As I walk away and stroll out the front of the spa, I hear Kimberly say to someone, “She is simply lovely.”
Twenty-six years in the making.
On the journey back to my room, up the elevator and through the halls, the eyes of men are casually upon me in a way they’ve never been before; they are covetous. I smile at each but I keep walking; I’ve got a deadline to meet.
I enter my room and turn on the Weather Channel and find out tonight is going to be warm, in the mid-seventies. I finally start going through the bags of clothes that Jonathan filled with his purchases, and I spread it all out on the bed. He managed to buy something of just about everything, and in an array of various sizes: jeans, blouses, sweaters, various colored T-shirts and camisoles, a skirt, a sundress, a pair of strappy sandals, even two bras and three panties. He is an all-inclusive kind of guy. And I’m impressed at what must’ve been difficult purchases, embarrassment-wise, for a man of his character.
I carefully remove the tags from the sundress—a blue and white dress with a questionable pattern until I see the manufacturer, after which I’m quickly assured of its good taste—and slip out of my clothes. I hold the dress up to my body in the mirror and the colors bring out the natural tones of my skin and the new (original) color of my hair.
I stare at the bras on the bed, but—one advantage to being flat-chested—I decide to forgo one altogether. I slip the cotton dress on carefully; it does not touch my hair or my face. It fits on the tightish side, clings to my body as though it were tailored specifically to my figure at a younger, slightly thinner age, and the fringe of the dress meets my legs at mid-thigh. And what do you know: it’s a size six; there are advantages to starving oneself on the run.
I slip on the sandals and they’re the wrong size by a half, but as luck—or Jonathan’s hidden skill—would have it, this maker runs big, so they fit well enough.
It is three minutes till five and I grab one last look in the mirror. I’d primp myself a little, but at this point I could only do damage. I snag my room card and proceed to the elevator, get off on the second floor, and walk toward the bar.
I approach cautiously because I am not a veteran of such scenes, and the last time I spent any significant time in a bar, I ended up going home with the nipple-twister. The place is quiet but the traffic, for the most part, is going in now that the workday is ending. The lounge is massive, could easily hold five hundred people, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer views of the harbor and Pratt Street. The entire bar is dark and sort of dreamy and I slither in as I scan for Jonathan. I do not see him.
It is exactly five o’clock.
I walk to a series of low, empty tables by a window in the corner and I face the doorway. I try to send off a leave-me-alone vibe, but I’ve never been very good with vibes. A waitress comes over and carefully places a napkin in front of me and asks what she can get me.
I say, “Um, can you recommend something?” I smile like I’m something more than the nitwit I’m portraying. I lean forward and slide my hand down my calf to appear casual and I’m distracted by a delicate softness not known to my skin since I was a toddler.
She starts whipping off a stream of mixed drinks and martinis that hold no future in my bloodstream.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine. A Shiraz or Cabernet or something?”
She smiles and nods, walks with a determined pace that has her delivering my beverage in under a minute.
Two guys at the bar, about thirty feet away, are chatting and smiling, and one of them keeps glancing my way. I pretend not to notice, but they are sort of in the path of the entrance, where my eyes are fixed. I’m waiting for Jonathan to come to my rescue. Again.
The bar guys are smiling more intently. The first nods in my direction for his friend, then they both look over, then lots of smiles. Now the first one is on the move and it occurs to me that all I had to do was order two glasses of wine and I would’ve been left alone.
The guy is aiming for me, like an arrow from a bow, and he shows no signs of stopping or slowing until he pierces my flesh. He is a young professional wearing a dark business suit, mid-twenties at best, built, short hair, with glasses so trendy they scream of overcompensation, good looking, and obviously practiced in what he is about to do.
All I can think of are the frat boys back in West Virginia.
I consider looking away, though now it would be obvious. As he approaches, he studies me from head to toe. If he asks to join me, I’m prepared to tell him I’m waiting for someone.
He doesn’t ask; he sits. Now, I’m annoyed.
