The Girl She Used to Be

by David Cristofano

  I can’t suppress a smile. “Beef was a risk, Jonathan. So was eggplant. Especially for lunch.”

  “Did I fail?”

  I study him for a moment and I wish we were anywhere but the wrong place at the wrong time. “Not yet.”

  He smiles back, then turns to the waiter and adds, “You have Medici Ermete Concerto Reggiano Lambrusco?” The waiter nods. “A bottle.”

  I laugh.

  “What,” he says, flipping his hands out.

  “Lambrusco. Highly predictable, not to mention cheesy.”

  “Not this Lambrusco. You didn’t hear me order Riunite, did you? This bottle is much drier. Besides, this is wine for drinking with food, you know. It should be a little sugary, a little sweet, a little fizzy maybe, and not only bring the flavor of the food to life, but help wash it down. I love fine wine—and if you ever want to go head-to-head on the subject, prepare for defeat—but I prefer to drink it when my palate is going to stay clean and sharp. With food, especially Italian? Different story.”

  Jonathan grins and it seems he starts to blush, then he looks down and clears his throat. He picks up his knife and tilts it back and forth between his fingers, very gently, and I cannot imagine him ever taking one and plunging it into someone’s chest. But no matter what, it is impossible for me to forget who he is. Or where he is from. Or why he is now in my life.

  I take a deep breath and sit up. “You wanted to talk.”

  Jonathan puts his knife down and sits back and it appears he is going to tell me how it is. I’ve been waiting my whole life.

  “Do you wonder,” he says, “how it is that I knew what was on this menu without even taking a glance?”

  I shrug. “Photographic memory?”

  He leans forward again and speaks in a hushed tone. “We are the only customers in this restaurant because they are not open yet, and will not open for another hour. We were given the best table in the restaurant because they would not give me anything less. We will sit and eat a delicious meal, the finest they will prepare today, and we will drink a bottle of wine, and when we are done with our dessert and cannot finish another bite, we will get up and walk out of the restaurant without paying a penny.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “Should I be impressed?”

  “You should be concerned, Melody.” He leans forward even farther and progresses to a slightly angered voice. “I’m trying to show you the depth of my family’s influence, okay? People think you can run away to Tennessee or Ohio, but the truth is we have a presence in those places too. I mean, do you really think there are all of these Italian families vying for the same chunk of business in Manhattan and Brooklyn? Get real. Forget the Mafia, what about the damn Russians or the Chinese or the Dominicans? The fu—lousy street gangs are tapping into what used to be our exclusive interests. It’s like a cold war.” He thinks for a second. “Kind of.”

  “So you move to the suburbs like everyone else, bringing all your crime and misery with you.”

  He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “You’re missing the central issue here. You can’t hide, Melody. The deputy marshals they assign to you cannot move you far enough away. We could have snatched you long ago.”

  The waiter drops a basket of warm bread on the table and shows the bottle of wine to my Italian friend. Jonathan nods, puts his glasses back on, and says, “I’ll pour, thank you,” and the waiter leaves as though it’s the response he was expecting.

  Jonathan takes my glass and slowly allows the wine to leave the bottle and gently splash down, somehow preventing any air from gulping back in.

  He explains his actions as if he were reading my mind. “This keeps the sediment in the bottle,” he says. “I don’t want you to have any excuse for denying the greatness of this vino.”

  I am about to comment when I recall his previous statement. “What did you mean when you said you could have snatched me long ago?”

  He looks up and sighs, continues pouring. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for years.” He pulls the bottle from the rim of my glass, turns it slightly to avoid a drip, and lifts. He tosses this information to me casually, and though it seems innocent, I know he realized the gravity of the comment—and he does not flinch.

  My chin quivers and my breathing becomes erratic. “What… what do you mean?”

