She grabs my shirt, pulls me closer. “You mean, I would’ve been your first?”
I sigh and grab her hand. My stomach turns at the thought of that once being on my docket, at how close Ettore came. “That was the plan.”
She looks at me and smiles. “Well, if you’re not careful you’ll end up being my first, too.” As I decipher what that means, she drops her hand and her head at the same time, closes her eyes and shakes her head, mumbles something to herself.
As I interpret her statement—and her own reaction to it—I widen my eyes and step back.
“Wait.” I pinch my chin. “You mean,” I stutter, “you’re a…”
Melody drops her shoulders and throws up a hand. “Yes, a virgin, Jonathan. What’s the matter, you’ve never killed a virgin?”
“I told you I’m not gonna kill you.”
“It was a euphemism. Does the term deflower sound better?”
“How’s this possible?”
She chuckles, makes a face. “What do you mean? You think there’s some rite of passage—”
“How old are you?” All along I thought I knew, but now I’m starting to wonder.
“Depends on which persona you want me to use. If I’m Linda Simms, I’m just about to turn thirty. Shelly Jones? She’s a spry twenty-four.” She shrugs, rolls her eyes. “I’m twenty-six.”
I walk backward, sit on the sofa near the window. Melody sits across from me on the bed and curls her legs up and covers them with her robe.
“And you never… you never found someone you loved enough?” I’m lost again, like in ’Tone’s restaurant, forgetting who and where I am.
“I’d love to say I was being morally responsible, but the truth is I never allowed myself to get close to anyone—physically or emotionally. There was just too much risk.”
I hesitate before asking, “Risk for whom?”
She stares at the floor, reaches up and clutches the robe to her chest. It takes a moment before she responds. She does not directly answer my question, but exposes her vulnerability, of failed love, through a story of losing a teen romance by way of being pulled from the boy’s arms and tossed in the back of a government van.
“There’s never been a reason to love,” she says, “because it would mean lying about who I am the entire time, only to one day make the decision to either leave that person behind or take him with me and put him in equal danger.” She falls back on the bed, lets a leg drop off the edge. “It’s a real mess. I’ve thought about it for years, desperately searching for the loophole.” She turns her head and glances my way. “There is no loophole.”
My mouth has gone dry. As I speak, I half gag on the words. “I’m sorry, Melody.”
“For?”
“Just… everything. For every moment of suffering and heartache. For every night you went to bed scared and woke up alone.” My voice begins to fade. “For there not being a loophole.”
She smiles a little. Her look reminds me of my mother, an expression I received as a child when I’d say something cute but of no consequence.
“All of this comes back to my family,” I add. “If I had a father who did something legitimate with his life, we wouldn’t be here.”
Melody sits up a little. “True, but you realize… if he did, you and I would have never met.”
I stare at her, can barely ask, “And that matters?”
Her eyes glisten. She answers my question so softly that if I couldn’t read her lips I might not have understood: “Of course.”
NINE
I escort Melody down to the spa, introduce her to the staff as a means of alerting them that the woman they promised to treat like a princess has just arrived. Earlier this morning, when I demanded it, they assured me they treat all their customers like royalty, to which I chucked an additional hundred on the counter as an illustration of how I do not want her being treated like all their other customers. Round and round we went, though I believe we finally ended at a place of understanding.
I stick to her side through the initial part of the process, the introductions and explanations of treatments she’ll be getting. While they prepare a room for her massage, we wait in an area that loosely resembles a lounge or higher-end coffeehouse, a dimly lit cavern with a waterfall trickling out of view and a set of deep, plush sofas. Unrecognizable classical music plays through speakers I don’t see. A buffet lines one wall, contains displays of fresh fruits, breads, and yogurts. I do a quick survey and the majority of it passes my typically overcritical nature for food review. I’d eat any of it except an overly green star fruit and a heavily sugared mélange of berries. Melody goes for my recommendation of a fresh hunk of pineapple.
No more than two or three minutes pass before the masseur and one of the clerks come into the lounge to let Melody know they’re ready to take her for her massage. This must be the point where the guy usually leaves, because I get a series of strange looks as I follow them into the massage room.
“What,” I say.
The clerk says, “Sir, she’ll be getting her massage now.”
I glance in the room and see the masseur drip a small bead of clear fluid in his hands. He slaps his hands together and wrings them vigorously. His biceps slide up and down the sleeves of his T-shirt, his pecs and traps looking like hunks of concrete trying to rip through his skin. The guy reminds me of Delmo Peretti, a cruiserweight boxer we tried to turn into a superstar (and thereafter into revenue) some twenty years ago. The guy was all muscle��seriously: no fat, no brain, no heart that I could find evidence of. He tried to teach me to wrestle when I was a kid, except for me it was like trying to flip and pin a Pontiac. The real problem with Delmo was I wouldn’t have trusted the guy with my catcher’s mitt, never mind a woman. And in a few seconds, this masseur’s going to have his hands all over Melody. I understand the guy’s a professional. But, you know, so am I.
I turn to Melody and ask, “You have to take your clothes off?”
She whispers back, “I think that makes it easier.”
