Dinner at Fiorello’s (19 page)

He had said good night to Vito as he left and gotten only a grunt in return. Henry would like to have just said to hell with the guy, but he couldn’t. His aloofness, his brooding manner, his secrets only served to attract Henry more instead of repelling him. Was this what a moth drawn to a flame felt like?

Ah, he didn’t have the energy to ponder these things anymore! He didn’t want Vito. He didn’t want sex. He didn’t want food. All he wanted was to sleep and sleep and sleep for hours on end. He would have traded anything for just the feel of his head on a pillow, the cool crisp of a pillowcase against his cheek. Right now, that goal seemed like winning the lottery or maybe even going to heaven.

Outside Fiorello’s, on Jarvis, it was late. He had watched as the other employees walked out through the back exit for the night, saying their good-nights and heading off in their own directions. He noticed that Carmela and Antonio left together again and felt a little twinge of hatred for the woman he’d thought would be his friend. She wasn’t at all who he’d thought she was, kind of like his mother. Rosalie stopped to ask if he had a way home, and he assured her he did. Vito walked quickly away, toward his home, and didn’t look back at Henry once. Henry knew, because he watched him until he was completely out of view.

There was a bar next door to the restaurant, something with a Celtic name, and Henry stood in front of it, watching as the patrons played pool, drank beer, and added their two cents to the hubbub of conversation.

He glanced east, toward the lake, and realized he simply did not have the fortitude to even contemplate walking home tonight, let alone actually do it. He didn’t know he could be this tired. He forced one foot in front of the other until he reached the ‘L’ station. He went inside, crinkled his nose at the ever-present smell of urine, and headed for the turnstiles. He pulled out his CTA transit card and was pretty sure there was enough on it to get him home, or at least near home—his parents did not exactly live next to the ‘L.’

He sailed through the turnstile with nary a problem and saw that he still had five bucks left on his card even after the deduction for this trip.

On the platform, several people waited. They were loud, raucous, laughing and smoking, and Henry surmised they were coming from the bar down below. He hoped they were headed south. He was looking forward to a nice, quiet ‘L’ car. If he was lucky, he’d have it all to himself.

Fortunately his hopes came true as a southbound train arrived and swept the revelers away, leaving Henry alone on a blessedly silent platform.

When his train came, he got on and looked around. He breathed a small sigh of gratitude that his car was completely empty. He only had one stop to go before he’d have to switch trains for the Evanston Purple Line, but that was okay. Just a few minutes to himself was a tiny bit of heaven.

Even though he felt somewhat awake when he boarded the car, he must have fallen asleep the moment he sat down and let his head rest against the glass, because the next thing he knew, a CTA employee—an African American woman in uniform—was shaking his shoulder.

“You want to spend the night in the train yard, sugar?”

She smiled down at him, and Henry noticed the vivid scarlet of her lipstick. For a moment, in his groggy state, he thought the woman was propositioning him.

Then she said, “’Cause if you don’t, you better get your butt off the train now. Didn’t you hear the announcements? End of the line?” She shook her head and regarded him with pity, or maybe it was disdain.

Henry shot to his feet. “Sorry.” He hurried from the train and heard her snicker behind him. She probably thought he was drunk or maybe even homeless.

Thankfully there was a Purple Line train waiting, and Henry hurried to cross the platform before the doors closed. He just made it and sat down with a big exhale in a seat near the door. He’d be home soon.

And then, he repeated to himself, he could sleep and sleep and sleep.

Even if it wouldn’t be in his old room but in the clutter of the second story of their four-car garage.

Henry tried to make himself rally when they got to the Main Street stop, but it was hard. The distance from the station to his house was only a few blocks, but it seemed like miles.

He trudged along, passing the familiar sites he had grown up around, and at last stood in front of the large red brick house he called home, for better or worse. He looked up at the edifice and wondered how something so grand, something he was sure people envied as they drove by on Sheridan, could be so empty, so devoid of dreams and happiness.

Ah, I don’t have time for this now.
Henry took a turn after he passed through the front gate and headed around the side of the house toward the garage. His little twin bed there would seem, tonight, like a king in a four-star hotel.

