“My dad wasn’t Jeffrey Dahmer. It wasn’t
all
weird.” Jonathan lowers his voice. “I mean, he was still my dad, the guy who took me to Yankee games and taught me how to
throw a football. He taught me about food and wine and how to live a good life. He wasn’t the typical dago, with his Friday-night
wife and his Saturday-night girlfriend. We attended a Catholic church and he cried when I made my first communion. He cheered
me on when I hit a homer in Little League and consoled me when I blew a critical double play. He was a
real
dad. To me, at least.”
“You don’t get it, Jonathan. I didn’t have a chance to play Little League or dance ballet or anything else. We were always
trying to stay hidden and out of sight. My dad might have taught me how to toss a ball if he hadn’t been so worried about
one of us getting plucked off on the way back from the mailbox!”
“Look, Melody, I am not comparing my parents to yours. My point is that my family—and this business we’re in—makes people
do bad things. But the bottom line is
it’s business
.”
“My family never did anything to the Bovaro clan.”
“Your parents testified.”
“And if they hadn’t?”
Jonathan snatches his fork and starts eating. That is his answer.
I watch him for a moment and as his chewing comes to a regular pace, I realize he is in for the long haul. I start eating
again too.
The food is truly noteworthy and I do not deny that, as Jonathan suggested, the kitchen staff nervously prepared this meal
with the greatest of care, and it is a decided plus to be eating here on this day with a notable Bovaro. This leads me to
a thought.
“Where do you rank in your family?”
Keeping his eyes on his food, Jonathan chews and inhales at the same time. “Not high.”
“Why?”
He licks his teeth a little and looks up. “The fact that I indirectly turned my father in to the cops embarrassed my family
greatly.”
I frown. “How sad.”
“You can make fun, but the truth is, the only way I could earn back the trust of my family, of my peers, was to correct the
… mistake.”
I squint and play with my wineglass. “Correct it how?”
“In order for me to regain my honor, I needed to kill you and your parents.” We stare at each other. “Most kids are worried
about getting their driver’s license at sixteen; I was worried about rubbing out three people.”
My hand finds my utensils and suddenly I’m thankful Jonathan ordered me beef. A sharper knife, you see. I am going to thrust
it into the side of his neck. “
You
killed my parents?”
“No… but I tried.” He drops his head and wipes his face. He looks back at me and says, “I was supposed to do the killings,
but I didn’t have the stones. I had your folks in my sight and I pointed the gun but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I tried
and I tried but I couldn’t make it happen.”
I use all the energy I can gather to stay in control. “So who did?”
“My older cousin, who was with me for backup—and sort of a witness, to tell the guys back home. He just… pushed me out
of the way and snapped off a round of bullets. Then he took me back to the car and beat the crap out of me.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Because I failed. I failed my family once again. It was like there was no way to honor them.”
I give him time to complete his thought, but I can no longer take the gap in silence. “Except… by killing
me
.”
He looks at me and after a long period of silence, he nods. “I kept going to wherever you’d moved and… waited.” He leans
in my direction. “I could never do it, Melody. Never. I mean, sure, I used to rough guys up at home once in a while. It’s
the way things are handled in our business, but please believe me: I could never—
will
never—hurt you.”
I calm, finally, at the notion that I might really have nothing to fear with this guy. “What did you tell your family every
time you came back empty-handed?”
“That I couldn’t find you.”
“But… what made you keep coming back? Why didn’t you just say you had no idea where I was in the first place unless you
really had some intention of killing me?”
Jonathan leans forward and softly takes my hand. The fact that this man’s bloodline is directly linked to the death of my
parents and the miserable life I’ve led should make me cringe—but for some inexplicable reason, I don’t. I close my eyes and
curl my fingers around his as though he has gained control of my nervous system.
“To make sure you were okay, Melody.”
“I was never okay, Jonathan.”
He squeezes my hand tighter and says, “You are now.”
And with that simple statement, his urgency and his presence in my life begin to unfold.