The fact that she’s so confident, so comfortable with doing it, makes the whole thing much worse. “Well, as your bodyguard, I need to stay by your side and guard your… body.”
The masseur laughs and says, “No problem, come on in.” Then he turns to Melody, hands her some towel/sheet thing and says, “Why don’t you disrobe, put this on, and I’ll be back in a moment.” Then he slides his hand up and down her lower back a few times and squeezes her shoulder. Friggin’ Delmo.
As he closes the door behind him, I sit in a chair by a tray of lotions. Melody looks at me and shrugs, grabs the button on her jeans and undoes them. I quickly throw my hands to my face and cover my eyes—who exactly am I protecting here?—and tap my feet. She laughs a little. Now, here is a curious and confusing element to my individual design: No more than an hour earlier Melody was nearly undressed in front of me—but now hearing her undress drives me out of my mind. The slide of her jeans down her legs, the sound of crackling static as the sweater crosses over her hair, the quiet whoosh as she removes her T-shirt. A man’s imagination should never be underestimated. I know what’s next—and as I hear the tick as she unclips her bra, the imagery from my mind’s eye could be nothing less than pinpoint accurate. Then the only thing left; it rushes to me like a fastball toward home plate: the smooth, hushed slide as she pulls her panties off. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth so hard. I hear her struggle with the towel a little.
“Okay,” she says, “it’s safe.”
Not the word I would use.
I look her in the eye but still capture the softness of her legs and the absence of defined muscle, that her hips are slightly wider than her chest. She does this little pose thing, cocks her leg and throws an arm up as if to say Tada! Then she snickers at herself and cautiously crawls up on the table, and though she doesn’t seem to be forcing a seductive manner, I hope someday I can confess to her exactly what this is doing to me. She carefully pulls the towel down to her waist while
stretching her forearm across her chest, then brings her body to the table belly down and puts her arms above her. Her chest is pushed to the sides and all but completely visible. And as I study her shape, internalize the hues and texture of her skin, I finally understand what inspires a man to put a paintbrush to a canvas.
What I see in her, this pull I feel, is difficult to explain—another confusing element—for she is not the first woman I’ve seen unclothed; this is not a case of gaining interest in a woman because she is new. I’ve never been so strongly drawn to another person. Is it because I’ve wanted us to be close since we were kids? Is it because being with her is forbidden? Does it even matter?
“I should wait outside,” I say, as convincing and true as if I’d said I was recruited by the Knicks.
Melody frowns. “But how will you guard me?”
She’s kidding—but she’s right. I really shouldn’t take my eyes off her. Every time I do, something bad happens. I reach in my pocket and pull out my nicotine gum and throw a pair of tablets in my mouth.
Melody squints at me, the box, then me again. “Is that Nicorette?”
I shove the box back in my pocket, shrug. “What can I say? You make me want to be a better man.”
She laughs a little, brushes her cheek with the back of her hand, watches me chew. Then she squints again. “Are you serious? You stopped smoking for me? I never asked.”
“Well,” I say, “you shouldn’t have to.”
Her smile disintegrates as one corner of her mouth turns down, then the other. “You… really are full of surprises.” She looks as if she’s just received bad news. “I mean, we don’t really know how much time we’re going to have together.”
I lean forward on my knees and nod a little. “That’s why I’m stopping now.”
Melody looks at me, parts her lips a little, appears like she’s saying something to herself, yet the words seem aimed for me. Her eyes are fixed on mine. I can’t look away. My chewing decelerates until it comes to a complete stop; my breathing follows suit.
She says, “Have you ever given a woman a massage before?”
I swallow, adjust my glasses. “No,” I say quietly. Though I have, what I really mean is, Please don’t ask me to do this.
“Get up,” she says, “take steps in my direction, and stop when you reach the table.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans a few times, get out of my chair with all the grace of a colt making its first attempt to stand. I walk over and stop in front of her.
She reaches behind her and slides the towel thing down farther, exposes an inch of cleavage on her backside.
“Place your hands on the small of my back.”
I feel like a fumbling teenager. “This is not a good idea.”
“Place your hands on the small of my back.”
It takes me fifteen seconds before I have the strength—the weakness—to put my hand on her skin, and when I do I press down hard so she’s less likely to notice the way it’s trembling. She raises her lower body a little and pushes back as my other hand joins the effort. I feel dizzy—nothing metaphorical here; I blame either the withdrawal or my new overdosage of nicotine. I drag my hands across her back and steadily slide them up and down her body, let my thumbs ride the hills and valleys of her backbone. Her flesh is so tight and smooth, so free of scars and damage from the sun. I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to press my lips against it, to open my mouth and taste what I’m seeing and touching. But as I force this thought away, the fantasy is replaced with the image of a bullet piercing her beautiful skin—by my hand or anyone else’s—something invading to destroy this perfect creation: a bullet, a knife, a tight length of wire. My eyes fill with tears from anger and regret, and as a droplet falls from my cheek and splashes on Melody’s back, the masseur reenters the room.
I quickly wipe my face, stumble toward the door. “I’ll just… wait… outside.”
