The Girl She Used to Be (9 page)

I glare at him a few seconds longer, to sort of make a point, then I look away and pull the sweater to my face again. It is
the first gift I have received in ten years. I decide to cut him a little slack.

“I’m listening.”

He wipes his face free of perspiration and says, “You want to grab a bite? Let’s get a table and talk.” Some guy blows his
horn and gives us the finger. “There’s a great restaurant not too far from here.”

“You know this area?”

“It’s a great place to bury people, well distanced from New York. The dirt is loose and moist, so it’s easy to dig.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“My nerves are shot… but I guess I should try to eat something.”

He puts out his hand and I reluctantly hand him the keys. He grabs the keys and my hand at the same time. “You’re safe with
me, Melody. Okay? As long as I am with you, you are safe.”

I nod a little and stare at the road ahead. “This great restaurant have any wine? I need something to help me relax.”

He starts the car and pulls onto the highway. “A restaurant can’t be considered great if it does not have wine.”

There was a part of me that was hoping Jonathan would blow my mind once again and take me to a Thai restaurant, but for the
first time in the brief period of our acquaintance, he was true to the cliché.

We’re sitting in an Italian restaurant somewhere deep inside the city of Baltimore but not in the neighborhood referred to
as Little Italy. The background music is a boring mélange of crooners. And though the place is a messy hole-in-the-wall, there
is something that makes it feel like we’ve been welcomed into the home of a large family.

We are the first customers for lunch.

After being seated in a far corner of the restaurant, significantly distanced from the kitchen, the waiter offers us menus,
but Jonathan pushes them to the side. “Allow me to order for you, Melody.”

I make a face.

“I don’t mean to offend,” he adds, “but I believe I know what you’d like.”

I turn to the waiter and say, “We’ve been dating now for about two hours.” I cross my fingers. “We’re tight!”

Jonathan apparently takes this as a green light. “She will have the rabbit, very rare, in red wine. Three orders again, honey?”

I roll my eyes.

He starts over. “Okay, she will have…” He stares at me until I stare back, then he puts his elbows on the table and leans
in my direction. “She will have the carpaccio of beef with watercress and garlic aioli and eggplant croquettes and I will
have the veal chops with lemon sage sauce and the risotto with arugula and goat’s cheese.”

I can’t suppress a smile. “Beef was a risk, Jonathan. So was eggplant. Especially for lunch.”

“Did I fail?”

I study him for a moment and I wish we were anywhere but the wrong place at the wrong time. “Not yet.”

He smiles back, then turns to the waiter and adds, “You have Medici Ermete Concerto Reggiano Lambrusco?” The waiter nods.
“A bottle.”

I laugh.

“What,” he says, flipping his hands out.

“Lambrusco. Highly predictable, not to mention cheesy.”

“Not
this
Lambrusco. You didn’t hear me order Riunite, did you? This bottle is much drier. Besides, this is wine for drinking with
food, you know. It should be a little sugary, a little sweet, a little fizzy maybe, and not only bring the flavor of the food
to life, but help wash it down. I love fine wine—and if you ever want to go head-to-head on the subject, prepare for defeat—but
I prefer to drink it when my palate is going to stay clean and sharp. With food, especially Italian? Different story.”

Jonathan grins and it seems he starts to blush, then he looks down and clears his throat. He picks up his knife and tilts
it back and forth between his fingers, very gently, and I cannot imagine him ever taking one and plunging it into someone’s
chest. But no matter what, it is impossible for me to forget who he is. Or where he is from. Or why he is now in my life.

I take a deep breath and sit up. “You wanted to talk.”

Jonathan puts his knife down and sits back and it appears he is going to tell me how it is. I’ve been waiting my whole life.

“Do you wonder,” he says, “how it is that I knew what was on this menu without even taking a glance?”

I shrug. “Photographic memory?”

He leans forward again and speaks in a hushed tone. “We are the only customers in this restaurant because they are not open
yet, and will not open for another hour. We were given the best table in the restaurant because they would not give me anything
less. We will sit and eat a delicious meal, the finest they will prepare today, and we will drink a bottle of wine, and when
we are done with our dessert and cannot finish another bite, we will get up and walk out of the restaurant without paying
a penny.”