He smiles—the smile he’s likely practiced in the mirror every day since he turned thirteen. “I’m Marcus.”
I rub my forehead a little, and instead of offering a name or a hand, I sigh quietly. “Hi. Look, um, I’m sort of expecting someone.”
His smile weakens and he casually looks across the room at his buddy and suddenly I feel I am once again the balancing point of a bet. He moves his influence from his smile to his shtick.
“You are the most beautiful woman in this bar.”
I frown and glance around the lounge. “There are, like, eight women in here.”
He stops and readjusts, like he’s pulling from a random point in his overworked algorithm. “Your eyes, they’re just amazing. I’ve never seen color so—”
“Drab? I have drab hazel eyes, Marcus. For future reference, if you want to blow a woman away, compliment her lips.”
He smiles again and starts going on about how beautiful and sensational I am, how he has never witnessed such splendor, and the words flow with increased speed and triteness.
From the corner of my eye, I see Jonathan’s physique appear in the entryway. He pauses to look around, spots me, and heads in my direction—first at full pace, then slower, then full pace again.
Things are going to take an ugly turn for poor Marcus.
I am not hearing a word, but the guy is really trying hard, so hard that I’m convinced there is at least a hundred bucks on the table. I turn and look at Jonathan, and he walks up behind the guy and places a hand on his shoulder.
“A friend of yours?” Jonathan asks.
I smile a little, as I can only imagine what clever thing Jonathan is going to say to this guy. I shake my head no.
Jonathan does not use words. Instead, I see Marcus quickly yield under Jonathan’s grip and he slides down in the chair in immediate pain.
“Wait, wait, wait!” I yell.
But it’s too late. Before I can even leave my seat, Jonathan has already grabbed the guy by the collar of his suit jacket and dragged him several feet across the room. And as he tosses him back toward the entrance and over a table, Marcus goes limp and the room falls silent.
The friend at the bar is not coming to the rescue. Again.
I’d like to say my present concern is for Marcus, but the only thing running through my mind now is that black-and-white photo of a fright-filled Gregory Morrison—and an attempt at understanding what made Jonathan capable of that brutality. This scene feels like a precursor to a more savage event.
Jonathan hurries back to me. “Are you okay? Was he trying to hurt you?”
I take a few clipped breaths as I feel this room full of strangers turn into a room full of witnesses. “You’re supposed to ask that before you come to my aid.”
He studies me, takes a step back. “Oh, Melody, you are stunning. It’s hard to imagine you could be more beautiful than before, but I’m nearly breathless. I cannot tell you how proud I am to be at your side this evening. You look like an angel.”
Angelina. Angelica.
I throw my hand up and say, “Uh, thanks, I really, um, appreciate—shouldn’t he be getting up by now?”
Jonathan shrugs without looking at the guy. “He’ll be fine.”
Marcus comes to life with a weak groan.
Everyone stares at us as Jonathan pulls out his wad and drops a handful of bills on the table. He gently takes my arm and says, “We should g
et going.”
I cover my eyes and walk with Jonathan, hand in hand, a few paces ahead of him, like I’m dragging my son through a crowded mall. Once we reach the hallway of the hotel, I punch him three times in the chest; he does not move.
“This is not New York!” I whisper loudly. “You cannot just walk into a bar or restaurant, render a person unconscious, and drop some cash on the table like it’s some MasterCard with an unlimited credit line for felonies!”
He simpers. “Technically, you can’t do that in New York, either.”
I am not in the mood. I look at him in a way that conveys this notion.
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Look, I can never know who’s after you, right? I’m just trying to protect you.” He takes a deep breath and we both start walking very quickly; now he’s dragging me.
“Was he bothering you?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Was he hitting on you?”
“Yes. But he was only hitting on me, okay? Just like those kids were only spitting on your car. They’re offensive acts, sure, but there’s no reason to overreact—and certainly no cause for violence.”
He looks down. “Right.”
