“Your parents?”
“No,” I say with a sigh, “eggs, actually.”
“Eggs.”
“Eggs Romana, to be exact.”
He frowns.
“It’s got, like, celery and parsley and Parmesan in it, and you finish it with a little red pe—”
“About Tony Bovaro,” he says, inhaling and holding a breath as though this afternoon will be even longer than he’d imagined.
“Right. At the time, we were living in the Caldwells, and genuine Italian food was in short supply in our particular corner of New Jersey. My dad used to take my mother and me to Little Italy for our birthdays so we could really savor the experience, you know? Not just the food, but the people, the culture, the gentle flow of the Italian language.” I stare at the cup and focus; eye contact at this point is impossible.
“I was the only child so far, with one in my mom’s belly—a younger brother in the making—so I pretty much got whatever I wanted out of unconditional parental love.” I grimace. “And for whatever reason, I woke early on this especially bleak Sunday morning in late March and asked in my most sincere, sweet six-year-old voice if we could hop in the car and go to my favorite place in Little Italy, this dump called Vincent’s, that made the most extraordinary eggs Romana.”
I stop and eventually look up at Sean. He is paying close attention.
“The older guy who seemed to run the place—I never knew if he was Vincent or not—he used to bring me my order. Just mine. He would, uh… he’d put my breakfast on the table and speak to me in Italian and pinch my cheeks and hold my chin in his hand and reel off the most beautiful words I had ever heard. Dolce, bella, angelo, perfetto. I’d smile and giggle and savor the tastiest eggs I’ve ever eaten in my life.”
Sean passes a smile my way. “That’s sweet.”
My vision blurs as I recall the memory. “No, the sweet part is coming. My mother explained to me that this man, the owner, had something called Alzheimer’s disease and that he had no idea who I was each time I came in.” My eyes are slow to refocus. “You see, he thought I was this perfect, pretty angel every time, and every time was the first time.” I pause. “Do you know how beautiful that made me feel?”
He doesn’t answer. Good for him.
“Anyway, this particular morning, I really wanted to go to Vincent’s. My folks reluctantly agreed, so we piled into the Oldsmobile and headed to New York. When we got there, however, the place was closed.” I begin to sober, the images coming faster. “My dad was determined to please his little girl so, after checking out the sign in the window, which clearly stated they should be open at seven in the morning, he suggested we find another place. Well, I didn’t relent. I wanted eggs Romana and the nice man who spoke Italian flatteries.”
“So they opened for you?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. My mother and father pleaded with me to let them find another place, but I was six and didn’t really care or understand that the sign didn’t match the reality of the moment. So my dad walked down the alley to the side door, saw a light on, and tried to open the door—which opened with ease.” I exhale slowly. “He waved for us to come over and meet him, and my mother and I did.”
I stop.
Sean opens his eyes wide. “And?”
“And after we walked in through the side entrance to the kitchen, we stood motionless as we watched a stocky, relentlessly hairy man—whom we later came to know as Tony Bovaro—plunge a knife into the belly of another man and pull upward, like he was trying to open a sack of rice.” I lean toward Sean. “But that wasn’t the truly terrifying part. Tony leaned over the body, reached inside the man, and pulled out some organs and spread them over the now lifeless body.” I sit back. “I was much older when I realized he was exemplifying the expression spilling your guts.”
Silence.
Sean—U.S. Deputy Marshal Sean Douglas—swallows hard, and this time it’s my turn to hear him. Eight years on the job has not hardened him yet.
“Um,” he says as he clears his throat, “who’d he kill?”
“Who knows. Probably some guy who wasn’t paying his ten percent or whatever the Mafia gets, but based on the gutting, I’m guessing he was a snitch. The point is that three average citizens had just witnessed Tony murder someone—three people with no criminal records, with no need for plea bargains or attorneys or anything else.”
“So then what?”
