The Girl She Used to Be

by David Cristofano

  “Do you? Have information on other criminals?”

  He looks at me and shrugs a little. “Of course. I mean, did you know the details of what your dad did for a living?”

  Two police cars go flying by in the fast lane, lights and sirens blazing. Jonathan doesn’t flinch. I watch until they are out of view.

  “I see your point, but… we’re still very different. I mean, you can be yourself. You can do whatever you want with your life. Nothing is keeping you suppressed, forcing you out of the realm of possibility.”

  He laughs and smirks at the same time, like I’d just told him a dirty limerick. “Wha—are you joking?”

  I squint. “I don’t think so.”

  “You think I can be a United States Congressman?”

  “Okay, well, I—”

  “How about a world-class surgeon? Would you want your prostate removed by the son of Anthony Bovaro?”

  Despite his family’s predisposed knowledge of internal organs, I answer, “No. But, you know, I don’t have a prost—”

  “That’s not my point, Melody. What about being an FBI agent. Think I have a shot at getting into the academy?”

  “I, uh—”

  “Or a stockbroker? Would you put your financial investments in the hands of a Bovaro?”

  “Well—”

  “How about a disc jockey? Musician? Professor? I can’t even be a Little League coach.”

  I let him finish; we stare at each other—at least, as long as we can before he needs to return his attention to the road.

  “Maybe we are alike,” I say. I turn and look out the window and mumble to myself, “Maybe that’s why I feel I have this connection with you.” As soon as I finish the sentence, I realize I said it too loudly. It wasn’t meant for him to hear.

  Jonathan smiles and takes my hand. He touches it with the same level of affection as a pat on the shoulder. His hand is warm, and it envelops mine completely. I place my other hand on top to keep him from pulling his back. We both stare straight ahead and swallow.

  “But you could be a musician,” I offer. “Isn’t the Mafia involved in payola and all that? I mean, I saw The Godfather.”

  He shakes his head in amazement, as though I’d just guessed his favorite color. “You’ll love this: When I was growing up, my brother, Peter, thought he was Jon Bon Jovi—minus ninety percent of the style and all of the talent—which led him to start a band called Shiver. My family pressured some execs at Columbia into releasing an EP of four songs titled Piloerection.” He turns my way. “Sold four hundred twelve copies.” Then back to the road. “Peter still has four hundred and eight of them in a storage locker.”

  Jonathan slows to the speed limit as we pass the now-parked police cars on the shoulder of the road. I watch as two officers shove a guy in handcuffs into the backseat of one of the squad cars, while two others empty the trunk of a dilapidated Dodge Neon. Jonathan never takes his eyes from the road. This event has nothing to do with me, with us—but my nerves are sparking like I’m overdosing on caffeine.

  “So, anyway,” Jonathan says once the spectacle has passed, “my family retreated in embarrassment and never entered the world of music again.”

  “And so ended your shot at becoming a rock star.”

  He tightens his grip on my hand. “Hey, people enjoy it when I sing in bars because I’m so bad.”

  The stress and anxiety caused from the police scene have instantly been snuffed out. “Hold on, a Bovaro who does karaoke?”

  “I was joking, Melody.” I stare him down. “Sort of. And I’d rather refer to it as open mic night.”

  I let go of his hand and clap a few times like I’m trying to get a dog to do a trick. “C’mon, baby, sing me a love song.”

  “Melody,” he says, like I’m annoying him. Then, out of nowhere, he throws his fist up to his mouth like he’s holding a microphone and belts out something that might’ve scared me under different circumstances. By the time I recognize his pitch-poor, a cappella version of The Scorpions’ “No One Like You,” he’s mutated it into a medley of their greatest hits, giving me sour bits and pieces of “Big City Nights,” “Still Loving You,” and some other tune with indiscernible lyrics.

  He returns his hands to the steering wheel and says, “That what you had in mind?”

