Dinner at Fiorello’s

by Rick R. Reed

  “I’m serious. I’m a pole smoker.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Maxine sat down next to him and idly pulled off a piece of the ham Henry had piled on a plate. She chewed thoughtfully. “Really? Usually I have pretty good gaydar.”

  “Really.” Henry looked into Maxine’s eyes, trying to gauge what he saw there. He wasn’t quite sure he could confirm what he saw, but he was sure of what he didn’t: judgment, disappointment.

  Maxine broke off a piece of cheese and popped it in her mouth. “How long?”

  “How long have I been gay? Since birth. That’s how it works.”

  “I know that,” Maxine said. “I just meant how long have you—”

  “Been sexually active? We are not going there.”

  Maxine shook her head, and Henry was surprised to see a blush of crimson rise to her cheeks.

  “That’s not what I meant either. I just meant, how long have you known? Um, since you realized.”

  “Oh God, looking back, I can see things from when I was a little kid. I would think of them as friendships, but the intense attraction I had for some of the older boys at school, that made me feel all fluttery in my gut, told me that, even then, I liked boys. I just didn’t recognize lust for what it was. Not then. And of course, there was that whole Bette Midler phase when I was twelve.” He shrugged. “I guess I sort of accepted—and there’s a big difference between knowing and accepting—around my sophomore year of high school.”

  “Did something happen then?”

  Henry grinned. “I saw Maroon 5 perform on a TV special. Adam Levine.” Henry closed his eyes for a moment, enraptured. “There was no doubt, no kidding myself anymore. I liked the boys.”

  The two shared the food Henry had brought out. The nice thing about this moment was how comfortable their silence was. Without saying anything at all, Maxine was reassuring. His being gay was no big deal.

  After a while, he said, “I have to tell Mom and Dad.”

  “That you’re gay?” Maxine gasped.

  “Well, I—” Henry was caught off guard. That hadn’t been what he had meant at all. He was simply talking about taking the job in Rogers Park. But the idea caught him up short. Should he just make a clean breast of it and tell them everything? The pairing—the new job and his sexual orientation—were not such, pardon the expression, odd bedfellows. They were both core to who he was, and both were alien to his father and mother.

  Maybe it was time they knew who their son and only child was.

  The idea filled Henry with terror. “I don’t know,” he said at last, staring out the window and knowing he was refusing to meet Maxine’s intense gaze. “I guess I’ll play it by ear.”

  HENRY WAITED until after nine o’clock to talk to his parents. He was in his bedroom, with only the flickering illumination of a candle on his nightstand to see by. Darkness pressed against his bedroom windows like something palpable, like a thing that had a life force of its own. It was almost creepy.

  Henry had hoped that by lying still on his bed, on the cool, crisp linens, with only candlelight, he might kind of meditate and thus calm himself.

  No such luck. He might as well have been playing Lady Gaga at top volume on his Bluetooth speaker and running one of the porn sites he watched on one of its longest and most hard-core clips.

  He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t serene. He wasn’t at peace with his decision.

  But tomorrow he would need to get up and, wonder of wonders, go to work. How was that for a novel concept? Tomorrow was Friday, and even if he could slip out of the house unnoticed and spend at least eight hours away with no questions asked, he’d still have to face his dad come Monday morning, when he would roust his son from bed to go to work downtown with him on the Metra train.

  Henry got up and pulled on a T-shirt to pair with the mesh athletic shorts he had on. He padded into his en suite bath to splash some water on his face and to take a look at himself in the mirror.

  Are you sure you want to do this? Didn’t you learn something in school this past year about the path of least resistance? The path of least resistance would be to put all this crap out of your head and follow in Dad’s footsteps. You know that.

  And yet the thought of not starting work at Fiorello’s the next day really did make his gut churn. He was sick with loss at the very prospect.

  You have to do it.

  Henry breathed in deeply, trying to ignore that his breath was quivering, and left his room.

  His parents sat in what they called the great room, a large, airy addition his father had added to the back of their brick colonial when Henry was in junior high. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on Lake Michigan, but right now that view opened onto a vast expanse of darkness. Across from his parents, who were seated at opposite ends of a wraparound suede sofa, an HD television was mounted on the wall. From the voices and sentimental music, Henry could tell they had Grey’s Anatomy on, although neither of them was looking at the screen.

  His mother, in a loose-fitting tunic top and yoga pants, was staring at her iPad screen and occasionally typing something on its keypad. She wore a secret smile, and Henry couldn’t help but walk quietly behind the couch to peer over her shoulder. She was texting someone. Henry would have to lean in really close to see who.

  His father had the Wall Street Journal open and held it in front of his face like a shield. Henry had told him he could read the newspaper online, on an iPad, but his father insisted he liked things old school.

  Henry felt like a shadow, a ghost in the room, because neither of his parents looked up or gave any indication they were aware of his presence. Henry cleared his throat.

  His mother shut the cover on her iPad quickly, and Henry might even say guiltily. She looked up at him with her amazing baby blue eyes, and Henry was struck once more by how young she looked. Especially now, with her face flushed.