  He stares at me for a second, takes his glass and fills it with wine in three seconds, then downs two huge mouthfuls. He whispers, “Jane Watkins. Shelly Jones. Linda Simms. Sandra Clarke.” My teeth are clattering like I’m naked in the snow. He takes another drink. “You want me to tell you the kinds of jobs you’ve had? The places you used to get coffee in the morning? Your favorite restaurants?”

  The only thing worse than living a lie is living a lie for no reason whatsoever.

  “That’s how you knew my size… and my eye color, and the kinds of food I like, and what you meant that first night you came into my motel room and said, ‘I like your hair this way.’ You knew me. You’ve known me all along.”

  I stare Jonathan down; he tries to wait me out but he can’t, and the steel that he exemplified a moment ago is starting to break back down into iron and carbon. He spins the wine in his glass, but I think it’s an act of nervousness or embarrassment rather than a way to aerate his wine.

  There is a new truth in my life: No matter how incredibly slight I may have found my security over the years, not a single notion was true. I’ve been at risk all along, and all the moving and changing and fear and carefulness was for nothing.

  Nothing.

  The food arrives, so I pull myself together, snapping out of the chilly daze I’ve been in for the last five minutes. The scents of our dishes collide, and it trips my senses. I realize I’m hungry and without hesitation I reach for my fork. If this is going to be my last meal, I can’t complain.

  Jonathan stares at me while moving his fork in and out of his risotto. “Aren’t you curious as to why I was watching you all these years?”

  I ignore him, as I have been since he unfolded this new truth in my life, and start going to town on the beef. I skewer a nice forkful and bring it to my mouth. I am amazed—I will probably throw it up soon, but I am still amazed. I scoop up a few croquettes, chew them and swallow them, and I feel I might die before any Bovaro gets the chance to do the deed.

  Jonathan answers his own question. “I was there.”

  My chewing slows. “Where?”

  “At Vincent’s.”

  My chewing stops.

  “You should try the risotto,” he says, pushing his plate to my side of the table.

  I push it back. “When were you there?” I ask through a mouthful of watercress.

  He looks down and sighs. “That Sunday morning when my dad was gutting Jimmy ‘the Rat’ Fratello.”

  I’m speechless.

  Jonathan laughs a little and adds, “Turns out Jimmy really was a rat. Which is why he got, uh… you know.”

  I keep my eyes locked on Jonathan’s, but I manage to fill my glass with more wine. I do not care about sediment.

  “You’re about to tell me some tragic news,” I say.

  Jonathan sits up, puts his fork down, and takes a long, loud drink from his water glass. “I was there with my dad.” He nods a little. “The kids in the family were always kind of around. I mean, where could we go, really.” He takes a jerky, nervous breath. “I was supposed to stay upstairs and play with my cousins in a big billiards room on the third floor of Vincent’s place. You know, normally us little guys weren’t allowed to touch the pool tables for fear we’d rip the felt or something, so it was supposed to be this big deal for us to hang upstairs while my father and Jimmy did a little business.

  “Well, I thought my dad was the greatest, you know? Like any kid, I guess. So I wanted to see what he did for a living. I figured he was in the restaurant business. I mean, we were always eating in the best places and we could always pick whatever table we wanted and order whatever food we wanted and we never had to pay a
nd stuff…” He wipes his forehead of sweat. “Well… I snuck down when no one was looking and tried to catch a glimpse of his high-business dealings.”

  He pauses and I am about to leap across the table and beat the rest out of him. I try to finish his thought. “You saw him slicing up Jimmy Fratello?”

  Jonathan throws me for a loop by grabbing his fork, piling up a huge mound of risotto, and taking a bite. “No… actually, I saw my dad and Jimmy just talking. It was pretty boring, really. I watched for a while but lost interest, so I walked down the hallway and went outside.” He pokes at his veal as though he might begin slicing, then tosses his utensils on the table. “I remember that day: it was cold and dark outside. I stood in the alley next to Vincent’s and just stared at the gray sky.” He looks at me and purses his lips. “Until I stopped to watch this guy try to parallel-park his Oldsmobile.” He chuckles. “I swear it had to be his first time.”