  “Not exactly.” His humor—at least I think humor was the intent here—hits me just the right way. My laughter comes out hard and loud. “I was hoping for a little John Mayer, but it’s hard to lose when it comes to the Scorpions.”

  Jonathan’s smile fades as it’s obvious he’s lost in thought.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He sighs. “About you and I being alike… there’s another thing that keeps me from being whoever I want to be: I got the cops and feds bearing down on one side, but on the other side is… my family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I always did well in school. Let me clarify: I was the one who did well in school. I got into some trouble here and there, not being immune to violence, but I always studied, got good grades. I pretty much could’ve done anything with my life. But, as a kid, you know, people would ask me, ‘Hey, Little Johnny, what do you wanna be when you grow up, huh?’ And I’d say something, like, ‘An accountant.’ My old man would nudge one of his flunkies in the side, laugh, and say, ‘Hey, thank God—we need someone who can fix our books.’ ”

  I groan; I know where this is going. Where my view of family has always depicted a blessing, he’s going to explain the curse side.

  Jonathan continues, “If I said I wanted to be a banker, they’d say, ‘Finally, someone we can trust to launder the money!’ If I said I wanted to be a pilot, they’d say, ‘We can get Johnny to help us heist cargo right off his own planes!’ ”

  “Oh, Jonathan.”

  “I tried for years to think of something I wanted to do that could not be tied back to my family’s criminal behavior, but it became impossible. Social worker? Sure, great way to hook up drug connections and prostitutes. Pharmacist? Drug dealer! Photographer? Pornographer!”

  Jonathan was right about me feeling sorry for myself. I’ve wanted a father again for so long that I forgot how miserable some fathers can be, all heavily weighted with abuses of disparate kinds: physical, sexual, or—in Jonathan’s case—mental.

  I wipe my face, suddenly feel cold. And what do you know: piloerection.

  “So, what did you do?”

  “Well, I thought I’d finally come up with the perfect solution. I went to culinary school, believe it or not. I love food. I love experimenting in the kitchen. So I bought a small place in Williamsburg and run a modest restaurant there.”

  “Legitimate?”

  “The food is. And the waitstaff and the hostess and the reviews.” He pauses. “I also managed to launder over eight hundred grand there last year.”

  I sigh; I can no longer deny that I’m starting to care about this man, because I’m genuinely disappointed. “Why, Jonathan?”

  He says to me, weakly, “Because… he’s my dad.”

  I bite my lip, suddenly brought back to the reality of his life, of my life, of this moment.

  “So, Melody, we are quite alike. In fact, we are identical except for one thing: You would give anything to be who you were meant to be, and I would give anything to be anyone but who I was meant to be.”

  And that’s it. We chew on his observation as the traffic on the highway builds. We stay in silence while the Baltimore skyline grows in front of us like a waiting monster. Jonathan takes the long exit ramp down into the heart of the city.

  I do not ask.

  • • •

  Jonathan pulls in front of the Renaissance Harborplace Hotel in downtown Baltimore, across the street from the Inner Harbor. He pops the trunk, leaves the car running, and gets out. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to rob the place. The next thing I know he’s at my door and opens it for me and offers his hand.

  I take it.

  He
pulls me out and keeps my hand in his grip a few seconds longer than one normally would, and I find it suggestive. I tuck my text on string theory under my arm. He goes to the trunk and removes a small suitcase and four shopping bags. He throws the suitcase over his shoulder and puts two bags in each hand. As we walk toward the entrance of the hotel, Jonathan asks the valet to pass the ticket to me, which the valet does, and as we pass through the front door, the Audi disappears.

  This is not WITSEC.

  Even though it’s nighttime, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the interior of the hotel. Over the course of a lifetime of stays in three-story motels, I have never experienced anything like this dark and surreal entrance. The walls are paneled with mahogany and the millwork is opulent and elaborate. The walls, the carpets, the ceiling, the statues—all deep, lush tones; it feels like I’m walking through the belly of a living creature. Based on my appearance, it really couldn’t get dark enough for me anyway.