We get to the elevator and as the doors close I feel some relief. I move toward him and gently place my hand on the spot I’d punched. “Sorry I hit you.”
He takes my hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses it softly. The blood rushes to my face.
I pray Sean is wrong; I need Jonathan to be my hero.
WE LEAVE THE HOTEL, AND THE CLOSER WE GET TO THE harbor—and the farther we get from the hotel bar—the safer I feel. Part of my anxiety is from Jonathan’s propensity for violence; the rest stems from an underlying fear that I’m going to get nabbed by the police in conjunction with one of Jonathan’s outbursts, and I will have to explain who I am and why I am voluntarily with my captor, and I can just imagine Sean standing behind a one-way mirror, shaking his head in disgust, muttering, “There’s your hero, Melody.”
Jonathan makes a phone call on his cell, the first call it seems he is deliberately trying to shield me from hearing. He waited until we were in the midst of a loud section of Harborplace, the strip of shops and restaurants on the water, before deciding to use his phone. And his head is constantly turned away from me. My concern dissipates, though, as he shuts his phone and clenches his fist and smiles, like his team just covered the spread. He looks at me and his whole body droops with relief.
I stare at him and he scrunches his chin. “Just making sure we’re buffered,” he says. “I managed to get us one more night.” Of safety, is what I’m sure he wanted to add. Because, you know, tomorrow…
This day of pampering and this last-supper sort of evening have me wondering just how confident Jonathan is in his plan; I feel my hours are potentially numbered—in the single digits, no less. A stress-based shiver overcomes me, and he gently takes my hand and somehow pulls the torment right out of me. Like a drug, he is.
We hold hands and walk around the harbor; he steals glances at me and I believe he is truly proud to be with me. The air is warm and moist and there is a gentle breeze that has the edge of my skirt tickling my thighs. We walk for many minutes without saying anything to each other.
I look down at my new dress and sandals and say, “These are lovely clothes, Jonathan. Thank you.”
He tightens his grip on my hand and looks at me for a few seconds before saying, “They’re only lovely because you’re wearing them.” We stop and I turn and look up at him. He stares into my eyes and without hesitation or embarrassment or premeditation, he says, “You are flawless, Melody. Beautiful, smart, funny. Everything about you is right in every way: your height, your hands, your skin, your hair, your eyes.” He slows his list, speaks softer. “Your smile, your laugh, your… legs, your body, your lips… everything about you.” And finally, in a whisper meant only for my ears, “It’s the kind of thing men live and die for.”
Oddly, it’s sort of the same speech Marcus was delivering just before he was flung over a pub table. But there is one thing lacking in the Marcus version: genuine words from a genuine heart. And to be told this from a man who seriously and convincingly means them—well, it makes all the difference.
I am suddenly self-conscious and cannot look him in the face. Through nervousness, I begin to dilute his compliments, as I did with Marcus. “My, um… my eyes? They’re a drab hazel that—”
“It’s more than the color.” He lifts my chin a little and our eyes reconnect. “They have a dark line around the edge of the iris, a thing of natural beauty that brings your eyes to life. And they are intense; they shine like they’re reflecting the light of a thousand stars, and they reflect me, too, and they make me want to be everything to you. And when you get angry, they dance a little, and every time it weakens my heart and makes me smile.”
I am tipsy. My recent days and nights have been a miserable blur, but I could not be more certain of how I am weak with affection for Jonathan. I have known him for a few days—hours, really—and my life has never felt so complete.
He holds me and kisses me and I feel like I could let go, yet never drift away.
He is inside me.
Eventually, after some unknown passage of time, our lips move apart and we begin walking again, like we have some important destination. We watch the boats slowly float into the harbor as others pass them on their journey out. Parents run after escaping children and the entire waterfront is filled with giggles and laughter and the smell of beer and diesel fumes. The skyscrapers look down on us like protective deities and it feels like we are here for a reason, safe among the visiting suburbanites and the urban affluent; it feels like we’re the normal people we long to be.
