I wind us toward our home, to the section of our neighborhood built first, where the lots are bigger and more wooded than the newer homes closer to the highway. The streets remain in moderate disrepair, and the car shakes as we roll over broken branches strewn across the road from a recent storm. A few hundred feet later, I see our home near the end of the block, a Tudor built with so much wood and stone it could never be affordably replicated in today’s market. The dwelling predates me by forty years, went from a home to a house after my mother died. My parents bought it to escape the city—escape people like us, my mother would later joke—and they turned it into a grand entertaining space, though it quickly fell into poor condition once my father lost his only love and all of the emotional capacity that came from sharing a life with her. One day when we’re all dead and buried, little kids will ride their bikes down the uprooted sidewalk out front and point and say it’s haunted. They will be right.
I nod, indicate to Melody which house is ours. She begins noshing on the gum a little harder, and when she sees how many cars are scattered around the circular driveway she starts lightly tapping her feet.
After surveying the array of vehicles, I do the math, say to myself, “Looks like everyone’s here.” I aim our car directly at the front door, park at the bottom edge of the semicircle. She and I stare at the house, motor running.
Melody takes a deep breath and says, “What did you use as an excuse to get everyone together?”
“I didn’t really have to make an excuse,” I answer. Then unspoken: “It’s a celebration of murder! Salut!” Melody could never comprehend the jubilant manner with which some in my family celebrate the abuse and disposal of humanity, and I pray they do not tell stories in her earshot, for she could only imagine the same conversation occurred after her parents were leveled. Instead, I offer this: “It’s Sunday.”
“What’s that mean?”
“My family tries to get together for a big meal here. My father, he, uh… he likes to cook. It seems to have a calming effect, so we indulge him as much as possible.” I stare at the house. “It was a long-standing tradition when my mom was alive—she was the culinary master in our family—and I think we all want to see it continue… you know, to honor her.”
We sit and stare ahead like we’re waiting at a red light.
“Part of me wants to kill your father,” she says, “and the other part wants his acceptance.” I break my lock on the house and turn to Melody. She continues, “This whole thing is a ridiculous long shot, and were I not at the end of the line with this life and the way I have to live it, I’d have never taken the risk. It wasn’t that big of a deal a few days ago, when I had nothing left inside of me. Problem is, now I want to survive—to be with you longer.” She drops her head, looks at her lap. “I’m resting my hopes on two things, the first being that you’ve really thought this out and that you understand your family better than I ever could.”
I wait, but no part two. “The other?”
“I’m assuming somewhere inside your dad is a good and decent man, like you suggested.” She looks at me again. “He raised you, after all.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. I respond with a smile. “I’m sure he would’ve done anything to protect you over the years.”
My smile vanishes; my father may have helped raise me, but he also raised Peter. And the good and decent man hasn’t come around in a while, been kept under submission by a life no longer tempered by the warmth of a woman.
Then Melody adds this: “I’m sure your father would have left the world of crime if he’d needed to for one of his sons, right?”
My eyes fall and land on the dashboard, though I’m seeing nothing but memories of my mother begging him to break free in the desperate and broken days after her attack by Morrison. I was there when she said it, pleaded for it. I was there when my father said, “Anything for you,” and I was there a week later when he told Tommy Fingers, “You put two in Agata’s head, and I mean today,” and then a month later when he told my brother Gino that “the hole left by the Cuccis means we’ll be picking up a big chunk of business.” (My father became obsessed with taking over the Cucci turf and eventually won the Cucci Coup). Soon after, I witnessed my mother’s reluctant acceptance of my father’s offerings—jewelry, expensive clothing, and cars—to appease her, offset the crimes set against her. The more she longed for him to abandon this life that was riddled with risk, where no one was safe, the more money he dropped on her. And now I realize why my throwing bills around with Melody bothered me so. What was it I was offsetting? Was I merely paying in advance for an upcoming crime? Who exactly had I become?