“But now you’re here. No longer hiding.” I say this very slowly: “Why?”
He watches me closely, tries to read my reaction. His grip on my hand becomes firm, a clear transition from affection to something
else, though not restraint. “Because they finally found you.”
I look down and ingest the information. “Your family?”
“Someone in our organization; I don’t know who.”
I look at my hand in his, how small my fingers are in his fist. I’m not sure why, but I do not consider trying to run. Even
if I did, Jonathan offers me a reason to stay.
“You’re safer with me than the feds, Melody.” He slowly releases his grip and sits back. “My family didn’t have to try hard
to find you. The information was given to them.”
“What do you mean? By who?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but the information they had was completely accurate.” He sighs. “And if you believe it’s possible
for a good guy to be in the Mafia, you must also believe that it’s possible for a bad guy to be in the Justice Department,
so the converse is true.”
I am so effete from being disarmed, I’m numb. I stare into the distance. “Actually, it’s not a converse, or an inverse, or
a contrapositive, or any other geometric derivative. Your statement was just a mess of attempted logic. But I get the point.”
He laughs a little and returns to his risotto. I watch him eat. “Why am I safer with you?”
He swallows and thinks before answering, “My family will kill you if they find you alone. My family will
not
kill you if they find you with me. And if you’re with a fed or anyone else?” He shrugs.
“But why? Why do they want me dead? You know how many times I sat in my bedroom and imagined that all of my running was for
nothing, that you guys had forgotten who I even was? I mean, what damage could I possibly do to your family? The government
lost all the cases that involved my parents’ testimony.”
He licks his lips and takes a swig of wine. “I don’t mean this to sound casual, but they don’t want any loose ends. You never
know when the feds will try to build some other case where your testimony may be useful—or even critical. It’s just easier
if you’re gone.”
I close my eyes and drop my head. “Just like that, huh?”
Jonathan puts down his fork and takes my hand, as gently as he had a moment ago, though this time my fingers are lifeless.
Jonathan whispers, “I will protect you, Melody.
Trust me
.”
I open my eyes and realize there is no way to turn this around. Before, there was one good guy and one bad guy; now I’m lost
in a world of distrust and corruption and the odds of my survival have slipped to about one in a thousand. The only person
left I can trust is myself—and I have no idea who I am.
Eventually, I stop playing with my fork and begin using it. My stomach is a knot of stress but the quality and flavor of the
food ensures that it will be consumed. In silence, we finish our meals and slurp down espresso, both without room for even
the smallest cannoli. My stomach has not been this full and my palate this content in, well, ever.
And, as Jonathan predicted, the waiter never brings the check.
I allowed myself the luxury of this fine food, but as it’s clear it’s time to leave, I return to my original dilemma.
“What are you planning to do with me once we get to New York?”
Jonathan starts playing with the spring-operated ignition key for the Audi. “I, uh… I want to take you back to my family
and introduce you to them.”
I fall back in my seat. “You’ve
got
to be kidding. This is your plan?”
“Hear me out, okay?”
“I might as well jam this knife in my gut right now.”
“Hear me out.”
“Spare me some misery and just tie me to the bumper of your car.”
“Melody, just wa—”
“Talk about a death sentence!”
“Melody!” He waves his arms wildly, as though he’s trying to get my attention from across a crowded room. “Nobody is killing
anybody, okay? If you are with
me
, you are safe.”
“That’s the same thing the feds say.”
“Yeah, well, you just made my point.”
I shake my head in half-disgust / half-amazement and give him the floor. “Let’s hear your brilliant scheme.”
He clears his throat. “I’m going to show my family what a nice woman you are, how you are no threat to them, and—how you are
a
person
. Not some file of incriminating evidence they’re trying to erase or a rat spilling his guts to the cops, but a real human
being with feelings and emotions and something worth—”
“Are you stupid?”
“What? No, I—”
“You take drugs?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you suffer from any mental disease or deficiency?”