  I hold my breath for a second. “My dad,” I say. “He couldn’t parallel-park to save his life.” I wish I hadn’t put it that way. I start nodding. “You saw my dad.”

  “And your mom and… you.” He smiles at me. “You had the cutest blond curls.” He takes another bite. “I think that’s the last time I ever saw you with blond hair. Anyway, a few seconds later you all come screaming down the sidewalk, hop in your car, and zoom off.”

  I have completely lost my appetite. I slide my dishes and the wine bottle to the side so there is little between Jonathan and me. I lean on the table and Jonathan does too.

  “Sean told me,” I say, “that the police got there long after the crime, and that he had no idea how the feds found my parents—or how they even knew there were witnesses at all.” I squint and point a weak finger in his direction. “It was you.”

  Jonathan sighs. “What can I say? I wanted to be a grown-up and big and important like my father. I had no idea it was my dad that killed Jimmy. I didn’t even really know what killing was yet.” He looks at me but it seems like a struggle. “When the cops were asking everyone on the street if anyone saw anything, I stepped up to bat, told the cops I saw a family run out of the restaurant.”

  “And you magically knew our address?”

  “No. But I did notice your license plates were from Jersey and I remembered two numbers and a letter. And that the car was an Olds.” He shrugs. “Apparently, it was enough.”

  The beef and eggplant feel like they are on the rise.

  “So,” I say, festering, “you are the one who brought all of this pain and misery and destruction into my life. You are the one who is responsible for my parents’ deaths!” I stand a little. “The most I would have had to deal with was post-traumatic stress disorder and some minor therapy. I still would’ve had parents and proms and friends and birthday parties and a heritage and something to look forward to!”

  “Melody, I was ten years old—just a few years older than you.” He’s looking at me and pleading with his eyes and for a second he seems like he’s still ten years old. “Do you have any idea what this did to my family?”

  “I do not care.”

  “I turned my own father in—not intentionally, of course—but I did it!”

  “Your father is a sick bastard! Who wants a dad who eviscerates people?” I flop back down in my seat.

  “My dad wasn’t Jeffrey Dahmer. It wasn’t all weird.” Jonathan lowers his voice. “I mean, he was still my dad, the guy who took me to Yankee games and taught me how to throw a football. He taught me about food and wine and how to live a good life. He wasn’t the typical dago, with his Friday-night wife and his Saturday-night girlfriend. We attended a Catholic church and he cried when I made my first communion. He cheered me on when I hit a homer in Little League and consoled me when I blew a critical double play. He was a real dad. To me, at least.”

  “You don’t get it, Jonathan. I didn’t have a chance to play Little League or dance ballet or anything else. We were always trying to stay hidden and out of sight. My dad might have taught me how to toss a ball if he hadn’t been so worried about one of us getting plucked off on the way back from the mailbox!”

  “Look, Melody, I am not comparing my parents to yours. My point is that my family—and this business we’re in—makes people do bad things. But the bottom line is it’s business.”

  “My family never did anything to the Bovaro clan.”

  “Your parents testified.”

  “And if they hadn’t?”

  Jonathan snatches his fork and starts eating. That is his answer.

  I watch him for a moment and as his chewing comes to a regular pace, I realize he is in for the long haul. I start eating again too.

  The food is truly noteworthy and I do not deny that, as Jonathan suggested, the kitchen staff nervously prepared this meal with the greatest of care, and it is a decided plus to be eating here on this day with a notable Bovaro. This leads me to a thought.

  “Where do you rank in your family?”

  Keeping his eyes on his food, Jonathan chews and inhales at the same time. “Not high.”

  “Why?”

  He licks his teeth a little and looks up. “The fact that I indirectly turned my father in to the cops embarrassed my family greatly.”

  I frown. “How sad.”

  “You can make fun, but the truth is, the only way I could earn back the trust of my family, of my peers, was to correct the … mistake.”