I can’t lift my eyes, neither to her face nor the house. “My family has never been very comfortable with the notion of sacrifice,” I say. Then, all at once: I see our odds dwindle, our horse fade as it rounds the last turn. But I’m not giving up, not letting Melody down. I’m not tearing up that ticket yet. I turn off the ignition and grab the keys and pop my door open. “Let’s do this.”
Just before my door closes, I hear Melody say, “Wait, I—” As I walk around to her side of the car, she flips down the visor and checks her lips and face and hair, spits out her gum into a wrapper, takes a deep breath and forces it out in a blast.
Melody takes my hand as soon as she gets out. Her hand is cold and wet, trembles a little. I hold it firmly as I take broad steps to the front of our house. She walks behind me but speeds up to get to my side. We walk the long brick path covered in debris from months past, each step a crunch of leaves and twigs.
Melody whispers so softly I’m not certain the words are for me: “Are you sure?”
I just keep walking, hold her hand like a child’s while crossing through a bad part of town, my eyes leveled at the front door like I’m looking down the barrel of a gun.
“Are you sure?”
We’re within a few steps of the entrance, greeted by the enormous two-inch-thick oak door with its rounded top, beveled panels, and small cut glass windows in the upper sections, the product of some long-dead craftsman’s time and attention and artistic capacity. It takes all my strength, all my will, to keep from kicking the thing right off its rotting frame. As we step upon the stoop, I feel Melody tighten her hand around mine. With a held breath, I reach down and grip the handle and latch in my hand, and gently open the door.
NELLA VITA—CHI NON
RISICA—NON ROSICA
(IN LIFE: WHO RISKS NOTHING,
GAINS NOTHING)
ONE
Of all the things that could strike us as we walk in, it’s not the smack of a sibling’s hand on a shoulder, not the lilting sound of my father’s soundtrack of Sinatra or Mario Lanza or Dino Crocetti (he refuses to call him Dean Martin), not the sound of loud voices bouncing off the scarred maple floors of the entryway; it’s the smell of the Sunday gravy. I would argue that Sylvia has some of the best chefs in Williamsburg, if not all of Brooklyn, yet our kitchen never captures a gastronomic aroma as powerful and warm as my father’s Sunday gravy, the veal- and pork-based red sauce that simmers all day long and serves as the base for most other dishes to be made. The scent asks you to come in and have a taste, grab a glass of wine, sit and tell it about your day. It has a comforting effect—one that might be working on Melody as well; she looks around the house like a child glimpsing a museum for the first time. Her eyes move from object to object, from the paintings on the wall to the pictures on the piano in the study. She catches a fleeting look at my father and mother in happier days, images of my brothers and me in younger, less intimidating stances and sizes.
We pause here in the entryway as I survey the scene; it appears everyone has congregated in the kitchen, as much a tradition as the meal itself. My mother could never “shake people out of her cooking space,” and eventually she and my father gave up, blew out the adjacent laundry room and increased the size of the kitchen by 30 percent.
I pull Melody down the hallway to the back of the house, her hand still cold, still tremblin
g. As we break the fringe of the kitchen, a dozen or so people are milling about and various conversations are under way, the largest being where Peter stands before a small crowd of listeners. With his back to us, he says, “So I told him, ‘Hey, relax; you still got nine fingers. That’s nine more lessons!” Peter’s blatant copyright infringement of Tommy Fingers’s material brings a smattering of laughter, mostly from Gino’s and Jimmy’s wives, gazing adoringly at Peter with their heads cocked, wishing they’d somehow landed the dashing mafioso instead of the also-rans.
I slap Peter on the back and say, “Yeah, except what you really meant was he had seven fingers and two thumbs left, right?” The same response I used to give Tommy when I was a kid; if Pete can recycle old material, why can’t I?
He turns around and hugs me hard and fast, whacks me on the back. As I reach to return his hug, Melody is reluctant to release my hand. When I slide over, Melody slips right behind me like she’s hiding in my shadow, peeks her head around the side of my neck.
