by Lisa McMann
“Mom will give you nights off for stuff. You know that.”
“I . . . don’t have anything else to do.”
“You could go see a movie—”
“No,” I say.
Trey glances at me at a stoplight as we near our destination. I stare straight ahead. I can’t look at him or he’ll know something’s wrong. I focus on the construction crews along the side of the street hanging up banners for a spring flower show at the conservatory. In that instant, all the banners, as far ahead of us as I can see, change.
I suck in a breath. The banners now advertise dead Sawyer Angotti’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Trey asks. His voice is concerned.
“Nothing,” I say. I lean down and pretend to rummage around in my purse. “Seriously. I just need more sleep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Besides, it’s time to park the balls and feed some hungry people.
Every time I hand food out the window to the customers, I catch the long line of banners out of the corner of my eye and see Sawyer’s dead face. “Go away,” I mutter.
A customer looks at me, taken aback.
“Oh, no—not you,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” Great, now I’m insulting customers and talking to the banners. No mental illness here.
I keep my eyes closed for the ride home.
Eight
Back at the restaurant for the dinner rush, Dad is in the kitchen with his chef jacket on, which is a good sign. Trey and I exchange a glance and Trey calls out, “Hey, Pops.”
Dad looks up and smiles. “How’s my boy?” His voice booms. It always has. He’s been startling innocent children for as long as I can remember. Luckily, Trey did not inherit that trait. “Did you have a good day? Where’d you end up? Any other trucks out in this weather?” He can never just ask one question when he’s feeling good.
I let Trey handle him and keep walking, grabbing a fresh apron and tying it around my waist on my way to the hostess stand.
“Hey, Aunt Mary,” I say. She’s my dad’s sister. She reaches for me and air-kisses my cheek, then squeezes my upper arm and shakes me like she’s been doing since I was a little girl.
“So beautiful!” she declares loudly. “You have your father’s face.”
Yeah . . . uh . . . thanks. That’s not, like, a weird thing to say to a girl or anything. I smile and ask, “Is it busy? Where’s Rowan?”
“Tables seven and eight—a ten-topper. Rowdy bunch of hooligans. Maybe Trey should help her.”
I try not to scowl. Aunt Mary still lives in the last century. “I’m sure she and I can handle it fine. Trey’s doing deliveries tonight. He’s talking to Dad.”
Aunt Mary gives me a knowing look.
We never discuss Dad’s little “problem” with anybody. It’s this huge secret everybody knows but nobody talks about. Nobody’s allowed in our apartment. Nobody who knows us personally asks why. Just invoking Dad’s name is enough to stop Aunt Mary from pressing the issue. Talk about power. The guy who does the weirdest shit has all the power.
I grab a pen and an order pad, head into the dining room, and catch Rowan’s eye. She gives me a stricken look and points with a sideways nod to the big group. I look, and my heart sinks. It’s a bunch of kids from school, looking like they’re all on one giant, icky date. With a glance I see three guys who have tortured Trey in one manner or another since middle school. Two of the girls, Roxie and Sarah, used to be my friends in elementary school, before the cliques formed. Roxie was even upstairs for my sixth birthday party, back before the formation of the psycho’s dump.
I get the status from Rowan and help her bring out the drink orders. I smile politely at anyone who catches my eye. I am not here to socialize. I am here to serve as their nanny and slave, clean up when they make a huge sticky mess of sodden sugar packets, hot-pepper water glasses, and clogged parm shakers, and smile gratefully as I watch them not leave a tip. And I will promptly dismiss it from memory the next time I see them, when they call out in the hallway, “Hey, Jules, how are the big balls treating you?” Because that is what we Demarcos do to survive and pay the bills. And we do it well.
“Oh, hey, Julia,” Roxie says. I don’t remind her that I’ve gone by Jules since third grade.
And I do not call her Roxanne in return. “What can I get for you, Roxie? Or do you guys need a few minutes to decide?”
