A Little Too Much (13 page)

“I don’t think circa 1964 qualifies as antique,” Alessandro says from over my shoulder.

I shove him. “Butt out. I’ve got this.” I turn back to the vendor. “Ten.”

“Thirty,” he counters.

“Fifteen.”

He looks at the table and then at me. “Twenty-five, and that’s a low as I can go.”

I stick my hand in my bag and dig past my new gloves for everything I can find. I come out with a ten, eight crumpled ones, and a handful of change. “I’ve got”—I count out the change—“twenty-one sixty-three. Take it or leave it.”

He holds out his hand. “I hope you enjoy your new coffee table.”

I grin and hand him the wad of money . . . and then realize I have no way to get this sucker home. I look at Alessandro with wide, what-have-I-done eyes.

“Am I allowed to butt back in now?” he asks with an amused smile.

“What was I thinking?”

“That you needed a coffee table, obviously.”

“Yeah . . .” I say, looking back down at it. “But now I’ve got to get the freaking thing home.”

“We’ll manage it.” He casts a glance over the flea market. “Have you seen enough?”

“Considering I just spent my last twenty-one dollars, yeah.”

He spins and grabs the front end of the coffee table so it’s behind him. “You get the back.”

I loop my bag over my neck so it doesn’t slide off my shoulder and scurry around to grab the other end. I stagger like a drunken sailor as we start up the street. “Shit. This thing weighs a fucking ton.”

Alessandro glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s a quality piece of furniture. You have a good eye.”

I don’t know if he’s messing with me or what, but I’m too busy trying not to drop my end to give him a hard time. People don’t start to look at us funny until we’re half a block from the flea market, where walking down the street carrying a clunky wooden coffee table isn’t an everyday occurrence. He starts to steer us around the corner onto Eighth.

“Go straight,” I say. “If we go another block to the Times Square station, that will get us closer to the apartment without having to transfer.

We jostle our way through the thickening crowds and when we get to the subway, Alessandro stops at the top of the stairs and sets his end down. I look into the pit, sure we’re screwed. “Will they even let us do this?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” he answers. “I’m going to tip it on its side,” he says, lifting his end again. “You ready?” I nod and we turn it so the legs are sticking out the side. “Can you hold it like this while I get myself situated?” he asks.

I don’t have a clue what “situated” means, but I say, “Got it,” anyway.

He shifts to the underside behind the front legs and turns his back to me, hooking one hand under the bottom edge. He raises his other arm over his head, grabbing the top edge as I hold the table steady. “You okay back there?” he asks, craning his neck to look at me over his shoulder.

“Did you used to be a furniture mover or something?”

He starts slowly down the stairs and I keep his pace. “European apartments tend to be tight, and there are generally no elevators, so you learn to be creative.”

And now people
are
looking at us like we’re crazy. Everyone coming up from the subway has to squish to the side of the stairs so we don’t take them out with a table leg, and there’s a flood of people behind us that pushes hurriedly past once we get to the bottom.

We put the table down and I look at the gates. “Now what?”

“You’ve got your MetroCard handy?” he asks, flicking his out of his back pocket.

I dig mine out of my bag and hold it up.

“If we flip it legs up, you won’t have to hold it so high to get through the turnstile.”

He looks so serious, as if we’re doing brain surgery or something, and it suddenly strikes me as funny. I crack up.

“You have a lovely laugh.”

Something in his voice makes me stop. When I look at him again, his face has gone from dead serious to soft and slightly amused.

There’s a rush in my stomach, a sudden whirring of butterflies, but I shut it down. “Let’s go,” I say lifting my end of the table.

No one tries to stop us as we wrestle it through the gates and onto the subway platform, then set the table on its legs next to the wall.

I sit on it and lean against the tile wall as we wait, rubbing my sore palm on my jeans. “Thanks for doing this,” I tell him.

He sits next to me. “My pleasure.”

I think about what I told him that night after Club 69—that I’d never needed him—and wonder if he knows it’s a lie.

When we hear the train in the tunnel, we slide off the table and pick it up. But when the train gets to the platform, I see it’s packed.

“We should wait for the next one,” Alessandro says, starting to lower his end.

“Uh-uh,” I say and push him backward toward the door.

At first, most of the people standing in the door don’t move, like if they ignore us, we’ll go away.

