The Real Thing (22 page)

“That's bullshit, and you know it!”

“Is it?”

Yes! “Dante, if
I
had stayed,
she
would have stayed.”

“You do not know this for sure.”

“No, not for sure, but would you have argued with her if I were still here?”

“Yes,” he says with a nod. “I am good at it. She would have left, and you would have stayed with me.”

I feel so stupid. “But I have a job, Dante. I couldn't have stayed long.”

“Long enough.” He zips up his duffel bag. “But now, it does not matter.” He lifts the bag and carries it to the hallway, returning with an equally large empty duffel bag.

“Don't you care about me?” I ask.

“I did. For a moment. It was a great moment.” He opens a closet and begins pulling out hangers containing pants and shirts. “One of my greatest moments.” He stuffs the pants and shirts into the bag without folding them. “But it is gone. Before, I was unsure. After the article, I am sure. I will fight for my love. Is that clear enough? Make sure you write it correctly. This is another interview, is it not?”

“No,” I say. “It's not. I came to apologize. I came to see you. I want to be with you. I have been miserable without you.” I stare into his eyes. “I love you.”

He leaps from beside the bed to within inches of me. “How can you say that? By saying I fight for Evelyn's love, you doom yourself. If I win, she gets me, not you. I do not understand.”

“I don't understand it either,” I say. “It's why I'm so miserable.”

He closes his eyes. “I have been miserable
because
of you. Love should not be so miserable.” He opens his eyes and returns to the duffel bag. “Love should not be
doloroso.
”

“No, it shouldn't.”

He begins pulling out drawers, all of them empty. “Love should have smiles in it like eaten watermelons.”

What a wonderful quote.

“It should have
risata,
laughter, in it.”

I step close enough to touch his arm, but I'm afraid of what he'd do. “Sometimes it has pain, too, Dante. Maybe this is one of those times.”

He turns and nearly knocks me down. “No. It cannot be love if I feel so miserable.
You
can be miserable in love. I cannot.” He slams shut all of the empty drawers. “So as you can see, we do not have as much in common as you once thought. We were not made for each other. We are not soul mates.” He grabs the bags. “It gets dark soon. I am leaving.”

I follow him out, grabbing his sleeve before he reaches the top of the stairs. “Dante, if you don't win . . . No.”

He turns and puts down the bags. “No . . . no what? You will be there if I lose? You will be there to put me back together again? You will be the second prize? You want me to lose?” He picks up the bags and starts down.

I stay at the top of the stairs, afraid to go down. “I'll be there for you whether you win or lose, but in my heart, I know you're going to win, Dante.” It's about time I cried. I need something warm on my face. “I don't want you to win because I know what that means, but I know you will win.”

He slides the bags across the kitchen floor and turns. “How do you know this?”

I start down the stairs. “It's your heart, Dante. Your heart is big enough. It's always been big enough. Forget what I wrote before. Heart
is
enough to win the big fights. You
will
be the champ.” I stop on the last step and rest my hands on his shoulders. “Just do me a favor.”

His eyes soften some. “What? What is this favor?”

“Please throw fifty jabs per round.”

He smiles (yes!). “It will weaken my hook.”

I throw a left jab, which he blocks with ease. “It will keep Tank away from you. The only way he can hurt you is if you let him get inside. He is a
bravaccio.
He wore you down in the last fight with all those body shots. You must jab and work
his
body to keep him off you.”

He puts my hand on his chest. It seems harder than before. “I am in the best shape of my life. I can take a punch. You should know this.”

“Fake him out then. He knows about your left hook.” I start to throw a lazy left hook. “Make him look for it all night. Keep his mind occupied by feinting and just keep jabbing.” I let my fist gently touch his cheek. It's a new feeling, all that hair there.

“You want me to
box
him, Christiana? I have never done that in my life. It is not my style.”

I hug him, and he doesn't push me away. “I want you to box him and out-fox him. You are the teacher, and he is the student.”

“I am the teacher.”

