Kiss Me in New York

by Catherine Rider

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean …” He catches himself, then sighs as if to say, Okay, I’ll tell you. Why not? “My old man never went to college, so he doesn’t really know what it’s about. Where we come from, people understand how to ‘get by,’ but they don’t really do any planning for the future. Know what I mean? That’s what he’s always saying to me, anyway …” His voice changes to a low, rasping rumble. “‘Anthony, son, what’s the point in preparing to fight tomorrow when today could just come up and — boom — punch you right in the face?’”

  “But you got into Columbia” — just like me — “so surely he appreciates that you’ve probably got some talent, that you’re not wasting your time?”

  “Oh, he gets it,” says Anthony, reaching and taking Mistake from me. The pup sleeps through the movement. “And don’t get me wrong, he is proud. He doesn’t know why I want to do it, but he does tell me that he thinks it’s great I can write stories, that I have an imagination. But” — he switches back into his dad’s voice — “‘You can’t imagine a future and bring that to life, kid. If we could do that, I’d have grown up to become shortstop for the Mets.’”

  I understand everything but that last sentence!

  Anthony smiles, rubs his neck like his Dad impression gave him a sore throat. “He puts fliers for the Corrections Officer Exam under my door every other week. Did you know the starting salary can sometimes be thirty grand a year?”

  “I did not,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light so that whatever’s boiling up inside him about his dad doesn’t turn to actual anger. Lainey’s now charging into the Battery Tunnel, which, the signs say, will take us to Brooklyn. Once we’re inside, the silence is so heavy, I feel momentarily deaf. “I’m sure he’ll change his tune if you make a real career out of writing.”

  “I don’t think my dad’ll ever really ‘get’ it. My mom, though, she … she always liked my stories.” He gives a soft smile, and I watch him for a moment to make sure he isn’t going to cry. I’m on the verge of reaching for him when he shakes his head and looks at me. “So, you said Columbia, but I didn’t ask — what would you study?”

  “Journalism. That’s always been my dream.” I’m suddenly bashful — I don’t often talk about my hopes and ambitions, what I want to achieve, with people. I try not to make it seem like I think it’s a big deal.

  “Cool,” he says. “Columbia’s journalism program is one of the best in the northeast. Maybe the country.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been told, but …”

  I can feel him looking at me. “But what?”

  Come on, Charlotte — if he can be honest with you about everything to do with his mum, you can spit this out. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking that I probably won’t take the place.”

  “You serious? Did you not hear what I just said about how great Columbia’s —”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you …” I try to look up at him, but it’s like an invisible and very heavy hand is keeping my head in place, forcing me to look at my knees. “I knew that …”

  He makes a sound that’s part shock, part scoff. “Is it because of Co… him? Some d-bag from Westchester? What is it — did he get early admission, too, and you don’t want to have to see him?”

  I wish it was that simple. That understandable.

  I reach out and scratch Mistake behind the ear, as if I need to draw the courage to keep speaking from her. “No, no, he’s deferring college for a year to go traveling. But me, I … I dunno, New York just looks different to me now. I’m not as sure as I used to be about moving here.”

  When he says nothing, I get the sense that he’s waiting for me to look at him. I force myself to. The lights of the tunnel pass over his face, so that his gaze is interrupted, flickering. Like the mirror in Macy’s, the effect makes the eye contact somehow more intense than normal.

  “It’s your dream,” he says. “The city looks different now? Okay, fine — adjust. It’s your dream.” He takes my hand again, squeezes it once. “You can do it.”

  Lainey charges out of the tunnel, the flickering shadows gone, leaving just uninterrupted eye contact. After a second, Anthony’s cheeks twitch and he looks forward.