But I’m not going away.

I shove the table and Alessandro staggers back into the crowd, bumping hard into a skinny guy with his nose in his iPad. Eyes widen behind him as the people there realize we’re coming whether they like it or not, and they press deeper into the car.

“I’m going to turn it on end,” Alessandro says, lifting his end higher. “When you’re in, set your end on the floor.”

The doors start to close on the table, but I don’t back off. Alessandro angles the table up so it doesn’t take so much room, and when I’m in, I set my end down. He tips it the rest of the way up so it’s standing on end and I’m trapped in the cage of its legs. It’s only now, when I’m smashed into the bottom of my new old table that I realize there’s a lot of gum stuck here.

At the next stop, we’re able to slide the table away from the door as people get out and make room. As we wrestle it out through the crowd at the Seventy-ninth Street stop, a middle-aged woman with a Macy’s shopping bag gets caught in the legs and we bring her with us onto the platform. She glares as she steps back onto the train just as the doors swish closed.

We haul the table up the stairs the same way we brought it down at Times Square, but when we reach my building we find out that it barely fits through the door. We have to do some fancy dancing, twisting and turning it around the corner of the door frame.

It’s only when we wrestle the table out of the elevator, wrangle it into my apartment, and set it down in front of the couch that I realize how huge it actually is. It takes up almost the entire space between the couch and the wall where the TV is mounted with just enough room to walk between them.

“It fits,” Alessandro says, and I can see him biting back the laugh.

“It does. It’s perfect,” I say a little defensively, sweeping some dirty dishes off the couch and dropping them in the sink on top of other dirty dishes. I come back and sit, kicking my feet up onto my table.

Alessandro slides in next to me on the couch. “Well, then, it was a productive day. I’ll have to think of something equally as productive for Thursday.”

“Next Thursday is Thanksgiving.” I don’t mention that Brett’s coming home. I don’t even want to think about it. “Can we do Friday? Or maybe Saturday? I just have to be home by fourish to get ready for work.”

He nods. “Friday then. Argo Tea? Eleven?”

“Done,” I say, standing and moving to the kitchen. I scrape some more dishes from the counter into the sink. “I feel like I owe you dinner.” I went shopping Tuesday, so I can probably pull something together.

“Thank you for the offer, but I already have dinner plans.”

“Oh.” I can’t explain the sudden wash of cold I feel. He said he wasn’t with that girl he fell in love with, but it never occurred to me until this second he could be seeing someone else. I start to ask who, but realize that’s none of my business. “So . . . something to drink?” I pull open the fridge door and peek inside. “I’ve got Diet Coke and . . .” Nothing. All I drink is Diet Coke. “Um . . . water, I guess.”

“Coke is fine,” he says, settling into the couch.

I pour two glasses and bring them to the couch, handing one to Alessandro.

He takes a sip then leans forward to put the glass on the coffee table. “This table looks a little like the one in my grandparents’ living room.”

“In Corsica?”

He nods. “It’s been there since I can remember. I think Pépé might have made it. I never asked.”

“Made it? Really?”

He nods. “That’s what he did for a living.”

“Do you miss them? Your family?”

He sips his drink and settles deeper into the couch, looking at me. “I do.”

I take a long sip so I don’t have to look at him. “How long do you think you’ll stay here before you go back?”

“I don’t have any definite plans, but I don’t anticipate leaving in the near future.”

Something in my gut loosens a little. “I think I might paint it,” I say, setting my glass on the table.

He leans forward and brushes his fingers over the surface. “Or you could refinish it. This is a nice piece of wood with a bold grain. It would look great if you stripped it and put on a fresh coat of varnish.”

“I don’t know how to do that. Painting is easier.”

“It’s up to you, of course, but if you wanted to try stripping it first to see what’s under all these layers, I could help you.”

He’s way too good at stripping away layers and seeing the stuff underneath. He does it with me every time we’re together. “Maybe I’ll just leave it be.”

“As you wish.” He finishes his Coke and sets the glass down. “So, Friday, then.” He stands. “I really need to go, but I’ll call you with details.”

“Sounds good. And it better not be the Empire State Building.”

He smiles and moves to the door. “I promise to choose something less ‘lame-o,’ ” he says, making air quotes. But then he hesitates with his hand on the doorknob. “I had a really nice time today.”

