Dinner at Fiorello’s (24 page)

“Something I’m sorely in need of.” Henry took the plate Vito handed to him and stared down at it with something like wonder.

“You don’t need to change a thing.”

Vito rolled his eyes, and Henry wondered if it was because he was chastising himself for his own mushiness. It was decidedly unlike the Vito he had known until this morning.

“Go on, eat up. You don’t want stuff getting cold.”

Vito disappeared from the room and came back holding a small Bluetooth speaker. From it issued a gorgeous aria.

“What is that?” Henry asked, his fork held suspended above his plate. The voice was so clear, so crystalline, it caused tears to rush to his eyes, and he suddenly wished he knew a lot more about opera. Or even a little more, because he knew absolutely nothing.

Vito set the speaker down on the dresser opposite the bed. It’s “Vissi d’arte” from
Tosca
. We’ve got Kiri Te Kanawa singing Flora. Isn’t it beautiful? The opera is about fate, about how everything can change so fast, in just a day.” Vito looked away from Henry very quickly, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room seemed charged. When Vito looked back, his dark eyes shone. Softly, he said, “I’m gonna go have my coffee out on the back porch and see to the girls. I put ’em out there so they’d leave you alone while you ate. Otherwise you’d have to fight ’em.
Mangia!
” And Vito hurried from the room.

Henry closed his eyes, savoring the huge soprano voice issuing forth from the tiny speaker for several minutes. Then he tucked into what Vito had prepared for him that morning. It too was sublime.

When he was finished—it didn’t take long, since Henry felt he had eaten much as Vito’s dogs would have, wolfing it down—he let himself lie back on the bed, listening as the aria finished. The simple phrasing and rise and fall of the music, accompanied by the almost otherworldly voice, made Henry forget the troubles that had come into his life, made him think only of this moment, in this warm, sun-drenched bed, his belly full from a meal prepared by a man who treated food like art. And tears, simple, natural, and unforced, rolled from the corners of his eyes as the soprano finished.

Henry hopped from the bed and shut off the speaker. He didn’t quite know why, but he wanted the moment to not be tainted by any more music. The aria had spoken to him in ways he couldn’t understand, but maybe that was okay. Maybe the best art—music, food, whatever it was—wasn’t meant to be understood, like a puzzle, but felt.

Now all he heard was the sound of traffic rushing by on the street below, filtered through the roar of the box fan in the window. He noticed Vito standing in the doorway.

“You liked it?” he asked.

“What? The food? The music? Yes. And yes. Very much. Thank you.”

Henry stared at Vito for a long time. It felt like each of them was frozen in place, bewitched.

At last Henry moved to the bed and sat nervously at its edge. “What time is work?”

“Neither of us has to be in until the dinner shift—about four.”

Henry grinned. “What will we do with the rest of the day?” He eyed Vito and tried to give him his most flirtatious look. Since he had little experience being a seducer, he didn’t know if it worked. He figured it didn’t, because Vito merely cocked his head and let out a guffaw.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, kid. But I can tell you what you need to do for at least a little of the day—clean up your dishes and the pans in the kitchen. House rule, whoever cooks, cooks, and he who eats, cleans up. That’s the way it always was when—” Vito stopped himself and looked away, not saying anything for several moments.

“Just clean up.” Vito moved away, and shortly, Henry heard the creak and slap of the screen door off the kitchen.

So we’re back to our normal, grouchy self
, Henry thought. He got up out of bed and rooted around in Vito’s drawer for a clean T-shirt, hoping he wouldn’t mind.

He padded out to the kitchen and looked out the screen door. Vito’s back porch was really nothing more than a landing on the apartment building’s back stairs, but he had brightened it up with potted plants and flowers in yellow and purple. There was even a small fountain on the floor, and the water rushed in a continuous loop over piles of gray stones.
You’re not fooling me, Mr. Hardass
, Henry thought, eyeing how Vito had breathed life into what would have otherwise been a very drab space. Vito sat, unaware that Henry was looking at him, in a retro aluminum chair, its red paint chipped and faded. Vito was also in boxers and shirtless. Sweat glistened between his fur-covered pecs, and his hairy legs were spread far apart as he slouched. Henry’s mouth went dry. Vito sipped his coffee. If he knew Henry was there staring, ogling really, he gave no indication.