I lean back but hold onto his neck. “Yes. And I don't want him to hurt this face.” I let my hands slide down that block of granite. “He can never hurt you unless he cuts you. Like I did, with that article, with a bunch of my articles. If you don't bleed, the judges will be fairer. You know that.” I kiss his lips lightly. “And protect these, too.” Oh God, my heart hurts. “You'll, um, no.” I can't make myself say, “You'll need them after the fight.” I drop my hands and take a deep breath. “That's really what I came to say.”

He nods. “You promise to be there?”

“Yes. I promise.” With every breath of my being.

He nods again.
“Bene
.
Andiamo.”

On the “race” to the Landing, which his boat wins with ease, flurries the size of half-dollars hit and melt on my face, mixing in with my tears. I help him winch his boat to a trailer hitched to the Land Cruiser, even wading into the icy water to lend a hand.

I give him a long hug, kiss his cheek, and take his hands. “When I first got here, Red told me you were an amazing man, and I confess I didn't believe him at the time. I thought you were . . .”

“What?”

“A jerk.”

He laughs. “I had you fooled then.”

“But I was wrong, Dante. I believe.” I pull the necklace out and kiss the cross. “I do this a lot now.”

“I have rubbed off on you.”

I nod. “In the best way.” I hug him again, and his arms surround me and lift me into the air.

He kisses me gently on the lips.

“Just . . . stay amazing, okay?” I ask.

“You, too. Stay
pericolosa.
”

“I'll try.”

He looks into the sky. “The snow is getting thicker. I will follow behind you until I turn right at the Shell station.”

I check the rearview mirror often to see if Dante is still behind me. Snow clings to the sides of the road now, and as we coast through Barry's Bay, all those memories come back. I stop at the stop sign, putting the Trailblazer in park.

I get out and go to his window. I can't think of anything to say. I just want to look at him one last time, just the two of us. I reach in and squeeze his left shoulder. “Jab,” I finally say. “Don't forget.”

He nods. “
Ciao,
Christiana.”

I start to choke up and can't say good-bye. I run to the Trailblazer, get in, and weep across Ontario all the way to Ottawa. This is twice I've done it now. I should write a travel book called
Places to Drive When You're Weeping.
Ontario is okay. There isn't anyone to see you but the moose.

What did I just hit? I look in the rearview. Ew.

Check that. There isn't anyone to see you but the moose and rabbits with very big feet . . .

. . . and very flat heads.

Chapter 25

B
ack to my old life.

Heavy sigh.

I had a fling, it was nice, it ended, and I'm home. I was barely home before, putting so much time and energy into that story, looking for a way to get back to Dante—before I got back
at
him. I was here for weeks without really being here. I was just spinning my wheels waiting for . . .

I don't know what I was waiting for. An escape, maybe. A way out of here. I guess I'm just plain stuck here in Red Hook, a place everyone in New York says is “in transition.” They've been saying that for a long time.

Maybe I've been in transition for a long time, too.

Being in transition sucks most of the time.

As is usual when I am depressed, I don't feel like cooking. Instead, I order takeout from Good Fork, a cozy eatery run by a carpenter/actor and his gorgeous tattooed Korean wife. Tonight I eat a roast mission-fig salad with
prosciutto di Parma,
Gorgonzola, and reduced balsamic dressing while I wait for my laptop to boot up. I'll save the fettuccine with lamb Bolognese and
parmigiano reggiano
for later.

Damn. I never order the fettuccine
.
I guess my brain is telling me, “If you can't
have
the Italian, you can at least
eat
Italian.” I sample a taste. It's not as good as Red's but is infinitely palatable and more than enough to last me all weekend.

I toy with playing online spades (cutthroat, naturally) for a few seconds, but I decide instead to research Lelani, of all people. I'd like to write an article on her simply because our readers will also be amazed that the wahine is forty. Who knows? I may even use her in an article titled, “Card Girls Gone Good.”

I know it's silly, but I need something to do to take my mind off Dante and my monumental mistake.

I guess I could start by changing the background of my opening screen. It's the shot of Dante carrying all our bags that day in Barry's Bay. I look at it and smile every time I see it.

I'll keep it. I can always use a smile.

I first go to the Hawaiian Tropic Web site but find the pageant photo archives only go back to 2003. I type in her first name in Google and freeze.