Everyone turns to look at me and Melody, and all of the conversations come to an abrupt end—except for the one occurring in the far corner of the kitchen between my father and Eddie Gravina, a manila folder positioned between them like they’re singing from the same hymnal. In my peripheral vision I can tell they’re staring at us. My father gets up from his chair slowly, grabs his pants by the belt, and pulls them way up to compensate for the down-drifting that’ll occur with each step toward us. He carries the manila folder with him.
I can feel Melody slink behind me again as my father comes our way. I wonder what’s running through her mind, wonder if she recognizes the now gray and overweight man who once acted the lead role in her night terrors. The only way this will work is if she faces him. The only way this will work is if he faces her.
No one says a word as Pop approaches us, not my three brothers, not the wives, not Eddie, not the extended crew.
Pop stops at the edge of the counter, leans on it with one hand, studies Melody. “Who’s this?”
I move to the side, expose Melody to the villainous crowd, as vulnerable and exposed as though she were standing naked. “This,” I say, “is my new girlfriend.”
Jimmy, mouth full of meatball sub, jabs Peter in the side. “Fibby bucks, tol’ you he wudn’t gah.” Fifty bucks. I told you he wasn’t gay. He takes another bite before swallowing.
“Those friggin’ glasses,” Peter says. “Had to go with the odds.” Peter finally gets the laughter and admiration he so desires. He steps toward Melody and smiles, says to her, “You’re way too pretty to be with this clown.” He offers his hand to her and as she weakly shakes it, he says, “Peter Bovaro.”
She swallows twice, can’t seem to get the lump down, can’t seem to get the words out, though eventually it escapes.
“Melody McCartney,” she says.
Peter smiles wider, releases her hand. You can count the seconds of silence—one, two, three—before everyone breaks into laughter.
Everyone except my father and Eddie Gravina.
I scan the room, the faces and expressions and levels of expectation.
My father squints at Melody, opens the manila folder again and studies its contents, closes it slowly and chucks it behind him on the counter.
Peter shoves me, says, “You friggin’—you thought you’d pull one over on us like that?”
“Good one, Johnny,” Gino yells from across the room, then gulps down the remaining contents of a Peroni.
“C’mon,” Peter says, “let’s go to your car. Show me the real one.”
Melody laughs a little, too, wipes her brow and looks at me.
“Stay put, Pete,” my father says, his eyes locked on Melody. I can tell she feels him studying her, can read the anxiety in the pallor of her face. Pop says to her quietly, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Silence again.
Melody looks at me, her expression pleading for another rescue attempt. I can hear the whisper: Are you sure?
“My name is, uh…” she says.
I purse my lips and slowly nod.
She takes in a deep breath, her eyes bouncing from face to face across the room, landing on mine last. She lets out the breath, slouches her shoulders, puts all her weight on one leg.
“My name is Melody Grace McCartney.” She pauses, watches the faces before her contort into expressions of confusion. “I’m exactly who you think I am.”
More laughter—but now from only one: my father.
I move between Melody and Pop. “Yeah, this is Melody Grace McCartney,” I say, making sure everyone can hear me.
She’s just a little girl.
She is six years old.
She’s a scared child.
How could she hurt you?
I say, “She’s not a kid anymore, but just as innocent. Surprised she managed to live this long?”
“That’s enough, Johnny,” my father says. He rubs his eyes, leans his lower back against the counter; the cabinets underneath it creak. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”
Then Peter: “What the hell have you done, Johnny?”
“I haven’t done anything but fallen for an amazing woman.” My eyes still on Peter, I sense Melody quickly turn and stare at me; I hadn’t intended on her knowing how I truly felt about her, figured my feelings were safely encrypted in whispered Italian she could never translate. I didn’t want her to have anything in her mind that might prevent her from discarding me, but even though she shouldn’t have known the truth, my family needed to. She moves closer.
