by Jen Tirone
And my anger dissipated with every step he took my way.
Seeing the strongest man I’ve ever known knocked down a few pegs like this was distressing. Then his brush-off when he approached the picnic bench I was sitting at was even more painful as he turned his face from me when I stood and tried to touch his cheek.
This was all wrong.
It should have been me turning away from him.
“This is the exact reason why I don’t want you here, Gia. I don’t deserve any of your tears.”
“But I deserve your rejection?” I countered.
Looking at me, he sighs and plants himself angrily at the opposite bench from me.
“What do you want me to say, bella? Because nothing is gonna make any of this better.”
“No, there’s nothing to say. I just miss you, amore. That’s all. Absolutely nothing else, but wanting to see that you are okay.”
“I’m fine. You can go home, now,” he tells me, coldly.
“Are you mad at me? Because I must be in another parallel universe, where you’re allowed to be upset with me.”
He smiles a small smile at me, and then sighs again.
“No, baby, I’m not mad at you. I’m just mad at myself.”
“Yeah, well that makes two of us then,” I sniff. “What happened to your face? Who did this to you? Another inmate?”
“No, bella. Another inmate wouldn’t dare.”
“Then who? A guard?”
“Don’t worry. Go home, Gia. And don’t come back here,” he commands, lifting his chin toward the exit.
“Gio! Tell me, did a guard do this to you?”
“What the fuck does it matter who did it?” he snaps at me.
“It matters because it’s wrong and I’ll report it!”
He starts laughing at me.
Really laughing from the gut.
“This isn’t funny, Giorgio! I’m serious!”
“And this is fucking prison, Gianna! Where these righteous motherfuckers have been foaming at the mouth—dying to get a chance at me! But don’t worry your little self with that. If you’d have seen what I did to the face cazzo, you’d have nightmares!”
He stands, panting, and then turns to walk away from me, but looks over his shoulder to break my heart even more.
“Go home, where I know you’re safe. I don’t need to be stressed, worrying about you more than I already do from inside here with my hands tied.”
It wasn’t right though.
Something had to be done.
I’ve been helpless with too much already, reporting this had to restore some kind of order.
I couldn’t go on believing that even the justice system was crooked too.
So I went straight to the only person I knew would give me the time of day.
“Mrs. Moretti. I can’t say it’s a surprise to see you here.”
“Please, Michael. Don’t be so formal with me. We’re not strangers,” I try to appeal to our... friendship.
He simply nods and motions for me to go ahead and take a seat at one of the chairs in front of his desk.
I sit, cross my legs and take a moment to look around his office.
It’s sparse, with no reflection of him in it except for the coffee mug with a four-leaf clover that says Kiss me, I’m Irish, filled with those damn Hershey kisses.
He clears his throat to catch my attention and I realize I’d been stalling.
I take a moment and pretend for just a second I’m that young girl again, the one he once teased for her lack of language comprehension.
“You and your kisses,” I hadn’t meant to murmur out loud, but I had been staring off at them, lost in my own head.
“Well, you never did accept any from me, did you, love? So I’m having trouble trying to make out which kiss you’re talking about,” he says cheekily.
Love...Make out...Kiss.
It’s all so fucking sexy coming out of his pouty lips, in his rich Irish accent.
I tried to keep the smile from showing on my face, but it’s Michael.
Somehow, he beats me at the game I don’t want to play, disarming me with no effort at all.
I ignore it because we both know, regretfully, no kiss of any kind has been exchanged.
I shake my head at him and purse my lips.
God, he’s so sweet.
Being in his presence, even under the circumstances, makes me feel better.
What is it about him that when I’m around him, it’s like his presence glazes my skin, just like miele, velvety honey—Oh my God!
Oh fuck.
Oh, Gesu Cristo. That goddamn fortune!
That strega! Bianca De Luca. That fucking wicked woman. She told me about this. She warned me!
I jump out of my seat like I’ve been zapped out of it and I try to cut to the chase and ask Michael to do something about the guards, but I can’t get my throat to open.
I’m swallowing my panic, literally, and make a few more attempts to gather my wits and speak my request at the same time.
Michael’s staring at me with a frown and he’s about to say something when I beat him to it.
“Detective, please, can something be done with the guards who are overstepping their boundaries and targeting my husband?” I ask without looking him in the eye.
“Detective, now. Reneging your offer to be informal with each other, yeah?”
I can’t do this with him.
I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.
What the hell was going through my head?
“Never mind, I’ll write a letter to the Governor, or Congress. Forget I even came here,” I tell him as I turn to leave his office.
“Oh yes, go and ‘write a letter’ to the Governor, Mrs. Moretti. By all means, save the ink and paper and just go bribe him the family way.”
“You don’t know anything!” I turn back around to give him a piece of my mind.
But it was a bad idea.
A terrible one.
He was closer than I thought and we were face to face, as much as our height difference let.
