Dinner at Fiorello’s (21 page)

Yes, Henry could see the anger, rage really, on his face, but he could also see the loss and despair.

He stole a quick glance back at his phone. A quarter ’til five. Even if he ran to the ‘L’ stop, he would be late.

He had to try. Right now the job was all he had. He found Fiorello’s in his contacts and did the responsible thing and called in. He got Rosalie on her voice mail. “Hey, Rosalie, this is Henry. I’m going to be a few minutes late. Family emergency at home. I’ll get there as soon as I can. Thanks.”

He pressed the red phone icon on his screen to end the call. He hurried out of the garage apartment and down the stairs. There was no way he could not run into his parents, and Henry dreaded the thought. He wished, in fact, he could put on a cloak of invisibility, just long enough to get by them.

But as soon as he emerged from the garage, his dad saw him. Henry almost wanted to smile or say something to convey his sympathy, since he could imagine how shattered his dad must feel.

So he was shocked to the core when his father said what he did, crying it out in a drunken slur from ten feet away. And shocked was the right word, because Henry felt tingling in his nerves in a very literal—and painful—sense. The aftermath was swift. Scarlet heat rose to Henry’s face, and he froze where he stood, nearly paralyzed. His mouth dropped open. Slowly, he closed it.

What his father had shouted was “There’s the little faggot now.”

For a moment Henry wasn’t sure he’d heard his father right. But what else could he have been saying? He looked desperately to his mother once he could get his brain engaged. “You told him?” And immediately Henry felt betrayed. Perhaps what his parents were arguing about was not his mother leaving at all, but about his sexual orientation. “How could you? I wasn’t ready….” Henry felt his own chest heaving with his breath, which was verging on panting now.

She reached her arms out to him, which he ignored.

“I’m so sorry. It just came out along with all the other stuff.”

Henry looked to his father.

“Yeah, I know about the cheating bitch too. What a pair! This is what I get for a family. This is what I get for all my hard work, my slaving away to make the two of you happy!” He turned and went into the house. When he came back, he had a fresh tumbler of Scotch clutched in his beefy fist.

In the short time he was gone, Henry’s mother whispered frantically, “I didn’t mean to tell him. It just came out when we were arguing. I’m so sorry.”

Henry shook his head and said the only thing that came to mind, the only thing that would liberate him from this nightmare. “I have to get to work.”

“Yeah, go to your little lowlife job. And don’t bother coming back!” his father called after him.

Once again, Henry found himself halted in his tracks, almost as though an invisible hand pressed on his chest to stop him. He turned to his dad. In a quivering voice, he forced himself to say, “You’re not serious, Dad. We’ll talk when I get home.” He had enough presence of mind to at least utter those words, even though his heart was hammering away at roughly a thousand beats per minute.

“I
am
serious. You bet I am, Tinker Bell.” His father laughed bitterly and followed that up with a long swallow of Scotch. Then he said four words that pierced Henry’s heart, that almost made his legs go out from under him. They hurt that much.

“You’re not my son.”

Henry felt no different, he thought, than if his father had come up to him and punched him. And he thought for a moment, he would have preferred a blow to the face. It would have been better and certainly a lot less painful.

His mother said, “He doesn’t mean it.”

Henry saw the tears in her eyes.

“Do you, Tank? This is your son. Our
baby
.”

“You bet your sweet ass I mean it,” he said to her and then turned to Henry once more. “Get out of here! You’re trespassing.”

Henry couldn’t move.

His father came up to him. His face was florid with rage, and he stood so close, Henry blinked at the liquor-scented spittle coming out of his father’s mouth. “Get this straight, fag. You. Are. No. Son. Of. Mine.” He poked Henry’s chest with each word, like punctuation. “Got it?”

Henry took a step back, and his father stepped in to fill the space, staying in Henry’s face and making him so lost and terrified, his emotions went numb, probably in an effort to protect him.