  His father made lots of noise with the newspaper as he clumsily folded it and set it in his lap. There was a glass of Scotch on the table next to him, and he took a swig. “Didn’t even hear you come in, sport. What’s the good word?”

  Henry wanted to blurt out “Queer. How’s that for a word? Good?” But instead he just took a seat opposite his parents on what they called the “pony” chair, an ultramodern piece that brought together dappled horsehide, chrome, and leather. It wasn’t comfortable in the least, but it made a statement.

  Kind of like this house, Henry thought.

  Henry cleared his throat again and then gave his mom and dad what he was sure was a grin of the sheepish variety. He composed his face into a more serious mien. “Do you guys have a few minutes? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  His mom smiled. “Of course, Henry. You don’t have to ask.”

  Henry reached out and snatched the remote off the glass-topped coffee table. “You mind if I turn this off?”

  “Suit yourself,” his dad said. “We weren’t really watching anyway.”

  Once the TV was dark, the silence rose up, even louder than the drama of the television soap opera. It was like a fourth presence in the room. Henry might have guessed, if he could predict the future, that he would have been a nervous wreck at this very moment. He’d have the whole bit—sweaty palms, pounding heart, a sense of escalating terror.

  But something inside must have taken over, because Henry felt just the opposite. He was almost numb. He looked first at his mother and then his father and then began speaking to a point just above their heads.

  “I wanted to talk to you both about a decision I’ve made.”

  His father leaned forward. Henry noticed he took up his glass of Scotch again and held it in one beefy fist, as though for security. He looked over to his wife.

  “Does any good ever follow a statement like that?” he wondered. “It’s as bad as ‘we need to talk.’” He chuckled, but it was grim.

  His mother didn’t say a word, just stared at Henry expectantly.

  Henry grinned but felt the effort was weak and us
eless, so he abandoned it. “You guys want me to be happy, right?”

  “Of course we do, Henry.”

  His mom set her iPad on the coffee table. Henry noticed she kept one hand on its cover.

  “What’s going on?”

  Henry tried to swallow but discovered his throat was almost completely dry. Just say it. Spill it. Put it out there. Lay your cards on the table. Make a clean breast of it. “I accepted a job today.” Again, Henry attempted to smile. And again he failed.

  “What are you talking about?” His father glared at him. “You’re working with me this summer. You’re gonna learn a lot. It’s all set up.”

  Henry gnawed at his lower lip. Courage. “No, Dad, I’m not.” He looked imploringly at the man, whom he had always seen as bearish, cuddly in a gruff way, and lovable. Now he only looked brutish and threatening. For the first time in his life, Henry wondered if his father might hit him.

  “What the fuck!”

  “Tank,” Henry’s mother cautioned.

  “It’s not like I’m gonna be robbing banks or dealing drugs this summer! Jesus! I just wanted to do something different, something that maybe would make me happy. And besides, you never even asked me if I wanted to work at your office.”

  His father downed his Scotch and then leaned forward. “And what is this thing that will make you ‘happy’?” He used air quotes around the word happy.

  “Ever heard of Fiorello’s?”

  His father shook his head, and Henry could see, perfectly, the rage boiling just beneath the surface. Henry worried what would trigger its release. He looked to his mother and saw recognition cross her features. Of course you do, Henry wanted to say. You hang out in that ’hood.

  “It’s, um, a really good Italian place,” Henry said.

  “A restaurant?” Henry’s father spit out the word like an epithet.

  “Yeah.” Henry was going to continue, but his father stopped him, standing and holding out his hand.

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re gonna, what, wait tables this summer instead of work downtown in a plush law firm? A place where you’ll not only learn a lot for your future but probably begin building a network. A place I busted my ass to secure for you.” His father flung his glass against the wall. It shattered and left a dark stain.

  Henry shrank back, his shoulders bunching up. He figured now was not the time to let his father know he wouldn’t exactly be waiting tables. Waiting tables was actually above his pay grade. “It’s just that I thought this might be my last chance.”

  “Last chance to do what?”

  “I love to cook, Dad. I love being around food. Haven’t you noticed? I just wanted a chance to explore that passion.”

  “You’re full of shit. What a lowlife thing to do.”

  “Tank, please!”

  Henry’s father shot his mother a look that caused her to wither against the couch. “If you think you’re gonna toss aside a good opportunity like the one I’ve got lined up for you to work like some loser in a restaurant, you better think again, young man.” He shook his head. “Do you know how embarrassing it would be for me to not show up with you on Monday? I’ve been telling everyone about you, even showing your picture around. You’re my heir apparent.”

  Ah, Henry thought, so this is what it’s really about. Him. His image. The realization gave Henry the courage to continue. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad. But I hardly think anyone’s going to think twice if you have a different intern than me this summer. I want to do this. I want to work at Fiorello’s.” Henry crossed his arms in front of him.

  His father shook his finger in Henry’s face and then leaned close enough so that Henry could feel his dad’s liquor-scented spittle on his face. He spoke with a low intensity, barely above a whisper, that made it even more terrifying and threatening than if he was yelling. “You are not going to do this. You are going to come to work with me on Monday. I’m your father, and for a little while longer at least, I like to think I know what’s best for you.” He raised his voice. “End of discussion!”

