Dinner at Fiorello’s

by Rick R. Reed

  Vito couldn’t help himself. He gave Henry a gentle kiss, wondering if it would be the first of many.

  The bus was coming up the street, and the woman stood, putting away her phone and digging in the messenger bag at her side.

  “Do you know if this bus goes to Morse? In Rogers Park?” Vito leaned forward to ask the woman.

  “It does,” she said.

  Vito looked at Henry. “That’s convenient. We’ll just get you settled in at my place, and I’ll go finish up my shift, what’s left of it.”

  Henry nodded, and they both stood up as the bus whined and sighed to a stop in front of the shelter.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “YOU’LL COME back?” Henry looked up at Vito, knowing that wonder and incredulity mingled in his eyes.

  Vito rolled his own dark eyes and smiled. “Of course I’ll come back. Where else am I gonna go?” He roughly tousled Henry’s hair. “I live here.”

  “That’s right,” Henry said. “You’re not the one that’s homeless. Still, it’s nice for you to give me your bed, to let me stay here. I would have been just as happy on the couch.”

  Vito sat on the edge of his own bed, and Henry wondered for how long he had been the bed’s sole occupant. Henry had lots of questions for Vito, but he knew Fiorello’s was open for only a few more hours, and Vito needed to get back to his kitchen to relieve Ro.

  Vito spoke to him, never breaking eye contact. “You’re not homeless. You have friends, you have a job, you’ll always have a place to stay, no matter what. Tonight was bad news, but give your dad time. He’ll adjust.”

  Henry felt a surge of rage course through him, causing him to ball his hands into fists beneath the blankets and then relax them. The anger went away as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by a numb melancholy. “I don’t know if I care if he adjusts. I’ve never been the son he wanted.”

  “That may be,” Vito said. “This might sound heartless, but the truth is, none of us gets to choose who we get for parents.” He pulled the quilt up to Henry’s chest, which was bare. His finger brushed across one of Henry’s nipples. “Or who we get for our children. Son he wanted or not, you’re still his son. Only son, right? No siblings?”

  “Only child here.” Henry grinned. “Spoiled rotten.”

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said. I notice you have a curious way of always getting what you want.”

  “What do you mean?” Henry sat up straighter in the bed, and Vito pushed him back down.

  “Forget I said it. I need to get back to work, if only for a couple of hours. Can you rest while I’m gone? You want the girls in here with you?”

  Henry looked over to the bedroom’s doorway, where the two dogs paced, eyeing him in their master’s bed. Henry wondered if they felt displaced. “Of course. This is their bed too, isn’t it?”

  “Too? I sometimes wonder about that. It’s their bed, period. They just deign to allow human visitors.” Vito patted the bed. “Girls! Come keep Henry company.” As if they had been waiting, the dogs scampered into the room and hopped up on the bed with Henry. They each sniffed at him and then curled around a few times and settled down against his legs, one on either side.

  Vito smiled. “They’ll make you feel better.”

  “They already are.” Henry scratched one of the dogs behind the ears. The other sniffed at his thumb and started to lick at the gauze until Henry hid it away under the sheet.

  “Okay, for the millionth time, I need to get back to work.”

  Vito stood, staring down at Henry, making Henry wonder what was going through his head. Did he see Henry as someone to pity, someone to desire, a nuisance, something else? Vito’s expression was unreadable, and Henry wondered if that inscrutability was the beginning of Vito’s defenses going back up. Henry asked himself if Vito would return later that night the old Vito, the one who spoke in grunts and monosyllables. What would Henry have to cut the next time to get him to open up, to show him a little attention? What a thought! You didn’t just let that even go through your head. That’s nuts!

  Henry watched as Vito left the room and then listened as the front door opened and closed. He noticed the dogs doing the same thing, their heads up, ears poised and listening. As soon as the door closed and the lock clicked into place, the girls lowered their heads to the bed’s surface and in minutes were snoring softly.

  Henry wished he could do the same—simply check out. Pursue oblivion and find it. If ever there was a night in his life when a little forgetting would be perfect—no, make that a lot of forgetting, on the order of fucking amnesia—this was the night for it. He let himself recline against the pillow, noticing how the case smelled just very faintly of garlic and olive oil, and smiled.

