by Megan Rivers
He put his hands up in defense. “I get it. I get it. Don't make fun of art around an art historian. I'm going to get my own sandwich, do you want anything?”
I rubbed my hands on a rag. “No, I'm almost done. I'm just going to clean up.”
He shot me a quick thumbs up and walked to the counter where Gio was sweeping the floor. I only looked up when Gio's voice got higher, more excited. He was using his hands to talk and had a huge smile on his face. Eavesdropping, I heard Galvin speaking with him in flawless Italian. I listened for longer than I should have, shocked that they were, in fact, conversing in another language.
Putting my supplies in a large box, I dragged it into the back room just in time to hear Galvin thank Gio in Italian as he handed him a plate with a towering pastrami sandwich.
“I did not know you spoke Italian,” I admitted, joining Galvin at a table.
“There are still a lot of things you don't know about me.” He took a bite of his sandwich and said, “Magnifico. Che buono,” more to himself than to me.
“Like what?” I asked.
Galvin's gaze swept the ceiling as he chewed and thought about it. He swallowed and said, “I loved school.”
I laughed, thinking it was a joke, but the look on his face quickly told me it wasn't. “Really?”
He nodded. “Honest. Why do you think my English was so much better than Trey's when we met? He did not like school at all. I loved learning Italian, too. Speaking it is like a dance.”
Astonishment, I'm sure, still broke out all over my face. “Did you go back? After Prey for Chance broke up?”
He shook his head side to side. “No. It just wasn't important.”
“What would you study if you went back? Music?”
“Maybe,” he said, taking a bite of a pickle. “Or history. Or international relations. I wanted to be a diplomat.”
“A diplomat?” I asked. I couldn't picture it. “Don't they have to deal with people?”
Galvin smiled. “Yes, but in a helpful way.”
“I'm sorry. I can't picture it,” I admitted, still amused.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe I'll sing in a world famous rock band instead.” He winked surreptitiously before taking another bite of his sandwich.
“Oh! Much more believable!” I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
And I laughed. That melodic sound that made my shoulders lift was become a more frequent visitor and I know that Galvin was to thank for that.
Throughout that summer, I worked on the mural every spare moment I had. It was a form of therapy. Some people run or exercise to destress and cleanse their soul, but art did that for me. All the built up emotions, frustrations, fears and anxiety of the past several months melted away as I painted.
Sometimes Galvin would stop in for some company and food, but mostly it was my music, my paints, and me. Nearly every day after work I would walk in under the jingling brass bell, change into grubby clothes I stored in the backroom, and paint until closing.
Galvin and I would still have Pizza Fridays, but I really looked forward to the time in front of the mural. He was understanding and knew when to keep his distance and when I needed a friend.
Near the end of August, the mural was nearly finished; I was only fretting over shading and shadows. Galvin came in as I was on a small step ladder, adding highlights to the foreground one day.
“Wow, Christie, that looks amazing,” he said, standing below me, taking in the mural.
I blushed and climbed down the step ladder, balancing the paint palette in my left hand.
“No really,” he encouraged. “The last time I was here, it was just outlines with a few colors, but this is just beautiful.”
Humbly, I uttered a thanks then quickly changed the subject. “What brings you by?” I asked, putting the palette on my nearby work surface and rubbing my hands with a rag.
“Oh, I wanted to let you know I'll be out of town next month from the seventh to the eleventh, so I have to cancel Pizza Friday.”
“Oh.” I was disappointed, but I knew I'd get over it quickly. “Where are you going?”
“To L.A. Trey had Leah had a baby boy last night—”
“No way!” I cut him off, lightly punching him in the shoulder.
He smiled, rubbing his shoulder. “Yeah. And I'm going to meet with my agent. He wants me to do an interview for some kind of behind-the-music documentary on the band.”
“That should be fun,” I said. As an afterthought I added, “Have you been playing any new music?”