Being this close to him was bad.
So bad, it felt a little good.
God, that mouth.
Now I can’t stop imagining him puckering wet kisses... on every inch of my body.
He must’ve known my line of thinking because he stared at my lips a moment too, with his green blue eyes that couldn’t pick one color or the other, his nostrils flaring when he sucked in his bottom lip, biting it, probably trying to stop himself from crashing those provocative lips on mine.
I needed to leave.
The onslaught of sexual tension was dizzying; being confined with him in his office made it suddenly feel too small, too tempting, and too dangerous.
This was the first time I’d ever really been alone with him.
I turned right back around, opening the door just a crack before his palm slammed against it, shutting it and trapping me between him and my only escape from him.
In a shaky breath, I told him to let me leave.
His face was so close behind me, his breath was hot on my skin.
“Or what, you’ll try to assault me again? Maybe I should handcuff you this time,” he taunts, and my God, it sounded so good to my ears.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I tell him.
“Oh yes, love, more than you can imagine! The problem is, you’re mad that you like the idea, too,” he tells me, hitting bullseye.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I scoffed.
“You’re not fooling anyone, certainly not me,” he whispers into the shell of my ear.
“I’m married,” I argued feebly, in a breathy whisper.
He flips me around to face him and cages me in with both hands on the door.
“I shouldn’t be this drawn to you...” he says as he lowers his mouth toward mine.
I shut my eyes tightly, in wrongful anticipation, and my breath hitched feeling his lips ghost mine.
“...Especially, since you belong to the fucking enemy,” he finishes whispering, making my eyes spring right back open.
And then he straightens up, opens the door, and gestures with a swing of his arm, to get out.
The. Fucking. Bastard!
It’s surprising what a little solitude can do for the soul.
I didn’t see my husband the first three months he was incarcerated and when I finally did he sent me home.
And forbade me from going back.
But what a freedom he unknowingly granted me with no Morettis of the two kinds. I avoided my in-laws at all costs, and because Gio wasn’t around, I didn’t know of any illegal undertakings.
I let the housekeeper and driver go. It felt good to clean my own home, hail my own cab or walk on my own to my destination.
What was most comforting was eating my own food, made with my own two hands.
I made myself my mother’s cannoli with the dusting of chopped pistachios on the chocolate dipped shells, and ate every single one I made.
Since I hadn’t eaten one in almost a decade—I couldn’t stop when I started.
I knew I wouldn’t eat that many ever again but it felt so damn good to just stuff my face with abandon, without criticism, and without fear that my figure could explode, thus irrationally fearing my husband might not find me attractive.
I still smoked. It was a habit I probably wouldn’t ever be able to give up, but now I didn’t smoke in front of the mirror to watch the smoke I exhaled wisp away into nothing, just as I had been disappearing, myself.
I stopped wasting my time with salon visits, manicures and spa days to fill up my meaningless days. I painted my own nails and took pride in what I could do for myself.
I tried to chop off all my hair but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve had long hair all my life—back in Italy and even kept it here in the U.S. I decided to keep the one piece of me I never changed.
But I did have some bangs cut and the new fringe lifted a weight off my shoulders like I had wanted to achieve by cutting it all off anyway.
Most noticeably, I stopped straightening my hair. I let my tresses be free in its natural state of waves and some unruly curls.
I also stopped wasting my time reading gossip magazines and got back into novels. I read books that had depth, substance, and meaning again.
I didn’t put on so many layers of makeup anymore. If the mood struck, I might have put on some mascara and gloss, but I didn’t hide away behind the deceiving, glamorous mask anymore.
It was freeing to show my real face to the world.
I went shopping only once, just to get a wardrobe that was softer, more casual and I could fit into more comfortably with the little bit of weight I gained not starving myself anymore. I went from a size four to my original size eight, and it felt so fucking good to no longer fret about nonsense.
It was absolutely wonderful living the honest life.
I went to the cinema by myself and watched every film I felt like watching, and loved that I didn’t have to wait on anyone or experience the constant disappointment because someone couldn’t allocate the time to join me.
I took Enzo out twice a day to the park everyday and it’s been everything to me. The fresh air daily felt good to my soul, and the sun felt comforting on my skin.
Even my tan came back from frequenting the park so much.
I took up photography, being the highlight of this life-imposed break from everything and everyone.
I had seen someone at the park one morning taking shot after shot of nothing and everything. Initially, I thought it was paparazzi, or even a tail following me from another family. But when I realized he was enjoying himself, concentrating on whatever task he was trying to accomplish with so much focus, and clear contentedness, I decided I wanted to try it out myself.
I quit the secretary position I held at the Italian American Civil Rights Organization and attended a few beginners courses at the University for freelance photography.
I found that developing my shots, even though most of them were shit, were my favorite part of the process.
