not my three brothers, not the wives, not Eddie, not the extended crew.
Pop stops at the edge of the counter, leans on it with one hand, studies Melody. “Who’s this?”
I move to the side, expose Melody to the villainous crowd, as vulnerable and exposed as though she were standing naked. “This,” I say, “is my new girlfriend.”
Jimmy, mouth full of meatball sub, jabs Peter in the side. “Fibby bucks, tol’ you he wudn’t gah.” Fifty bucks. I told you he wasn’t gay. He takes another bite before swallowing.
“Those friggin’ glasses,” Peter says. “Had to go with the odds.” Peter finally gets the laughter and admiration he so desires. He steps toward Melody and smiles, says to her, “You’re way too pretty to be with this clown.” He offers his hand to her and as she weakly shakes it, he says, “Peter Bovaro.”
She swallows twice, can’t seem to get the lump down, can’t seem to get the words out, though eventually it escapes.
“Melody McCartney,” she says.
Peter smiles wider, releases her hand. You can count the seconds of silence—one, two, three—before everyone breaks into laughter.
Everyone except my father and Eddie Gravina.
I scan the room, the faces and expressions and levels of expectation.
My father squints at Melody, opens the manila folder again and studies its contents, closes it slowly and chucks it behind him on the counter.
Peter shoves me, says, “You friggin’—you thought you’d pull one over on us like that?”
“Good one, Johnny,” Gino yells from across the room, then gulps down the remaining contents of a Peroni.
“C’mon,” Peter says, “let’s go to your car. Show me the real one.”
Melody laughs a little, too, wipes her brow and looks at me.
“Stay put, Pete,” my father says, his eyes locked on Melody. I can tell she feels him studying her, can read the anxiety in the pallor of her face. Pop says to her quietly, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Silence again.
Melody looks at me, her expression pleading for another rescue attempt. I can hear the whisper: Are you sure?
“My name is, uh…” she says.
I purse my lips and slowly nod.
She takes in a deep breath, her eyes bouncing from face to face across the room, landing on mine last. She lets out the breath, slouches her shoulders, puts all her weight on one leg.
“My name is Melody Grace McCartney.” She pauses, watches the faces before her contort into expressions of confusion. “I’m exactly who you think I am.”
More laughter—but now from only one: my father.
I move between Melody and Pop. “Yeah, this is Melody Grace McCartney,” I say, making sure everyone can hear me.
She’s just a little girl.
She is six years old.
She’s a scared child.
How could she hurt you?
I say, “She’s not a kid anymore, but just as innocent. Surprised she managed to live this long?”
“That’s enough, Johnny,” my father says. He rubs his eyes, leans his lower back against the counter; the cabinets underneath it creak. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”
Then Peter: “What the hell have you done, Johnny?”
“I haven’t done anything but fallen for an amazing woman.” My eyes still on Peter, I sense Melody quickly turn and stare at me; I hadn’t intended on her knowing how I truly felt about her, figured my feelings were safely encrypted in whispered Italian she could never translate. I didn’t want her to have anything in her mind that might prevent her from discarding me, but even though she shouldn’t have known the truth, my family needed to. She moves closer.
Peter chuckles. His volume increases with every sentence: “Oh, so, wait—you really did bring your girlfriend home? Very cute. Did she ride in the trunk, too? A hundred million available women and you pick one that wants to take us all down? Are you and I even distantly related?”
Melody turns to my father, seems determined to take her case directly to the highest court. “All I know is I adore your son, Mr. Bovaro.”
Now it’s my turn to be caught off guard. I’m weakened by her speaking those words, that my love for her might not be unrequited. And now my hope is that this toppled apple cart self-corrects, that somehow it will work—that we will work. I hope and pray her words are true. I hope and pray she’s not just acting.
My father catches my eye, has the same look on his face as the moment I suggested we keep Morrison alive, the look that can only be read as you are a dreamer. And like that day so long ago, I hope