Galvin shook his head, not meeting my gaze. “I haven't picked up the guitar in a long time.”
“Why?”
He shook his head again and I took the hint. “I'll let you get back to your painting,” he said, turning to leave. His shoulders hunched but his face wore a mask of indifference. It seemed like he needed a friend at that moment.
“Hold on!” I called after him. He turned and looked exhausted. “Would you mind if I tagged along?”
“I'm just going home—“ he started to explain, but I cut him off, shaking my head.
“No, I mean to L.A. I haven't seen Meadow since Christmas and I would love to visit her.”
A small smile appeared on his lips. “That sounds great,” he said, his shoulders not slouching as much.
“I'll see you this Friday, right?” I asked.
“You bring your own M&Ms this time.” I was glad he left with a joke, it prevented me from running after him.
XII.
Goodbye, My Love
“Let Her Go” – Passenger
The night before I left for Los Angeles, Joe had an unveiling of the mural. Much to my chagrin, he wanted to make a big deal about it and covered it with canvas and put up a public invitation on the door a week earlier. I even caught him handing small 3x5 invitations to customers with their orders.
The night before the reveal, I called Galvin to make sure he'd be there. “You're coming, right?” I asked while sitting at the laundry mat, trying to get clean clothes to pack for the upcoming trip.
“I don't know,” he responded, hesitant. The closer we got to departing on this trip, the more stand-offish he was getting, like a bad case of anxiety.
“Please come. You helped,” I encouraged.
“I just stayed out of your way.”
“Like I said, you helped,” I joked. When he didn't laugh, I tried a more sincere route. “Galvin, without you I wouldn't be where I am. You helped me through one of the worst periods of my life. You gave me the strength to keep going.” Though it might have sounded like a guilt trip, it was meant to be a gesture of gratitude.
He sighed, but not in frustration. “Of course I'll be there, Christie. Nothing would make me more proud.”
That night The Meat Up was packed; it made my heart soar to see how many people loved that place. I walked in wearing black pleated pants and a blue blouse, fresh from work, and smiled at the jingling brass bell, barely able to squeeze my way into the deli. There was a huge white canvas draped across the east wall that I spent my summer pouring my soul into.
Slowly, I traveled through the bodies, like ketchup down a Heinz-57 bottle. I finally had breathing room when crossed to the other side of the counter. Joe and Gio were rapidly taking orders and making sandwiches for the people in line. The way they worked together was like a perfectly choreographed dance and I couldn't help but watch them.
People were eating at tables, squashed together, and standing in a free space, chomping on their lunch meats. Despite the rising temperature and lack of personal space, the general attitude was jubilant. I scanned the crowd looking for Galvin, but couldn't find him. “Christie!” Joe exclaimed, raising his hands in joy. “You're here!” he kissed me on both cheeks, radiating with happiness.
“This turn out is amazing, Joe. I can't believe it!” I said, shocked.
“It's all you, bella. They've come for you. You're family.” He took my hands in his. “Are you ready?”
&nb
sp; I scanned the crowd once more for Galvin, but was unsuccessful. “As ready as I can be,” I responded.
Joe stood in front of the canvas and on a chair. He began to talk to get everyone's attention. The louder he spoke, the more apparent his accent was. “Thank you all for coming tonight. It makes my heart so happy to see so many of you support this little deli. Not many of you know this history of The Meat Up.
“When my parents first came to this great country in 1942, my father worked as a bricklayer. But he loved to cook—we're Italian, no?” I browsed the laughing crowd, hoping to see Galvin's familiar face. Still no Galvin.
“In 1968, when I was just sixteen, my father had the opportunity to open a deli in Brooklyn which he named The Meat Up. In the eighties we moved to this location. Since I have no children of my own, my nephew, Antony, came to America with me when he was just seventeen to help keep this family tradition alive. And now his brother, Gio, is here.” Joe waved to Gio who was placing orders above the partition.