I don't know her last name. Why didn't I ask?

I guess I had tunnel vision. I had focused too much on Dante's dark eyes, those little tunnels of darkness. They practically disappeared at first in the closet. And then when he had my sweats down—

Stop.

Save him for your dreams.

Okay.

I look back at the screen. Hmm. How many people named Lelani can there be? It's not exactly a common name. I start my search.

And I see a crap load of sites.

I learn that
Lelani
(or
Leilani
) means “heavenly lei.” That fits the Lelani I know. I mean, she's a flower. And Red does seem happy with her. Maybe she
is
a heavenly lei.

Let's see . . . There's a stripper in California who goes by
Leilani.
She looks like a Joan. Don't ask me why. Her turn-on is “the perfect kiss.” Mine, too. Okay, you don't look like a Joan anymore. You look more like a Kelly.

Again, don't ask me why. It might have been her freckles, her
lentiggine.

Dante liked my
lentiggine.
He located and licked every single—

Stop.

Later, Christiana.

Okay, okay.

Here's a minor actress named Lelani Sorenson, who had bit parts on
Perry Mason
and
Leave It to Beaver.
I don't believe this. She received a film credit for simply being on a
poster
in Beaver's room. I knew actresses were two-dimensional, but come on.

Wait a minute. I am getting horny. Lei. Stripper. Beaver. You get the picture.

Stop.

Sorry.

Let's see . . . Lelani Kai, women's wrestler, won her only title in 1985. She doesn't look Hawaiian at all. She could be from Beard Street. I look closer. Hmm. Maybe not. She has a Bronx look about her.

Again, don't ask me why. I just
know,
all right? Gimme a break.

It's getting warm in here. Lei. Stripper. Beaver. Wrestler. Dante's beard—

Later, Christiana. Under the covers.

Okay.

Hey now. “Lelani” is a level-sixteen Blood Elf Rogue who has a talent for assassination, herbs, and mining in the World Warcraft game. I wonder if Lelani knows this.

There's not a whole lot sexual about that. I mean, it's not like Dante will send flowers, I'll strip, we'll wrestle, he'll mine my beaver with his beard, and I'll get lei-ed, right?

I should have bought a bottle of wine. I can get through this if I pass out.

Shh, Christiana. Later.

Okay, I'll click on the next Google page, and if it makes me horny, I will quit this right now and get under the covers with my fantasies.

Who's this? Lelani Drakeford, actress. This sounds safe. Let's see what—

This is freaky. Lelani Drakeford has only one credit, for a movie called
Dottie Gets Spanked.

Yeah. Um. Well. Dante hits hard, you know, so . . . Hmm. Not that my booty couldn't handle it, it's just . . .

I finish my salad and start a new, hopefully less erotic search for Dante's father, who may also be the subject of a future article, especially if Dante wins. Maybe the article itself could become a catalyst for reuniting the two. I stare at the cursor and curse the cursor. I didn't ask Dante for his daddy's first name either. What am I good for? I type “Lattanza” and . . .

Ah.
Bene. Perfetto.
Pictures of Dante. A couple fan sites I've already visited. I can't let myself be distracted, but he is a nice
distrazione
. He hasn't aged a bit. I click to the next page and see more of him—and pictures of his bloated cheeks and bloody brows that accompanied my “over the hill”
Times
article ten years ago. That means someone has finally made the connection between the two pieces and—

I click on one of the old pictures. Yep. There are my two articles, ten years apart and side by side. Wonderful. At least I didn't use “vaunted left hook” in my most recent article.

Back to reality.

I switch to Web mode (no images) and find an Antonio Lattanza, who arrived in New York in the 1880s and settled in South Philly. Hmm. That's not exactly Brooklyn, and Dante said his ancestors battled Mussolini. Maybe they came to Brooklyn after WWII. Again, I didn't ask.

I let my journalism skills go all to hell in Canada.

There are plenty of folks named Lattanzi here and there. Let's try “Lattanzi” in the search box. Ah. Lattanzi Ristorante in Little Italy. Giuseppe. Paolo. Chloe. Barbara. Giovanni. Nicola. Wait. Barbara? Um, there's Matt Lattanzi, ex-husband to Olivia Newton-John. He's okay looking, in a boy-toy kind of way.

