Anyone But You (21 page)

With my heart hurting in my chest, I tied an apron around my waist and grabbed an order pad and pen from the pass-through before heading out into the dining room. Mario was already seating a few early-bird diners on the mezzanine, and as I glanced toward the front of the house, I was surprised to see a familiar face waiting by the door: the
Zwaggert
critic.

“Mr. Smith?” I said, rushing over to greet him. “How is your leg?”

He pulled up one leg of his trousers to reveal a limb now encased in a Velcro-trussed walking boot.

“Ahh, if it isn’t my very own Florence Nightingale,” he said. “Well, I’m on the mend. And I guess there’s no harm in telling you now: My name’s not Smith. I’m actually Nathan Davidson. Jason Smith is just the pseudonym I use on the job.”

“We figured as much,” I said. “So what brings you back to Cap’s? Were all the water parks in your area closed? Because, you know, we can set up a Slip ’n Slide over by Table Ten if you’re interested.”

He laughed, which actually surprised me.

“I heard this was your closing night,” he said. “I just wanted to come and pay my respects.”

“Wow. Really? I thought you’d never want to step foot in here again, no pun intended. Isn’t one broken leg enough?”

“Well, full disclosure, I wanted to have another go at that wild mushroom risotto, before it’s too late,” he said. “The best I’ve ever had.”

“Are you serious? You actually
enjoyed
your meal?”

“Well, up until the Great Flood, of course. Food, service, ambience, history—you don’t see a lot of family-owned restaurants like this in big cities anymore. Most dining experiences have gotten so corporate, and frankly, so culinarily tedious. Every new place seems driven more by trends and gimmicks than quality and classic flavor.” His compliment left me slightly flummoxed. Deep down, I had always been proud of Cap’s, but to hear it extolled by this objective expert—one who had no reason to sugar-coat his opinion—brought a glimmer of joy to this otherwise downer of a day.

“So, are you saying we might have made it into the next edition of
Zwaggert
’s?” I asked.

“It was going to be a starred feature of the Chicago edition.”

“That’s great to hear, in a bittersweet sort of way,” I said, pausing to reflect. “I don’t suppose that you guys publish a Peoria edition?”

“Sorry, no. I do wish you folks the best down there, however. Peoria’s lucky to be getting you, but Chicago is losing a real treasure.” We both took a moment to glance around the dining room. I used to view our antiquated decor and menu—its veritable frozen-in-timeness—as a strike against us. But now, I could see how decades of history permeated the place like a pleasant patina on aging wood. If these walls could talk, as they say. There were ghosts in this room, and it was only too bad we couldn’t box them up and take them with us.

“Well, anyway, it’s going to mean a lot to my dad that you came by. I’ll let him know you’re here. I’m sure he’ll want to say hello.”

“He’s got a lot of passion for his work, doesn’t he?” the food critic asked as I started to turn away. I stopped in my tracks and glanced back at him.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I can tell,” he continued. “I’ve been around this industry for a long time, and I’ve found that most places are only successful when the proprietors have their heart and soul invested in it. Even then, there are no guarantees. But if you don’t
really
love it, you’ll never make it in this business.”

I nodded my assent, inwardly reflecting that my aspirations were lukewarm, at best. I loved Cap’s, no doubt, but would I ever manage to summon up the requisite enthusiasm to operate it someday? In light of all the upheaval my family had been through in recent weeks, perhaps my own disinclination to carry on the family tradition was a moot point. They needed me now, more than ever, and as long as that was the case, I’d have to keep silent about the personal doubts I harbored.

• • •

“Gigi?” my dad called out, the next afternoon.

“In here,” I shouted from the depths of Cap’s storage room-slash-wine cellar, which, thanks to the poor lighting (a single low-watt bulb that dangled from the center of the ceiling) and my family’s penchant for pack-rat behavior, resembled a dusty, underground catacomb. It was piled high with cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and file cabinets to one side and wine racks in varying states of disrepair to the other. Tattered work schedules and long-unused calendars hung haphazardly from thumbtacks on the dark wood-paneled walls alongside framed photographs and old Cap’s menus with their elegant curlicue script and mind-bogglingly low prices. A black-and-white, institutional-style clock face that was forever stuck at nine o’clock confronted me accusingly from above the doorframe.