“Me too.”

He nods and pulls the door open, heading to the elevator. I stand here for a minute, watching him, but then decide that’s awkward, so I close the door and pretend I’m not listening for the elevator door.

After he’s gone, I sit on my table and think about all its layers. My fingers trace gouges and scratches and I just know it’s been through a lot. What if all those layers on the outside are the glue that’s keeping it together?

I decide not to let Alessandro strip off any more layers. But maybe I can help him strip a few of his own.

Chapter Thirteen

I
T’S
M
ONDAY MORNING
when I call Alessandro. Brett is coming home tomorrow for a few days, and now that I’ve got my nerve up to do this, I don’t want to leave it until after he’s gone.

“Hilary,” he says when he connects.

“Are you free for an hour this afternoon?”

“I’ve got lessons at the Y starting at two. Was there something you needed?”

No, but there’s something
you
need. “I had somewhere I wanted to take you.”

“I thought we were on for Friday. My turn.”

“We are. This is something else.”

“Something else . . .” he repeats, his voice wary. “Could we possibly do this ‘something else’ tomorrow?”

Damn. “No. My boyfriend’s flying in tomorrow, so . . .”

“Oh. I didn’t know he was gone,” he says, his voice tight. “Will Friday be okay, though . . . for our Thursday outing?”

“He’s flying to Chicago Friday morning for an evening performance.”

I wait through a long pause, not sure what else to say. “How soon can you be ready?” he finally asks.

I look at my clock. Ten thirty. “In an hour, maybe.”

“Tell me where to meet you. I’ll be there at noon.”

“Argo Tea,” I say, pulling myself out of bed. “See you in a few.”

I
TAKE HIS
hand and tow him from Argo Tea to the subway, but I don’t tell him where we’re going. As we jump on the D train, he’s got that playful look that he always has when he’s waiting to see where I’m taking him. He’s still into it when we change over at Broadway to the F train, but when I stand at the Second Avenue station and pull him up, his expression turns instantly wary.

“Where are we going?” he asks with a tinge of panic in his eyes. It’s the first time on all our trips that’s he’s wanted to know.

And I know why.

“I think you need to see it again, Alessandro.”

He stiffens, but I pull him forward before the doors close. I don’t let go of his hand as we climb the stairs to the street. I don’t let go as we move slowly along Houston Street and turn up First Avenue. Through the thin leather of my glove, I feel the heat of his palm, and I know he’s scared.

So am I.

We turn onto Second Street and his feet slow and stop as we pass a sign on the side of a building across the street for the Catholic Big Sisters and Big Brothers Center. As we stand here, two black kids push through the doors onto the sidewalk, talking trash.

“You should check it out,” I say, nudging Alessandro forward.

He’s watching after the boys with a distant look in his eye. I wish I could jump into his brain and know what he’s thinking. Finally, he drops his gaze. “I left the Church.”

“Just because you’re not a priest doesn’t mean they wouldn’t want your help,” I say with a wave of my hand at the door.

His expression darkens as his whole body tenses. “No. I
left
the Church.”

And now I understand. “You’ve . . . you haven’t gone back? At all?”

His face pinches as he lowers his gaze. “I can’t. I don’t belong there.”

“Alessandro,” I say, squeezing his hand.

He pulls it away, refusing to be comforted. Instead, he spins on his heel and stalks up the sidewalk in the direction we were going. I’m a little surprised he doesn’t head back toward the subway. I catch up as he moves purposefully toward the destination neither of us really wants to see, but both of us need to. I don’t try to hold his hand again, and he keeps a safe space between us.

We weave up Avenue A and turn the corner onto East Fourth without speaking, and Alessandro’s hurried pace finally slows as we reach the building.

Someone’s given it a face-lift, adding white stucco and blue trim to the first story of a building that was always just grungy brick. It still looks sad.

I’m staring at it, my guts in a knot, when I feel Alessandro’s fingers thread into mine. When I glance his direction, he’s staring at it too, the skin around his eyes pulled tight. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the emotion I feel forming as a lump in my own throat.

There’s no markings on the building to indicate it’s a group home, but there weren’t then either. I start across the street and Alessandro moves with me. It takes me a long time to lift my finger to the buzzer.

It’s a full minute later when a Latina girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, opens the door. “What?” she says, chomping on gum and planting one hand on her jutted hip.