  “Hey,” he says, pointing at the clock on the dashboard. It says 11:59. “It’s nearly —”

  The clock turns to midnight. We look back at each other, and I’m struck by how … normal this feels, to be in a strange car in a strange city with some boy I’ve known for about nine hours or so. I really don’t know what to do or say in this situation, and it feels okay somehow, and I’ve no idea why. Maybe because, unlike with him, I don’t feel a need to “perform” with Anthony, to be something or someone I think he wants me to be. I’ve let him see all my good sides and some of the not-so-good, and he hasn’t run off yet. So, yeah — maybe there’s nothing to say right now, and that’s okay.

  “Merry Christmas.” I can barely hear his whisper over the roar of Lainey’s engine, and I’m just grateful that the siren isn’t on. More than that, I’m thankful that I’m not where I’m supposed to be right now — probably asleep on a plane as it starts to make a descent into London Heathrow. I am no longer upset about my flight being canceled.

  Yeah, because that’s the thing to focus on right now, Charlotte. Say it back!

  But before I can, Anthony turns away, looking forward. I’m still holding his hand, so I squeeze it again.

  We sit in silence for a minute or two until Lainey — whose voice rises easily above the roaring engine — calls back and asks where we want to be dropped off. Anthony gives directions to his house, and within five minutes of coming out of the tunnel, we’re pulling up to it. We thank Lainey, who tells us to stay out of trouble — and also asks Anthony to tell his brother to call her — and then get out. As the cruiser turns around and drives off, back to the city, we face a simple semi-detached house with a small patch of lawn for a front garden. The grass is a bit tangled, overgrown, but the potted plants lining the edges tell me that it used to be well-tended. I wonder if this was Anthony’s mum’s pet project. He’s kind of crushing my hand, and when I look at him, I see that his jaw is clenched, his lips pursed.

  “Remember,” I tell him. “If it gets too much, just throw the British girl in front of you as a distraction.” Mistake gives a single bark, wriggling in his arms. We both laugh. “Or just chuck this one at the nearest relative.”

  He smiles for what feels like the first time since we were sledding. “I don’t think even Mistake could deal with that much fussing.”

  But he holds her up almost like a shield as he leads me up the steps to the front door. He uses a key to open it, and a second later all I’m aware of is meatballs and murmuring. The sounds and smells are like a strangely pleasant slap in the face, the heat of what’s been cooked like a cozy hug, which is a real relief from the cold outside. Anthony leads me into a wood-paneled hallway that seems almost stubbornly old-fashioned, just like the soft, paisley carpet. We have to sidestep right to get past the huge mound of coats and jackets piled on top of each other on the coatrack.

  I follow him to the kitchen at the back of the house — five people are sitting at a table, empty plates orbiting pots and casserole dishes, wineglasses and beer bottles in front of them. I wonder how long they’ve been sitting here after finishing dinner — whether the kitchen has taken on some kind of safe, comforting space for them on this anniversary?

  “Well, isn’t this cozy?” says Anthony, throwing up his free hand in mock outrage. “The family that eats together!”

  At the head of the table is an elderly lady in a dark-green cardigan, who seems powerful and commanding, even though she can’t be taller than five feet. On either side of her are two men who look to be pushing fifty (and fifty might be scared to push back). They both have dark hair dappled with gray and flecks of what might be sawdust or paint. I think it’s kind of nic
e that they might be brothers who work together; it must have sucked for them to have to work on Christmas Eve.

  But I guess they probably wanted to keep their minds busy today …

  The old lady motions for Anthony to sit down and speaks in an accent that wavers between Brooklyn and … somewhere in Italy.

  “There’s still lots left, Antonio,” she says, gesturing to the pots and casserole dishes. “You must be hungry. You’ve been gone all day.”

  “Yeah, where you been?” says the man to her right. Anthony’s impression of his father really was dead-on. Everyone at the table looks at Anthony. A tall, broad-shouldered guy in a plain white button-down (the youngest in the kitchen, apart from us, so I figure he’s Luke the Cop), the other fifty-ish guy, the old lady and a short, slender woman in a brown cardigan and gingham skirt all look at him with concern.

