Frank shrugged after the door closed. “Must be important,” he mused.

Esther settled into her seat. Then she heard a key turn in the lock.

The door opened and Nico strode back in.

“Forgot something,” he said. She watched as he went back into his office and picked up the pile of pages with the name “John Gillis” stamped in the upper-left hand corner. He made sure Esther was watching, and tossed them in the recycling bin on his way out. Frank smiled. The front door clicked shut, and Frank waited.

He waited until Esther went to the bathroom, the water running steadily from the tap, then stood up, walked over to the recycling bin and picked up the discarded pages. He wiped off the loose scraps that clung to it, and tucked them into his desk.

Just maybe, Frank thought, there could be a use for them after all.

N
ico buttoned his coat as he stepped into the cold October air, his breath pluming in front of him. He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket—one of the few Father's Day gifts from Pietro he still wore (a pair of Snoopy suspenders from 2001 hung untouched in his closet)—and strolled down Broadway. He took the C train down to West 4th, then crossed 6th Avenue and headed into the West Village. Nico rarely found himself this far South. He barely recognized it as part of the same city that he lived in. Overrun by college students and filthy hippies playing bad guitar music on dirty sidewalks, hawking vanity CD's that had no right being pressed. He walked down 4th until he saw the sign that read “Telly's Coffee Shop”. The awning had the subtitle “We Serve the Freshest Coffee in New York”. Nico doubted that.

A bell chimed as he entered. A large man with a Greek accent and hairy forearms strode up to greet him. The diner was packed, the smell of grease and ground beans clogged his nostrils. He had to tough it out. It was imperative that this meeting took place on his companion's turf. He wanted to give the air of being on unfamiliar ground, let the other man think he had the upper hand.

Nico detested eating in coffee shops. It wasn't the food or coffee, which was at best drinkable, but the antiquated “homey” feel made him queasy. Every table looked like it had a decade's worth of spills and stains etched into the wood, and rather than clean them or spring for new furniture the management always claimed they gave the restaurant “authenticity”. He hated how he could watch the chefs (could he really call them chefs?) preparing his food, like something out of a crummy 18th century saloon. In his opinion, nobody should have to see their food before eating it. To Nico, Hibachi was a four-letter word.

If there was one thing he missed most about being happily married, it was the comfort of settling down to a warm meal after work. Valerie's dinners always looked and tasted as though prepared by a master chef, not by some furry beast in a bloodstained apron with cigarette ash in his beard. As he took in the coffee shop's pungent aroma, Nico realized he hadn't eaten a home-cooked meal in nearly two years.

“One for lunch?” the Greek asked. Nico shook his head. He glanced around the restaurant. In a corner booth, he saw who he was looking for. The balding man in the blue sweater and jeans was nursing a cup of coffee. And was that a ponytail? Nico breathed in, excused himself and slid across the booth.

“Mr. Vanetti?” the man inquired, tentatively extending his hand. Nico noticed the man was sweating, a puddle of moisture coating his upper lip.

“Yes, Mr…”

“Artie. You can call me Artie, cause that's what everyone calls me. At the bar I mean, that's what they call me at the bar. My friends and family call me Arthur but…”

“It's a pleasure to meet you Arthur,” Nico said, shaking Artie's hand, kneading his fingers into the doughy palm. “Nice to meet the man behind Slappy's Slop House.” Nico felt silly saying the name.

Artie beamed. “Pleasure is all mine, Mr. Vanetti. So how did you hear about us?” Nico gave him an award-winning smile.

“How did I hear about you? Arthur, how could I forget all those newspaper articles
,
back when what's-his-name got snapped.” Nico laughed. “Funny. I remember the name of your bar but I can't remember the name of that actor. Big news, Arthur. That was big news.”

“Big news, yeah,” Artie said wistfully.

A waiter came over, licked his fingertips and flipped to a new page in his notebook. “What can I get you?” Nico gestured towards Artie.

“I'll have a BLT on wheat, a diet Coke and uh, a refill on the coffee.”

“And I'll have the same, but on rye.” Artie smiled. The waiter copied the order and left. Nico wondered if he really needed the pad to remember their order or if it was merely to look more professional. “So Arthur, what are your plans for Slappy's now? Seems the bar has seen a fair amount of success. Might be time to capitalize on it.”