Carla is worth her weight in gold.
The scar leads up toward another healed wound, a small puncture between two ribs; I move his sweater out of the way. I rub my fingers over this one, too.
Jonathan swallows, hard.
Higher on his chest I see another cut and I pull his sweater up to the point where it’s obvious I want it off, and rather than having me sit all the way up and expose my naked body, he preempts the effort and takes it off himself. He looks away.
I’d like to say what is running through my mind is pure desire, but once his sweater is completely removed, I’m actually aghast. I’m looking at a minimum of a dozen scars. This historical road map of a life of violence brings a flash of my meeting his family to my consciousness; I see my body being dumped into a pre-dug hole, feel a blanket of cold dirt being spread over my flesh, hear the squeal of a getaway car. And this fear for my own well-being awakens me, for I cannot fathom what he has experienced in his life.
I sink back down in the tub and mutter, “Oh, Jonathan.” I stare some more. “I thought you didn’t see much of the violence in your family.”
“Not seeing much means I haven’t been around much death, but…”
I force myself to look away. “There are just so many.”
He nods nervously; quickly puts his sweater back on. “Well, the best part is all wounds heal, I guess. You can get through pretty much anything.”
My stomach knots a little as I remember what I am going to need to get through when I meet his family—and the fact that this evening, this moment, may be the last instance of calm in my life. I gently brush Jonathan’s hand and I can sense his strength and the knot loosens.
He says, “Remind me to get rid of this sweater, by the way.”
“Because of the bloodstains?”
He chuckles at my innocence. “Because of the DNA.”
I stare at him and can’t help passing a tearful smile. He catches me.
“So, Ms. McCartney,” he says, back to fixing my wounds, “enough about my childhood. What was yours like?”
I shrug and close my eyes and let him do his thing. He hits a new wound and I squirm. “It was a cavalcade of lies.”
Instead of showing empathy for my miserable upbringing, Jonathan earns points by saying “Well, there’s a story there, then. What was it like to live a constant lie?”
I open my eyes and think about it for a moment. “Honestly, the younger I was, the better it was. Back then, I always thought the next time we moved would be our last, that I might be able to establish some friends and relationships.”
“Never happened?”
“You know the answer. You were there, right?”
Jonathan rubs my hand gently with some sort of balm that was already in the hotel bathroom. It smells like apples and brings with it a distinct hotel quality. No matter how expensive the room, you always get apples.
“So how did you cope?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out like cigarette smoke. “I isolated myself, basically. Kept myself from getting too involved with people.”
He nods, then looks me in the eye. “You ever tell anyone the truth about who you were?”
Another deep breath. “Yeah,” I say, envisioning my mother and my father and me being whisked from yet another home in the middle of the night. “Once.”
He finishes one arm and moves to the other. Every dab of those cotton balls brings a shudder of pain and a wince.
We do not talk as he works on that arm; the only sound is the hum of the bathroom vent and droplets of water falling back into the bath. When he finishes, he says, “What was bleeding on your face?”
“My tongue, I think.” I stick it out and he nods.
“I see a red mark. How’s your foot?”
“It’s still sore.”
“May I?”
I pull my foot from the water and he takes it in his hands gently, like he’s holding a newborn infant for the first time. He caresses it and asks me how it feels.
He has no idea.
After I’ve been in the bath for almost twenty minutes, the water has cooled and the bubbles have popped and if he wanted to look, he could see all the details of my body under the water.
He remains a gentleman.
Jonathan stands up, goes over to my room, and returns with the terry-cloth robe. He opens it for me and looks away. I step out of the water and into the robe and pull it tight around me.
He says nothing and leaves the bathroom.
I dry off and rub some body lotion on my legs—more apples—and peek into the room. Jonathan is sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I tighten the robe around me and sit next to him.
“Beating up that guy take it out of you?”
He turns and looks at me and smiles. “You take it out of me.”
I move a little closer to him so that our knees touch. I slide my hand up his leg, then push it between his thighs. I am wired, like I’ve been drugged against my will with an inimical amount of adrenaline. In an unprecedented event, the manic and depressive cycles have somehow become synchronized, parallel, and every emotion is coming to the forefront of my existence. What is left of my life?
“Listen,” I say, “I’m tired, Jonathan. I’m tired of waiting and I’m tired of lying and I’m tired of not living and, um… I’m just going to come out and say it.” I tremble. “I want you to sleep with me tonight. I mean, I’m not even sure what I’m really asking, but I want it to happen.”
Jonathan clears his throat. “I want you, too, Melody. But you’re a…”
“Virgin? Yes.” I turn more in his direction. “Why is it so hard to say? Technically, it should be harder to find out a girl’s a slut.”
“It’s just that… my family has taken so much from you already, I don’t know if I can take any more.”
I laugh, still shaking. “You’re not taking it, Jonathan; I’m giving it.”
He turns my way and kisses me, but I can tell it’s not the start of something; it’s the conclusion.
“We should wait, Melody. We should wait until after tomorrow.”
