Eight
My entire body hurts. The punching bag took a beating this morning, and not because I wanted to please Cable, although he cheered me on louder than he has in a while.
Pissed off, I thought about Alex and the cruel hand fate had dealt her.
As I punched the hell out of that bag, I pictured her parents.
There are two types of abandonment: when people leave on their own accord, and when they die.
As a kid, I wasn’t mad at pop for dying.
It wasn’t his fault. Alex’s parents were completely at fault, and no one wanted the devil to have the last laugh.
I also thought about her husband. Her story was a tragedy, not a mystery.
It all made sense; the men’s shirt she wore when she climbed through my window, her confession that she drinks because she’s scared.
I also realized that on one income, she had no choice but to stop writing.
Abandoning a dream will chip away at one’s soul, and I’m more determined than ever to win the big fight.
Although I didn’t expect her to answer, I tried to call her last night.
I ended up leaving a convoluted message on her machine.
I blathered on for far too long until finally, I asked her to meet me at Nick’s.
There was no point in trying to sleep after that.
All I could see behind my closed lids was a young man riding a motorcycle through a torrential downpour, a young man who didn’t make it home.
An hour before dawn, I succumbed to exhaustion.
My sleep was ravaged with nightmares, like the ones I used to have after pop’s funeral.
I was lost in the dark on an unknown avenue with no idea how to get home.
As I tried to run, my legs remained stationary, like tree trunks.
The quiet was suffocating. There was a reason I needed to get home, but I didn’t know what it was.
I felt an extreme sense of urgency. It was unnerving, and while I don’t believe that dreams reflect reality, my fear was tangible.
I almost called my mother who is an amateur dream interpreter, but she probably would have said to make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits and to start drinking chamomile tea before bed.
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in.”
Nick gave me the side-eye and refilled my coffee mug. When Brenda wanted to replace their dishes with something modern, she asked him to donate the old ones to the Ladies Bazaar. Instead, he brought them to the bar. I was drinking from the same mug that I’ve used at his house dozens of times.
“She’s gotten to you, hasn’t she? You know that expression? What is it... ‘tempt not a desperate man.’”
“That’s from Shakespeare, and what the hell does it have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you. You’re putting a lot on the line for this woman.”
I briefed Nick on what happened last night. He listened without judgment, but deep down, I know he thinks I’ve lost my mind. When I told him about Alex’s husband, he was visibly upset, because only someone who has everything to lose can empathize with the person who lost everything.
“She’s worth it.”
“How do you know that? You barely know her.”
“Says the man who got married after only six months of dating.”
“All right, buddy. You got me there. I hope for your sake that you’re right about her.”
“Hey, Snoopy. How’s the doghouse?”
At some point, Alex had made her entrance and was standing at the bar a few feet away. As she approached me, I wondered how much of my conversation with Nick she had heard.
Nick tapped her hand in greeting, “Smartass.”
My heart soared at the sight of her. Then I noticed her puffy eyelids, and the red surrounding her nostrils as if she’d been crying all night.
I wanted to hug her, but I quickly stood to pull out the bar stool for her.
“A girl can get used to that,” Alex told me.
“Sorry I’m late. I was waiting on hold with the phone company for an hour. Are we drinking coffee today?”
“Hey, Nick!”
“Yeah.”
“Get Alex whatever she wants.”
“A beer on tap is fine. I don’t care what kind. Thanks.”
“The cold kind,” he said, repeating her words from when we first met. “Good to see you again, kid.”
Alex smiled. It seemed different today, laced with kindness. Feeling like an utter jackass, I glanced at her naked ring finger. “I’m sorry too. For calling you so late last night.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t sleeping. Your voice on my machine was kind of comforting.”
I shifted in my stool, embarrassed about the long message I had left her.
I looked for signs on her face that she was disparaging me, but there were none.
Her long hair was tied in braids. She was wearing her peasant skirt, and a green, form-fitting, V-neck tank top.
The crucifix was hiding beneath it today, and I imagined that it was a symbolic gesture, like she was angry with God.
“Thanks for all the leftovers,” Nick said, delivering her beer. “My kids will have the best bagged lunches this week.”
