Jonathan slows to the speed limit as we pass the now-parked police cars on the shoulder of the road. I watch as two officers
shove a guy in handcuffs into the backseat of one of the squad cars, while two others empty the trunk of a dilapidated Dodge
Neon. Jonathan never takes his eyes from the road. This event has nothing to do with me, with us—but my nerves are sparking
like I’m overdosing on caffeine.
“So, anyway,” Jonathan says once the spectacle has passed, “my family retreated in embarrassment and never entered the world
of music again.”
“And so ended your shot at becoming a rock star.”
He tightens his grip on my hand. “Hey, people enjoy it when I sing in bars because I’m so
bad
.”
The stress and anxiety caused from the police scene have instantly been snuffed out. “Hold on, a Bovaro who does karaoke?”
“I was
joking
, Melody.” I stare him down. “Sort of. And I’d rather refer to it as open mic night.”
I let go of his hand and clap a few times like I’m trying to get a dog to do a trick. “C’mon, baby, sing me a love song.”
“Melody,” he says, like I’m annoying him. Then, out of nowhere, he throws his fist up to his mouth like he’s holding a microphone
and belts out something that might’ve scared me under different circumstances. By the time I recognize his pitch-poor, a cappella
version of The Scorpions’ “No One Like You,” he’s mutated it into a medley of their greatest hits, giving me sour bits and
pieces of “Big City Nights,” “Still Loving You,” and some other tune with indiscernible lyrics.
He returns his hands to the steering wheel and says, “That what you had in mind?”
“Not exactly.” His humor—at least I think humor was the intent here—hits me just the right way. My laughter comes out hard
and loud. “I was hoping for a little John Mayer, but it’s hard to lose when it comes to the Scorpions.”
Jonathan’s smile fades as it’s obvious he’s lost in thought.
“What’s wrong?”
He sighs. “About you and I being alike… there’s another thing that keeps me from being whoever I want to be: I got the
cops and feds bearing down on one side, but on the other side is… my family.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I always did well in school. Let me clarify: I was the
one
who did well in school. I got into some trouble here and there, not being immune to violence, but I always studied, got good
grades. I pretty much could’ve done anything with my life. But, as a kid, you know, people would ask me, ‘Hey, Little Johnny,
what do you wanna be when you grow up, huh?’ And I’d say something, like, ‘An accountant.’ My old man would nudge one of his
flunkies in the side, laugh, and say, ‘Hey, thank God—we need someone who can fix our books.’ ”
I groan; I know where this is going. Where my view of family has always depicted a blessing, he’s going to explain the
curse
side.
Jonathan continues, “If I said I wanted to be a banker, they’d say, ‘Finally, someone we can trust to launder the money!’
If I said I wanted to be a pilot, they’d say, ‘We can get Johnny to help us heist cargo right off his own planes!’ ”
“Oh, Jonathan.”
“I tried for years to think of something I wanted to do that could not be tied back to my family’s criminal behavior, but
it became impossible. Social worker? Sure, great way to hook up drug connections and prostitutes. Pharmacist? Drug dealer!
Photographer? Pornographer!”
Jonathan was right about me feeling sorry for myself. I’ve wanted a father again for so long that I forgot how miserable some
fathers can be, all heavily weighted with abuses of disparate kinds: physical, sexual, or—in Jonathan’s case—mental.
I wipe my face, suddenly feel cold. And what do you know:
piloerection
.
“So, what did you do?”
“Well, I thought I’d finally come up with the perfect solution. I went to culinary school, believe it or not. I love food.
I love experimenting in the kitchen. So I bought a small place in Williamsburg and run a modest restaurant there.”
“Legitimate?”
“The food is. And the waitstaff and the hostess and the reviews.” He pauses. “I also managed to launder over eight hundred
grand there last year.”
I sigh; I can no longer deny that I’m starting to care about this man, because I’m genuinely disappointed. “Why, Jonathan?”
He says to me, weakly, “Because… he’s my dad.”
I bite my lip, suddenly brought back to the reality of his life, of my life, of this moment.
“So, Melody, we are quite alike. In fact, we are identical except for one thing: You would give anything to be who you were
meant to be, and I would give anything to be anyone but who I was meant to be.”