“Um . . .” I swallow. “Is this still a group home?”

She spits out a bitter laugh. “You our new counselors?”

“No.” I glance back at Alessandro, whose expression is stone. “We used to live here . . . a long time ago.”

A cynical smile curves her lips. “Back to relive the best years of your life?”

My stomach clamps. “Is there a chance we could come in?”

Alessandro’s grip on my hand tightens to the point I’m afraid he’s going to break something, but I don’t shake him off.

She swings the door wide. “Knock yourselves out,” she says over her shoulder, already disappearing down the hall to the kitchen.

I breathe deeply to settle my nerves and notice the sickeningly familiar stench that hangs in the air—the unmistakable scent of hopelessness. “It hasn’t changed much.”

We step through the door into the hallway, and when my eyes focus in the dim light, and I see the hole in the wall near the door, I flash to Lorenzo putting his foot through the wall in nearly the same place one day when he was fighting with Ms. Jenkins.

“It hasn’t changed
at all
,” I amend, closing the door behind us.

Halfway up on the right, I see the door to the basement. Alessandro follows me as I pull it open and start down the stairs. The deeper we descend, the more it smells like mildew, dirty laundry, and stale cigarette smoke. When we get to the bottom and flick on the rec-room light, I swear it’s the same furniture—the saggy brown couch and sticky blue chair.

Alessandro is frozen next to me, his eyes locked on a brown stain on the filthy carpet next to the couch. His olive completion has gone gray, and he looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Breathe, Alessandro,” I say softly.

His eyes flick to me, as if I’ve broken whatever spell had him locked there. He hauls a deep breath, holding it for a second, before exhaling slowly through pursed lips.

I squeeze his hand. “Are you okay?”

He nods, but his expression says otherwise. “A lot happened in this room.”

My eyes slide to the couch and I see the clear image of a scrawny girl with reddish black kinks draped over a long, lean boy in dirty jeans, with messy black hair. I shake the image away as tears pool in my eyes. “Yeah.”

He lets go of my hand and moves slowly around the room, stopping once near the corner where he always sat with his sketch pad, noticing too much. He moves to the couch and looks down at it a long moment with moist eyes. “I really believed I loved you.” His eyes lift to mine. “I never would have done . . .” His face pinches as he trails off. He turns and drops onto the couch with his forehead in his hand.

I move to sit next to him, my insides clamped tight. “What happened was as much my fault as yours. I was scared, and alone, and I just needed to feel something.”

He hauls a deep breath and lifts his head, gazing at me with pleading eyes. “I’m so sorry, Hilary. For Lorenzo. For me. For everything.”

“I know. Me too.”

He loops his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. And I hope this time, he doesn’t see my tears.

O
N THE WAY
back to the subway, I steer him down Second Street, past the Catholic youth center. I walk him right up to the door and open it, then nudge him through. “Talk to them.”

He catches a corner of his lower lip between his teeth and fixes me in his anguished gaze. But then he turns and moves deeper into the room, to a nun who’s tacking a paper to a corkboard near the door. “Hello,” he says in a slightly unsteady voice. “I was wondering if you were in need of volunteers.”

I step back onto the sidewalk and wait. Fifteen minutes later, he comes out. He presses his lips into a line and nods, like some really difficult task is done. When he slips his arm around my shoulder and guides me up the sidewalk, I lean into him.

He squeezes my shoulder, and kisses the top of my head, and that, more than anything else today, is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“
D
O YOU NEED
anything, Brett? More turkey? Or stuffing?” Mallory is all over him like white on rice. He almost never comes here, but when he does, she waits on him like he’s the freaking maharaja or something. I think she thinks she’s making up for me. Like, if she’s uber-nice it will make up for my bitchiness and he’ll see that he really wants to sweep me off my feet and into a three-bedroom, two-bath Cape with a picket fence in a random New Jersey suburb, where we can have a life like hers and Jeff’s.

The thought makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

I mean, I get it. I do. She wants to be everything our mother wasn’t and she’s terrified I’m treading Mom’s path. But her lifestyle isn’t for everyone, and it’s definitely not for me.

“So tell us about your show, Brett,” she says.

His eyes shoot to me before he looks at Mallory and shrugs. “It’s just about five college guys trying to figure shit out.”