“Um... you’re welcome.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” I told her. “There’s no way I could eat it all on my own.”
“No. Of course not. I shouldn’t have ordered so much. To tell you the truth, I thought you were going to fire me.”
“So that’s what you meant last night. Why did you think that?”
“I don’t know. I can say stupid shit sometimes.”
“Really? I never noticed.” As my shoulder nudged hers, she realized I was teasing.
“Are you saying that I still have a job?”
“Only if you stop saying noodles.”
She rolled her eyes, but said, “Deal.”
“Nick’s kids don’t know how lucky they are. Ma used to send me to school with pancetta on focaccia. She even wrapped the sandwich in waxed paper. The other kids made fun of me.”
Alex leaned on the bar with her head in her hand.
She resembled a painting – the kind where a beautiful woman looks like she’s pondering the meaning of life.
“I’d rather have your mother’s sandwich.
I got so sick of making my own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I stopped eating lunch all together. ”
“I’d be happy to make you lunch.”
“I’d be happy to eat it!” she said, laughing.
“Done with the coffee?” Nick’s sleeves were rolled up. The King of Rock and Roll stared at us.
“Elvis tattoo? Nice.”
“Thank ya. Thank ya very much.”
“Oh for fuck sakes. That’s a horrible impression,” I said. “Yeah. I’m done with the coffee. I’d like a glass of Chianti.”
“Any particular year?”
“Just shut up and bring me the wine. Bring Alex one too.” Nick snorted and left us alone, then I held my breath. “Can I ask you something, Alex? I don’t want to upset you, though.”
“Ask me,” she said, drinking from her mug.
“What was his name?”
Tears welled in her tired eyes. She didn’t look at me when she said, “Simon. His mother loved Simon and Garfunkel.”
“Where are your in-laws now?”
“We’re estranged,” she said, facing me again. “They blamed me. Said I killed him.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. It was a pretty awkward funeral,” she said, chuckling softly. “What about your dad? How’d he die? Grazie,” she told Nick, who set down two glasses of wine.
“My pleasure.”
“Wait,” Alex said. “I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t want to talk about your dad.”
“I actually do. It keeps his memory alive. Pop was lost among the stars. I was really young when he died, but I can still picture his face.”
“Lost among the stars? What do you mean?”
“He was an astronaut. His space capsule exploded.”
Alex’s hand met her mouth. It was the same reaction people have given me my entire life. “I’m so sorry. Your mother must have been devastated.”
“She was, but she had me to worry about. When I was old enough to understand, she said that I was the heart inside her chest. It sounds prettier in Italian,” I added.
The memory made me choke up, but I didn’t show it.
“I was too young to remember, but ma told me that pop used to say that space was so infinite, he didn’t know whether it was Christmas, Easter, or even his birthday, but he knew he loved us. ”
“Love like that is rare. My mother doesn’t even call me on my birthday. She sends the same card every year that she bought in bulk, and signs it, ‘Mom & Dad.’”
“That makes me so angry for you.”
“I was angry for a long time. Then I met Simon.”
“I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to lose a spouse. Especially so early in life. I was only able to witness what my mother went through. But I’m incredibly sorry for your loss, Alex.”
“You know what’s fucked up?”
“Nick’s sense of style?” I knew the beginning of a sad song and tried to change the tune.
“I heard that!” Nick said.
“He could use a makeover, but no. Simon inscribed our wedding rings with the word ‘forever’. He should have had them engraved ‘for now’. What a joke.”
Gently, I said, “How about ‘until we meet again?’”
She nodded, drained her mug, and picked up her wine glass. “To angels.”
“To angels,” I said, clinking my glass against hers.
Nick was busy filling three pitchers of beer for a group of college-aged kids and snacking on French Fries that his new hire, Justin, delivered from the kitchen.
When Nick was a teenager, he was a picky eater.
The rest of us would feast on hamburgers, but he refused to eat meat and preferred chicken, claiming it wasn’t meat if it was white.
He eventually grew out of it, but back then, his grandmother coddled him.
She used to say, we need chickenfornicky so often, that I thought it was an authentic name for a dish.
“You two good over there?” he asked.
“Yeah. Come over when you have a second,” I told him.