Henry stepped back reluctantly from the vision, fearing he might do something stupid like rush outside and drop to his knees between Vito’s spread thighs. You know, just to show his gratitude. But he didn’t want that to happen. Not yet. He had learned at least a little something from Kade.

So he headed back into the apartment proper, thinking he would take a quick shower before he began cleaning up the kitchen. He stopped in the kitchen and rooted around in the drawers until he found a sandwich bag to cover his bandaged thumb with. He moved to the bathroom, glanced inside, and saw that only one bath towel hung on the bar, slightly damp but neatly folded. Henry stepped back into the hallway, where earlier he had seen a door to what he assumed was a linen closet.

Henry opened the door and smiled. Vito was a neat freak. Along the top two shelves were rows of almost militarily folded sheets, towels, and blankets. He pulled down a bath towel and slung it over his shoulder. But he was too nosy not to keep snooping. The next shelf down held neatly arranged first aid stuff—Band-Aids, gauze, Neosporin ointment, stuff like that. There was also a large bottle of Wet lubricant, and Henry grinned, wondering when Vito had last used it. It didn’t have cobwebs around it, but out here in the linen closet, instead of in the bedroom, did not bode well for Vito’s sex life.

What Henry saw on the floor of the closet made him catch his breath, made him wish he hadn’t been so nosy.

There was one of those Rubbermaid bins, filled to the brim with a little boy’s toys—Hot Wheels cars, balls in different colors, shapes, and sizes, a jigsaw puzzle of Millennium Park downtown, a Game Boy and several cartridges. Henry knelt to root through it, finding stuffed animals and action figures. He bit his lip, feeling a scorching heat at his cheeks and a peculiar pain in his heart.

It was then he heard Vito behind him. Or maybe he simply felt his presence—a change in the air, perhaps, the coolness of Vito’s shadow falling across his back.

Henry stiffened. He turned slowly to find Vito staring down at him, coffee mug in hand, a frown on his face.

Henry stood awkwardly. “Sorry. I was just looking for a towel. So I could, you know, shower.” He grinned.

Vito shook his head. It looked like, for a moment, he was poised to say something, but then he just walked away.

Henry felt like shit as he headed into the bathroom.
Great. Another wonderful day in the life.

Under the hot spray of the shower, Henry ached for Vito, ached for the man who would keep those toys even though there was no evidence, other than a few snapshots, of a child around. What had happened? It wasn’t Henry’s business to know, but he wanted to give Vito some sort of solace, some comfort, as Vito had done for him. And the only way he could do that was to know the story.

He shut off the water and stepped out of the tub. He would ask. What would be the worst that could happen?

T
HE
KID
just can’t leave things alone. I try to be kind, and he won’t leave me be, let me keep my hurt to myself.
Vito sat on the porch, sipping his third cup of coffee, knowing he shouldn’t have it. It would make him sweat and feel jittery, but he simply couldn’t go in that kitchen and face Henry, brook the question in his eyes.

Inside, he could hear Henry cleaning up the breakfast dishes, the rush of water and the clatter of cutlery, crockery, and skillet as he placed them on the counter to dry. Henry had brought Vito’s Bluetooth speaker out from the bedroom and had synched it with his own phone, so now the music issuing forth from it wasn’t opera but something contemporary that grated on Vito’s nerves. Some woman who was popular—Lady Gaga or Pink or Rihanna—who knew? Vito had heard the names but didn’t know any of their music. He didn’t want to.

When he saw Henry rooting through Sal’s old toy box, it was almost too much to bear. He wanted to throw the kid out on the spot. Where did he get the nerve? Vito shook his head. He told himself,
The kid was just, as he said, looking for a towel. How is it his fault he saw the toys you have in the linen closet? Why are they there, anyway? Sal won’t be coming back for them.
At the thought, Vito sucked in a breath. Tears rose to his eyes, and he pressed his palms into his eyes to stop their flow.
The toys should be donated to Goodwill or a homeless shelter, where they can do some good. Where living children can play with them.