I shake my head in disgust. “Should I be impressed?”

“You should be
concerned
, Melody.” He leans forward even farther and progresses to a slightly angered voice. “I’m trying to show you the depth of
my family’s influence, okay? People think you can run away to Tennessee or Ohio, but the truth is we have a presence in those
places too. I mean, do you really think there are all of these Italian families vying for the same chunk of business in Manhattan
and Brooklyn? Get real. Forget the Mafia, what about the damn Russians or the Chinese or the Dominicans? The fu—
lousy
street gangs are tapping into what used to be our exclusive interests. It’s like a cold war.” He thinks for a second. “Kind
of.”

“So you move to the suburbs like everyone else, bringing all your crime and misery with you.”

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “You’re missing the central issue here. You can’t hide, Melody. The deputy marshals
they assign to you cannot move you far enough away. We could have snatched you long ago.”

The waiter drops a basket of warm bread on the table and shows the bottle of wine to my Italian friend. Jonathan nods, puts
his glasses back on, and says, “I’ll pour, thank you,” and the waiter leaves as though it’s the response he was expecting.

Jonathan takes my glass and slowly allows the wine to leave the bottle and gently splash down, somehow preventing any air
from gulping back in.

He explains his actions as if he were reading my mind. “This keeps the sediment in the bottle,” he says. “I don’t want you
to have any excuse for denying the greatness of this vino.”

I am about to comment when I recall his previous statement. “What did you mean when you said you could have snatched me long
ago?”

He looks up and sighs, continues pouring. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for years.” He pulls the bottle from the rim of
my glass, turns it slightly to avoid a drip, and lifts. He tosses this information to me casually, and though it seems innocent,
I know he realized the gravity of the comment—and he does not flinch.

My chin quivers and my breathing becomes erratic. “What… what do you mean?”

He stares at me for a second, takes his glass and fills it with wine in three seconds, then downs two huge mouthfuls. He whispers,
“Jane Watkins. Shelly Jones. Linda Simms. Sandra Clarke.” My teeth are clattering like I’m naked in the snow. He takes another
drink. “You want me to tell you the kinds of jobs you’ve had? The places you used to get coffee in the morning? Your favorite
restaurants?”

The only thing worse than living a lie is living a lie for no reason whatsoever.

“That’s how you knew my size… and my eye color, and the kinds of food I like, and what you meant that first night you
came into my motel room and said, ‘I like your hair this way.’ You knew me. You’ve known me all along.”

I stare Jonathan down; he tries to wait me out but he can’t, and the steel that he exemplified a moment ago is starting to
break back down into iron and carbon. He spins the wine in his glass, but I think it’s an act of nervousness or embarrassment
rather than a way to aerate his wine.

There is a new truth in my life: No matter how incredibly slight I may have found my security over the years, not a single
notion was true. I’ve been at risk all along, and all the moving and changing and fear and carefulness was for nothing.

Nothing
.

The food arrives, so I pull myself together, snapping out of the chilly daze I’ve been in for the last five minutes. The scents
of our dishes collide, and it trips my senses. I realize I’m hungry and without hesitation I reach for my fork. If this is
going to be my last meal, I can’t complain.

Jonathan stares at me while moving his fork in and out of his risotto. “Aren’t you curious as to why I was watching you all
these years?”

I ignore him, as I have been since he unfolded this new truth in my life, and start going to town on the beef. I skewer a
nice forkful and bring it to my mouth. I am amazed—I will probably throw it up soon, but I am still amazed. I scoop up a few
croquettes, chew them and swallow them, and I feel I might die before any Bovaro gets the chance to do the deed.

Jonathan answers his own question. “I was there.”

My chewing slows. “Where?”

“At Vincent’s.”

My chewing stops.

“You should try the risotto,” he says, pushing his plate to my side of the table.

I push it back. “
When
were you there?” I ask through a mouthful of watercress.

He looks down and sighs. “That Sunday morning when my dad was gutting Jimmy ‘the Rat’ Fratello.”