Everyone, at this point in the story, expects my response to be “We ran!” Sean needs the truth, though. And I doubt the truth is in my two-inch file. “Well, let’s see. I threw up and had pee running down both my legs. My mother screamed and collapsed. My father, after breaking out of his initial shock, tried to pull my mother up off the floor but kept slipping in all of the blood and urine. Is this what you wanted to know, Sean?”
He slowly nods. “It is.”
He earns one point.
“Bovaro just stared at us, like we were this big collective fly in his ointment, arm at his side, blood dripping off the knife. And my father, bless his strong heart, pulled my mother to her feet, picked me up with his other arm, and tossed me over his shoulder, and we skated out of there.”
“Tony never came after you?”
I chuckle. “He didn’t. And I can’t help but wonder to this day if he let us go, if he realized that we had nothing to do with his business and that we had no interest in getting involved—because his assumption would have been right on the money.”
“But you went to the feds.”
“Get real, Sean. The feds came to us.”
He squints, gives me a look of disbelief. “How’s that possible?”
I sit back and cross my legs in an angrily superior way. “I never thought to ask. What difference does it make?”
Sean grabs my file and begins flipping through it in a slightly more attentive manner than he had moments ago. “It’s just odd,” he says as he turns the pages. “How many people were there when this happened?”
“What, are you joking? How many restaurants do you think were open in Little Italy at seven in the morning on a Sunday? There were no other witnesses.”
Sean stops and looks at me. He leans back and puts his hands behind his head and his shirt pulls tight against his chest and my eyes drift right to his pecs with none of the restraint he’d shown to me when the same opportunity arose.
As much as I want to prove I am in control, that I am one tough lady who can handle being tossed about in their ocean of anonymity, I feel myself shrink a little, even crumble, and suddenly I am a little girl again and all I want is for this guy to look at me and smile and whisper bella, principessa.
“Okay,” he says, “somehow the feds found you and your family. What compelled your folks to testify?”
“Are you asking if my parents were engaged in some illegal activity that the FBI or the Department of Justice used as leverage? Hardly. My parents didn’t even cheat on their taxes.”
“So what made them agree to testify?”
“Well, I was young at the time and not really made a participant in those conversations and decisions, but I later came to understand that the FBI put the fear of God into my folks, first by making them retell the story over and over, making sure it was as vivid as can be, then by suggesting the same thing would happen to them—a visceral ending—and that it was only a matter of time.” I set my jaw. “Then, of course, they hit us with those four magical words, and those four words turned the tide for me and my family forever.”
He gives me a sideways glance, like he’s thinking.
“Surely, Sean, you know what I’m talking about. You must learn this phrase your first day in training.” My sarcasm increases. “What are those four words?”
He shrugs. “We’re here to help?”
One demerit.
“We. Can. Protect. You.” I stand and take my coffee cup and chuck it across the room and into the garbage can. “Not even close.”
I walk out and find the l
adies’ room, where I sit in a stall and bury my face in my hands and try to get myself together; a normal person would have dashed out the front door, but where exactly would I be going? I sit for the longest time. Women come and go, but many seem to stay in the stalls beside me, completely quiet or softly sighing but doing nothing more, appearing to rally their own selves for some unknown pending process, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a normal occurrence here on the third floor of the Garmatz Federal Courthouse on West Lombard Street in Baltimore, Maryland.
I return to the conference room a good thirty minutes later and Sean is a changed man. He is professional and solemn. My file is spread across the table in chunks, with fresh Post-it notes sticking out from various sections. When Sean looks at me, his eyes seem more intent, sort of probing.
Marshal Sean Douglas has decided to take me seriously.
He plays with his hands nervously and says, “Do, um… do you still like Italian? I can get some rookie to go out to Little Italy and grab us some food. Um, Chiapparelli’s has a killer Caesar and they—”
“That’s fine, Sean.” I sit and smile. “Whatever you suggest.”
He nods and watches me for a moment and then leaves the room.
I immediately start flipping to the pages he has place-marked to find he’s put a Post-it at the beginning of each of my new identities, and seeing the names is like recalling an old lover or a near-death experience—all with three syllables.
