The Exceptions

by David Cristofano

  When I return to my room, I order a bacon, egg, and avocado sandwich (excellent), a spring salad (fair), and a pot of coffee, and nibble while trying to get my brother on the phone. I turn on the television and flip through various news channels to check for any mention of the distributed massacre instituted by my family. So far: nothing. Halfway into my second cup of coffee, Peter finally answers his cell.

  “’S’Pete.”

  “You’ve been tough to get ahold of.”

  “One sec,” he says. I hear him chew, then chat with someone in the background. “Yeah, this tastes really good.” Then to me, “Man, Ryan outdid himself today.”

  “Can you guys do me a friggin’ favor and find some other clubhouse to hang out in? Ryan’s trying to run an establishment.”

  “Excellent point you bring up, brother. Where’s Sylvia’s manager? She misses you.”

  “I’m done here, everything’s wrapped up.” Melody’s dead, covered in blankets in my trunk.

  “You’re bringing it home for us?” We gotta see it to believe it.

  “Absolutely. I’m bringing it home.” He has no idea. “How’s everything on your end?”

  “It’s beautiful, man. This puzzle came together better than we imagined. We’re gonna frame it and hang it on the wall.”

  If what he’s saying is true, that’s a lot of dead people—of which most have probably not yet gone missing. On the one hand, it would be great to get out of here before the feds start looking for suspects; on the other, more blood will be shed if I leave prematurely.

  Peter says, “We’re surprised it’s taken you so long. We thought you’d be home by now.”

  The perfect segue to my partial prep. “Yeah, I apologize for the delay, but I sorta met someone. On my journey.”

  “C’mon, Johnny, this isn’t the right time to get your rocks off. Besides, Tommy was gonna try to meet up with you in Baltimore, maybe go visit Alfonse. He’s in your area, taking care of a few minor things.” Of course he is.

  “Sorry, no good. She and I are, uh, spending a lot of time together, you know?” I take a huge mouthful of sandwich, gulp it down half chewed.

  “Do what you gotta do and unload her. We got things to celebrate.”

  “Nah, it’s more than that. We’ve really hit it off. I’m bringing her up.”

  Delay. “Seriously?”

  “Totally. She’s… from our area, in a way. She’ll be riding shotgun.”

  “With that huge package in the back?” He laughs. “You’re sick. I love it.” Then louder, “Bring your freakin’ skimbo, love to meet her.”

  This is precisely why I wanted to give the update to Peter. My father would have insisted I bring the body home immediately and leave the woman behind. I can’t yet explain that they’re one and the same. Peter, the crazy, risk-taking loose hinge in our family, is the perfect person to drop it in my father’s lap on my behalf. A screwup, I will seem. Jokes will be made. A small price to pay.

  TEN

  At four-fifteen, I make one last journey to the spa to spy on Melody. As I look in, the place is packed, every seat taken—in both the spa itself and the waiting area. Melody, however, currently has the attention of three women at once, all bending over her like surgeons looming above a hemorrhaging patient.

  I rush back upstairs and take a quick shower, attempt to make myself presentable, to appear relaxed. As I comb my wet hair in front of the mirror above the dresser, I hear Melody’s door open and close, then the noise of her television. I sit down on the edge of my bed and imagine that if this were some parallel world, she and I would be getting ready at the same time in the same room, that we would share idle conversation, discuss the plans of the evening, comment on the way each other looked. Instead, we are two layers of drywall apart, strangers connected by the worst of circumstances. I recall her statement of how we might’ve never met had it not been for my father’s murdering of the Rat. Forget how unlikely it would’ve been for an intelligent girl from suburban Jersey to run into a thug from the city, but had we done so, would we have shared anything more than a passing glance, an excuse me as one moved out of the way of the other? How selfish I feel for considering the upside to the disasters of her life.

  Despite what’s in store for her tomorrow—for us—I want to take her mind off of it tonight, give her at least one evening of normalcy before the challenges of true escape. And if everything goes as planned tomorrow, this will act as the first of a lifelong series of peace-filled evenings for her.