  We’re suddenly at the front desk and Jonathan is fumbling with the bags.

  A perfectly coiffured, middle-aged woman rushes to help Jonathan and stares him down with a smile that insinuates attraction. “Have you stayed with us before, sir?” the clerk asks.

  “We have not,” he says, rustling through his pockets until he finds a wad of cash.

  I move a few steps closer to Jonathan.

  The clerk’s smile fades a bit, morphs into a more artificial I-am-here-to-help-you look.

  I turn and watch Jonathan. This is the critical moment; his intentions will become completely apparent with the decision about the sleeping accommodations. If he rents one room, he’s probably thinking he’ll get lucky; if he rents two rooms, he’s taking the path of the well-mannered and considerate. Had I more experience in the bedroom, I might view this as a win/win situation.

  “I just need your name or reservation number,” the clerk says.

  “We don’t have a reservation.” He makes no eye contact, keeps counting the bills.

  “Well, sir, there’s a convention in the hotel. I’m afraid there are no—”

  Jonathan chucks a wad of bills on the counter. If I had to guess, it was at least four hundred dollars.

  He keeps his eyes down, still counting. “And we’d like two rooms, adjoining, facing the harbor, for two nights.”

  I’m impressed—and not surprised.

  “Uh… sure,” she says, “let me see.” She types for a moment, then nabs a passing clerk and whispers, “Move the Mendels down to seven-nineteen.” Suddenly, the printer under the counter goes to town and within a few seconds she places the page in front of Jonathan to sign.

  This is definitely not WITSEC.

  “Do you have a credit card, sir?”

  Jonathan’s response is the plopping of a second wad of cash on the counter—this time at least six or seven hundred.

  He takes the keys and we walk away. I’m pretty sure he never even looked at the poor lady. As we head for the elevators, her voice fades. “Please enjoy your stay at the…”

  We enter the elevator, alone. I turn to look at him, but instead I catch a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror. I try to turn away but the interior of the elevator is covered with mirrors, like some sort of torture chamber of self-analysis. What has made this man want to spend even a fleeting moment with me is beyond my understanding.

  Jonathan shoves all the remaining cash into his pockets, sighs, and turns my way. He smiles, but I can’t tell if it’s a smile of happiness or of pity. He reaches over and runs his fingers through the stubbly hair on the back of my head and gently pulls me to his chest and holds me there. He slowly leans over and kisses me on the head and I can feel his lips, full and firm, pressing against my scalp, and everything I just felt, all the insecurity and sadness, is washed away. I always hear about how people want to have sex in elevators; this has got to be far better.

  We exit the elevator on the eleventh floor, just one from the top, and wind down the hall to our suites. Jonathan opens the door to my room, and as I enter he remains close behind. He puts all four shopping bags on a table near the dresser.

  “These are for you,” he says. “I hope I wasn’t being too presumptuous.”

  I sit on the bed and there are no squeaky springs; it feels like a hundred little hands are holding me in the air. The comforter looks new. There is no noisy radiator, no arguments coming from the next room.

  There is no deputy marshal next door.

  I lean forward on my knees, point my toes inward, and grin at him. “Why did you book two nights?” The truth is I wish he’d booked a couple of years. I have no idea where I’ll be the day after tomorrow, whom I’ll be meeting face to face, whether I’ll still be breathing when the event reaches its denouement. All the days past and all the hours forward are just a flicker of indistinctness. This very moment is true, the one I’d like to put on pause or be forced to live over and over for an eternity.

  He gently sits on the bed with me, leaving enough room between us for another body. “There’s a great spa in this hotel. I figured, um, you know… you’d like to spend the day getting pampered.”

  His generosity should astound me but I’m overwhelmed with self-consciousness. I look down and laugh. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He slides over a few inches and touches my shoulder.

  “Is this because you’re going to take me to see your family? You know, to rid me of the bedraggled and unkempt look?”

  “Melody, c’mon.”

  “It’s okay if that’s what it is, Jonathan. If I could leave myself, I would.”