He pauses. “Uh… no?”
“Then I cannot figure out what could possibly make you think I stand a chance of living if you bring me to your home. It’s
like bringing a deer to the front door of a hunting lodge.”
He looks at me and sighs, stands and motions for me to do the same. He offers his hand to help me out of my seat and I take
it.
We plod to the door, walk outside, and stand in the bright sunshine.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I left my keys on the table in the restaurant. I’m gonna go back in and get them. If you think
you’ll be safer with the feds than with me, feel free to leave. If you think you’ll be safer with me—and I hope you will—then
be here when I come back out.”
Jonathan looks at me for a minute, like I might give him an answer on the spot, but I merely nod.
He walks inside the restaurant and as the door closes, I do not ponder his offer but instead get stuck on the fact that he
left his keys on the table. For a guy who has been so deft at repeatedly finding me and remaining in control of these various
situations, it’s an odd slip. Frankly, it seems more like something Sean would have done.
I move close to the door and nudge it open a little to peek inside, and sure enough Jonathan’s lied to me again. He is swinging
his keys around his middle finger as he walks back to our table. When he gets to it, he looks over his shoulder and waves
the waiter to the table, says a few words to him, and the waiter smiles. The waiter walks away and Jonathan looks around—seemingly
to make sure no one is watching—then pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and drops them on the table.
I smile and close the door.
And when he comes outside he gets his answer; I am waiting for him.
He looks relieved. “Thank you,” he says.
Jonathan gently puts his hand on the small of my back and I shiver. He guides me around the side of the restaurant to where
the Audi is parked and we find two kids hovering over the car with their backs to us. They are both laughing quietly.
Jonathan stops, assesses the situation, takes his hand from my back, and whispers to me, “Stay here.”
“Do it again,” I hear one of the kids say.
Jonathan moves closer and from my distance it appears these two kids, both young teenagers, are spitting on the seats of his
car. That’s sort of what he gets for leaving the top down in the middle of Baltimore. I do not voice my opinion.
Jonathan pulls up his sleeves as he sneaks up behind the kids and says, “What do you fu”—he looks back at me and winces—“funny
guys think you’re doing?”
The kids try to run but he snags one around the neck with his arm, as with a cane in a burlesque show. Jonathan grabs him
by the hair, and just as he is about to slam the kid’s head down on the side of the car, he looks at me—but I cannot look
at him. I turn away, because all of the good he just did at the restaurant is about to be unraveled.
The other kid comes back, I guess out of loyalty to his friend, and bobs nervously from foot to foot.
No one says a word, and when I finally look at Jonathan, he swallows.
I shrug and say, “It’s just saliva.”
Jonathan withers a little and he and I both realize that his lifestyle and family heritage is more a part of him than either
of us would like to admit. He loosens his grip on the kid and pushes him to the ground. “Go home and hug your mother,” he
says to him. “And say a prayer of thanks tonight, kid.” He glances at me. “An angel was looking out for you today.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid says, stumbling to his feet.
Both boys stand and look at Jonathan like soldiers waiting for instructions from a commanding officer.
Jonathan frowns at them. “Run! Run, you little sh—shysters.”
And they do.
I walk up to Jonathan and watch the kids quickly fade from view. They actually left a cloud of dust.
He gazes at the gobs of spit on his leather upholstery and grunts. “Let me go back in the restaurant and get a paper towel
or something.”
I nod. I grab my new green sweater, ensure that it is free of spit, and slip it on. As Jonathan walks away, I stand in the
light breeze with my eyes closed. The warmth of the sun tranquilizes me and nearly brings me to my knees. Something is changing
inside of me; though I have never been certain of who I am, I feel I am changing anyway.
I am replete.
I am sanguine.
I am being shoved into the back of a large SUV with seats composed of stiff vinyl.
The vehicle shakes and, after fumbling around for a few seconds, I garner the strength to look out the window and I see we
have created a dust cloud of our own.