  But the smile didn’t last long as Henry lay in the darkness, the rain-scented air coming in through the window opposite him, being blown around by the whirring blades of a box fan.

  “What am I going to do with myself?” he wondered aloud to the shadows, to the sleeping forms of the dogs. “Where will I go?” In spite of Vito’s reassurances, Henry was not convinced his father would come around anytime soon. Vito was obviously Italian, a nationality, if Henry had learned anything at all from working at the restaurant this summer, that prized family above all else.

  His father, though, came from Germans, and his mother was of Swedish and Dutch stock. Henry didn’t know if his parents’ genetic makeup set them up to treasure family as much as the Italians. Oh, come on, Henry thought, you’re being silly. People are people. Every one of us is different, and every one of us has the choice to understand, to love, to allow for variations. He turned on his side, weary of trying to figure out what motivated people, whether it was genetics or something else.

  Still, he would have liked to believe that being an only child would be enough motivation for a parent not to turn his back on that child. How could his father say such horrible, unkind things to him? I’m his son!

  Henry felt the tears welling up again, the burning ball in his throat growing and becoming firmer, but he managed somehow to hold his grief at bay.

  Whatever happened when Vito returned home tonight and wherever Henry ended up tomorrow, he knew he had no choice right now but to wait and see what the future held.

  He did know two things. One, he could keep on working hard at the restaurant. If nothing else, he could continue his education as a chef and prove his worth to Ro. He had to—since he no longer knew if a college education was an option for him anymore. And two, he had opened something up within Vito, something he liked and wanted to know better.

  He smiled to himself, letting his hands explore Vito’s bed beneath him. “You’re certainly in the right place for it,” he whispered to himself.

  And that happy thought at last sent Henry into a light but relatively untroubled slumber.

  THE NEXT time Henry opened his eyes, it was morning. He sucked in a breath, for just one thin moment afraid that he didn’t know where he was, his recent history, or maybe even who he was.

  And then reality filtered in, as it had a way of doing on bright summer mornings. The air coming in through Vito’s bedroom window smelled fresh, washed clean by the thunderstorms of the night before.

  Henry was alone in the bed, although noises filtered in from the kitchen—the dogs’ toenails clicking on the tile floor, the soft hum of classical music, the sizzle of something frying, the slap of a refrigerator closing. Henry could smell bread and melted butter, and it made his mouth water. He sat up straighter in bed, realizing he hadn’t eaten in a very long time.

  Just as he was ready to throw his legs over the edge of the bed and wander out to the kitchen in pursuit of food, Vito came into the room bearing a white tray aloft with the dogs trailing him, snouts up.

  “Good morning,” Vito said, his dark eyes roaming up and down Henry’s form, clad only in a pair of boxers. Henry noticed how Vito seemed to force his gaze away from Henry’s body. Henry pulled the sheet up over himself.


  “Good morning.” Henry smiled. “I didn’t think I’d sleep.”

  “You slept like a baby. But then you went through a lot. You were exhausted. It’s almost noon. I think you were out about twelve hours.”

  Vito set the tray down on a nightstand next to the bed, and Henry glanced over at it. On top of an orange Fiesta plate rested a slice of homemade bread with its center hollowed out. In the hole rested a perfectly fried egg topped with thin slices of red pepper and a dusting of chopped Italian parsley. The butter the bread had been cooked in had toasted it to a gorgeous golden brown. Next to it were a couple of slices of tomato sprinkled with coarse salt. There was a mug of steaming black coffee and a small tumbler of orange juice. Henry felt something catch in his throat. Other than Maxine, no one had ever made a meal especially for him.

  With his voice just above a whisper, which was the best he could do, Henry said, “Thank you. This looks great.”

  Vito took the napkin next to the plate and, with a flourish, snapped it open. He laid it across Henry’s chest. “It is great. I had the executive chef at the North Side’s finest Italian restaurant prepare it just for you.”

  Vito smiled at Henry, meeting his eyes, and Henry swore something melted inside him. Vito laughed.

