The Girl She Used to Be

by David Cristofano

  I stare at the shellfish and the creamy pasta and the bottle of wine. “We’ve got a table full of aphrodisiacs here.”

  “I don’t need them.”

  I cock my head and sigh. “Neither do I.”

  Jonathan stares at the wine but does not pick it up. “More wine?”

  “No.” He looks at me. “I… I don’t want anything to interfere with the way I’m feeling.” I reach across the table and run the tips of my fingers across his hand and wrist. I keep my eyes on his. “I don’t want anything to impair this night. I want to experience you, Jonathan.”

  He turns his hand over and I gently drag my fingers to his palm and he closes his fingers around mine.

  Jonathan holds my hand very tightly, seemingly intent on preventing my escape. He takes his fork, sneaks it between the shells of a clam, deftly pops the meat out and submerses it in the butter, dabs the excess, and carefully brings it to my lips.

  I laugh a little and look around the room, then look back at Jonathan and say, “Okay.” I put the clam between my teeth and take it from the fork. It is salty and tender and a little grainy—sort of like Jonathan. I try to keep from laughing with my mouth open.

  I take my fork and plunge it into the Chesapeake Alfredo and begin twisting a huge spiral of fettuccine—humorously big, actually. I hold it up to Jonathan and cream drips on the table.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says.

  “Take it like a man.”

  He squints and says, “Bring it on.”

  I deliver it to his mouth, timing the drips to avoid any mess, and he opens as wide as possible and I manage to push it all in and he winces as he noshes.

  Jonathan grabs his fork and extracts the meat from between the shells of a mussel and holds it up.

  “Oh, but the garlic,” I whine.

  “You’ve lived on the run most of your life and you can’t handle a little garlic?”

  I roll my eyes. “Bring it.”

  I chomp down on his fork in feigned anger and the mussel is wet with olive oil and studded with flakes of sautéed garlic and crushed capers and for a second I roll my eyes again, though this time from a prandial rush.

  We continue this journey around the bowls and platters of food on our table until we both hit the dish with the blue crab au gratin. We get stuck there and alternate feeding forkfuls of it to each other until it’s gone, which takes several minutes, and we each take a deep breath and sigh and loosen our grip on each other slowly until our hands drift apart and we rest back in our chairs.

  I guess we were hungry after all.

  We cleanse our palates with a single swish of the Chianti. We rest our glasses back down, leaving two-thirds of the bottle unconsumed.

  “I’ve got one thing on my mind right now,” I say.

  “Passion?”

  “Garlic.”

  “Afraid I won’t want to kiss you?”

  “Afraid of what you’ll think after you kiss me.”

  He smiles. “Want me to fix it? I’ve got a lot of experience with fixing things.”

  I’m not sure what he means but I nod like I know.

  Jonathan carefully reaches into his glass of water and removes the slice of lemon, cuts two narrow slices across each end, and lets it drip on his bread plate for a moment.

  “Come here,” he says. I lean forward. “Tilt your head back just a little.” I do. “Now open your mouth.” I part my lips. “A little more.” I open wider. “A little more.” Then, just as I begin to feel self-conscious, he squeezes the lemon and a narrow spray of citrus splashes onto my tongue. He squeezes more firmly and it takes five seconds before all of the fluid is in my mouth.

  “Swirl it around,” he says, “and swallow.”

  The lemon is fresh and sweet and the tartness makes my nose burn. I swallow and my tongue and my throat feel alive—and clean. I laugh as I bring my fingers to my lips. “Oh, wow—that’s amazing.”

  Jonathan nods and puts the lemon slice on his plate. “As a member of a Sicilian family, you grow up with almost every dish starting the same way: sautéed garlic in olive oil. By the time you enter adolescence, you find ways to cope. It’s one of those things that seems odd and trivial but is incredibly necessary, it turns out.”

  “Hmm, like a Fibonacci number.”

  He flips his hands out. “Am I supposed to understand what that means?”

  “Oh, um, a Fibonacci number is formed from a sequence defined recursively where, after you select two starting values, the number is the sum of the two preceding numbers—like, 3, 4, 7, 11, 18, 29—and it’s just the kind of thing you try to comprehend and think, How would I ever apply this in real life, and, judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing you weren’t really that interested.”