A few minutes later Melody finds me in the lounge again, standing in the corner by the waterfall, cracking my knuckles one by one.
She’s apparently abandoned the massage altogether, now wearing a different robe, a longer and fuller one that looks like it’s meant to be worn over clothes. She walks up and hugs me, whispers, “I loved having your hands on my body.”
“There’s really no other place they’d rather be.” I clear my throat. “Listen, I’m gonna make myself scarce.”
“No, I want you here.”
“Well, so far my presence seems to have clouded what I wanted to be a day of relaxation for you.” I read her eyes; she’s not buying it. “Besides, I need to take care of some business.” I hate that phrase—usually translates into one of our crew getting ready to go play poker, whack some guy, or cheat on his wife—but it’s been programmed into me, ready for instant utilization. And here, in these few moments we have together, I can’t use it on Melody. I correct myself: “I need to make some phone calls and lie to my family.” She still doesn’t look convinced. “I need to buy us more time.”
She nods slowly, asks, “Why do we need more time?”
I look away. “We just do.” Then I move in quick and peck her just below her ear. “I’ll see you at five o’clock, okay?” I turn and step backward out of the spa. “Meet you in the hotel bar.”
She watches me walk out, half waves. “I’ll be there.”
I turn down the corridor that leads me back to the elevators. I fear leaving her alone in that spa, but I’m starting to fear her being with me even more. She needs a rock right now and I’m dirt turning to mud. I have to hope we’ve hidden ourselves well enough that no one could ever find us in this corner of the country. And now that Melody is safe—around other people and occupied—I can return to my room and begin the business of the day.
The first calls I make to Sylvia end up costing me an hour. I speak with my head chef. Ryan gives me the lowdown on how the restaurant performed last night, team members who are not coming in, an emerging plumbing problem in the ladies’ room, a change in appointment from a health inspector, and distributors who fouled up orders or failed delivering on time. I make several calls—livid ones—attempting to straighten things out from two hundred miles away. I call Ryan back and give him the updates, then we organize the menu, select the specials, attempt to figure out which servers we can ask to fill in, who will cover which sections. I ask if my family has been pitching in at all. Ryan tells me they’ve mostly occupied the kitchen, offered to consume free samples.
As I complete the restaurant-related portion of my call-making, I plug my cell into the rapid charger, gear it up for the dreaded conversations to come.
Around eleven, I try to get in touch with Peter but nothing comes of it. His cell, office phone, home phone: nothing. Having no information feels worse than having bad information. I drop lower on the probability scale and call my dad’s office line.
“Yes,” the person answers. There’s no doubting the owner of this cold, raspy voice: Eddie Gravina.
“Hey, it’s John. Where’s Pop?”
“Out.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Later.”
I wait for details, don’t get them. “Meaning what? He go out for a morning jog?” I’ve always liked Eddie, but if his elevated stature in our crew means he thinks he can be vague with Tony Bovaro’s sons, I’ll escort the guy to the door myself.
“He’s taking care of some business.”
See what I mean? “Yeah, well, me, too. Where’s Pete?”
I hear him take a sip of something. “When are you coming home, Johnny?”
I close my eyes and drop my hand to my lap, and when I open my eyes, they immediately focus on my cell phone. The phone number is brightly displayed; for whatever reason, even though I’d just dialed it, seeing it triggers the memory of Melody’s story, the way she got the number for Pop’s office line. Suddenly, the improbability of my father so easily handing over my cell number to some girl on the phone transforms back to impossibility. I
rush my cell to my ear.
“Eddie, how long have you been manning this line?”
“Eh, you know, I’ve been helping your father here a few days.”
“Did you give my cell number out to some strange girl who called yesterday?”
Silence. Eventually, Eddie speaks in an uncharacteristically articulate manner. “I do not know what you are talking about.” Good grief, I hope this guy never has to take the stand.
“Why would you give my cell number out like that?”
He breathes in slow and heavy, even the guy’s lungs produce a rasp. “Johnny, it’s probably time for you to come home.”
He’s acting an awful lot like my father, except I’ve got news for him: He’s not my father. “Why don’t you head on over to Sylvia and grab a snack while you wait for me?”
“Son,” he says, “we need to bottle this wine. And you are the late harvest.”
Another wine metaphor? Couldn’t my family somehow relate what we’re doing to curing olives or aging cheese or restoring an old car? Not to mention, what self-respecting Italian makes the mistake of saying wine grapes go from the vine to the bottle instead of the vine to the barrel? I’m concerned by his disinterest in the details, hope it’s not viral.
“I’ll be home soon”—I roll my eyes—“with the vintage year. Where’s Pete?”
“He’s around.”
Guess he thought that was the end of the conversation, because he hangs up. I have half a mind to call him back, but there’s no point in wasting the battery power. And with my father tucked away and taking care of business, that means Peter becomes my focus.
Around noon, I slip back down to the spa and peek inside from around the corner of the entrance. Melody sits in a large chair twisted around and cocked back toward a sink where she’s getting her hair either washed or colored, hard to tell. But she and the lady doing the work seem to be chatting and laughing. Most important of all, she is still here. A layer of anxiety drops away.
The Exceptions Page 24