“
My
son would be working downtown with me, proud to be part of a world where men are respected and valued for their contributions.
My
son would not wear an apron.” He laughed bitterly. “And my son certainly wouldn’t let another man….” His voice trailed off. “Ah, fuck. I can’t even say it.” He met Henry’s eyes. “Get out of here. You were so hell-bent on making your way in the world without my help, so go do it. These days you can even get married, so maybe you’ll find some fairy to set up housekeeping with. Let
him
take care of you.”

Henry swallowed hard as he watched his father lift a balled fist. He shut his eyes, waiting for the impact of bone on flesh.

But none came. His father at last stepped away from him. “I’m done.” His father walked away.

Henry looked to his mother, who stood, cowering, near her chair. Her eyes were huge, and she had a hand to her mouth.

“Thanks, Mom,” Henry said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Your support means a ton.”

He rushed away. Once he got about a block from the house, he stopped in front of an Episcopal church and tried to catch his breath. His chest heaved and the tears ran freely down his face, even though he was beyond sobbing. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and rushed into the shrubbery outside the church, where he threw up.

The heaves went on and on, until nothing more could come up. Henry wiped his mouth and nose as best he could and stood on shaky legs. He felt marginally better. He was going to be really late! He couldn’t afford to lose his job, not when he didn’t know if he now had anyone else to rely upon other than himself.

He forced himself to run to the ‘L’ station at Main Street. Once on the platform and out of breath, he looked down at his phone and saw it was half past five.
Please, please, please don’t fire me, Rosalie. You’re all I have now.
He wanted to cry some more but just couldn’t allow himself the luxury.
Suck it up
, he told himself as the southbound Purple Line train rumbled into the station.

It was crowded, and Henry wondered as he boarded and stood near the doors if anyone could see his distress. He was in so much turmoil, he thought it must show plainly on his features, like scar tissue. But if anyone noticed, they gave no indication. Everyone was busy with iPads and Kindles and smartphones. One poor old-school soul had a
Chicago Tribune
open on his lap, folded neatly, and was working on the crossword.

How quaint.

In no time, Henry found himself at Howard, and he rushed down the stairs and into the chaos of rush hour commuters in the station. He shouldered his way through the crowd, knowing that heading to Fiorello’s on foot would get him there much quicker than waiting for another train to take him one fucking stop.

He burst through the doors at Fiorello’s, breathless, feeling nauseous, but somehow resolved to make it through his shift. He had to. What else could he cling to?

When he rushed in, all activity in the kitchen ceased. Vito looked up at him, smirking. Juan Carlos shoved another tray of dishes into the washer and glared at him. And Rosalie stood with her hands on her hips.

“This needs to be the last time, Henry. Your coworkers have to pull your weight when you don’t make it on time for your shift.” And she disappeared into her office.

Swallowing hard even though there was distinct lack of spit in his mouth, Henry donned his apron. He hurried over to the sous chef station next to Vito and tried to give him an apologetic smile, which Henry was certain came out as more of a grimace.

“Where do you want me to start?” he managed to mumble.

“You should know by now,” Vito said, gesturing toward the onions, garlic, and herbs laid out on the butcher-block surface. He turned his back.

With a shaking hand, Henry took up his chef’s knife and sliced into an onion. He failed to watch what he was doing and, on the second cut, took off a tiny tip of thumb. The blood was immediate and copious, staining the cutting board and the onion in front of him. “Shit,” Henry whispered, not even feeling any physical pain.

Vito looked over. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Henry looked at Vito and felt so panicked that he honestly feared having a heart attack, even as his blood continued to rush out. He stared at the crimson alarm in front of him, transfixed and unsure what he should do.

“Here.” Vito handed him a clean towel. “Wrap that around your thumb and keep pressure on it.”

Dumbly, Henry obeyed.

“That’s a bad one. You’ll probably need the emergency room.” He patted Henry’s shoulder. “You okay? You’re white.” Vito laughed. “Cuts and burns are badges of honor in a kitchen. This is your first one. Relax. We’ll take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” Henry asked. “Isn’t that what families do?”

“What?”

Henry was embarrassed by what he had just said. And it all was, suddenly, too much. Without removing the towel, he leaned close to Vito and whispered, “I gotta get out of here. Now.”