  He smiles. “I’m interested in everything about you, in all the pieces I was never able to grasp by watching you from a distance. You’re like this beautiful painting where the colors become richer and deeper and more captivating with every step closer to the canvas.”

  I can feel myself blushing. “That is so not something I would imagine coming from the mouth of a Bovaro.” I nod a little. “But it’s something I will remember for the rest of my life.”

  We stare at each other for the longest time, like we can read each other’s minds. All I can think is how happy I am that I don’t have garlic on my breath anymore.

  We skip dessert and coffee and agree to head out into the night air. Jonathan takes his stash and shows it to me, for permission, and I sort of shrug and he peels off a bunch of bills and drops them on the table. Then he sees Herman across the room gawking at a different customer and Jonathan curls his lip and takes one of the bills back.

  He reaches into his pocket and takes out his Nicorette, taps it on his hand a few times like he’s trying to ready the tobacco of a fresh pack of smokes, and lets two little tablets fall into his hand. He stares at them and sighs and pops them into his mouth.

  We walk back to the harbor and the temperature has dropped at least ten degrees. I briskly rub my shoulders with my hands. Jonathan wraps his arms around me and not only do I warm, I melt.

  “So,” I say, “want to find a karaoke bar? You can serenade me with vintage Scorpions.”

  He tightens his arms around me as we watch the water taxi glide across the harbor. “We should probably head back to the hotel.”

  Though he cannot see my face, I grin. I nudge him in the side a little. “You’re not going to take advantage of me, are you?”

  “Actually,” he says, pulling away, “I was thinking we should get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  I turn around and face him. “You’re serious?”

  He shrugs and says, “Tomorrow will be a very serious day.”

  We both walk northward, in the direction of the hotel.

  “Jonathan, are you sure you want to do this thing tomorrow? Are you sure you’ve thought it all through?”

  His answer comes slowly but is firm when it arrives. “I have.”

  I shiver and Jonathan pulls me closer.

  “C’mon,” he says, “let’s take a shortcut so we can get you back safe and warm.”

  We pick up our pace and quickly find ourselves on the edge of Pratt Street. From our position, Jonathan points to an alley sandwiched between two skyscrapers just up from the hotel. He leads; I follow.

  We cross eight lanes of traffic and sneak down the alley, nearly jogging now, and we’re both laughing as we go. Suddenly, as we hit the darkest depth of the alley, the sound of four feet turns to six.

  I slow down, an odd reaction to thinking someone’s following you, I suppose, but I want my balance steady and sure. I start to turn around to see who’s behind us and Jonathan nonchalantly says, “Just ignore it.”

  I watch the pavement move beneath us, and my heart is pounding hard—not from running, but from fear. I know this because this is the fear that has been regular in my life since I was six years old.

  I whisper panic-based comment
s to myself and Jonathan puts his arm around me and says, “Hey, it’s okay. No one is going to hurt you—now or ever. I’d never let it happen.”

  We slow our walking even more, and I close my eyes as I hear the footsteps get closer and closer.

  My mind fills with all the possibilities—and certainties.

  Sean Douglas or some other marshal.

  Peter Bovaro or some other assassin.

  The FBI.

  The police.

  The person catches up to us, grabs me by the shoulder, and shoves me into a grouping of trash cans. I go tumbling and end up on my back with my legs apart, with scrapes and cuts on my arms and shoulders, and I can taste blood.

  I regain my bearings, and as I look up I see Jonathan standing with his hands at his sides as an enormous man holds a knife to Jonathan’s neck. The guy looks dirty, so dirty that I can’t tell if he’s white or black or something in between. All I know is he’s the adversary.

  Dirty Guy glares at me, then between my legs and says, “That’s it, you stupid bitch—stay just like that for me. When your man is done giving me his money, I’ll make him watch while I take you on the ride of your life.”

  I leave my legs as they are; I’m frozen anyway.

  He returns his attention to Jonathan and presses the blade into his neck enough for a thin stream of blood to trickle out. Jonathan does not budge.