And that’s it. We chew on his observation as the traffic on the highway builds. We stay in silence while the Baltimore skyline
grows in front of us like a waiting monster. Jonathan takes the long exit ramp down into the heart of the city.
I do not ask.
• • •
Jonathan pulls in front of the Renaissance Harborplace Hotel in downtown Baltimore, across the street from the Inner Harbor.
He pops the trunk, leaves the car running, and gets out. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to rob the place. The next thing
I know he’s at my door and opens it for me and offers his hand.
I take it.
He pulls me out and keeps my hand in his grip a few seconds longer than one normally would, and I find it suggestive. I tuck
my text on string theory under my arm. He goes to the trunk and removes a small suitcase and four shopping bags. He throws
the suitcase over his shoulder and puts two bags in each hand. As we walk toward the entrance of the hotel, Jonathan asks
the valet to pass the ticket to me, which the valet does, and as we pass through the front door, the Audi disappears.
This is not WITSEC.
Even though it’s nighttime, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the interior of the hotel. Over the course of a lifetime of
stays in three-story motels, I have never experienced anything like this dark and surreal entrance. The walls are paneled
with mahogany and the millwork is opulent and elaborate. The walls, the carpets, the ceiling, the statues—all deep, lush tones;
it feels like I’m walking through the belly of a living creature. Based on my appearance, it really couldn’t get dark enough
for me anyway.
We’re suddenly at the front desk and Jonathan is fumbling with the bags.
A perfectly coiffured, middle-aged woman rushes to help Jonathan and stares him down with a smile that insinuates attraction.
“Have you stayed with us before, sir?” the clerk asks.
“
We
have not,” he says, rustling through his pockets until he finds a wad of cash.
I move a few steps closer to Jonathan.
The clerk’s smile fades a bit, morphs into a more artificial I-am-here-to-help-you look.
I turn and watch Jonathan. This is the critical moment; his intentions will become completely apparent with the decision about
the sleeping accommodations. If he rents one room, he’s probably thinking he’ll get lucky; if he rents two rooms, he’s taking
the path of the well-mannered and considerate. Had I more experience in the bedroom, I might view this as a win/win situation.
“I just need your name or reservation number,” the clerk says.
“We don’t have a reservation.” He makes no eye contact, keeps counting the bills.
“Well, sir, there’s a convention in the hotel. I’m afraid there are no—”
Jonathan chucks a wad of bills on the counter. If I had to guess, it was at least four hundred dollars.
He keeps his eyes down, still counting. “And we’d like two rooms, adjoining, facing the harbor, for two nights.”
I’m impressed—and not surprised.
“Uh… sure,” she says, “let me see.” She types for a moment, then nabs a passing clerk and whispers, “Move the Mendels
down to seven-nineteen.” Suddenly, the printer under the counter goes to town and within a few seconds she places the page
in front of Jonathan to sign.
This is
definitely
not WITSEC.
“Do you have a credit card, sir?”
Jonathan’s response is the plopping of a second wad of cash on the counter—this time at least six or seven hundred.
He takes the keys and we walk away. I’m pretty sure he never even looked at the poor lady. As we head for the elevators, her
voice fades. “Please enjoy your stay at the…”
We enter the elevator, alone. I turn to look at him, but instead I catch a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror. I try to
turn away but the interior of the elevator is covered with mirrors, like some sort of torture chamber of self-analysis. What
has made this man want to spend even a fleeting moment with me is beyond my understanding.
Jonathan shoves all the remaining cash into his pockets, sighs, and turns my way. He smiles, but I can’t tell if it’s a smile
of happiness or of pity. He reaches over and runs his fingers through the stubbly hair on the back of my head and gently pulls
me to his chest and holds me there. He slowly leans over and kisses me on the head and I can feel his lips, full and firm,
pressing against my scalp, and everything I just felt, all the insecurity and sadness, is washed away. I always hear about
how people want to have sex in elevators; this has got to be far better.
We exit the elevator on the eleventh floor, just one from the top, and wind down the hall to our suites. Jonathan opens the
door to my room, and as I enter he remains close behind. He puts all four shopping bags on a table near the dresser.