“Many of you know that tragedy struck our family just over a year ago. My dear Antony,” Joe put a hand over his heart and his voice began to crack and the raw emotion made my eyes water, “was taken from us.”
A fist seemed to squeeze my heart with the memories his speech brought. He looked down at me and his eyes told me I wasn't alone. “But Antony was lucky,” he continued. “He had the privilege of falling in love, with a talented artist, no less.” Antony took my hand and pulled me up onto the chair beside him, keeping a firm grasp.
“Christie worked tirelessly to reflect the beauty she saw in our Antony into this mural. Though what happened was a tragedy, without darkness there is no light. We cannot feel happiness if we never experience pain.”
Joe lifted my hand and kissed it. “With Christie's permission, I would like to unveil a bit of our history.”
Joe stepped down from his chair and handed me a yellow cord that hung from the canvas and nodded.
“This one's for you, Antony,” I said to myself and pulled the cord.
The canvas fell away revealing the finished mural. It was a painting of the deli. Joe's parents stood by the register, Joe and Gio made sandwiches for some of the regulars that stood in line. In the foreground, just below the brass bell, was Antony. He held a meatball sandwich on a platter and his face lit up the room.
I turned to the crowd and saw Galvin by the entrance, the brass bell dancing over his head. He smiled wider than I thought possible. Joe held out his hand to help me step down from the chair. Joe and I agreed from the start to dedicate this work of art in Antony's memory. He took out a small plaque and handed it to me. It read:
The Meat Up
Artist: Christine Kelly
In memory of Antony Vanchello
May his smile forever brighten this room.
That fist squeezing my heart released its grasp and I felt a lightness. I looked up into Joe's eyes and wiped away a few tears. “Thank-you, Christie, for everything you've done for us... for Antony.”
“No, thank-you Joe.” We embraced. It was healing to have this dedication for Antony. I felt closure. Just like Joe had said, I had lived in the darkness, but now I could see the light—and I never would have known it without experiencing those dark months.
Joe, Gio, and I took a few photographs in front of the mural. Galvin squeezed his way to the front of the crowd and before I could say hello, he hugged me. It wasn't a quick hug where he quickly pulled away like I had come accustomed to. This one meant congratulations, from one tortured soul to another. Congratulations on finding the strength to pull-through. I'm proud of you.
XIII.
The Truth is Served with Limes
“Party in the U.S.A.” – Miley Cyrus
The following morning Galvin took the train to my apartment and called for a taxi to JFK International Airport. I counted my lucky stars when Galvin walked in with a large hot cup of coffee. “You are amazing,” I admitted, grasping the cup with both hands like it was the Holy Grail.
He waved his hand. “No, just cautious. I don't want to spend the next six-plus hours with you on no caffeine. That's a death wish.”
“Smart man,” I said and sat on the couch.
“All packed?” he asked, looking for my luggage.
I nodded and pointed to the small carry on case by the door, then took a healthy gulp of joe.
“How are you the only woman who can pack a smaller suitcase than me?” he asked, pointing out his slightly larger, sleek Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase.
Smiling, I shrugged and slipped into a pair of shoes. “Ready?” I asked, reaching for my purse.
“After you,” he said, opening the door.
The distance to our terminal was nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody turned and looked, gawked, or snapped photos of us. We were normal people, taking a normal holiday to California. It was strange, but refreshing. Even Galvin looked at ease.
On the plane, we found our seats and, naturally, I took the window since looking out of it still made Galvin queasy. As I buckled the seat belt, I mused, “Do you realize that the last time we were on a plane together was,” I counted on my fingers because that is how bad I am at math, “twelve years ago?”
Galvin chuckled at the fact that I used my fingers to figure out how many years lapsed between 2000 and 2012. “Actually,” he corrected, “the last time we were together on a plane was from New York to L.A., for the Grammy's.”