Half of them haven’t acknowledged me at all, and the other half give each other that smirky, Hey, we should probably check out the menu look, and no one answers my question. I stand a moment more, and then say, “So, you need a few minutes?”
“Yeah,” a couple of them say.
“I’ll stop back. If you decide before I get here, just flag me down.”
Silence.
“Okay, great.” I walk away feeling like a big bucket of stupid. My face gets hot. I hear the order-up bell, so I make a beeline for the kitchen to grab food for Rowan.
Trey is headed my way. I put my hand out. “Don’t go out there,” I say, and that stops him. I give him a sympathetic smile.
“Who’s here?”
“Assholes. Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered for now. I’ll let you clean up after them.”
“Awesome,” he says, rolling his eyes, but I know he’s grateful. It’s not like Trey needs anybody to protect him, but with Dad in the kitchen tonight, none of us want any trouble out on the floor. And with that cast of bigots out there, there would most certainly be trouble. Trey turns around and starts helping Casey, the dishwasher, while I grab the pizza and spaghetti for table four and head back out.
Over at the group-date table, I see straw wrapper carcasses all over the floor. “What sounds good tonight?” I say, perky. I hold my order pad so they get a clue that it’s time.
“Angotti’s sounds good,” one jackass says, “but they’re closed.”
I look up sharply. “On a Saturday night? Why, did something happen?”
The guy shrugs.
I stare. Why on earth would Angotti’s be closed? Angotti’s never closes. There has to be a family tragedy for that to happen.
“Um . . . ,” Roxie says. “Hello . . .” She waves her menu in my face and I look at her, my stomach twisting. “We’ll have two large pepperoni pizzas and a supreme. Thin crust.” She hands me her menu.
I picture Sawyer Angotti’s dead face staring back at me where my grandfather’s face is.
“We don’t have thin crust,” I say in a weird, wispy voice that doesn’t even sound like me. The table wavers. I glance over at Rowan, then back at Roxie. “I have to go,” I whisper.
I drop the menu on the table and take off. As I pass Rowan I say, “Can you help them? I think I’m going to be sick,” and I just keep going, running now, through the kitchen, out the back door, calling out, “Ma, help out front, please,” before the door closes. I suck in a cold breath of air and hang on to the door handle before I go into the apartment stairwell and run up, bumping against stacks of stuff on my way to the living room. I grab the TV remote, turn it on, and pick up the phone, but my hand is shaking and I don’t know the number. I can’t think.
On TV is a gardening show. I pause and play, and it’s still the show.
I drop the remote in the chair and whirl around. “Phone book,” I mutter. I look around the room at all the junk, no idea where to start. My chest floods with panic. “Where’s the fucking phone book? God! I hate this stupid place!” I start whipping through four-foot piles of magazines looking for a phone book, knowing there are probably no fewer than fifty of them in this room, yet not a single one shows its face. I go to the little desk drawer, and it’s jam-packed with paper clips. I can’t even slam it shut, it’s so full. I pinch my eyelids, trying not to cry in frustration. Just trying to breathe and think.
And then the TV sound goes off, all on its own.
Nine
I look over at the TV screen, and there it is. Only this time it’s a longer clip.
The snowplow crosses to the wrong side of the street, careens up over the snow pile and curb of the parking lot, almost getting airborne, and lands, bouncing. Not slowing down. I see the building for a split second, the big long window, and then the crash and the explosion. Bricks and glass go flying.
And then there’s a new part: The building catches on fire, and through the dark smoke, I see the structure as if we are fleeing from the scene, and we’re panning wide. It’s a three-story. A striped awning hangs precariously from a part of the wall that is still intact. And then everything is gone, and I’m watching a commercial for bug spray.
“What do you want me to do about it?” I yell at the TV. “I’m just a kid! Leave me alone!”
I stare at the phone in my hand, and my head clears. I dial 411. “Melrose Park,” I say, my voice shaking. “Angotti’s Trattoria.” A moment later I get the automated number, and push to dial direct.