I’m speechless.

Jonathan laughs a little and adds, “Turns out Jimmy really was a rat. Which is why he got, uh… you know.”

I keep my eyes locked on Jonathan’s, but I manage to fill my glass with more wine. I do not care about sediment.

“You’re about to tell me some tragic news,” I say.

Jonathan sits up, puts his fork down, and takes a long, loud drink from his water glass. “I was there with my dad.” He nods
a little. “The kids in the family were always kind of around. I mean, where could we go, really.” He takes a jerky, nervous
breath. “I was supposed to stay upstairs and play with my cousins in a big billiards room on the third floor of Vincent’s
place. You know, normally us little guys weren’t allowed to touch the pool tables for fear we’d rip the felt or something,
so it was supposed to be this big deal for us to hang upstairs while my father and Jimmy did a little business.

“Well, I thought my dad was the greatest, you know? Like any kid, I guess. So I wanted to see what he did for a living. I
figured he was in the restaurant business. I mean, we were always eating in the best places and we could always pick whatever
table we wanted and order whatever food we wanted and we never had to pay and stuff…” He wipes his forehead of sweat.
“Well… I snuck down when no one was looking and tried to catch a glimpse of his high-business dealings.”

He pauses and I am about to leap across the table and beat the rest out of him. I try to finish his thought. “You saw him
slicing up Jimmy Fratello?”

Jonathan throws me for a loop by grabbing his fork, piling up a huge mound of risotto, and taking a bite. “No… actually,
I saw my dad and Jimmy just talking. It was pretty boring, really. I watched for a while but lost interest, so I walked down
the hallway and went outside.” He pokes at his veal as though he might begin slicing, then tosses his utensils on the table.
“I remember that day: it was cold and dark outside. I stood in the alley next to Vincent’s and just stared at the gray sky.”
He looks at me and purses his lips. “Until I stopped to watch this guy try to parallel-park his Oldsmobile.” He chuckles.
“I swear it had to be his first time.”

I hold my breath for a second. “My dad,” I say. “He couldn’t parallel-park to save his life.” I wish I hadn’t put it that
way. I start nodding. “You saw my dad.”

“And your mom and…
you
.” He smiles at me. “You had the cutest blond curls.” He takes another bite. “I think that’s the last time I ever saw you
with blond hair. Anyway, a few seconds later you all come screaming down the sidewalk, hop in your car, and zoom off.”

I have completely lost my appetite. I slide my dishes and the wine bottle to the side so there is little between Jonathan
and me. I lean on the table and Jonathan does too.

“Sean told me,” I say, “that the police got there long after the crime, and that he had no idea how the feds found my parents—or
how they even knew there were witnesses at all.” I squint and point a weak finger in his direction. “It was
you
.”

Jonathan sighs. “What can I say? I wanted to be a grown-up and big and important like my father. I had no idea it was my dad
that killed Jimmy. I didn’t even really know what killing
was
yet.” He looks at me but it seems like a struggle. “When the cops were asking everyone on the street if anyone saw anything,
I stepped up to bat, told the cops I saw a family run out of the restaurant.”

“And you magically knew our address?”

“No. But I did notice your license plates were from Jersey and I remembered two numbers and a letter. And that the car was
an Olds.” He shrugs. “Apparently, it was enough.”

The beef and eggplant feel like they are on the rise.

“So,” I say, festering, “
you
are the one who brought all of this pain and misery and destruction into my life.
You
are the one who is responsible for my parents’ deaths!” I stand a little. “The most I would have had to deal with was post-traumatic
stress disorder and some minor therapy. I still would’ve had parents and proms and friends and birthday parties and a heritage
and something to look forward to!”

“Melody, I was ten years old—just a few years older than you.” He’s looking at me and pleading with his eyes and for a second
he seems like he’s still ten years old. “Do you have any idea what this did to
my
family?”

“
I do not care
.”

“I turned my own father in—not intentionally, of course—but I did it!”

“Your father is a sick bastard! Who wants a dad who eviscerates people?” I flop back down in my seat.