  A few minutes later, her television goes off and her door closes again. As I’m about to walk out the door myself and meet her in the hall—no reason to meet in the lounge if we’re both here and ready—my cell rings: Ryan. We resolve two minor issues, but the conversation distracts me enough that I run a few minutes behind; I force a wrap-up of the call on the way to the elevator, end it before I get in and take the car to the second floor.

  I stroll around the opposite side of the hotel from the spa, follow a rounded corner that leads me right to the entrance of the bar. From the hallway, I can see the city buildings and lights through the tall windows. The bar is broken into sections, could easily handle multiple large gatherings at the same time. The entire room possesses a sleepy haze, feels like I’m viewing everything through a blue filter lens. I just walked into a giant aquarium.

  I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and study the patrons. At just a few minutes after five the place is mostly empty, but the happy hour crowd is growing, slipping by me as I scan the room for Melody. I finally spot her sitting casually with her legs crossed at a table near one of the windows. I first recognize her by her dress: the sundress I purchased in Norfolk. And though I can’t identify the difference in the way she looks, I know a difference exists. I take steps in her direction, and once I’m a third of the way there I notice some man sitting across from her. She sees me coming—she’s facing him and looking at me from the corner of her eyes. I can only see the back of the guy’s head, but he’s motioning with his hands, seems intent on making some point to her.

  I slow down as I study him: young, professional type, wearing a suit, sitting in a manner that suggests he’s planning to get up at any second. Not a fed. A toddler.

  I bring my pace back up to full speed and approach the guy. I’ve had it with inconveniences. I can’t take two extra minutes to finish a phone call without some clown stepping in and creating a hassle?

  Melody looks at me. “A friend of yours?” I ask, putting my hand on his shoulder.

  She does this thing where she sort of smiles and frowns at the same time, shakes her head No.

  Then let’s take out the trash. I grip his shoulder with all the strength of a firm handshake, yet the guy collapses like I’d smashed his knees with a bat. I grab him by the collar of his suit, lift him out of the chair like a bag of potatoes, and fling him off to the side. He stumbles across the room and knocks over two tables, crashes to the floor and doesn’t move.

  “Oh, c’mon,” I say, “that was a little dramatic, wasn’t it?” The room goes silent. All eyes fall on us. Two women at the bar gasp.

  I turn to Melody. “You okay? Was he trying to hurt you?”

  She glances at the onlookers, then back to me. “You’re supposed to ask me that before you come to my aid.” One of the bartenders rushes over to see if the guy’s okay.

  All of the changes in Melody’s look strike me at once. They made no improvements, didn’t need to. No wonder the spa was booked so far in advance; these folks were pros. They simply fine-tuned what was already in view, brought the camera lens into focus. Her hair, now a shade lighter, better matches the tone of her skin. They cut it differently around her ears and forehead, and though I would’ve never guessed that making it shorter was a good idea, they made the right decision. Her hair appears silky and full and I find it hard to refrain from reaching out and running my fingers through it. I can’t place it now, but the colors of her makeup are different, look natural, as if she weren�
�t wearing any at all. Her skin shines and glows. I run my hand along the back of her arm.

  “Oh, Melody, you’re stunning. Really, words are failing me. I can’t tell you how proud I am to be with you, for people to think you and I are—”

  “Thanks,” she says. “Shouldn’t he be getting up by now?”

  I wave it off, don’t bother looking at him. “He’ll be fine.” I reach in my pocket, grab a couple bills and toss them on the table. “We should get going.”

  She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the bar at a pretty good clip, keeps her head down and a hand to her face. She curses under her breath as she glances at the guy groaning on the floor. Everyone watches us leave.

  Once we’re in the hall and out of view, she smashes me in the chest with her fist and whispers so loudly she might as well have screamed. “This is not your twisted corner of New York. You can’t walk into a bar, render someone unconscious, then drop a few twenties on the table like it’s some MasterCard with an unlimited credit line for felonies!”