  I squint and play with my wineglass. “Correct it how?”

  “In order for me to regain my honor, I needed to kill you and your parents.” We stare at each other. “Most kids are worried about getting their driver’s license at sixteen; I was worried about rubbing out three people.”

  My hand finds my utensils and suddenly I’m thankful Jonathan ordered me beef. A sharper knife, you see. I am going to thrust it into the side of his neck. “You killed my parents?”

  “No… but I tried.” He drops his head and wipes his face. He looks back at me and says, “I was supposed to do the killings, but I didn’t have the stones. I had your folks in my sight and I pointed the gun but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I tried and I tried but I couldn’t make it happen.”

  I use all the energy I can gather to stay in control. “So who did?”

  “My older cousin, who was with me for backup—and sort of a witness, to tell the guys back home. He just… pushed me out of the way and snapped off a round of bullets. Then he took me back to the car and beat the crap out of me.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “Because I failed. I failed my family once again. It was like there was no way to honor them.”

  I give him time to complete his thought, but I can no longer take the gap in silence. “Except… by killing me.”

  He looks at me and after a long period of silence, he nods. “I kept going to wherever you’d moved and… waited.” He leans in my direction. “I could never do it, Melody. Never. I mean, sure, I used to rough guys up at home once in a while. It’s the way things are handled in our business, but please believe me: I could never—will never—hurt you.”

  I calm, finally, at the notion that I might really have nothing to fear with this guy. “What did you tell your family every time you came back empty-handed?”

  “That I couldn’t find you.”

  “But… what made you keep coming back? Why didn’t you just say you had no idea where I was in the first place unless you really had some intention of killing me?”

  Jonathan leans forward and softly takes my hand. The fact that this man’s bloodline is directly linked to the death of my parents and the miserable life I’ve led should make me cringe—but for some inexplicable reason, I don’t. I close my eyes and curl my fingers around his as though he has gained control of my nervous system.

  “To make sure you were okay, Melody.”

  “I was never okay, Jonathan.”

  He squeezes my hand tighter and says, “You are now.”

  And with that simple statement, his urgency and his p
resence in my life begin to unfold.

  “But now you’re here. No longer hiding.” I say this very slowly: “Why?”

  He watches me closely, tries to read my reaction. His grip on my hand becomes firm, a clear transition from affection to something else, though not restraint. “Because they finally found you.”

  I look down and ingest the information. “Your family?”

  “Someone in our organization; I don’t know who.”

  I look at my hand in his, how small my fingers are in his fist. I’m not sure why, but I do not consider trying to run. Even if I did, Jonathan offers me a reason to stay.

  “You’re safer with me than the feds, Melody.” He slowly releases his grip and sits back. “My family didn’t have to try hard to find you. The information was given to them.”

  “What do you mean? By who?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, but the information they had was completely accurate.” He sighs. “And if you believe it’s possible for a good guy to be in the Mafia, you must also believe that it’s possible for a bad guy to be in the Justice Department, so the converse is true.”

  I am so effete from being disarmed, I’m numb. I stare into the distance. “Actually, it’s not a converse, or an inverse, or a contrapositive, or any other geometric derivative. Your statement was just a mess of attempted logic. But I get the point.” He laughs a little and returns to his risotto. I watch him eat. “Why am I safer with you?”

  He swallows and thinks before answering, “My family will kill you if they find you alone. My family will not kill you if they find you with me. And if you’re with a fed or anyone else?” He shrugs.

  “But why? Why do they want me dead? You know how many times I sat in my bedroom and imagined that all of my running was for nothing, that you guys had forgotten who I even was? I mean, what damage could I possibly do to your family? The government lost all the cases that involved my parents’ testimony.”

  He licks his lips and takes a swig of wine. “I don’t mean this to sound casual, but they don’t want any loose ends. You never know when the feds will try to build some other case where your testimony may be useful—or even critical. It’s just easier if you’re gone.”