  “Gimme your wallet, asshole. Now!”

  Jonathan cocks his head my way and turns his hands up, like he is again asking for permission.

  “What,” I whisper.

  Jonathan smiles and says, “Just a mugging?”

  I study Jonathan and in this instant all the fear I have from this scene—and my entire life—is cast aside. What a thousand marshals could never achieve in a thousand versions of my life is what is happening right now. Finally, I am totally secure. There is not a doubt in my mind that I will be perfectly protected.

  I smile and give Jonathan a thumbs-up and say, “Rock him like a hurricane.”

  Dirty Guy looks at me and says, “You dumb bitch! You better keep those legs spread, you ugly slut, ’cause I’m gonna give you the hardest fu—”

  That’s all he gets out before Jonathan slams the guy’s Adam’s apple into the center of his throat. One single thrust with the back of Jonathan’s fist and Dirty Guy can’t stop making this ugly gurgling sound. It’s only a few seconds before he drops to his knees, hands clutched to his neck.

  Jonathan leans down to Dirty Guy and says, “I’d appreciate it if you refrained from using profanity around the lady.” He turns to me and asks, “You okay?”

  I rest back against a Dumpster, close my eyes, and nod.

  Jonathan chomps his gum, wipes the blood from his neck, and returns his attention to our assailant. “And now for the entertainment portion of our evening: Lessons in being a wise guy.”

  I sit up a little and watch Dirty Guy choking on his blood.

  Jonathan says, “Lesson one: Silence.” He reaches down and grabs an old shoe from behind a trash can and jams the toe in Dirty Guy’s mouth.

  Jonathan says, “Lesson two: Impair. In the movies, the good guys always give the bad guys too many chances to get back on their feet and fight again.” He walks over to a pile of loose trash and grabs a broken two-by-four and rains blow after blow down on Dirty Guy’s ankle until all three of us hear it snap. Dirty Guy shakes like he’s being electrocuted.

  Without Martin Scorsese at hand to animate this scene, it’s a little awkward; there is little noise, no loud punches, no punctuated profanity, and the whole event is sort of sloppy—though Jonathan is certainly getting the job done.

  “Now,” Jonathan says, “all he can think about is that ankle. He’s not as focused on running away or retaliating.”

  I smile; this is some seriously entertaining vengeance. After a lifetime of fearing this specific violence, I have found a sudden safety in it.

  “Third,” Jonathan says, after catching his breath, “we get rid of the weapon. You leave it around and it could find its way back into the hands of the bad guy. And we kick it, never touch; fingerprints are our enemy.” He kicks the blade down into the sewer and Dirty Guy tries to get back on his feet but what’s left of his ankle is certainly posing a problem; his calf is at twelve o’clock but his foot is at six o’clock.

  Jonathan blows a little bubble with gum. “Poor guy,” he says, studying Dirty Guy’s body. “It appears our friend has lousy bladder control.”

  “Good to know I’m not the only one.”

  He wipes his hands on his pants. “And now for our final lesson.”

  “Yeah, give that bastard a souvenir!” I quickly cover my mouth, like I just belched at a high tea.

  Jonathan stares at me for a few seconds, confused. He pulls himself away, though, and finishes off Dirty Guy. Jonathan stands over the man’s chest, pulls him up by his shirt, and whispers, and I can hear all the profanity he has held back come rolling out like thunder, slamming down on the felon like additional swings of that two-by-four.

  Jonathan is whispering and screaming at the same time, over and over, “Remember this face. Remember this face. Look at me. Look at me.” Then he leans over, takes the shoe from the guy’s mouth, and whispers one more thing directly in his ear, and, though I cannot decipher a single word, it leaves Dirty Guy weeping, curled up in the fetal position, moaning through a simple repeated sentence.

  “I promise. I promise. I promise.”

  Jonathan stands above him and his fists are clenched and he displays the most disturbing scene of the evening, of our entire time together: He watches Dirty Guy struggle. I mean, he really watches, for at least thirty seconds.

  He never says a word.