  “But seriously, this is something my mom makes for me. Good old dago comfort food. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  “Something I’m sorely in need of.” Henry took the plate Vito handed to him and stared down at it with something like wonder.

  “You don’t need to change a thing.”

  Vito rolled his eyes, and Henry wondered if it was because he was chastising himself for his own mushiness. It was decidedly unlike the Vito he had known until this morning.

  “Go on, eat up. You don’t want stuff getting cold.”

  Vito disappeared from the room and came back holding a small Bluetooth speaker. From it issued a gorgeous aria.

  “What is that?” Henry asked, his fork held suspended above his plate. The voice was so clear, so crystalline, it caused tears to rush to his eyes, and he suddenly wished he knew a lot more about opera. Or even a little more, because he knew absolutely nothing.

  Vito set the speaker down on the dresser opposite the bed. It’s “Vissi d’arte” from Tosca. We’ve got Kiri Te Kanawa singing Flora. Isn’t it beautiful? The opera is about fate, about how everything can change so fast, in just a day.” Vito looked away from Henry very quickly, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room seemed charged. When Vito looked back, his dark eyes shone. Softly, he said, “I’m gonna go have my coffee out on the back porch and see to the girls. I put ’em out there so they’d leave you alone while you ate. Otherwise you’d have to fight ’em. Mangia!” And Vito hurried from the room.

  Henry closed his eyes, savoring the huge soprano voice issuing forth from the tiny speaker for several minutes. Then he tucked into what Vito had prepared for him that morning. It too was sublime.

  When he was finished—it didn’t take long, since Henry felt he had eaten much as Vito’s dogs would have, wolfing it down—he let himself lie back on the bed, listening as the aria finished. The simple phrasing and rise and fall of the music, accompanied by the almost otherworldly voice, made Henry forget the troubles that had come into his life, made him think only of this moment, in this warm, sun-drenched bed, his belly full from a meal prepared by a man who treated food like art. And tears, simple, natural, and unforced, rolled from the corners of his eyes as the soprano finished.

  Henry hopped from the bed and shut off the speaker. He didn’t quite know why, but he wanted the moment to not be tainted by any more music. The aria had spoken to him in ways he couldn’t understand, but maybe that was okay. Maybe the best art—music, food, whatever it was—wasn’t meant to be understood, like a puzzle, but felt.

  Now all he heard was the sound of traffic rushing by on the street below, filtered through the roar of the box fan in the window. He noticed Vito standing in the doorway.

  “You liked it?” he asked.

  “What? The food? The music? Yes. And yes. Very much. Thank you.”

  Henry stared at Vito for a long time. It felt like each of them was frozen in place, bewitched.

  At last Henry moved to the bed and sat nervously at its edge. “What time is work?”

  “Neither of us has to be in until the dinner shift—about four.”

  Henry grinned. “What will we do with the rest of the day?” He eyed Vito and tried to give him his most flirtatious look. Since he had little experience being a seducer, he didn’t know if it worked. He figured it didn’t, because Vito merely cocked his head and let out a guffaw.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, kid. But I can tell you what you need to do for at least a little of the day—clean up your dishes and the pans in the kitchen. House rule, whoever cooks, cooks, and he who eats, cleans up. That’s the way it always was when—” Vito stopped himself and looked away, not saying anything for several moments.

  “Just clean up.” Vito moved away, and shortly, Henry heard the creak and slap of the screen door off the kitchen.

  So we’re back to our normal, grouchy self, Henry thought. He got up out of bed and rooted around in Vito’s drawer for a clean T-shirt, hoping he wouldn’t mind.

  He padded out to the kitchen and looked out the screen door. Vito’s back porch was really nothing more than a landing on the apartment building’s back stairs, but he had brightened it up with potted plants and flowers in yellow and purple. There was even a small fountain on the floor, and the water rushed in a continuous loop over piles of gray stones. You’re not fooling me, Mr. Hardass, Henry thought, eyeing how Vito had breathed life into what would have otherwise been a very drab space. Vito sat, unaware that Henry was looking at him, in a retro aluminum chair, its red paint chipped and faded. Vito was also in boxers and shirtless. Sweat glistened between his fur-covered pecs, and his hairy legs were spread far apart as he slouched. Henry’s mouth went dry. Vito sipped his coffee. If he knew Henry was there staring, ogling really, he gave no indication.