Her eyes widen for an instant and flick to Henri and Max. Max is intensely focused on making his mound of mashed potatoes into an igloo around the puddle of gravy in the middle, but Henri is looking at Brett and grinning widely.

“Oh,” Mallory says, gaining back her composure. “How is it being received?”

Brett’s mouth tightens as he lifts his eyes from his plate again, annoyed at the string of questions. “So far we’re selling out and the reviews are good.”

“There’s a scene where Brett strips,” I say through a mouthful of green-bean casserole. “The reviewers love it. It’s totally hot.”

Mallory asks about the tour, and conversation for the rest of dinner is just as awkward. When we’re done, Mallory brings out the apple pie and vanilla ice cream. She serves it up and we eat in front of the football game in the family room.

“So, what do you think of the Jets’ big trade?” Jeff asks Brett.

Brett scratches his chin and looks at Jeff for a second before saying, “Um . . . I don’t really follow the Jets.”

Jeff cracks a smile. “You’re a Giants guy, huh?”

“Not really,” Brett answers with a shrug.

“So . . . basketball?” Jeff tries.

Brett gives another shrug, and this time he almost pulls off apologetic.

Finally Jeff goes back to watching the game. We eat our pie and the only sound other than the game on the TV is the clink of forks on plates.

It’s painful.

And the whole time I’m thinking about Alessandro and resenting Brett. It’s Thursday. This is
our
day. We should be out somewhere, exploring undiscovered corners of the city. Alessandro and I have a past that should make being together hard. So, how is it that being with Brett seems like so much more work?

I wonder what Alessandro’s doing today. Does he have anywhere to go?

“Auntie! Come help me,” Henri says, shaking me out of my thoughts. He grabs my hand and pulls me off the couch. I set my plate on the coffee table and let him tow me to his and Max’s room. He hands me a Lord of the Rings Lego box. “Carry that,” he says as he grabs a big tub of loose Legos. We bring them back to the family room and within minutes the awkwardness is gone and every adult in the room except Mallory, who’s gone to clean up the kitchen, is on the floor building Helms Deep.

Henri to the rescue.

It takes us almost two hours to finish it, and by that time Mallory already has Max in bed and Henri is yawning.

“C’mon, buddy,” I say, standing from the floor and pulling him up by the hand. He holds my hand tight in his sweaty little one as we walk together to the bathroom. At seven, modesty obviously hasn’t kicked in yet, because he drops his pants and pees with me standing right here. I turn my back while he finishes up, even though he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wash your hands and brush your teeth,” I tell him when he flushes. He does, then he takes my hand and tows me to his and Max’s room and pushes the door open.

The room is small, with just enough room for twin beds and a dresser between. There are Transformer prints on the dark blue walls and pencil marks on the white door frame where Mallory has ticked off their height over the years, Henri on the right and Max on the left.

“Shh,” I say as he steps into the room. “Max is asleep.”

He tiptoes all exaggerated into the room and grins at me. I stifle a giggle and follow him in. He finds his pj’s in his dresser, changes, then clamors into bed.

“ ’Night, buddy,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and kissing his forehead. “Sleep tight.”

His eyebrows press together. “What does that mean, Auntie?”

“Sleep tight?” I think about that for a second and realize it’s what Mom always used to say when I was little. No, “I love you.” No, “pleasant dreams.” Just, “sleep tight.” “I have no idea,” I tell him with a shrug.

He grins like he always does when he realizes he’s pretty damn smart.

I kiss his forehead again. “Love you.”

He rolls over and curls up on his side, facing the wall. I watch him for a minute, then stand and give Max a kiss on his sweaty little forehead before heading back to the family room.

When I walk into the room, Mallory is sitting next to Brett on the couch scanning through pictures on her iPhone, probably of the boys. He looks up at me with pleading eyes.

“So, I guess we should probably head back,” I say to Mallory, and Brett is off the couch like a shot.

“It’s been great, guys,” he says, lifting a hand, clearly relieved now that the torture is over.

We shrug on our jackets and spill out the door. It’s cold, but not
cold
, so the walk to the bus isn’t bad.

“You really shouldn’t come to these family things, you know,” I tell Brett as we walk.

“Cut me a little slack here, Hilary. I came all the way back to spend Thanksgiving with you.”