“Oh yeah. How could I forget that trip? That was fun.” I sat back and smiled, letting the memories of Cece DeLourt and Leonardo DiCaprio flood over me. I blushed when the memories of that one morning visited and I avoided looking at Galvin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a smile on his lips, though I wasn't sure he shared my reminiscence.
Once we landed at LAX, I walked out of the terminal holding my rumbling my stomach. “I'm starving! Let's get something quick before we grab a car.” Galvin agreed and we walked through the airport looking for something other than Starbucks or packaged junk food.
“Pizza!” we said in unison, high-tailing it for California Pizza Kitchen.
We stood at a counter nearby, greedily stuffing our faces with pepperoni and extra cheese. Galvin smiled and wiped his face with a napkin. “I think this is the first time I've ever seen you eat pizza without M&Ms.”
“It's my wild side.” I said, jokingly.
Galvin let out a hearty laugh. “You better it tone it down or airport security will detain you.”
I smiled at his reply. I forgot how much fun Galvin could be sometimes. “Hey!” I realized. “We got to have Pizza Friday after all! Cheers!” I said, offering my pizza to clink his, as we often did to start our Pizza Fridays.
In high spirits, Galvin rented a car and we were soon creeping down the interstate. There were so many palm trees and an abundance of sunshine that I barely tore my eyes from the window. We programmed Meadow's address into Galvin's phone and within forty-five minutes we pulled into her apartment complex. We drove past a gated pool and a building whose windows displayed a variety of workout equipment. No wonder she had no desire to move back to New York. I wanted to live here, too.
“Stie!!” she exclaimed in an excited squeal, running barefoot from her front door. Her apartment was more like a townhouse with a private garage. Inside, there was a cozy living room and kitchen on the main floor and a bedroom and an open office up the flight of stairs. “I can't believe you're here!!” she said, hugging me tightly, swaying back and forth rapidly. “Come inside!”
Galvin had already gotten my diminutive suitcase from the trunk and wouldn't let me roll it to the door. “Are you kidding?” he retorted. “It's so small, I can put it in my pocket and forget it's there!” he joked.
“Wow, Meadow.” I said taking in the space of her new digs. “It looks like the music industry is treating you well... or at least McKellar is.” McKellar was the company she worked for. She was still low in their ranks, but she aspired to be an agent.
She only beamed at
me. Galvin followed me inside, leaving my suitcase by the door. “Hey Meadow,” he half waved.
She nodded with a smile, then returned her attention to me. “We're going to have so much fun! I have so much planned!”
“I'm going to let you guys have your fun,” Galvin said, backing away.
“No, you don't have to go yet,” I said, nudging Meadow.
“You're welcome to stay here instead of a hotel,” Meadow offered, pointing to her couch, though the offer didn't seem genuine.
Galvin looked like he was considering the offer, but then said, “No. You haven't seen each other in a while. I'll stay at the Ramada.” He then looked at me and said, “Call if you need anything.”
“See you on Monday?” I asked before he walked out the door.
He turned his head, with his hand on the door frame, one foot outside. “Noon, okay?”
I smiled. “You got it!” He closed the door as he walked outside.
“Monday? Where are you guys going?” Meadow asked, addled.
I grabbed my suitcase and explained. “Well, you were going to be at work so I made plans with Galvin.” The look in her eyes pushed for more information. “To see Trey.” Still, her eyes demanded more. “He just had a baby so we're going to go visit. I haven't seen him in years! It'll be fun.”
Meadow pierced her lips together but decided to change the subject. “Well, I stocked up on Oreos for you. Want a tour of the place and then get some chow?” I nodded and she pulled me through her apartment.
The following morning Meadow took me on a tour of Hollywood, where I snapped a picture pretending to hold the H in the Hollywood sign above my head, and we walked down Rodeo Drive.
“Now what?” I asked as we got back into her purple PT cruiser.
She lifted the sun glasses off her face and rested them on top of her head so that they held back her curls. “Burgers then home.”