May Adams.
Karen Smith.
Anne Johnson.
Jane Watkins.
Terry Mills.
Shelly Jones.
Linda Simms.
Sandra Clarke.
I came to think the folks in WITSEC were rather daft with their naming conventions, though I later assumed it was a subtle form of punishment. “The name needs to be forgettable,” they would tell me. What I wouldn’t give to be an Emmanuelle or a Carina or an Alexis. Geez, even a Tiffany or a Heather. And to have surrendered Melody Grace… well, it makes it hard to wake up as Michelle.
Though undoubtedly I shall.
A few bites into my Caesar and my concern isn’t sustenance but what might be jammed between my incisors: lettuce, black pepper, Parmesan; I’d rather that none of these add to my already diffused personality. Worse, I realize my interest in my protector is more than it should be. After four mouthfuls, I tire of licking my teeth clean and slide the salad out of reach.
Sean waits to swallow before asking, “You didn’t like it?”
I look at him and grin. “It’s delicious, just as you’d said it would be.”
The phone in the conference room rings and Sean answers it quickly. He grabs a pen and begins tapping it on the lid for his rigatoni amatriciana and it occurs to me that, since he ordered a dish with pancetta, sautéed onions, and garlic, his interest and concern for me will not lead to infidelity.
He doesn’t talk but appears to be listening attentively. He grabs a pad of paper from under my file and starts writing fast, in scribble surely discernible only to him. He writes and writes and writes and ends the call without saying good-bye, without saying a single word at all, and after the phone is back on the cradle, he writes some more. Then he points to my salad with his pen and says, “You should really eat up. We’ve got a long night in front of us.”
This is, of course, not the first time I’ve heard this. The last time was eight years ago, a mere nine hours after my parents were shot dead on their way home from the A&P. What he really means is We’re going on the road.
I’M SITTING ALONE IN THE BACK OF A BLACK, LATE-MODEL FORD Explorer and though it is nighttime, I can tell the windows are tinted—far darker than your usual tint. I gently tap the glass and the lack of resonance suggests bulletproof protection.
I am simply not this important.
And now the guilt sets in over my lie, how I have set into motion the lives of countless people because I tired of my surroundings, because I allowed the subtle weight of ennui to overwhelm, and I pulled an escape cord that virtually no one else in this country can reach. And they believed me (for the most part) because they promised to.
A deputy marshal sits in the driver’s seat with the engine running, a man I will likely never see again after this journey; I do not make idle chat. Through the hazy glass I can see Sean speaking with two other deputy marshals and it becomes apparent that Sean is the one in charge. I’ve seen this scene before. Get her to the motel and we’ll regroup from there. Call me if there are any problems. She’s been through a lot, so take it easy on her.
I put my head to the headrest and stare out the window, and I drift into a shallow sleep.
• • •
I wake to the car shimmying over broken pavement and before I can bring my eyes into focus, I try to brush off a dream that is actually my reality. I am being taken to some unknown location by two men I do not know. I do not know my name, my Social Security number, my address. I do not know where I work or what my trade is. And though this has happened to me so many times before, I shake a little and my stomach turns. I utter something about feeling sick and I reach forward and tightly grip the shoulder of the driver and he knows to pull over so I can retch.
And I do.
Someone hands me a bottle of Aquafina and I rinse my mouth and take a few swigs. I get back in the car, turn to say thanks, and realize that Sean is in the backseat with me.
“Let me guess,” he says, “bad salad?”
I clear my throat and take another drink. “I didn’t know you were coming.” I’m happy; I’ve known the guy for a few hours but he’s now the most stable thing in my life.
He nods a few times in my direction, then turns to look out his window; we are in motion again. “I, uh… wanted to make sure you were okay, that you got to your new location safely.”