Peter chuckles. His volume increases with every sentence: “Oh, so, wait—you really did bring your girlfriend home? Very cute. Did she ride in the trunk, too? A hundred million available women and you pick one that wants to take us all down? Are you and I even distantly related?”
Melody turns to my father, seems determined to take her case directly to the highest court. “All I know is I adore your son, Mr. Bovaro.”
Now it’s my turn to be caught off guard. I’m weakened by her speaking those words, that my love for her might not be unrequited. And now my hope is that this toppled apple cart self-corrects, that somehow it will work—that we will work. I hope and pray her words are true. I hope and pray she’s not just acting.
My father catches my eye, has the same look on his face as the moment I suggested we keep Morrison alive, the look that can only be read as you are a dreamer. And like that day so long ago, I hope now that my sense of hope and purpose are as welcome as the peace and calm my mother once brought to him, that he needs this balance.
But then he slowly shakes his head. His expression changes to that of complete and utter disappointment, that maybe he shouldn’t have trusted me all those years ago with Morrison either.
“You’re a good liar, young lady,” he says, but the words are meant for me; he might as well have said, “She lied to you, Johnny.”
Melody cocks her head a little and stands taller, says very carefully, “I’m not lying.”
I slip my arm around her back and pull her next to me. “She’s telling the truth, Pop. You think I’d bring her here if I wasn’t convinced she’d never hurt us? She just wants a real chance at a normal life, her life.” Then, as though it will add some level of comfort for my family, some assurance that she’ll remain closemouthed, I add, “With me.”
Pop sighs, says, “I believe the part about her wanting a normal life, but not the part about it being with you. She has every reason to want us to pay for what we did to her, and she’s played you in getting sweet revenge.” He turns his body so he’s square with Melody and says, “And I’ll tell you, kid, you’re tough”—he slams his pointer finger down on the counter—“for coming into my house and thinking you could pull this off.”
Melody and I reply with mirrored frowns and words: “Pull what off?”
“Pop,” I say, “look, I don’t need you to teach me a lesson here, okay? I’m a grown man and I know what I’m doing. I—”
Now the fist hits the counter. “This isn’t about teachin’ a lesson, Johnny; it’s about serving life in prison. I’m an old man. I’m not letting things end that way. And you’ve got to think about your family, your brothers and their wives and their children.”
I shake my head, conjure a way to start over. “Melody’s not going to—”
“Melody’s not going to what, Johnny?” He snatches up the remote and aims it at the stereo like he wants to kill it. The music ends and he chucks the remote so hard against the wall the plastic cracks and the batteries fall out. He runs his hands through his wiry silver hair, wipes his face, crosses his arms. “Why don’t you ask the love of your life what she did yesterday.”
I answer with annoyance. “I know exactly what she did yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“Spent the day in the spa at our hotel in Baltimore.”
“Yeah?”
“I got five women who’ll testify to that.”
“Well, I got something better than your five women.” Pop turns sideways and snaps his fingers. Gravina slides the manila folder back down the counter. My father empties the contents into his hands, slams a stack of photos against my chest, bends half of them in the process.
My father and I do not take our eyes from each other. I slowly reach up to accept the pictures and he backs up. Melody glides to my side, puts a nervous hand on my shoulder, peeks over to see what I’m holding. No one says a word as my eyes fall to the first image.
The picture is underexposed, yet the subject unmistakable: Melody in the arms of Sean, her head resting against his chest, the backdrop the front end of a black vehicle parked along an empty cornfield, the corner of an old red-painted church sticking its nose into the frame of the image. From seeing her this way, I’m tossed about by a wave of blended disappointment, jealousy, and rivalry, though it’s not cause for concern; I saw them in a similar situation the night I followed her to Cape Charles, as she and Sean stood outside the doors to their motel rooms. But then the room spins, tosses me into a vortex of real disorientation as I make an observation—and Melody must make the same observation in the same instant, for her hand drops from my shoulder: In the picture, her hair is already cut and styled from the spa, and she’s wearing the clothes I purchased for her.
The Exceptions Page 30