It was rewarding in a personal sense, to see what I produced after a day of listening to the shutter of my camera click and capture. I got to review my work, contemplate the tweaks I would apply to the next shot, and keep the prints that weren’t half bad.
It became ritualistic for me to take shot after shot of my handsome little greyhound first thing in the morning, the angles of architecture throughout the day and there was plenty to shoot here in New York to keep me busy, and then I’d finish off with a few clicks of unassuming people being themselves in the park.
They in turn would unknowingly become my company as I anticipated their arrival during my new meditation time in the quietness of the red room at the University.
This new hobby gave me a tiny little purpose. A new task everyday. A new goal to work toward. I didn’t get the opportunity to study in a traditional school like I once wanted to and I felt that at my age, it was too late to start.
Photography gave me a chance to capture moments of anything I found interesting, and there was much to learn about it. And since I didn’t get to have the home life I imagined I would accomplish at my age with a brood of children, this was something I could do in this world, feel rewarded for it, and it brought me joy.
That was everything to me.
I spent too much time in my life not doing anything I wanted to do.
Too much focus had been on my husband and not on myself.
In the last eight years, I forced myself to accept the things I didn’t want to, pretended certain things weren’t happening; I had to play nice with those I didn’t want to even be around, and ultimately, learn how to be alone.
So, so alone.
Through photography, my solitude was no longer something that hurt but something I put to use.
Getting back in touch with reality has been real good for me.
Did I miss my husband?
Absolutely.
I miss him every morning and every night.
His voice, his caresses, and his espresso eyes on me.
I lament that his thirtieth birthday passed while he was in prison.
That milestone in our life wasn’t celebrated together and I truly mourned it, because I had honestly wanted better than this for us.
But I’ve respected his wishes for the last five months, and I can only hope that when he gets out in the eleven he has left to serve, he’ll respect my wishes too. Because when he gets out, I want him out of the family business.
I’ve reviewed the finances. We have enough money to continue living in the penthouse without working another day in our life or the next, and since we have no children, when we’re old and decrepit that money will probably be given to a charity.
We needed to go back to Italy, too. I think Gio could use the time back home to get back into touch with his roots, as well—clear his mind some and hopefully find absolution.
I know I certainly need to.
We’ve lost ourselves along the way and going home should help reacquaint ourselves with who we once were. At least, I hoped.
We could live there for a year or two after he’s released and then alternate time between the two countries. Mostly when it’s too cold here, we can lie on the beach and bake away under the Amalfi sun. It was sounding like heaven to me.
It’s been too long since I’ve been in my mother’s arms, and it’s about time I see my family again. For far too long the excuses that soon we’ll go, or after we have a baby, or when work calms down, has kept me from them. Phone calls home won’t do it for me anymore.
I tried not to begin daydreaming another fairytale again because the last time I did... boy, was I disappointed. But the hope was beating strong in my nostalgic heart.
I couldn’t help imagining more for us.
And that’s exactly what I was doing when I was caught off guard hearing his voice call my name, snapping me out of my
daydream as I was walking with Enzo in the park.
“Gianna, love, wait up!” Michael said, jogging toward me in gray sweatpants and nothing else.
I mean he had on sneakers and a white t-shirt was wrapped around his neck, but his chest... was bare... and glistening... and gorgeous.
Fuck!
I knelt down to pet Enzo just so I could hide my face a moment, and tell my stupid trampy heart to forget the delicious image of Michael without a shirt on.
Damn it!
Why does he have to be here at the park?
When he reached me, he was panting, and the sound of him out of breath like that, made me think that’s how he’d sound—
No.
I needed to stop that thought right there.
He used the shirt around his neck to wipe the sweat off his face, but only tossed it over a shoulder, making no attempt to cover all of that.
“Who do we have here? Is that a greyhound puppy?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes. Well, no. He’s an Italian greyhound. He won’t grow any larger than this,” I tell him.
He crouches down to pet Enzo and he scurries away from Michael to hide behind me.
I know pooch, he scares me too.
We both laugh a little and then stand up from our crouched positions.
He has a shadow of a beard growing out that only accentuates his lush mouth.
“You look so lovely, Gia. Really. Your hair looks...”
“Wild,” I help him out.
“Yeah, but it’s more... natural,” he accepts his description with a nod to himself.
“You just look, a lot like when I first met you. You look... like you, if that makes any sense.”
It did.
It so did, in all the right ways.
“Yeah, well, I needed a change. Anyway...” I trailed off, looking anywhere but at him. I hated that he was capable of seeing right through me.
And he was still shirtless.
“Oh! How is Nora, by the way? I never had the chance to ask you...” Not with all the complications that ensued.
“She just had her second baby! Brigid, and now little Caireann,” he shares with the most proud smile.
“That is just wonderful! They’re so lucky to have a mother like her,” I tell him honestly. Nora was the sweetest girl I had ever met.