Vito promised himself, for the thousandth time, that he would gather the playthings up and take them somewhere for donation on his very next day off. He drained the coffee in his cup and stood, stretching.

The day yawned, a vast and unfilled space, before him. What to do with Henry? The smart move would be to tell him to just get out. Vito didn’t need any complications, and he certainly didn’t need the temptation the handsome young man offered. It would only lead to more trouble, more heartache. Besides, Henry was not his responsibility. He barely knew him. If his family had thrown him out because he was gay—which was ridiculous—that was, sadly, Henry’s problem. Vito could perhaps offer him some wisdom on the self-acceptance part of the coming-out process, but he wasn’t responsible for seeing that Henry had a place to sleep at night. The kid would need to work that out for himself.

Right?

Right?
Vito asked himself again, but he had no answer to give back.

He stepped into the kitchen, and the girls stood behind him, separated by the closed screen door. They whined, and Vito turned to glare at them. Sometimes all it took was a look. Both dogs retreated, curling up on the wooden floor.

Vito turned back to Henry, who had now finished washing the dishes and was wiping down the sink, the faucet, every surface, taking an absurdly long and involved time to do this final step.

“You don’t have to make sure it sparkles, you know. Just having the dishes taken care of is enough. Thank you.”

Henry turned to look at him, and Vito could see the fear in his eyes. There was almost a shrinking away from him, and that made Vito sad.

Was he really that awful?

Henry swallowed and said, “I just wanted to make sure everything was good.” He gave Vito an awkward smile. “I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

It was on the tip of Vito’s tongue to say something harsh,
something
real
, like “Don’t get too used to it. I just gave you a place to crash for the night. One night.” Instead he moved tentatively toward Henry until he was standing almost nose to nose with him. He stared into Henry’s eyes, searching. He smiled. Henry smiled back. “Why can’t you keep your nose out of my business?”

“I’m sorry.” The smile vanished from Henry’s face.

And Vito, once more, felt like kicking himself. “No, no.
I’m
sorry. Sorry I made you feel bad when the things you’ve seen—my son’s toys, his pictures on the bookcase, my husband’s photograph—were all left out for you to see.” Vito shrugged. “I guess I never really thought anyone would come here and see my life on display.” He nodded toward the refrigerator to indicate the watercolor scene held to its surface by a magnet. It was crude but showed some real style. There were two mountains of snow with a little house in between, a dark night sky with flakes falling. “Like that. It reminds me of Sal. He made that for me. How could I ever get rid of it?”

Henry licked his lip and then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He stared harder into Vito’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” Vito said, placing his hand on Henry’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Go ahead. Ask. I know you want to.”
I just don’t know if I want to tell you. I don’t know if I can bear sharing that with anyone. Not again. Not ever. I don’t even talk about them with Mom much. But you know too much and too little. And maybe it’s time I unburdened myself.
Vito slowly drew in a quivering breath.
As if this burden could ever go away! As if I would ever want it to….

Vito leaned in close, closer, to Henry and kissed him. They pulled quickly away, as if both of them were surprised by what they’d done. Henry gasped, and then they came together again, just as quickly, passionately now, their bodies mashed together, tongues dueling, their sweat commingling. They clutched at each other like men falling into an abyss, as if one could save the other.

Vito could feel the ache, heat, and hardness of Henry’s desire pressed up against his own through the thin cotton of their boxers.

Vito had to force himself to step back, placing a foot or so between them. He was panting, and from just that fraction-of-a-second connection, that starved kiss, Vito felt the tremors course through him, almost spasms, telling him he was almost
there
.

“Ask me,” he repeated.

With his finger, he traced a line across Henry’s lower lip, and Henry shuddered.

Henry’s pale skin was red with heat, a crimson smudge spilled across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. For a moment he looked confused, but then Vito could see it all clicking into place and knew Henry was mustering up the courage to ask the question prominent in both of their minds.