Henry couldn’t wait.

He let himself into the garage and trudged up the stairs. The garage was quiet, dark, and did not smell of gasoline, oil, or even metal. It was curiously sterile—the way his dad, Tank, liked it.

When he got into his bedroom, all Henry wanted to do was collapse on the bed, but he couldn’t.

It was already occupied. His mother was sitting primly on the quilt, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. She looked up at him, her pale eyes nervous in the dim light cast by the floor lamp next to the bed.

Henry stopped. “Mom? What are you doing here?” He had a desperate urge to run from the room or simply back up and try for a do-over. He so did not need to talk to his mother right now. What could she want anyway?

“Sit down.” She patted the bed next to her.

Henry wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was the idea of getting off his feet more than obeying his unfaithful mother that at last caused him to take a seat near, but not next to, her. He regarded her with a gaze he knew must make him look older, certain it reflected not only his weariness but also his lost respect.

She didn’t seem to notice. In fact, she seemed nervous herself, scratching at her leg, flipping her hair restlessly out of her face.

“You’re growing up fast,” she said.

“I know, Mom.” Henry gazed around the cluttered room, perhaps searching vainly for an avenue of escape. He cleared his throat and forced himself to say, “Can we maybe talk in the morning? I am
so
beat. I can barely see straight.” He flopped over onto his back and shut his eyes.

“I saw you.”

The simple words sent a pulse of nervous electricity through him, like a spark. “What?” he asked, heart beating faster. He didn’t open his eyes.

“I saw you. That night. I saw you watching me.”

Henry sat up again and regarded his mother. There was something plaintive in her expression, something wounded and vulnerable. He was hoping he was mistaken and she was talking about something else, but he knew she wasn’t.

She swallowed, and he watched the movement of her throat, as if the act was difficult.

“His name is John.”

“That’s nice.” Henry turned away, staring at the darkness pressing in against the glass of the windows. “We really don’t have to talk about this.” Henry felt what little food he had eaten that night begin to roil and churn in his stomach. Acid splashed against the back of his throat, bitter and caustic.

He winced and pulled away when his mom laid a hand upon his arm.

“Yes, Henry, we really do.”

Henry turned back and stifled an urge he felt—which was almost overwhelming—to cry. “Why? Why do you need to talk to
your son
about who you’re cheating on Dad with?” And a couple of tears did escape. Henry angrily pushed them away with the back of his hand. “This is not appropriate, Mom. This is not my business.”

His mother stared down at the floor. “His name is John.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “I heard you the first time.”

“I’m in love with him, Henry. This is more than just—what do you guys call it?—hooking up? I wanted to tell you at some point, but I thought that day was far off, when I was ready to talk to your father. Maybe after you left for university. When I was making plans to move in with John.”

“What?”

His mother went on. “But then I saw you hiding across the street when I came out of his place, and I realized how close that restaurant you’re working at is to John’s apartment.” She licked her lips. “I was so stunned I didn’t know what to say, what to do, so I just took off.”

“What
could
you say, Mom?”

She touched his arm again, and then stroked his cheek. He shrugged her away.

“I could say that you don’t understand what drove me to John. And maybe that’s more than a son needs to know. But you do need to understand things have not been good between your father and me for a very, very long time. I felt neglected, like all my nerve endings had been cauterized. I felt nothing, numb. I walked through my days depressed and thought things would never change. I thought my life was over.

“And then one day, I needed to get a key made, and I went to the hardware store on Howard. You know, the one your father likes, that little mom-and-pop operation? And there he was. John. I don’t want to upset you, Henry, but there was something there when our eyes met—”

“Shut up.” Henry cut her off. “Just shut the fuck up.”

“Henry!”

“What’s wrong with you? You think I want to hear this? I’m your
kid
.” He looked with longing at her, in hopes she’d understand that what she was telling him was hurting him in ways he was too upset to even understand.

“I just… I just wanted you to know so you’d realize it had nothing to do with you when I make my move.”