And he burst out of the door through which he had just entered, only a few minutes ago.

Outside, Henry didn’t know what to do. The world went on around him, oblivious. Traffic flowed. ‘L’ trains rumbled in and out of the station above him, heading north and south. Two kids about his own age tossed a Frisbee back and forth at the corner of Greenview and Jarvis.

And Henry heaved, finding it difficult to breathe. His mind was going in a million different directions at once. He thought he should go back inside the restaurant but couldn’t bear the thought of their concern and sympathy, of trying to get through even a few seconds more of pretending to be normal when his world was crumbling all around him. He just could not bear it. Even if he risked losing his job, he needed to be by himself.

For what? What was he going to do? He walked a little east and pulled the towel gently from his thumb. The white fabric was stained with brilliant crimson, and the tip of his thumb was still oozing copious blood.

He shook his head and plopped down on the curb. If he hadn’t, he thought his legs might very well have just gone out from under him.

He realized he might cry but then thought better of it. He had no more tears left.

V
ITO
WATCHED
Henry leave, feeling a strange longing he didn’t want to identify. Yet the stoic in him, the one that said he must protect his heart at all costs, told him to let the boy be. He was not Vito’s concern. If he bled to death on the sidewalk, it was his own fault. And there was also that mantra of the anti-Good Samaritan: don’t get involved.

But Vito, in spite of himself, had a heart. He tried to pretend he didn’t, to make believe it had been buried at Rosehill right along with Kevin and Sal, but try as he might, he couldn’t stop caring.

And he cared about Henry. Somehow the young man had wormed his way in. So much, in fact, Vito almost cut his own finger as he worried about Henry, seeing in his mind’s eye over and over him rushing out of the kitchen, distraught. Vito could barely concentrate on the marsala sauce he was making. What if he was bleeding to death on the sidewalk? Vito knew that was extreme, but still, Henry was hurting.

And in more ways than one. The kid was traumatized. Vito didn’t know why, but he could see it in his red-rimmed, moist eyes, the way his hands shook, and the totally distracted air he presented. It was no wonder he had cut himself. Something bad had happened to Henry, and Vito couldn’t help it—he wanted to make it better.

He leaned back from his sauce and slid it off the burner. “Ro!” he called out. “Ro? You within the sound of my voice?”

She came up behind him. “What is it?”

Vito turned to her. “That kid. He cut himself—pretty bad—and then rushed out of here.”

She cocked her head. “I’m gonna have to let him go. Damn it.”

Vito put his hand on her arm. “No, no, you don’t understand, Ro. He was hurting. I mean, even before he cut himself. He cut himself
because
he was hurting—bad. Something awful must have happened to him. He came in here and tried to do his job, even though it was obvious he was in a lot of pain.”

“What can we do about it, Vito? We’re already down a pair of hands, so don’t even suggest you go after him. I need you here, cooking.”

Vito knew she was right. He also knew he could never forgive himself if something bad happened to Henry. Seeing him hurt like that forced Vito to realize that, even though he didn’t want to, he cared. Deeply. More than what was reasonable. He couldn’t figure out why, not really; he only knew the truth of it.

So he said words he didn’t think he’d ever say, but he knew Rosalie’s past, knew that it had been she, and not her husband, who had begun Fiorello’s, cooking the recipes her Sicilian
nonna
had left her in a food-spattered notebook. “Can you take over for me, Ro? I just need to get out and see where he went. I think he needs to go to the emergency room.”

Rosalie frowned at him. “Vito….”

“Please. The kid needs our help.”

“Really? I haven’t cooked in a long time, not like this.”

“You can do it.” He winked at her. “We both know you’re the best cook in this place.”

She stared down at the floor for a moment, shaking her head. He could feel the eyes of the other people in the kitchen on him. He knew this display of heart was unusual for him. When she looked back up, he knew he’d won. She shoved his hand away from the pan handle upon which it still rested.

“Go,” she said softly.

He turned to start toward the door, and she called after him, “You get him taken care of, and you get back here as soon as you can.”