“Brought you this,” my dad said, snaking his way through towers of half-packed boxes stacked near the door. He stepped over Sampson, who snoozed nearby on a pile of bubble wrap, and handed me a tumbler of water. Then he reached over to pluck a seemingly ancient bottle of wine from a metal wire shelf lining the wall. Turning the bottle over, he peered at the circular label affixed to the base. On it was written the owner’s name and the date it had been left at Cap’s for safekeeping. Years ago, before my cousins and I were born, patrons would bring pricey bottles of bubbly or wine for us to store for some future special occasion, like a birthday or anniversary, that they planned to celebrate at the restaurant. That was another era. Today’s customers tended to favor instant gratification and, besides, our storage conditions weren’t exactly up to current industry standards. That said, we still had a few bottles left over from Cap’s glory days. Several belonged to formerly well-known Chicago politicians and sports figures—there was even a bottle of vintage Château Latour that had belonged to an alleged mafioso. Most of these VIPs likely weren’t around anymore, but we still kept the bottles, just in case anyone ever showed up to claim them.

“Recycling bin?” I asked, deadpan.

“Very funny,” he said. “You know I’d consider recycling Frankie or Enzo before I’d dump these babies.” He replaced the bottle carefully back on the rack. “They’re coming with us.”

I couldn’t figure out why Dad had saddled me with the almost Sisyphean task of sorting through and packing up this time capsule of what would soon be our former life. If he wanted to take my mind off the impending move, he couldn’t have devised a more flawed plan. All I could think about was how my ancestors, who stared down at me from the sepia-tinted photographs on the wall, would probably have some choice Italian hand gestures for us if they knew we were abandoning everything they’d worked so hard to build.

“Why aren’t we just tossing all of this other stuff?” I said, gesturing at the semi-sorted piles around me. “It’s only some old letters, paperwork, and photos. I don’t even know who most of these people are. How do I decide what we should keep and what we should pitch?”

“You know, I can’t help but think of something my grandmother—your great-grandmother—used to always tell me,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “She used to say that hard work was the best and noblest distraction from anything ….” He paused and coughed uncomfortably.

“Painful?” I finished for him. Dad gave an affirmative shake of the head, and I knew he had a lump in his throat as big as the lump in mine. I went back to sorting to give us both a few minutes to regain our composure.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he finally said. The request stunned me. My dad was
not
a “penny for your thoughts” kind of guy. He never had been, especially not where I was concerned.

“Nothing,” I responded.

“I know that’s not true,” he said. “Look, I know you’ve always felt a little lost in the shuffle around here, but I want you to know that your opinion matters. It matters to me.” I started to tear up. “See, I knew it,” he continued. “Talk to me, baby.”

“It’s just that, well, we’re … we’re leaving
everything.
Who are we without this place? Who am
I
?” My dad sighed and gazed around the room.

“Gigi, even if it feels like we’re leaving everything,” he finally began, “I want you to understand that we’re not. We’ll always have the memories of Cap’s, and we’re taking those with us to—”

“Don’t even say it,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “It won’t be the same.”

“That’s true. But it’s like what Father Vito says about our bodies being the physical aspect of ourselves—‘corporeal’ is the word he used. The point is that we’re more than that, because we have a spirit, too. Cap’s is like that. It’s a building, yeah, but the
spirit
of Cap’s is so beyond any physical structure. It’s the Caputos who were here before us,” he said, waving his hand toward the remaining photos that were still on the wall. “And it’s all of us, and the future Caputos: The kids you’ll have someday, and their kids, too, God willing. I wanted you to see all this stuff, so that no matter what we leave behind, it’s a part of your memory, a part of who you are. Nothing can ever change that.
Capiche
?”

I looked up at him and tried to answer, but my voice caught in my throat, so I just nodded. My dad bent down and kissed me on the forehead.

“I’m headed over to your Aunt Val’s to help Frankie and Enzo finish packing up their place,” he said, turning to leave. “Carmen’s still lollygagging in the kitchen, so make sure you guys lock up when you leave. And don’t be late for dinner. Your mom wants this last one to be special.”

Not two minutes had passed before Carmen shuffled into the room with a conspiratorial look on her face, carrying the threadbare canvas tote bag she’d been bringing to work for as long as I could remember.

“I thought he’d never leave!” she said.

“Well, we should be going soon, too,” I said. “I’m almost finished here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she answered, winking at me.

“What are you up to?” I asked. For as blunt as she tended to be, the old lady was often surprisingly ambiguous.

“Here’s the plan. I’ll head over to the dinner at your place and will make up an excuse for why you’re not with me.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t I be there?”

“Because you’ll be somewhere else …
with
someone else.” She didn’t need to be any more specific; the look on her face indicated exactly whom she meant.

“Carmen, stop. I told you already, it’s over between Roman and me. We said our goodbyes weeks ago.”

“But you have one more night.”

“What’s one more night in the big scheme of things?”

