to his mouth, condensation rolls down the side and drips on his shirt as he polishes off the remainder. I’ve never seen this guy before, not even around my old neighborhood. Someone as oddly and memorably proportioned would have quickly acquired a nickname: Nicky Toothpick, Sal “Spider” Salzone. Ted the Head.
“I’m sorry,” I say, fingering my own chest, “were you talking to me?”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, opens his wallet, and drops a five on the bar. “Wait’ll I tell the boys who I saw today.”
My mind floods, and through the water I search for a single fish. Though I’d never be concerned with being taken out by someone in my own family, this guy might be from a different crew, might pass along the information to others and topple the apple cart I have so carefully arranged, throw my name into the news, news that Melody would eventually see, indicating that nothing is what she thought it was—again—that she is not forever safe, that she will again have to run. His utterance of my last name unlocked and opened a box filled with secrets, poisoned the air to the point I can no longer breathe here, and I will have to move on.
I will have to disappear.
I glance over at Maggie and realize this will be the last glimpse I’ll have of her, of this place: the final memory.
I wish I could stop the sweat. I give it one last shot. “I’m afraid I’m not—”
“Do me a favor,” the man says as he turns to leave, “give your babbo my best.”
I watch him walk away, grab a stack of cocktail napkins and run them over my forehead and neck. When I twist and look at Maggie, her gaze is one of bewilderment and disappointment, her face pale, her mouth ajar and asking no questions. She knows that I have, best case, lied to her about who I am; worst case, lied to her about who I am and potentially put her in danger, put her father in danger.
I back out of the bar as I eloquently offer, “Um.”
I walk into the kitchen and pace around it, confused and disoriented. I try to recall the procedures, the secure and unstored number to dial should I ever get spotted, the name of my handler. I haven’t contacted anyone in the longest time.
I stare at the pan and turn the braciole as though I can somehow work my way through this. The meat sizzles and the oil spits and burns my wrist as I try to make some sense of what is happening. The adrenaline rushing through my veins now feels as if it’s of some other variety from what propelled my hunting down of Melody all those years; this is an imposter.
I know I’ve got to go.
I’ve got to run.
I undo my apron and toss it on the prep area as I bolt for the back door of the restaurant.
I try to recall the number for paging my handler: 904-568—No.
I cannot comprehend the wake I’m leaving behind, cannot yet fathom the people here I will miss as well: Chuck and Maggie and the kitchen staff and the regulars who always wanted to visit with me when I had the time. I’ve betrayed them all. Could I have remained Michael Martin, I would have been just a man starting over. Now that I’m Jonathan Bovaro again, I’m nothing more than a liar, a phony.
904-856—No.
When I left New York, it was by my own hand; I knew what was being surrendered. This time it’s unexpected, feels as unsure and disturbing as being woken up in the middle of the night and told the house is on fire. How could Melody have done this so many times? How did she survive?
As I open the back door and step out to the loading area, I glimpse the future: Chuck returning early from his recovery, Maggie telling him the story of how I was a man they never really knew, how a stranger called me a different name and I ran from them without saying goodbye, how I vanished. And we never heard from him again.
904-658—No.
Through the dark and humid night air, I plunge my hands into the pockets of my pants, dig for my keys and my cell phone at the same time. And just as I reach my car, I hear a familiar voice—but instead of nails on a chalkboard, it’s like nails digging into my skin.