“These are for you,” he says. “I hope I wasn’t being too presumptuous.”
I sit on the bed and there are no squeaky springs; it feels like a hundred little hands are holding me in the air. The comforter
looks new. There is no noisy radiator, no arguments coming from the next room.
There is no deputy marshal next door.
I lean forward on my knees, point my toes inward, and grin at him. “Why did you book two nights?” The truth is I wish he’d
booked a couple of years. I have no idea where I’ll be the day after tomorrow, whom I’ll be meeting face to face, whether
I’ll still be breathing when the event reaches its denouement. All the days past and all the hours forward are just a flicker
of indistinctness. This very moment is true, the one I’d like to put on pause or be forced to live over and over for an eternity.
He gently sits on the bed with me, leaving enough room between us for another body. “There’s a great spa in this hotel. I
figured, um, you know… you’d like to spend the day getting pampered.”
His generosity should astound me but I’m overwhelmed with self-consciousness. I look down and laugh. “I don’t know what to
say.”
He slides over a few inches and touches my shoulder.
“Is this because you’re going to take me to see your family? You know, to rid me of the bedraggled and unkempt look?”
“Melody, c’mon.”
“It’s okay if that’s what it is, Jonathan. If I could leave myself, I would.”
He slowly stands and says, “It’s not about me and it’s not about my family.” He walks to the window and stares at the harbor.
“When was the last time someone did something just for you?”
I figure his question is rhetorical but I give him an answer anyway. “When my parents went out of their way to take me to
Vincent’s for breakfast.”
I fall back on the bed, grab my book on string theory, and hug it like a favorite teddy bear.
“There is nothing in this for me, Melody. We are not in the same room. You can leave anytime you want, okay?” He turns from
the harbor and looks at me. “I’ll be really sad if you do, but… it’s totally up to you. You can leave anytime.”
I nod and he walks to the adjoining door and opens it and throws his suitcase on the floor, turns back to me, and smiles.
“I’m just one knock away, okay?”
I nod again and look toward the window so he can’t see the emotion in my eyes. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Good night, Melody.”
He closes the door and I pull my knees to my chest and I begin to sense my body’s petition for decent sleep.
I look around the room and it is rich, an exercise in luxury that I have neither earned nor deserve. I am here because someone
put
me here, the same way the marshals put me in various scummy motels on the banks of polluted rivers nationwide.
I am an object.
I pick up a pillow and bring it to my face. It is fresh and clean and smelling faintly of lavender. I pull it down over my
face, hard, and fade out.
I wake to my numb arm under my textbook, a hungry belly, and a cold, wet pillowcase on my cheek. The clock reads 4:27
A.M.
and my growling stomach insists on attention. I now know what a newborn baby feels like.
I switch on a light, grab the room-service menu, and order eggs Benedict—two orders—and sausage and a bagel and orange juice
and an espresso
and
a pot of coffee. I get in the shower and wash off two days of traveling and dust and embarrassment and humiliation. I quickly
dry off and slip into the terry robe in the bathroom. It is way too big, but it covers me like a blanket and warms me like
a hug.
Breakfast arrives and I waste no time getting the food from plate to mouth. And with each bite I can’t help but wonder if
my moans of pleasure are penetrating the hotel walls.
I am finally satiated—and full of caffeine—and I sit back in bed and watch the clock. Then I start reading about how Louis
de Broglie earned a Nobel Prize by way of his doctoral thesis on particle-wave duality of the electron that he delivered at
the Sorbonne.
Light breaks and the clock reads 5:49
A.M.
, and it turns out electromagnetism is deduced or inferred from gravity in a grand unified theory if, instead of three space
dimensions, there are four, where the fourth is transformed into a diminutive circle.
At 6:22
A.M.
, I’m pretty sure I hear Jonathan moving around in his room; I put my ear to the adjoining door and keep it there for many
minutes but hear nothing more, so I soon find out that three independent particle theorists determined that the dual theories
that render the particle spectrum similarly evoke the quantum mechanics of oscillating strings—and there you have it, the
veritable conception of string theory.