  Henry blinked. His father stormed from the room. Distantly, Henry heard a door slam. He jumped.

  He looked to his mother. “That went well.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.” His mother looked away from him, staring down at her yoga pants as if there were something fascinating woven into the fabric.

  This is where you’re supposed to hug me, Mom. This is where you’re supposed to comfort. Henry stared, frozen, at his mother for a long time, waiting.

  But nothing happened. After a few minutes, she opened her iPad. She smiled a little at something on its surface. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, a lot he wanted to ask, but the words weren’t there. Not now.

  Henry quietly left the room. He paused in the foyer, wondering if he should go back up to his room or out into the night.

  He went out into the night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VITO WATCHED the new kid as he washed dishes. He had to give him credit—the boy had learned how to use the industrial dishwasher with ease and kept up with a constant flow of dishes, cutlery, and glasses from the dining room with nary a complaint or broken glass. His first two weeks working at the restaurant had been a study in professionalism. When Vito had first laid eyes on the boy, he had to admit, he wouldn’t have guessed he’d last more than a single shift, that those soft lily-white hands were cut out for the hard work required.

  But he had fooled him. Fooled all of them, really. Carmela, Rosalie, Juan Carlos, and Antonio, who all thought Henry could never survive the harsh working conditions, not with the plush background that had spawned him.

  The boy reminded Vito of himself at that age, even though Vito only had about ten years on him. Henry was eager to please, ready to learn—hell, he seemed just happy to be there in the kitchen, doing grunt work that might be some other folks’ idea of hell.

  Vito needed to get back to the black cod he was sautéing in butter with fresh thyme. He tilted the pan so he could bathe the fish in the herb-infused butter.

  And you need to stop thinking about that boy. He reached over to grab a sprinkle of kosher salt from the wooden box to his left and pondered his feelings. The boy, Henry, stirred something in him. He had since he’d first walked in the door two weeks ago and Carmela had introduced him around. Those blue eyes, so different from Vito’s dark ones, captivated Vito in a way he thought was long since dead. And the way Henry held his gaze a little longer than what might be considered normal spoke volumes about which way the kid swung. And, if the eye lock wasn’t enough to broadcast Henry’s feelings, he had held on far too long when they shook hands. Vito finally had to pull his hand away and turn back to his stove.

  Vito didn’t like it. Here, in front of this stove, was his sanctuary. What he loved about the restaurant, at least in the past few months, was the fact that he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to talk. He could work like a machine, muscle memory directing his hands, making recipes he’d prepared hundreds of times. He was safe.

  The kid changed all that. He had penetrated Vito’s defenses, the wall he had erected when he’d lost—well, he didn’t want to think about that. Ever.

  Vito was getting to the point where the scars he bore inside were just that—toughened and thickened, insensitive to the touch. Beyond his dogs, work, what to put in his belly, and when to go to sleep, Vito didn’t allow himself time for much of anything else.

  Including pretty boys who seemed too eager to please. Vito allowed himself a glance over once more, and a grin creased his features in spite of himself. It wasn’t just that the kid was hot—although he was, with a tight little ass, broad shoulders, and the kind of Nordic beauty that drew Vito like a moth to a flame—it was more than that. Even in just two weeks of working alongside him, the kid was in his element. He seemed happy.

  Vito both envied that and was drawn to it, although he didn’t want to be.

  He would have to be careful around this Henry. He didn’t
want him getting too close.

  HENRY WIPED the sweat from his brow with his arm and then shoved another tray full of dishes into the dishwasher. His shirt was soaked, both from the spray of the faucet as he rinsed dishes and from his own perspiration. His back ached, right there at the base, and it made Henry want to pause to just rub it, to knead out the kinks and the pain. But there was no time!

  When he was little, he’d loved the movie Fantasia, and his mother would allow him to watch it over and over. Looking back, he realized she wasn’t being indulgent. She was using the DVD as a babysitter, as a way to avoid interacting with him.

  What made him think of the Disney film right now, though, was not a dysfunctional family memory but Mickey Mouse. He was in the segment called “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” and he lost control of his magic when he tried to have a broomstick carry buckets of water for him. The brooms multiplied and got out of control, flooding Mickey’s castle.

  Henry didn’t feel like a magician, but he did understand now, better than ever, what it was like to have overwhelming work just keep coming at him, like some sort of tsunami. The plates, the knives, the forks, the spoons, the drinking glasses, the wineglasses that had to be hand washed, and more just never seemed to stop coming once service began. Henry was afraid that if he paused to take a piss or even something as luxurious as a deep breath, he would be buried in stainless steel and pottery.

  It was endless!

  And yet, and yet, Henry loved being here. He loved the feel of excitement in the kitchen. It was a rush. The energy level was high because it had to be. No one had the luxury of downtime. You just kept working, and the hours passed like minutes.

  On his very first day, which now seemed so long ago, Rosalie threw him in with little training. True to her taciturn ways, she said, “Sink or swim, Henry,” then handed him a stack of towels and the manual for the dishwasher. “Do good there and we’ll break things up with busing tables.” Right now busing tables seemed like nirvana, the impossible dream.