It rings.
Five times it rings, like bells tolling for the dead.
And then it stops ringing, and a man’s voice announces, “Angotti’s.”
I am stunned and can’t speak at first. I clear my throat and realize I don’t know what to say. “Um, are you . . . I mean, how late are you open?”
“We’re actually closed to the public tonight for a family wedding reception. Really sorry about that. We’ll be open again tomorrow, eleven to eleven.”
“Oh.” I breathe out a relieved sigh into the phone, and then curse myself. “Okay, eleven to eleven. I—I was just checking. Thanks.” I want to ask, Is Sawyer alive? I want to ask, Are you sure it’s not a death in the family? But my heart is stuck in my throat.
And then the man says, “Jules?”
Shit. I’m a terrible liar when confronted. “Yeah,” I say.
“It’s Sawyer.”
“Oh. You sounded . . . older.”
His voice turns quiet, like he’s trying not to let people hear. “Why the heck are you calling the restaurant?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Caller ID says ‘A. Demarco.’ And by your voice.”
I answer with another little breathy noise that I think probably sounds like a dog panting. He recognized my voice.
“So why . . . ?” he asks again. “Are you trying to spy or something?” he says, like he’s starting to wind up. “If so, you’re not very good at it. I can’t believe your parents are making you do this.”
“No, Sawyer,” I say. “That’s not why . . .” I can hardly talk. I’m so relieved to hear his voice.
“So, what, you want a reservation?” He laughs sarcastically.
“No,” I say in a firmer voice, “and stop accusing me of stupid things. I just heard from a customer that you guys are closed tonight. And—” I grip the top of my head with my free hand, hoping that’ll help me think of a lie. “And . . . you guys never close. So, ah, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Crap. I barely get the words out when I hear footsteps coming up the steps, and I remember the disaster I left Rowan with downstairs.
Sawyer doesn’t answer.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I hang up the phone and whirl around as my mother opens the door and peeks in at me.
“Are you sick? Rowan said you were pale as a ghost.” She comes up to me and presses the back of her hand against my forehead.
I give her a weak smile. “I’m okay now. I guess I forgot to eat lunch today. And I got dizzy there for a minute. But I had some juice and a sandwich. Sorry about that.” I’m saying sorry a lot lately.
“No fever. You just rest for a bit,” she says. “Dad’s cooking, I’m helping Rowan. Mary’s here. We’re covered. You need a break.” She smiles at me. “Go watch some TV.”
I glance at the TV, still on. “Thanks,” I say.
She closes the door and disappears. I hear her stepping unevenly down the stairs, and I wonder how she takes it. The hoarding. How she doesn’t crack, being married to him.
And then the phone rings right next to me and I nearly hit the ceiling. I look at the caller ID and wait for the name to come up.
It’s Angotti’s Trattoria.
Ten
I panic. Did he hit the call button on his caller ID by accident? If I answer, I’ll look desperate. What does he want? I’m sure it’s a mistake, and I imagine the awkward conversation that would follow.
Hello?
Um . . . oops. Wrong number. Hit “last call” by mistake.
Okay, bye.
Yeah. Bye.
Weird. Awful. After six rings, it stops.
I wait a minute more, and then scroll through the caller ID list. Stare at his number, then reluctantly hit delete, and it feels like the breakup we never really had. But if Dad sees that, he’ll freak.
And then I go back to the TV.
I rewind the show to the commercial, and just like last time, the scene appears. I watch it over and over in slow motion. There’s the snowplow, the parking lot, the building with the window just before the crash. This time I pause the scene here. There are blinds on the big window, but they are open. I see shapes—people’s upper bodies. And hanging light fixtures.
The upper half of the building looks like an apartment. There are several smaller windows up there, all curtained, but I can tell lights are on. I can’t make out what the words on the building say—they are mostly cut off from the frame. I go to the next frame, and the next, and the next. I can’t figure out why everything has to explode—why the truck doesn’t just crumple instead.