  He slowly stands and says, “It’s not about me and it’s not about my family.” He walks to the window and stares at the harbor. “When was the last time someone did something just for you?”

  I figure his question is rhetorical but I give him an answer anyway. “When my parents went out of their way to take me to Vincent’s for breakfast.”

  I fall back on the bed, grab my book on string theory, and hug it like a favorite teddy bear.

  “There is nothing in this for me, Melody. We are not in the same room. You can leave anytime you want, okay?” He turns from the harbor and looks at me. “I’ll be really sad if you do, but… it’s totally up to you. You can leave anytime.”

  I nod and he walks to the adjoining door and opens it and throws his suitcase on the floor, turns back to me, and smiles. “I’m just one knock away, okay?”

  I nod again and look toward the window so he can’t see the emotion in my eyes. “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Good night, Melody.”

  He closes the door and I pull my knees to my chest and I begin to sense my body’s petition for decent sleep.

  I look around the room and it is rich, an exercise in luxury that I have neither earned nor deserve. I am here because someone put me here, the same way the marshals put me in various scummy motels on the banks of polluted rivers nationwide.

  I am an object.

  I pick up a pillow and bring it to my face. It is fresh and clean and smelling faintly of lavender. I pull it down over my face, hard, and fade out.

  I wake to my numb arm under my textbook, a hungry belly, and a cold, wet pillowcase on my cheek. The clock reads 4:27 A.M. and my growling stomach insists on attention. I now know what a newborn baby feels like.

  I switch on a light, grab the room-service menu, and order eggs Benedict—two orders—and sausage and a bagel and orange juice and an espresso and a pot of coffee. I get in the shower and wash off two days of traveling and dust and embarrassment and humiliation. I quickly dry off and slip into the terry robe in the bathroom. It is way too big, but it covers me like a blanket and warms me like a hug.

  Breakfast arrives and I waste no time getting the food from plate to mouth. And with each bite I can’t help but wonder if my moans of pleasure are penetrating the hotel walls.

  I am finally satiated—and full of caffeine—and I sit back in bed and watch the clock. Then I start reading about how Louis de Broglie earne
d a Nobel Prize by way of his doctoral thesis on particle-wave duality of the electron that he delivered at the Sorbonne.

  Light breaks and the clock reads 5:49 A.M., and it turns out electromagnetism is deduced or inferred from gravity in a grand unified theory if, instead of three space dimensions, there are four, where the fourth is transformed into a diminutive circle.

  At 6:22 A.M., I’m pretty sure I hear Jonathan moving around in his room; I put my ear to the adjoining door and keep it there for many minutes but hear nothing more, so I soon find out that three independent particle theorists determined that the dual theories that render the particle spectrum similarly evoke the quantum mechanics of oscillating strings—and there you have it, the veritable conception of string theory.

  There was a war going on, stimulant versus sedative, and the basic summation is this: Caffeine wins.

  The clock turns to 8:00 A.M. exactly, and within a few seconds there is a gentle knock on my door. I hop up (I had three cups, not including the espresso) and run to the door and see Jonathan through the peephole. He’s wearing jeans, a white tee, a navy V-neck sweater, and he appears fresh showered and clean shaven.

  I open it and laugh. “You could’ve come through the adjoining door, you know.”

  “It seemed a little… inappropriate. Like I had some right to be in here anytime I wanted.” He looks down and notices me in the robe—or rather, that I am wearing a robe and nothing else. He bites his lip and looks down the hall.

  I smile, pull it tightly around me, and allow him to enter.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I got you in at the spa at eight thirty.”

  “They had an opening?”

  He shrugs. “I made an opening.”

  “No wonder Carla wants you.”

  “It’s all smoke and mirrors. In New York, it’s my name doing the work; otherwise it’s just a matter of throwing money around.”

  “You say that like you have no respect for yourself.”

  He glances around the room for a moment, like he’s thinking about how to answer, then, as his eyes return to my face, he says, “I don’t.”