  “Everything okay?” Luke asks, draining the last of his beer.

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Anthony, “it’s all good.” He does a quick round of introductions for my benefit. The old lady is his grandmother, Fiorella; to her right is his dad, Tommy; to her left is Uncle Frank; the lady in the brown cardigan is Aunt Carla, who I gather is responsible for the feast. Anthony introduces Luke as his “big brother, the cop,” and I notice that everyone beams at that, especially Tommy.

  Then Luke gestures to Mistake. “What’s with the dog?”

  “Long story,” says Anthony. That’s an overstatement, actually, but I don’t jump in.

  Fiorella is fumbling to put on a pair of Coke-bottle glasses, leaning forward to stare at me over the table. “This your new girlfriend?” she asks Anthony.

  “No, Grandma, Charlotte’s just a new friend I made tonight,” Anthony says. A little quickly.

  The old lady looks back to me. “You sick?”

  I think she’s asking me a question, but it sounds more like an assessment. “No, no,” I insist. “I’m fine.”

  “But you’re so pale,” she says, gesturing to the food on the table. “Eat something, immediately!”

  I can’t help the hand that goes reflexively to my face — my very pale face. I just mumble a “thanks” as Anthony sits down at the only empty chair, while Luke gets up and moves to stand by the sink, gesturing for me to sit in his seat, next to Carla, who is already ladling linguini onto plates.

  She sets one in front of me, then hands the other to Anthony, who keeps a very interested Mistake braced against his chest.

  “Give her to me,” says Tommy. “I’ll let you two eat.”

  Anthony stands up to hand the pup to his father, Mistake’s legs wheeling in the air the whole time. Everyone laughs — except Grandma Fiorella, who slaps the table and insists that someone give the poor dog some food!

  Carla’s on it, scooping some sausage onto a small plate for Mistake, which she puts under the table. Anthony and I sprinkle some parmesan onto our pasta. I take my first mouthful and try not to react — but it’s kind of hard.

  “Oh, it’s cold, isn’t it?” says Carla, reaching for our plates. “Let me heat them up for you.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” I tell her. “Really.”

  Beside me, Anthony nods and jokes that he likes his pasta “dead cold.”

  Carla looks momentarily mortified, but then she laughs, and so does everyone else, and I know instantly that Anthony’s family disproves another idea British people have about Americans — that they don’t wind each other up out of affection.

  The laughter lasts for about three seconds, the “ha-has” becoming “mmm-mms,” which become “mmms,” and then everything is silent.

  I look down at my food, fearful that if I look up, they’ll know I’m trying to figure out how long they’ve been sitting here tonight.

  That I’ve been told enough to know why they might all be sitting in silence. I don’t know this family, but I can tell that they don’t really want to talk about their grief, which must be worse than usual because it’s about fifteen minutes into the first anniversary of losing a mother, wife and sister …

  I try to bring the laughter back. “I love how you take the piss out of each other.”

  Six blank faces stare at me around the table. I can actually imagine Mistake, underneath the table, stopping what she’s doing and giving me the same look. Of course — Americans don’t really have that phrase. To them, I’ve just called them a family of catheters or something.

  “This might be the strangest girl you’ve ever brought home, dude,” says Luke, crossing to the fridge and pointing to his dad. Tommy nods, and Luke gets them both new beers.

  Then Luke turns to Anthony. “So, dare I ask?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t,” says Anthony, through a mouthful of pasta. I feel a soft little lump barrel against my legs. I look down to see Mistake, licking her muzzle and looking up at me like Oliver Twist, asking for more.

  “Come on,” says Luke, in between swigs. “You were all excited about Maya coming home from college today, and tonight you turn up here with somebody else?”

  “Charlotte’s a friend,” Anthony says again. Like they didn’t get that before!

  “Something’s up,” Luke says. He’s got a challenging look on his face, matched by all the other grown-ups in the room. “What happened? She come back from Cali with a new boyfriend?”