“Don’t be so defeatist. One more night is everything. It’s the whole universe,” she responded.

“But I’m leaving.”

“So?”

“So?” I responded, starting to become annoyed. “So it’s a complete tragedy! And why do you have that goofy grin on your face? There is nothing happy about this situation whatsoever.”

“You’re alive.
That’s
something to be happy about. You’re young and beautiful.
That’s
something to be happy about. You have a family that loves you,
and
a very charming boy who loves you, too. Don’t you want to see him?”

“Of course I do! But what’s the point?”

“It’s Monday, and Monte’s is closed.
Call
him. But before you do, add this to the boxes you’re packing up.” She reached into her tote bag and brought forth her treasured picture of my great-grandmother.

“But, Carmen,” I protested. “You should keep this. It’s yours.”

“Pack it up with the rest,” she said. “It belongs with your family. I have pictures enough in my memory—of all of you.” Hearing her say this tore me in two. It was bad enough to leave behind my school friends and my first real love … but I was losing part of my family in this move, too. The hurt just kept on coming.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” I said, leaning in to give her a hug.

“Not another word,” she instructed. “You’ll be a few hours away by car—not on the other side of the planet.” She held me close for a moment and her small, bony frame felt frail in my arms. We didn’t say a word to one another until she grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me arm’s length away from her. “I’m telling your parents that you’ll be late for dinner. Whatever you decide to do with that time is up to you, but I advise you make the most of it.”

When Carmen left, I contemplated everything she’d just said. The thought of seeing Roman again stirred up all those butterflies inside me that had only recently been subdued. To think that he and I might steal more time alone together sent a renewed electricity pulsing through my veins, but then, as if on cue, the storeroom went instantly black. The overhead light bulb had opted to blow out as if in a timely—or was it untimely?—show of solidarity. Rising to my feet, I navigated toward the still-lit hallway where I knew two wayward candles were sitting atop the credenza near the kitchen. I scavenged through the drawer underneath and found a half-used Cap’s matchbook. I still hadn’t decided whether to take Carmen up on her suggestion of contacting Roman. I needed more time to parse the pros and cons of such a move, and besides, I wasn’t ready to leave Cap’s just yet. I needed more time here before bidding my final farewell to the old place. Striking one of the flimsy matches, I lit the candles in their red beveled cups and headed back to the storage room.

“Out of my way, buddy,” I said, using my knee to gently nudge the ever-oafish Sampson, who was standing between the boxes along my entry back into the glorified closet. His tail, as it thudded against the cardboard, seemed to be counting down the minutes we had left with its continual
thwap-swish! thwap-swish!
He followed me back to the center of the room and, after circling three times (as though performing intricate steps from an Elizabethan dance), came to rest on a pile of scattered papers and files on the floor.

I set the two candles on the corner of a box and remembered the photograph Carmen had brought me. Retrieving the hatbox of family photos I’d been packing up earlier, I removed the lid and peered inside. The faint, flickering light made the faces staring back at me take on an almost hallowed significance. There were many photos of my great-grandmother Stella: posed on a seventies-era floral sofa surrounded by a veritable litter of grandchildren; smiling graciously as she accepted some sort of chamber of commerce award; and, in a tarnished silver frame, a gorgeous wedding photo of her in a pearlescent silk gown with my dapper-looking great-grandpa Benito, Dad’s namesake. God, she looked just like Grace Kelly. I picked up the framed photo Carmen had just left with me and saw that the tiny screws holding the black velvet matting in place were quite loose. I tried tightening them with my thumbnail, but within seconds, the backing gave way as if it had been waiting half a century for this moment. And there I found it: Tucked between the matting and the photograph was a yellowed envelope addressed to Dominick Monte. Dominick as in Nick Monte, Roman’s great-grandfather? I carefully unsealed the envelope and slid the contents onto my palm. Folded within a handwritten, two-page letter was, unexpectedly, a baseball card. Holding the small cardboard image near the candlelight to inspect it more closely, I realized that it must be very old. I’d never heard of the player (his last name was Wagner), but he had ruddy cheeks, an insouciant smirk that reminded me of the
Mona Lisa
, and a head of dark hair parted down the middle. His collared Pittsburgh jersey was buttoned all the way up to his Adam’s apple. I put the card down next to me and began to read the letter, deciphering the old-fashioned handwriting as best I could in the dim glow of the candles. My hands were trembling by the time I read the signature line. I carefully placed the letter and the baseball card back into the envelope for safekeeping before grabbing my phone. I didn’t need Carmen’s prodding; I had a
legitimate
reason to call him.