become these last few years is a replica of my former self, made with better parts and stronger materials; Maggie would not recognize the cursing, smoking drunk with bloodied knuckles and a bruised body and an anger toward mankind, the man with a disbelief that anything pure and innocent and good could exist, could survive in this world. She slips her hands behind her back and cocks her head as I try to explain in the simplest terms: “Whatever it is you like about me, whatever you’re attracted to, it’s because of her.”
My name disappeared from the news almost two years ago. Justice bored the media into not caring anymore. In fact, not much information surfaced at all about any of the families in and around New York, those few stories usually buried beneath the mire of reporting about terrorism and financial disasters and foreign affairs. And just like me, those few guys who got pinched seemed to show in one or two articles, then quietly vanished. Either the Times and the Post found no more information to report or stories about the Italian Mafia were not helping sell newspapers.
And since I’ve been living in my little apartment in the Villages, I have never again seen the name Bovaro in print unless used loosely in reference to me. Peter’s chain of candy stores most likely remain in operation—and thriving. I hope he’s saving his money; someday all that sugar is going to riddle him with decay. I know, even in my seclusion, that my father is still the balance and power in the operation; when Pop passes and Pete inevitably takes the reins, I give my family one year before my brother bullies his way into territory that my father had respectfully left to other crews.
But with all their flaws, with our entire combined corrupted DNA, I miss my family more than I’d imagined when I bolted from New York so abruptly. My first Christmas alone was the most difficult. I recalled the tables so brimming with food you could barely find a spot for your wineglass, remembered the camaraderie as we seemed to eat and drink for days on end, shared unusually carefree moments with the outer edge of the family—the wives and children and outcast crew members. That week between Christmas and New Year’s Day felt as close to normal as our strange unit ever could. We would toast one another around the table at the start of our Christmas feast, would give thanks and honor those the way most do at Thanksgiving. I wondered what was said when the chain stopped at my empty chair, at my obvious absence. I wondered if a toast was made, if they hoped I was surviving.
Each year, I raise a glass, pray they’re surviving, too, then try to sleep straight through to December 26.
I still miss the subtle things about my family that I’d overlooked, that I’d taken for granted as I lived as one among them. I miss the way Pop would put his hand on my neck and rub it when we walked together, then ruffle my hair like I was an eight-year-old instead of his grown son. I miss how Pete would opt to give me a quick hug when we saw each other instead of a handshake or a what’s up, instead of nothing at all. I miss the beauty of hearing the Italian language every day, its sweeping flow and gentle lingering vowels, how its structure and sound could make the most violent and hateful things sound as sweet and soothing as a lullaby. I miss being around people who would lay down their lives for one another, no matter how terrible and flawed they are. I miss being recognized, being called by my name, being able to share a memory from prior to three years ago.
But for all my longings, for these things I miss and wish I could bring back into my existence, they had to be surrendered, were far easier to surrender than what still, to this very moment, occupies me, possesses me less like a demon than an angel: memories of Melody, from my first sight of her as a child to the way it felt when we let go of each other in the bus station. Every woman is compared to her, ranked in order of similarity, noted as poorly drawn knockoffs of a perfect work of art. I’ve memorized not only every conversation, every possible word, but the way the