“Make your move? To what, run off and be with your hardware store man?” Henry laughed bitterly. “Oh, won’t Dad love that? Losing his wife to some lowlife store clerk who makes keys? Add me to the equation, washing dishes and busing tables, and he’ll be so proud of us both!” Henry began to laugh, harder and harder, so hard his sides ached and he collapsed on his back on his bed.

His mother stared at him, her mouth open.

Suddenly he stopped and sat back up. He didn’t know if he had just laughed or sobbed. Probably both. His cheeks were damp, and his throat hurt. His eyes felt raw, burning. What he did know was that he needed to be alone. He didn’t think he could bear one more second of his mother sitting so close, looking for—what—validation? Understanding?

Sorry, Mom, I’m fresh out of both.

“Honey, you’re not being fair.”

“
I’m
not being fair?” Henry laughed. “I think you’re the one.”

She had her mouth open to say something else, and Henry held up a hand. “Please. Maybe we do need to talk, but I can’t. Not right now.” And even though he thought he’d lie for the next eight hours staring at the ceiling, he said, “I’m just too tired. I need to sleep. Could you please, please, please just leave me alone?”

Henry felt a paradoxical rise of his spirit and a sinking of his heart when she stood and started toward the door.

“You rest, honey, and we’ll talk when you’re up in the morning.”

Henry didn’t say anything. He put his feet up on the bed and turned toward the wall. He kept his eyes shut tight and listened as his mother crossed back toward him. She reached down and awkwardly, and with some difficulty, loosened the quilt beneath him. She tossed it to the end of the bed. She then bent to loosen his shoelaces and take off his shoes. She pulled the cover back up and over him, tucked it in around him, and then ran her hand down the length of his body. Henry’s shoulders went up as he felt her lips, cool, on his cheek as she kissed him. “Sleep tight,” she whispered.

She turned out the light, and the room was plunged into darkness. The windows opposite him turned into slate gray rectangles. Henry could see stars. He listened as she opened and closed the door behind her.

He didn’t once open his eyes and, despite his upset, felt himself drifting off, betrayed by a body that simply had no more to give—not even consciousness.

I
T
WAS
silent, as though all the sound in the world had been sucked out of it. Yet Henry was happy. The day was brilliant, the sunlight casting harsh, crisp shadows on the sidewalk as Henry followed Vito down Greenview Avenue.

Henry knew that this was sort of a game. When Vito turned to look behind him, Henry would duck, laughing, into a doorway or behind a dumpster or some shrubbery. He followed Vito until they were on Morse Avenue, and then Henry lost track of him. The next thing he knew, Vito was ahead of him again, but now he had the dogs with him. And Henry’s mother too. And that guy. What was his name? John?

Henry laughed because John and Vito looked like they could be brothers. “Like mother, like son,” Henry said and laughed, thinking he shared the same taste in men with his own mother. “It’s definitely time to tell her I’m gay.” Even though Henry said the words, again, no sound came out.

And then it was night. And Henry found himself alone on the street. He pounded on the street-level door he knew led up to Vito’s apartment. There was something shadowy moving behind him, and it was getting closer, closer.

He pounded harder, his spine rigid, afraid to turn and look back. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a hot breath at his neck.

And all at once, Vito was at the door, reaching out to snatch Henry inside. He slammed the door behind Henry and smiled. “That was close,” Vito said, but no words came out of his mouth. It was as though Henry absorbed the words telepathically. Henry, inside and presumably safe, looked behind himself and through the glass-paned door to see what monster had almost gotten him in his clutches.

“Was there always glass in that door?” Henry asked Vito, thinking that last time he saw it, the door was solid wood.

Vito didn’t answer, and all Henry saw outside was not the night, not Morse Avenue with its river of traffic and neon lights, but the beach behind their house in Evanston, in brilliant sunlight. His father was on the raft he liked, the one that had a cup holder where he could park his bottle of Stella Artois. His dad waved to him and then was carried away by a current in the sparkling aquamarine water. A V formation of geese flew by, and they broke the silence with their honking. A dolphin jumped out of the water.