I sit up and our knees touch. He doesn’t move his away and neither do I. Sitting next to him, I finally get an idea of his actual size and he’s just as bulky as I’d imagined. You could fit me inside him, literally, with a few inches to spare all the way around. I sink down in my seat and feel warm and cozy—but safe is what I’m really after.
“I’ll take what I can get,” I say. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and realize this is the end of a long day. My hair has deflated and my blouse is wrinkled and my jeans are stained from God knows what.
Sean plays with his wedding band again, spinning it around his finger, and I now realize it’s an activity derived from anxiety, not aggression. He cocks his body in my direction, looks at me and asks, “Do you ever get to that point? You know, where you actually feel safe?”
I brush the bangs from my eyes in order to read his expression better. “For real?”
He nods.
I think about it for a few seconds, but my answer is predetermined. “I haven’t felt safe since the night before we went to breakfast at Vincent’s. I was six. That was twenty years ago.”
“So, we don’t make you feel safe?”
I shake my head a little. “Let me give you an illustration. After you guys managed to manipulate my folks into testifying against Tony Bo—”
“We didn’t do that, Michelle.”
I hang my head. “Okay, the feds manipulated my folks into testifying. And would you please call me Melody while we’re safely secured here?”
Sean shakes his head, then nods toward the driver. I roll my eyes.
“Anyway, once we entered WITSEC and were relocated to a lovely little town in Arkansas,” I say, then pause to let the sarcasm get across, “I began attending school in a neighboring rural town. On my fifth day in class, the teacher asked each of us in turn to spell our name for the other students.” I move a little in my seat so I can face Sean more directly. “It sure would’ve been easier to spell May Adams, but wouldn’t you know, without even giving it a second thought, there I was, unveiling myself to my teacher, her aide, and seventeen other first-graders.”
M-E-L-O-D-Y G-R-A-C-E M-C-C-A-R-T-N-E
-Y.
Sean groans under his breath; he knows what’s coming next.
“A few minutes later the aide disappeared. Ninety minutes after that, I was grabbed off the playground and tossed into the back of a Chevy van, flanked by three of your finest along with my ghost-white parents.”
Sean winces. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. How long had you lived in Arkansas?”
“About five weeks. We lived in a motel outside Texarkana while waiting for you guys to set up our new identities for a longer period of time—almost two months.”
I turn to look out the window and groan under my breath. Man, I hated that place. Not Arkansas, mind you—the motel. I always despised the motel phase. I remember being so bored, so lonely. There was nothing to do, no kids to play with, no toys. I would just sit around and watch television and pray that my parents would have a few free minutes to talk to me or read to me or play with me. But they were busy, always busy, with what they gently termed big guy stuff.
I turn back to Sean. “I felt bad, though—even then. I sort of knew what I’d done, even though it was unintentional. My dad had just gotten a new job—as a warehouse foreman, a significant departure from his career as a senior chemist for Pfizer—and we were just on the verge of getting settled… and I accidentally threw it all away.”
“I’m sure your parents didn’t blame you.”
“No, they didn’t, as a matter of fact.” I look down and whisper under my breath. “At least, not at first.”
“What do you mean?”
Ignoring Sean’s follow-up, I glance out the window and see a road sign that reads POCOMOKE CITYand it occurs to me that I know neither what road we’re on nor where we’re heading—and worse, I don’t even care.
I undo my seat belt and twist in my seat and prop my leg up; Sean and I are distorted mirror images of one another.
I try to think of something to continue a lighter conversation, to enjoy this tenuous form of company, but the weight of the day rushes in and sleep is again forcing itself upon me. Just on the verge of dozing, I accidentally tip over, drop my head to Sean’s shoulder, fall into his embrace like a lover. He gently places his hands on me, one on my head and one on my neck, and pulls me down to his chest where I rest—awake—for a long time, long enough for the other deputy to have brought us to the fringe of the Commonwealth of Virginia. I have not enjoyed the smell and feel of a strong man enveloping me since my father passed away, and I decide I will not leave this position until I am asked to.
The Girl She Used to Be Page 3