  Henry stepped back reluctantly from the vision, fearing he might do something stupid like rush outside and drop to his knees between Vito’s spread thighs. You know, just to show his gratitude. But he didn’t want that to happen. Not yet. He had learned at least a little something from Kade.

  So he headed back into the apartment proper, thinking he would take a quick shower before he began cleaning up the kitchen. He stopped in the kitchen and rooted around in the drawers until he found a sandwich bag to cover his bandaged thumb with. He moved to the bathroom, glanced inside, and saw that only one bath towel hung on the bar, slightly damp but neatly folded. Henry stepped back into the hallway, where earlier he had seen a door to what he assumed was a linen closet.

  Henry opened the door and smiled. Vito was a neat freak. Along the top two shelves were rows of almost militarily folded sheets, towels, and blankets. He pulled down a bath towel and slung it over his shoulder. But he was too nosy not to keep snooping. The next shelf down held neatly arranged first aid stuff—Band-Aids, gauze, Neosporin ointment, stuff like that. There was also a large bottle of Wet lubricant, and Henry grinned, wondering when Vito had last used it. It didn’t have cobwebs around it, but out here in the linen closet, instead of in the bedroom, did not bode well for Vito’s sex life.

  What Henry saw on the floor of the closet made him catch his breath, made him wish he hadn’t been so nosy.

  There was one of those Rubbermaid bins, filled to the brim with a little boy’s toys—Hot Wheels cars, balls in different colors, shapes, and sizes, a jigsaw puzzle of Millennium Park downtown, a Game Boy and several cartridges. Henry knelt to root through it, finding stuffed animals and action figures. He bit his lip, feeling a scorching heat at his cheeks and a peculiar pain in his heart.

  It was then he heard Vito behind him. Or maybe he simply felt his presence—a change in the air, perhaps, the coolness of Vito’s shadow falling across his back.

  Henr
y stiffened. He turned slowly to find Vito staring down at him, coffee mug in hand, a frown on his face.

  Henry stood awkwardly. “Sorry. I was just looking for a towel. So I could, you know, shower.” He grinned.

  Vito shook his head. It looked like, for a moment, he was poised to say something, but then he just walked away.

  Henry felt like shit as he headed into the bathroom. Great. Another wonderful day in the life.

  Under the hot spray of the shower, Henry ached for Vito, ached for the man who would keep those toys even though there was no evidence, other than a few snapshots, of a child around. What had happened? It wasn’t Henry’s business to know, but he wanted to give Vito some sort of solace, some comfort, as Vito had done for him. And the only way he could do that was to know the story.

  He shut off the water and stepped out of the tub. He would ask. What would be the worst that could happen?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE KID just can’t leave things alone. I try to be kind, and he won’t leave me be, let me keep my hurt to myself. Vito sat on the porch, sipping his third cup of coffee, knowing he shouldn’t have it. It would make him sweat and feel jittery, but he simply couldn’t go in that kitchen and face Henry, brook the question in his eyes.

  Inside, he could hear Henry cleaning up the breakfast dishes, the rush of water and the clatter of cutlery, crockery, and skillet as he placed them on the counter to dry. Henry had brought Vito’s Bluetooth speaker out from the bedroom and had synched it with his own phone, so now the music issuing forth from it wasn’t opera but something contemporary that grated on Vito’s nerves. Some woman who was popular—Lady Gaga or Pink or Rihanna—who knew? Vito had heard the names but didn’t know any of their music. He didn’t want to.

  When he saw Henry rooting through Sal’s old toy box, it was almost too much to bear. He wanted to throw the kid out on the spot. Where did he get the nerve? Vito shook his head. He told himself, The kid was just, as he said, looking for a towel. How is it his fault he saw the toys you have in the linen closet? Why are they there, anyway? Sal won’t be coming back for them. At the thought, Vito sucked in a breath. Tears rose to his eyes, and he pressed his palms into his eyes to stop their flow. The toys should be donated to Goodwill or a homeless shelter, where they can do some good. Where living children can play with them.