  “Look, I can never know who’s after you, okay? I’m trying to protect you and give you freedom at the same time.” She turns and I follow her to the elevator. “Who was he?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Was he bothering you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Was he hitting on you?”

  “Yes. But he was only hitting on me. Just like those kids were only spitting on your car. There’s no reason to overreact, no cause for violence.”

  We get in the elevator. I stare at my shoes as we drop one floor and are deposited in the busy lobby. After we’ve rushed across Pratt Street and onto the harbor, we slow to a normal pace. Melody’s right. All I did was put us in jeopardy, reveal us in the public eye, potentially destroy everything I’ve worked toward. What she doesn’t understand is how useful the violence can be, how well it performs in a personal economy based on influence. In this case, though, her point rings true; I’ve been utilizing violence the same way I drop money: wastefully.

  My phone vibrates. I pull it out and see I missed a call from Peter. Melody pauses to gaze at a guy who’s riding a unicycle, juggling, telling a story. A small crowd comprised mostly of children sit and stand around him on the dirty brick sidewalk. I call Peter back while she’s distracted, and as soon as the call connects she turns my way. I spin around, pretend I’m looking at the traffic heading northward on Light Street. Peter and I converse for less than a minute, but the point of the call was to let me know that whatever Tommy Fingers was trying to get or locate in my area was achieved—he’s not exactly sure what it is but Eddie Gravina is anxious for my father to have it—and he’s now on his way back to New York; Tommy was the last to leave the mid-Atlantic. Melody and I are finally alone.

  I turn back toward Melody, can tell she’s forcing her attention on the unicycling juggler to give me privacy. To get her attention I sort of brush her hand, slip two fingers into her palm, and she turns around and smiles. She tightens her grip around my fingers but I try to let go. I sense she wanted me to hold her hand, so I regrip, but then she lets her hand loosen. We go through this embarrassing sequence a few times before I simply tighten my hand around hers and jokingly pull her over as if I’m trying to drag her.

  While we walk around the harbor I point out various things—Federal Hill, the National Aquarium, the converted Power Plant, the iconic Domino Sugar sign—mostly so she’ll look in those directions, for every time she does, I use the opportunity to stare at her, to be able to gawk without making her feel embarrassed. You’d think after all these years of watching her exist I’d have no problem putting aside viewing her this way—but it’s a habit developed and mastered over the course of my life, acts like a drug I cannot surrender.

  A breeze rushes over us and causes her sundress to fly up, and though she may have wanted to smooth it back, she shivers and crosses her arms. She looks down at her dress and her sandals and says, “These are lovely clothes, Jonathan. Thank you.”

  I hold her hand, look into her eyes for a while before I answer. “They’re only lovely because they’re on you. On the mannequins… just looked like clothes.” She swallows and smiles. “I could see you in them, though. Like they were cut and sewn for you.”

  Melody turns and faces me square. Without thinking I take her other hand in mine as well. We look like we’re getting ready to exchange vows. She gazes into my eyes with anticipation, like I have something I’m about to offer—but the offer was already made: Through her freedom I am trying to give her the greatest gift I could conjure, but it’s not enough, could never be enough.

  As I hold her hands in mine I feel the gentle tug of emotion, temptation disguised in a robe of passion. It may not be what she wants—absolutely not what she needs—but I want to tell her what is building in my heart. I have now drifted beyond trying to correct, fall aimlessly toward trying to inspire. I have no justifiable reason to go there, no right to take her there. Yet here I begin making a terrible mistake, of letting myself drop a guard that I erected with great purpose, spent a lifetime constructing. Here I am about to perform that greatest example of losing self-control, of instantiating selfishness in Bovaro history. I open my frigging mouth:

  “You’re flawless, Melody. Beautiful, smart, funny. Everything about you is right in every way: your height, your hands, your…” I keep going, talk about her legs and body and lips, snapping off generic compliments like a grocery list. I’m sure I lost her at flawless. She smiles like I’m one of her students, a kid with a crush who finally got the courage to confess his desire.