“Ten-four.”
A ray of sun splashed across the bar. Bathed in it, Alex looked radiant. “You two seem close.”
“We are. He’s always been protective of me.”
“I like that,” Alex said.
“Like what? This guy?” he asked, punching me in the shoulder.
The three of us fell silent, and then Alex said something that would forever erase Anjela from my memory. “What’s not to like?”
Riding that high, I coughed twice, which was Nick’s cue to reach beneath the bar. Earlier, I bought a supply of ribbon, Liquid Paper, and different colored Highlighters. Nick placed everything in front of Alex including the Brother typewriter.
“I want you to have it. You can’t write an entire novel with pen and paper.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. You have a job to do, and I want to make it easier.”
Her excitement was plain on her face, even though she’d seen it before now.
She reminded me of myself on Christmas Day.
Unless Ma was working, she wouldn’t let me leave her sight, so every year on December twenty-third, after she collected her Christmas bonus from her boss, she would dress me in my scarf, hat, mittens, and snowsuit, and would tell me, “I need a few things from the store, Filippo. Dai. Andiamo.” I used to watch as ma filled our cart with Lego sets, puzzles, and action figures, and without fail, every Christmas morning, I would play along and feign surprise.
Ma knew I was faking it, but just like pop used to do, she clapped with joy, took Polaroids, and tried desperately not to cry.
Years later, she admitted that it was stupid.
I told her, “No, ma. Not stupid. I wouldn’t trade my mamma for anything”, which of course made her cry all over again, like Alex was crying now.
“Oh, God.”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“This song... it was our song.”
Give a Little Bit by Supertramp was playing over the radio. My heart was breaking. Without hesitating, I barked orders at Nick, “Cut the music. Play my song. Now.”
The second he noticed that Alex was in tears, he switched off the stereo and placed an album on the turntable.
“What’s... what’s going on?” she asked me through her sniffles.
“Listen...”
“I am listening, but it’s in Italian. What is it? It’s catchy.”
“Translated, it means, 24 000 kisses. Pop used to sing it,” I said, handing her a napkin.
“What’s he saying?”
“He’s pretty much saying that all he needs to be happy is twenty-four thousand kisses.”
“But that’s a lot,” Alex said, blowing her nose and laughing.
“Maybe that’s the point. That it would take a while,” I said, brushing a stray hair from her face.
Everyone in the bar watched as Alex got up to dance. Lifting her peasant skirt, and swinging it around, it was as if she was dancing an Italian tarantella. Her audience faded into the background. Her eyes were locked on mine.
“I love it!” she said, joining me, breathless. Taking my face between her hands, she kissed me on both cheeks. Hard. I’ve been in many fights in my life that caused my adrenaline to soar, but nothing prepared me for the moment I thought she was aiming for my lips. “Thank you... boss.”
“I could use some of your moves in the ring,” I said, grinning. “I have something else for you.” I reached into my pants’ pocket and pushed a white envelope in her direction.
“Money?”
“So that you can start making plans to move.” She stared at it for a long time. “You have to take it. It’s insulting to an Italian if you refuse a money gift.”
“Is being Italian your excuse for everything?”
“Is your smart mouth your excuse for everything? You’re a handful, Alex.”
“That’s what they tell me,” she said, pushing the envelope back in my direction. “It’s not right.”
“We have a deal.”
“No. I mean, it’s not right to waste money on another place. I’ve never met anyone like you. Your heart is so big, I can almost see it pounding. But I’ve been poor most of my life, and I can’t let you do this.”
I wanted to tell her that she was the one with a big heart. It was scarred, broken, but she was a survivor, and when I was worried about Nick, she didn’t hesitate to rush to my place to comfort me. Behind her facade of hostility was a caring spirit.
“I thought you gave your landlord notice.”
“I did.” She stared behind me, lost in her own thoughts, and then she let a piece of that facade crumble to the floor. “How many bedrooms do you have?”
“Two. I use one for storage. Why?”
Nick was listening from a few feet away. Rushing to protect me, he made the slashing motion across his neck. Somehow, he knew what words were about to escape, her big, beautiful, sensuous, smart mouth. “Do you want a roommate?”