to me; I smile and nod like I get it, then he leaves us.
I take Melody’s glass and pour as slowly as possible, prevent even a single gulp of air from shooting back in the bottle and disturbing the sediment at the bottom. Melody looks at me like I don’t know what I’m doing.
“I’m leaving the sediment in the bottle,” I say. “Keep you from denying the greatness of this wine.”
She peeks at the label as I fill her glass. “It’s just a Lambrusco.”
“Aye, Yankee,” I say, my eye still on the red pour. “Trust me.”
She takes a breath as though she’s about to extend our dialogue on the wine, but instead: “What did you mean when you said you could’ve snatched me long ago?”
I look up, catch her eye, twist the bottle to avoid dripping, and lift.
Here we go: “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for years.”
I let my comment settle along with the wine.
Melody sits back against her seat, her breath now audible. I can see her chest undulate. “What… what do you mean?”
I’ve seen Melody in some dire moments, seen her weep by the hand of man, by the hand of fate. But this is the first time it will be from my very words, from me. I feel the air escaping from my power; I sink in my seat as I deflate. I grab the wine and fill my glass, let it burble and splash down, sediment and bubbles and all. I chug a third of it.
I’d love to win her, but I have to save her. And just like I took Ettore down in that muddy field, when I showed him no mercy, blasted him a second time to fortify a point he would never forget, I must do it here.
“Jane Watkins,” I say. “Shelly Jones,” I say. “Linda Simms, Sandra Clarke,” I say. “You want me to tell you the kinds of jobs you’ve had? The places you used to get coffee in the morning? Your favorite restaurants? The cars you’ve driven? Places you’ve worked?”
It was far easier collapsing Ettore; watching her reaction is more painful than any blow my body has ever received. Melody’s eyes glisten. Having held her breath through my explanation, she lets it out in a rapid sigh and single tears fall from both eyes.
“That’s how you knew my size,” she says. I can see in the way her eyes are moving that the remaining pieces of the puzzle nearly assemble themselves. “And my eye color, and the kinds of food I like.” She shakes her head a little and more tears drift down. “And what you meant when you came into my motel room and said, ‘I like your hair this way.’ ” She looks me in the eye as she wipes her cheeks dry. “You knew me. You’ve known me all along.”
By the time the food arrives, Melody and I have been silent for a while. She’s resisted making any more eye contact, failed to even look in my general direction. As the plates are set before us, Melody composes herself and stares at her dish; it seems like she might actually consider eating.
I nod toward the table. “Please.” She reaches for her fork, plays with the tines before she grabs her knife and begins slicing the beef. I wait until she has a mouthful before I ask, “Aren’t you curious as to why I’ve been watching you all these years?”
She continues to ignore me, takes another slice of beef and brings it to her mouth.
I go ahead and answer the question. “I was there.”
She slows her chewing, head still down, finally responds to me as she scoops up a forkful of watercress. “Where?”
“At Vincent’s.”
There’s that eye contact I was looking for.
“You should try the risotto,” I say, sliding my plate in her direction.
She slides it back. “When were you there?”
Considering how desperate I’d been for her to look me in the eye, I cannot maintain it. “That Sunday morning when my dad was gutting Jimmy ‘the Rat’ Fratello.”
There is not as much a silence between us as there is a vacancy. I might as well have just told her she was the princess of some faraway kingdom. Either way it will cause a complete remapping of her life, of the actions taken and the interpretation of events.
I try to fill the hole. A little. “Turns out Jimmy really was a rat. Which is why he got, uh… you know. He earned his demise, if that helps.”