  I slouch back, think for a moment, stop trying to drive the nail with a sledgehammer. I finally speak what’s on my mind. I look down, stare at her painted toenails. “You know, for the first time in my life I understand every man who’s died for a woman.” I return my eyes to hers, whisper so only she can hear. “I would die for you, Melody.”

  She freezes for a few seconds, then bites her lip a little as her chin wrinkles. She drops her head, gently wipes her eyes and sniffles, does that thing where she fake-tucks her hair behind her ears, which dissolves any last thread of hope, of strength I might’ve had. She moves her head from side to side as if she’s trying to sort something out, then looks up at me with wet eyes and wet lips. She circles her hands around my palms and tightens them, stands on her toes, closes her eyes, tilts her head, parts her lips.

  Now, the biggest rationalization of all time: I can’t abandon her here, with the expectation of a kiss; were I not to deliver, how embarrassed would she be? Forget the fact that I don’t recall ever wanting something this badly in my entire life.

  I lean down, take in the scent of the lotions on her skin carried upward by a wave of heat rising from her body, feel the warmth of her breath just before our lips meet. Her kiss is as gentle as a drifting feather, as sweet as a candy apple. The rhythm of the movement of our lips, how they fit together directly opposes the way our hands fumbled just moments earlier, as though we’ve been married for twenty years and have practiced our way to this intimate precision. Her tongue lightly brushes against mine and I pull my hands from hers and move them to her face. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed how pleasurable this experience can be. So long ago my older brothers explained that a kiss served no further purpose than generating the key that opens the door to sexual activity. As adolescents, Peter and Gino would define this as crossing first base. I’ve crossed first base before, and let me tell you: This was blasting one out of the park at the bottom of the ninth to win the series, rounding the bases in slow motion, being carried across the field on the shoulders of teammates.

  I couldn’t tell you how long we kissed and embraced, though long enough that a few people stared or smirked at our public display of affection. One passing lady turned to her mate and said, “How come you don’t kiss me like that?”

  We turn and start walking again, say not a word about what we just did, but clearly some significance follows; the rest of our walk, we hold ha
nds. We have become one of the couples I spied through that narrow gap between the buildings during my panicked search for Melody and from high atop these large hotels in which I have stayed. We have become a pair milling about the casual and carefree. Except we are not carefree.

  Ghosts among the real, my friend. Ghosts among the real.

  We don’t speak much through our walking tour of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. We’ve both got various scenarios on our minds, though I imagine hers are more significant. She holds on to my arm with both hands curled around it, and though it’s a sign of affection, it occasionally feels like she is holding on for dear life.

  She stares up at some historic battleship temporarily harbored for tourists, and at this second I finally determine exactly what the folks in the spa managed to achieve in Melody: She looks the closest to her real self that I’ve seen since she was a little girl. The tone of her skin, the way her hair is pulled away from the sides of her face, how her cheekbones and jawline are exposed. I see images of her youth within her, like a film having random frames of her earlier self spliced in. I visualize her as still having long hair, that it’s merely tied up in a ponytail. The little girl stands at my feet, staring up at a large ship instead of the large buildings that framed Vincent’s.

  We begin to talk more of eating, try to select a place to dine among the few hundred possibilities within walking distance. But during this discussion, Melody drifts back to asking me questions about my family, and the questions are not about personalities as much as they are about criminal activity. Had she and I not just shared a defined level of intimacy, I might’ve started thinking she was wired.

  Finally, she slows her pace and asks quietly, “Have you ever had to murder someone?” She forms the question giving me an out: Have you ever had to murder someone, as opposed to murdering for no reason whatsoever.

  “You asked me that before.”

  “I know,” she says. “But I need the absolute truth, Jonathan.”