We start to run out of sidewalk as we approach Federal Hill on the south side of the harbor, and as we do, the foot traffic recedes.
“Should we eat?” Jonathan asks.
I grab his arm with both hands and curl my wrists around it, like I’m holding on to a pillar. “Okay,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder.
“Seafood?”
“With Little Italy on the other side of the harbor? What would the other Bovaros think of that?”
“They’d think what they’ve been thinking for thirty years now: that I’m the unpredictable one.”
I’m sure Gregory Morrison would concur. And though I feel like this evening is on the verge of impeccability, it also feels like Greg is right behind us, tapping me on the shoulder or whispering in my ear, “Look what Prince Charming did,” and suddenly I’m staring at caked blood and horizontal teeth. I’d give anything to get rid of these superfluous pieces of Jonathan’s puzzle.
As we turn around and begin walking toward the masses, I try to clear my mind of these thoughts. Though apparently I’m hopelessly stuck because I ask, “How old were you when you realized your father—or family—was involved in, um… you know.”
He glances at me briefly and laughs. “Well, looking back, I probably should’ve realized it earlier, but the understanding came in little chunks.” He scratches his forehead and says, “Like how we always had large amounts of cash around the house. I mean, the eighties were all about credit cards, yet my parents didn’t have a single one. Whenever my mother needed to go shopping, she’d go into one of several boxes in our house and grab a fat stack of bills. My friend, Billy Barone, showed me a credit card when I was twelve. I didn’t know what it was. I thought he was pulling my leg. The whole concept made no sense to me.”
I stare at him and smile. His story, in a way, is a story of innocence; I wish these were the only ones he had to tell.
He continues, this time with a vignette about how, as a kid, all he did was casually mention that he might like to learn more about baseball, and the next thing he knew he was sitting behind the dugout at the World Series.
“There was a lot of stuff like that,” he says. “But there was other stuff, too, odd things—things I thought were supposed to be funny but were real
ly a subtle preparation for my upcoming life as a grown-up Bovaro.”
He says no more. He seems to have a real problem with dropping off at critical points in his delivery. I have to nudge him. “Like?”
He clears his throat. “Well, here’s a little something I heard quite a bit growing up: ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones and everything after that is irrelevant.’ ”
I laugh. “Get real.”
“How about ‘The pen is mightier than the sword, huh? Well, how’re you gonna use that pen after my sword cuts off your frigging hand?’ Then, of course, they’d throw in a reference to the person being an incestuous bisexual.”
“Naturally.”
“You know Rock, Paper, Scissors? Turns out nothing beats Rock.”
I stop—because I’m really laughing too loudly for a public place. I bite my lip a little. I make it look like I’m being sultry, but the truth is I’m trying to suppress further laughter. “So, what was the event that finally brought it all home?”
“It wasn’t one single event. I just finally realized my father did nothing real to generate income. When I asked my mom what my dad did for a living, she’d always reply, ‘Tell people he’s in investments.’ I’m like, why do I have to tell people anything? What’s the truth?”
“They never told you?”
We start walking again.
“Not really, because what my family does is… dabble. If you really want to know, we handle a lot of carting, we run numbers, we do some fixing. I don’t get involved in the action end, thank God; all I do is launder some of the money. Just as guilty, mind you, but at least I don’t have to see much blood.”
He tells me this like he’s discussing the difficulty of running a convenience store. “So,” I say, trying to keep the conversation informative but light, “your dad wasn’t in investments at all?”
“I suppose, a little.” He shrugs. “He used to fix races up at Belmont.”
“How does that fall under the umbrella of investing?”
“Pretty simple, really. You spend, say, twenty grand fixing a race, paying the jockeys to back off and/or getting the horses drugged up. Then you bet half that on the horse guaranteed to win, spread over ten or twelve bets. You make five to ten times what you invested, more if the horse was a long shot.”
The Girl She Used to Be Page 16