My shaking levels off. “Why?”
“I don’t want to take that perfect thing from you only to have us be apart afterwards.”
I can barely get the question out: “Why would we be apart?”
“Remember? There are no guarantees.”
I can feel myself cooling, finding that place Jonathan has already reached, a point of anxiety derived from a future reality. And wouldn’t you know, not only has Jonathan protected me from the outside world, he’s managed to protect me from myself. Now there’s something the U.S. Marshals Service can never add to their motto.
Justice. Integrity. Service. Virginity.
“I may be the unpredictable one,” he says, “but I come from a long line of capricious and impulsive behavior.” He reaches up and runs his fingers through my hair, looks at me and adds, “I know what I’m doing. I need you to trust me. I’m just preparing for the worst.”
I nod and smile, but my smile disappears quickly. “What is the worst, exactly?”
He laughs a little. “You haven’t considered the worst?”
I prop my knee up on the bed to face him more squarely. “I hit rock bottom a few days ago. I haven’t considered the worst since I was experiencing it.” I reach up and put my hand around his neck. “But I have a big reason to want to stay alive now—and to live well. Do you understand?”
He nudges my leg. “Don’t worry, Melody. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again. Okay? I made you that promise and I intend to keep it. I’ll always do what needs to be done to keep you safe.”
I take my robe and wrap it tighter around me; I’m suddenly cold. I stare at Jonathan and wish I could read his mind, but this subtle distance between us, the distance between now and tomorrow, is like an impenetrable fog. I want to journey through it, but I’m simply out of strength.
“Will you sleep with me?” I ask agai
n. “I mean, literally?”
He purses his lips, like he knows it’s a bad idea, but after a gentle sigh he slowly nods. “I’ll be over in a minute.”
I leave him with a warm, soft kiss, hoping it will serve as some sort of commemorative of the invitation.
I walk back to my room, through the adjoining door, and slip into bikini panties and a white camisole from Jonathan’s shopping bag of goodies. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and comb my hair, and when I exit the bathroom, Jonathan is standing before me in pajama bottoms and nothing else. It takes all my energy to avoid focusing on his body.
“I feel funny,” he says. He glances at me and the camisole fits me tightly and he presses his lips together as he notices my body, and for the first time since we’ve met I may actually be the stronger one.
“You don’t look funny.” I walk up and take him by the hands and lead him backward toward the bed.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull him down. I slide under the covers and he reluctantly slips in next to me. He takes off his glasses and I reach over and turn out the light and the room goes completely dark. I begin to notice the other things about him: the way he smells, the texture and warmth of his skin, the timbre of his voice.
“What now?” he says.
I snuggle up against him and we begin to kiss, and after a few minutes, we realize simultaneously that we do not stand a chance unless we stop right now. I turn over and push myself back into him and it’s like having my body enveloped by a life-size heating pad. I press my lower back and bottom against him harder. I reach behind me, grab his arm, and pull it over my body to my belly, and sneak his hand under my camisole. I go no further; this is how I want to fall asleep.
Jonathan puts his other arm above his head so he can touch my hair, and he strokes it softly and I can feel myself drifting. I am warm and secure and happy and—finally—at peace.
After a few moments of silence, I cave in to a simple desire: the desire to amplify the most satisfying moment of my life. I ask, “Do you speak Italian?”
He pauses, so long that I wonder if he heard my question at all. “A little.” He keeps stroking my hair.
“Whisper to me,” I say, almost asleep.
He pauses again and slows his stroking. He moves closer and I can feel him breathe his words against my hair and my neck.
“Ti voglio bene, non solo per quello che tu sei ma anche per quello che io sono quando sto. Mi innamorato di mia principessa, mia angioletto…”
I want to ask what he is saying, what the words mean, but I hear principessa and I smile as I dissolve. I drift into a deep, restful slumber.
I slept for twelve hours and I’m pretty sure I never budged. I feel relief from getting what was the best rest of my life, but everything about me aches: bruises, cuts, and lumps.
I crawl around the bed, trying to get some blood into my stiff muscles, and I immediately start looking for Jonathan. I prop myself against the headboard and I can hear him chatting in the next room. I wipe my face a few times and try to listen to his side of the conversation.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I just want to make sure he’s gonna be there. I want everyone there.” He pauses. “I’m thinking early afternoon.” He pauses again. “Yeah, it’ll be a surprise, all right.”
I stumble out of bed and rush for the toothpaste. Jonathan catches me in mid-spit.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says.
My response is a hearty smile with white foam at the corners of my mouth; I look like a scantily dressed clown. I quickly pat my face with a washcloth.
He tries to kiss me but we kind of bob and weave at each other, ultimately settling for a peck on my cheek and a hug usually reserved for grandparents. This awkward attempt to pick up where we left off not only hints at the immaturity of our intimacy, but the fact that more consuming events are about to unfold; the dreaminess zeroed out at daybreak.
Nevertheless. “Since you seem so convinced you’ll be keeping me safe from harm, I’d like a time and place where we can consummate this relationship, so I can be sure you’re not going to renege.”