  Anthony doesn’t answer, but the pause he takes and the way his shoulders hunch around his jaw is a dead giveaway.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke groans, while Fiorella swats at the air.

  “I should teach that girl a lesson myself!” Her voice is a snarl, and I look away to hide my grin — I like Anthony’s nan.

  The family makes sympathetic noises to Anthony, which he waves away. “I’m fine, really,” he says, then goes back to eating.

  Tommy is shaking his head. “To do that to a boy — today of all days …”

  Silence falls over the table like a giant blanket, and I don’t need to look up from my plate to know that no one is making eye contact. My heart squeezes for a non–Love Life reason when I think about how this family is trying to get past their grief, but can’t escape talking about the reason they’re grieving.

  But then Luke snorts. “Well, look on the bright side, man — hold on to whatever gifts you bought, and you can give them to next year’s girlfriend. Free Christmas!”

  Anthony rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to turn me into a cheapskate. I’m not joining your team.”

  Luke holds up his hands, laughing for a second, then growing serious. “But you’re okay, though?”

  Anthony just smiles down into his cold pasta, then looks up and nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “She won’t be,” mutters Fiorella. “Not if I ever run into her on the street.”

  Anthony reaches across the table and squeezes his grandmother’s hand. “Let it go, Grandma. I’m good. I promise.”

  Another silence falls over the table — this one a little less uncomfortable, a little less heavy, than the last.

  Finally, Carla mumbles, “Where is that girl? She should come in and say hello. Diana!” Her voice is so loud, I have to lean away from her to save my eardrum. Mistake gives a startled whine from underneath the table. Tommy reaches down to fuss over her and tell her it’s okay.

  A waifish tween tomboy comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt for some band I’ve never heard of — God, that makes me feel old — and she’s got a wide-eyed look about her that’s asking the table, What could I have possibly done to get in trouble from another room?

  “Say hello to Charlotte,” says Fiorella. “Anthony’s new pale girlfriend.”

  “No, she’s not,” says Anthony. A bit quick, making me wonder again if I’m somehow unthinkable. And I hate to admit it, but I wonder if he didn’t enjoy our smooch in Smooch as much as I did.

  “Hey,” Diana says to
me.

  “Hello, nice to meet you,” I say back.

  Diana is just making to leave, but she stops mid-turn. “Oh, cool — you’re British.”

  Tommy is grinning at me. “Yeah, you sound like someone off that TV show,” he says, snapping his fingers, trying to remember which one. “The one about the family where everyone’s marrying their cousin.”

  “Downton Abbey,” Fiorella says, swatting the air again as Diana disappears. That appears to be her go-to gesture for everything.

  “Yeah, Downton Abbey,” says Tommy, picking up Mistake and setting her in his lap. “You sound like those guys.”

  I guess Anthony wasn’t kidding when he said it’s tough to tell the difference between English regions. And while Tommy is only the second person tonight to say I sound like I belong on Downton Abbey, it is starting to grate. I’m from Hampstead, which is at least five rungs down on the Poshness Ladder, I’ll have them know!

  Mistake is wriggling in Tommy’s hands, leaning and stretching for the table.

  “Stop it, Mistake,” I say. “You’ve been fed.”

  She looks at me with, well, puppy-dog eyes, as if to say: But, Mum, there’s so much food. Why isn’t it for me?

  Carla just smiles, bending down to scoop up Mistake’s little plate. “You get one more,” she says, “and then you’re done, you hear me?”

  She scoops up some more sausage and sets it back down. If Tommy didn’t have a strong grip on her, I think Mistake might have given herself a concussion diving down for the plate. She goes after her seconds greedily, losing control of the plate a couple of times, sending it sliding along the floor and knocking into table legs.

  “God, I hope she calms down soon,” Anthony says, helping himself. “It’ll be hard to find her a new home if she’s this rowdy all the time.”

  Luke is bending down to fuss over Mistake. His head shoots up sharply. “You can’t give her away!”