all going. She licks her lips, shakes her head no but silently mouths the word, “Okay.”
We continue driving northward, avoid Little Italy and head toward the geographic center of Baltimore, through an iffy section of midtown, to a signless restaurant owned but not run by the Bovaros. The unassuming place was the collateral of an unpaid debt to my father some fifteen years earlier, a debt whose makers have long since perished. My folks brought us to Baltimore a few times when we were kids, usually for a baseball game, lots of food and late nights with distant family. On more than one occasion we went to the downtown portion of the city that rests right on the water, would stroll and shop together, almost a normal family. And when we were done we would get in the car and drive to this little hole-in-the-wall. Except this hole had sensational food, could whip up an osso buco that even a finicky child would devour. I do not recall my father ever paying a single bill. We would walk in, eat, and leave without dropping a penny on the table. And as we were escorted to the door by the manager, we’d be thanked for merely dining there, as though Pop were a sitting senator or a food critic for the Baltimore Sun. They knew us then. And when Melody and I arrive, they will know of me still. Melody and I will be temporarily safe there, a desolate world belonging to my father’s galaxy.
We leave the highway and drive down a street covered in enough rock dust that you can see tire tracks. I make our way to the restaurant and park on pavement that has cracked and crumbled, disintegrated into disrepair so long ago that it feels like we’re parking on gravel. I leave the top down and rush to open the door for Melody, but she’s out before I get to the other side. She looks at the door, then at me, and says, “Oh.” She appears bewildered, and appears tired of fighting it.
The building, an old stone house that somehow survived the blue-collar influx that eventually encircled it, has nothing to indicate it’s a restaurant other than the powerful scent as you draw near, an aroma of simmering sauces that makes you want to draw nearer. A dirty faux grass runner welcomes us, a path we follow until we’re standing under a crippled awning in front of the glass entrance. I get the door for Melody. She half looks at me as though a second blue feather has appeared, whispers, “Thanks.”
We’re so early they’re not yet ready for the lunch crowd. The place is just starting to wake up; a server in the back is folding napkins and a busboy is still positioning chairs in front of the tables. I can see an annoyance in the server’s eyes as we’ve arrived before they’re technically open—as a restaurateur, I empathize fully—but then his eyes focus on me. He throws a quick wave in the air, a signal to stay put, then opens the kitchen door, yells something I couldn’t decipher over the speakers streaming Julius La Rosa’s “Eh, Cumpari!”
The server rushes to the front and greets us with a smile, and as he walks us to a quiet and cozy table in a far corner of the place, he puts his hand on my shoulder and we exchange a brief conversation of pleasantries spoken entirely in Italian, a stretch for my limited vocabulary. I can almost remember his name from years back—Antonio? Antonino?—so I overcompensate by continuing the conversation longer than I might have considering our circumstances. ’Tone pulls the chair out for what he perceives is my date. As we sit, I push the menus aside.
“Allow me to order for you, Melody.” I plan on using my acquired knowledge of her life to provide a segue into how I understand who she is, in every capacity.
She winces a little, like I’m some greaser trying to work my magic on her.
“I don’t mean to offend,” I say softly, “but I believe I know what you would like.”
Melody turns to ’Tone and says, “We’ve been dating for a few hours.” She crosses her fingers and smirks. “We’re tight.”
“She will have the rabbit in red wine. Three orders again, darling? And make sure Thumper is nice and rare.” She rolls her eyes, then looks to the ground, then around the room. I wait until the span of silence grows so