He gives me a cockeyed look. “You know, pressure only impairs performance.”
I kiss him on the lips and pull his lower back to my body.
He clears his throat. “Though I do not anticipate it will be an issue in this instance.”
We remain in each other’s arms for a few seconds until I feel something vibrating in Jonathan’s pocket. He reaches down and pulls out his phone.
“Yeah,” he answers, and as the voice on the other end begins to speak he pulls away completely.
“That’s great,” he says, but the look on his face is not one of happiness. He flips his phone shut quietly and stares at the floor.
Jonathan’s phone call—and his immediate detachment—act as a slap back to reality. Like a libidinous adolescent, I’ve been concerned with where and how I am going to lose my virginity, an insensate thing to scheme, in general; I should’ve been most concerned with the if. With the Bovaro men staked out at irregular intervals along the Atlantic megalopolis, and with me about to head right for them anyway, I should be asking Jonathan to love me right now, in my potential final moments. Alas, the opportunity is gone, vanished and sucked into a void of stress and imminent disaster. Sometimes a phone call is all it takes.
“What’s great?” I ask.
“Uh,” he says, still looking down, “my whole family will be there today. Just as I’d hoped.”
I sit down on the bed and stare at the same spot on the floor as Jonathan. “They know I’m coming?”
“No.”
He doesn’t stir. “They have any idea what you’re about to do?”
“No.”
A movie is running through his mind, a vision of the upcoming event and the potential outcome. He starts grinding his teeth.
I get up and walk to him and lightly stroke his arm and say, “Remember, you’re the unpredictable one. They should be prepared for something surprising.”
He looks at me and smiles and kisses my forehead. Then he hugs me and says, “They can be surprising at times, too.”
We retreat to our respective rooms and shower. I do my best to turn myself back into the woman the ladies at the spa created the day before, but I have not been given the same tools; if I had industry-leading hair gel, makeup, and body creams, not to mention a decent hair dryer, I might stand a chance.
But as I gaze at my reflection in the mirror, I get a vague sense of what I might be like, feel like, if I’d grown up a suburban kid, or at least a kid tied to a single suburb, and wound up awake and fresh on this average day. And I pretend how my biggest event would be running off to the mall to do some shopping or planning a trip for some purpose other than survival.
Alas, today is not that day.
Considering how many times my hair has been colored, it’s in remarkable condition; it’s soft and silky and I find it implausible that it’s actually attached to my scalp. My fingernails and toenails have survived well too, along with the color and texture of my skin. My friends at the spa managed to deliver a long-lasting product. The issue I can’t seem to get past is all the dried blood and scratches speckling my upper body.
Jonathan knocks and I slip on my robe and open the door for him. He is clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a tight-fitting navy tee, with a slightly darker navy sweater draped over his arm.
“So what does a girl wear when she’s going home to meet your folks?”
He studies me. “Armor.”
Jonathan starts rummaging through the bags of clothes he purchased for me. I’m hoping he’s going to select the skirt and one of the light blouses, to sort of suggest classiness—or that he might be hoping to impress his family.
Instead, he selects the pair of jeans and a red, formfitting knit sweater; he went one hundred percent practical.
“Red,” I say. “Hides the blood better?”
He frowns as I grab the clothes and take them into the bath
room. As I put them on, I’m amazed at how well everything fits—not perfect, but surprisingly close. And there is something so alluring, almost amatory, about a guy who buys clothes for a woman. It requires so much more thought—and attention—than buying something static, like perfume. It’s as though Jonathan already knows who I am and the terrain of my body, every curve and line, that he has it all memorized, and finding something to cover it is not only simple, it’s sensual.
When I exit the bathroom, Jonathan is waiting by the door and quickly checks me out. I throw my arms in the air, smile, and say, “So what do you think?”
“You are… amazing. You look great wearing anything.”
I lower my hands and put them in the pockets of my jeans. “So do you,” I say. I sound juvenile and passive, but I mean it.
“You want some breakfast?”
Despite an increasing anxiety of the coming day, I do, so we go down, exit the hotel, and walk toward the harbor. The air is cold and crisp but the sun is quickly heating the pavement and I can tell today will be warm.
We find a restaurant with outside seating and let the sun keep us from getting chilled. Jonathan orders various foods for us—eggs, bacon, sausage, french toast, and a dish that is essentially eggs Benedict but the Canadian bacon has been replaced with backfin crabmeat—and we immediately dive in. There is no playfulness this time, no buttery forkfuls of pasta or aphrodisiacal shellfish; it seems we have taken more of a breakfast-is-the-most-important-meal-of-the-day approach.
Or a last meal approach.
“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you’d grown up in a normal family in suburban Cleveland?” I ask.
Jonathan grins a little and says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that. I guess he’s not in the mood.
“You know,” I try again, “when I was a little girl I would draw pictures of big houses but never with anyone inside. I always struggled to draw pictures of people.”
The Girl She Used to Be Page 19