“Son,” he says, “we need to bottle this wine. And you are the late harvest.”
Another wine metaphor? Couldn’t my family somehow relate what we’re doing to curing olives or aging cheese or restoring an old car? Not to mention, what self-respecting Italian makes the mistake of saying wine grapes go from the vine to the bottle instead of the vine to the barrel? I’m concerned by his disinterest in the details, hope it’s not viral.
“I’ll be home soon”—I roll my eyes—“with the vintage year. Where’s Pete?”
“He’s around.”
Guess he thought that was the end of the conversation, because he hangs up. I have half a mind to call him back, but there’s no point in wasting the battery power. And with my father tucked away and taking care of business, that means Peter becomes my focus.
Around noon, I slip back down to the spa and peek inside from around the corner of the entrance. Melody sits in a large chair twisted around and cocked back toward a sink where she’s getting her hair either washed or colored, hard to tell. But she and the lady doing the work seem to be chatting and laughing. Most important of all, she is still here. A layer of anxiety drops away.
When I return to my room, I order a bacon, egg, and avocado sandwich (excellent), a spring salad (fair), and a pot of coffee, and nibble while trying to get my brother on the phone. I turn on the television and flip through various news channels to check for any mention of the distributed massacre instituted by my family. So far: nothing. Halfway into my second cup of coffee, Peter finally answers his cell.
“’S’Pete.”
“You’ve been tough to get ahold of.”
“One sec,” he says. I hear him chew, then chat with someone in the background. “Yeah, this tastes really good.” Then to me, “Man, Ryan outdid himself today.”
“Can you guys do me a friggin’ favor and find some other clubhouse to hang out in? Ryan’s trying to run an establishment.”
“Excellent point you bring up, brother. Where’s Sylvia’s manager? She misses you.”
“I’m done here, everything’s wrapped up.” Melody’s dead, covered in blankets in my trunk.
“You’re bringing it home for us?” We gotta see it to believe it.
“Absolutely. I’m bringing it home.” He has no idea. “How’s everything on your end?”
“It’s beautiful, man. This puzzle came together better than we imagined. We’re gonna frame it and hang it on the wall.”
If what he’s saying is true, that’s a lot of dead people—of which most have probably not yet gone missing. On the one hand, it would be great to get out of here before the feds start looking for suspects; on the other, more blood will be shed if I leave prematurely.
Peter says, “We’re surprised it’s taken you so long. We thought you’d be home by now.”
The perfect segue to my partial prep. “Yeah, I apologize for the delay, but I sorta met someone. On my journey.”
“C’mon, Johnny, this isn’t the right time to get your rocks off. Besides, Tommy was gonna try to meet up with you in Baltimore, maybe go visit Alfonse. He’s in your area, taking care of a few minor things.” Of course he is.
“Sorry, no good. She and I are, uh, spending a lot of time together, you know?” I take a huge mouthful of sandwich, gulp it down half chewed.
“Do what you gotta do and unload her. We got things to celebrate.”
“Nah, it’s more than that. We’ve really hit it off. I’m bringing her up.”
Delay. “Seriously?”
“Totally. She’s… from our area, in a way. She’ll be riding shotgun.”
“With that huge package in the back?” He laughs. “You’re sick. I love it.” Then louder, “Bring your freakin’ skimbo, love to meet her.”
This is precisely why I wanted to give the update to Peter. My father would have insisted I bring the body home immediately and leave the woman behind. I can’t yet explain that they’re one and the same. Peter, the crazy, risk-taking loose hinge in our family, is the perfect person to drop it in my father’s lap on my behalf. A screwup, I will seem. Jokes will be made. A small price to pay.
TEN
At four-fifteen, I make one last journey to the spa to spy on Melody. As I look in, the place is packed, every seat taken—in both the spa itself and the waiting area. Melody, however, currently has the attention of three women at once, all bending over her like surgeons looming above