When I get to the newer part, with the fire and the wider shot, I pause again and stare at the TV. There are a few cars in the parking lot, but they are hard to make out in the dark. The only distinguishing feature I can see is the awning that’s dangling there from the explosion. I can’t even tell what color it is because of the smoke and shadows and the snow, but it definitely has wide stripes.
Like a restaurant awning would have.
An Italian restaurant.
I sigh deeply and squeeze my eyes shut, massaging the lids. I’ve been avoiding this thought, not wanting to face it. But nothing else makes sense. I don’t remember ever being behind Angotti’s before. We just never go there, for obvious reasons. But I think the vision is showing me the back of their restaurant. From memory, I can only picture the front of it, but even now, as many times as I’ve been past it, I don’t remember if they have an awning out front that might be a matching counterpart of the one in the vision. I don’t remember if there are apartments above the retail shops on that street or not. I can picture their sign and logo no problem—that part’s etched into my brain. But the other details . . . I just don’t know. I watch it to the end, and then turn off the TV and sit in the dark and think.
All I know is what I’ve been avoiding all along. These visions, or scenes, or whatever they are, are getting more and more frequent, and showing up in more places all the time. Obviously Sawyer isn’t in a body bag. So either that means I’m insane, or it means this hasn’t happened yet. I am seeing the future, and the only reason I can think of for why this is happening is that I’m supposed to do something about it. The vision is badgering me, trying to get my attention.
I guess I’m supposed to warn them, those nine people, even though I don’t know who eight of them are, and get them out of there. All by myself.
Either that or I’m the biggest nutcase in the history of this family.
• • •
After a while I get my notepad and a pencil and I turn the TV back on. I don’t have to go looking for the scene now—it’s right there. I pause it at the wide shot where I have the best view of the whole building, searching for any street signs or other landmarks. I argue with myself. Truthfully, I don’t even know if this place is in Melrose Park, or in Chicago, or even in the United States. But instinctively, I know where it has to be if there’s going to be a dead Sawyer Angotti in a body bag outside.
I sketch the back of the building—what’s left of it, anyway. Then I shove the sketch i
n my pocket, turn off the TV, grab my coat, and head downstairs. I pause before opening the door and look out the window.
The pizza delivery car is gone. I debate—if I go inside the restaurant, I’ll have to wait tables. I look at the meatball truck and there’s no question—I can’t be seen in that tonight, lurking around. I call Trey’s cell.
“What’s up?” he says.
“Where are you?”
“On the way back. You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, fine—just needed some air. Can I do deliveries?”
He’s quiet for a second, and I know he’s trying to figure out why I’m asking. “Is this, like, your ‘getting back on the horse’ moment?” He’s not joking. I almost got robbed—and who knows what else—last time I delivered. And even though it was a really weird situation and crime is normally not that bad here, I haven’t wanted to do deliveries since then.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Okay,” he says. I can tell he’s not sure.
“I’ll be fine. It was just a fluke. I need to do this to prepare for the Super Bowl tomorrow, ’cause I’m helping you. I just decided.”
He hesitates. “Just make sure you do what I told you if anything happens.”
“I will, I promise.” I smile. He told me to kick ’em in the meatballs. “You’re the best.”
“I know,” he says. “Now, go check the next order and make sure it’s a good neighborhood—I’m pulling into the alley now.”
“Got it.” I hang up and go into the restaurant. I see the delivery bag on the warming shelf by the door, check the address to make sure I know where it is, and without anybody noticing me, I grab it and meet Trey at the car.
He gives me a weird look. “Is it in a good neighborhood?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, showing him the ticket. “I’ll be safe.” I look him in the eye so he knows I’m not lying. “I have my phone and my keys.” I show him how I stick the keys between my fingers so I can punch and gore somebody’s eyes out. “And my meatball kicker,” I add, wiggling my boot. I am seriously prepared.