  Finally, Jonathan brushes the dirt and dust from his clothes and jogs to my side and carefully helps me to my feet. We simultaneously analyze my situation: The straps of my sundress are broken and my dress is torn on the side and there is an apple-shaped bloodstain near the bottom; both of my hands, forearms, and shoulders are cut and bleeding, as well as my right thigh; one of the heels of my sandals is broken and missing.

  “You want me to take you to a hospital?” Jonathan asks.

  I smile and attempt to smooth the wrinkles in my dress. “I’ve been in worse condition.”

  I try to walk a little but my ankle buckles. Without asking, Jonathan picks me up and carries me. I’m suddenly so small, so protected. It feels a little goofy, but it feels lovely, too; I throw my arms around his neck and enjoy the ride.

  I stare at Jonathan and suddenly I am changed, full of clarity and closure, as though the final piece of my life’s puzzle has been put in place. His security, his strength, his ability to have the answer is what I’ve been lacking—and the fact that it’s bundled up in this attractive man is just icing on the cake.

  I surrender.

  JONATHAN CARRIES ME THROUGH THE LOBBY OF THE RENAISSANCE and people stare and I smile and say, “We just got married,” and everyone starts clapping and whistling and passing approving glances. We get into the elevator and one of the guys who’d been whistling looks at me oddly.

  “You know you’re bleeding?” he asks.

  “He dropped me on the sidewalk,” I say, then whisper, “He’s a bit of a weakling.”

  We exit on our floor. Jonathan carries me to his room, throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and tosses me onto the bed—carefully but playfully.

  I go flying back and my dress rises up to the top of my thighs and the top falls down easily without straps to hold it up or full breasts to fill it out and as a result my chest is exposed. I reach up to cover myself. Sort of.

  Jonathan looks at my face, then my body, then my face, then the ground.

  “Come here,” I say. I am slightly anxious and very serious.

  “We should get you cleaned up.”

  “I’m too dirty for you?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He won’t lift his eyes from the floor.<
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  “Okay,” I say, and slowly get to my feet. My ankle is feeling better already, but I still have to hobble to Jonathan.

  I walk up to him and say, “I’ll draw a bath,” and I slowly raise my arms and let my dress fall to the ground.

  Jonathan blinks a few times and swallows, then he finally lifts his eyes—skips my body completely—and lands on my face. I will never mistake him for Herman.

  “Melody,” he says, grabbing a blanket from the closet and wrapping it around me, “you don’t need to seduce me.” He takes a step closer and cups my face with his hands and says, “I’m yours already.” I exhale excitedly, about to move in for a kiss, when he says, “I’ll draw your bath.”

  I fall back on the bed and I am hot, literally and figuratively, and I just sit and wait and think of how my life is changing again.

  Jonathan returns and cautiously looks my way. “Your bath is ready.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “I was gonna fix your wounds.”

  “You don’t need an excuse.”

  He looks away and smiles. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  I walk into the bathroom and it’s full of steam and the water is full of bubbles and I drop the blanket and slip off my panties and slide into the water and I feel blasts of pain in a dozen different places.

  “You can come in now,” I say.

  Jonathan peeks around the corner and enters with reticence, carrying a small leather bag. He kneels by the tub and looks at my arms and hands. He removes a few small bottles and some cotton balls. “This is gonna hurt,” he says.

  He soaks a cotton ball with alcohol and applies it gently to my forearm; I try not to show the pain. I watch him tend to my wounds and I start to think warm things, silly things, like how he would make a good father—if he could discard the Bovaro legacy.

  “You’re good at this,” I say.

  “Well, let’s just say I have a lot of experience at fixing wounds—my own, at least.”

  I stare at his body through his sweater and I try to imagine to no avail. “Show me one.”

  Jonathan stops and studies me, can tell I’m serious. He looks down sheepishly and raises his sweater around his stomach. I sit up a little as I spy a six-inch diagonal line across his stomach. But what I notice more is the six-pack he’s been hiding under his clothes. I reach out to touch the scar—to at least make it look like I’m interested in the scar—and rub my fingers over his stomach muscles. It’s sort of hard to believe a knife could penetrate something this firm.