All this lusting leads me to look up
Heavy Leather,
at best a half-star movie with a laughable premise. A father pushes his son into boxing, then fights his son in a heavyweight championship bout. How, um,
not
bloody likely. Dante was onscreen for maybe three minutes, sparring with and bloodying up the son before the father steps in saying to Dante, “I'm-a gonna teach-a you a thing or two about boxing.” Funny I remember that line. I also remember Dante ducking and running from the slower, portly father who somehow connects and dazes Dante.

Also not bloody likely.

Who thinks up this shit? A father fighting his own son? A beer-drinking, crotch-scratching has-been changing over-night into a heavyweight contender? And when he has his son dazed and confused and going down in the last round, the father suddenly relents and lets his own son knock him out. Great applause, lots of hugs, dinner at Sardi's, roll the credits.

I feel a strong need to go rent this movie, but Hole in the Wall Video is two miles away, and I don't feel like doing anything tonight.

I don't feel like doing anything at all.

At . . . all.

I don't even feel like surfing the Internet anymore, which is about as much nothing as I usually do when I'm recovering from an assignment.

I could always get under the covers with Dante, so to speak, and let my imagination and fingers run wild. Whoo, just the thought . . .

I've had a few erotic dreams with him, and they always leave me sweaty and even hornier in the morning. My all-time favorite has us in a scene in
From Here to Eternity
, only we're in a sleeping bag as waves crash over us. A lesser favorite, though extremely hot, has him hitting my booty from behind while we ride the F Train. Yeah, I am all over that F Train by the time we're—

Stop. Christiana, you're recovering from heartbreak. You need to get up, get out there, and get moving. You can't dwell in your sensual past. You have to start over. Now.

But I don't feel good. Am I lovesick? Is that even physically possible? Is it possible to be sick of love or be sick
from
love? Is this what withdrawal feels like? I type in “lovesick” in Google.

Lovely. There is such a thing.

I have some of the symptoms. Am I mentally ill? Well . . . maybe. I do live in Red Hook. Am I pale? No. Am I dry? Ashy, yes. Are my eyes hollow? I go to my mirror. No. Do I feel anxious? Yes. Am I tearful? Only when I'm driving through Ontario. Do I have insomnia? Only when I can't sleep. Do I have trouble concentrating?

Um, what was the question?

Do I have OCD? Do I check the phone for messages, watch the phone, or hold the phone waiting for it to ring? Sometimes. Am I obsessed over an object of “superstitious” value? Dante the Moose and I are very well acquainted, but I won't take him everywhere I go. Okay, I'll probably wear the flannel shirt he bought me until I can see through it. Is my stomach upset? A little. I blame the Gorgonzola. Do I feel dizzy or confused? Sure. I'm an American. Is my serotonin level dropping? What the hell is serotonin? Oh. It helps control my mood. If it's too low, one Web site urges me to eat sweets and complex carbohydrates like pasta. Hmm. So Italians have high levels of serotonin, and the more linguini I order from Good Fork, the better.

I chuckle over some of the ancient “cures” for lovesickness. Baths. I have a stand-up shower. I suppose if I duct-tape the glass . . . No. Conversation. “Well,” I say, “I can always talk to myself.” Music? Smokey and Johnny will help. Poetry? Not. Wine? I'll need more. Travel? I'll go to work. Therapeutic intercourse? Only if it's with Dante Lattanza.

Am I going to start over?

Nah.

Not when I'm feeling inert. I wonder if inertia is a symptom of lovesickness, because I certainly feel inert. Yep. That's it. I'm an inert gas, and I'm not going anywhere.

What was that sound? Hmm. Maybe not all of my gas is inert. Again, I blame the Gorgonzola.

I am just going to stay in my “space” and float. In fact, I am going to do absolutely nothing and do it well. I'm going to do it so well that I'm going to write a book about it. I'll call it
Doing Nothing and Doing It Well.
It will be kind of a self-help book for people who have fallen in lust at first sight, an it's-okay-to-be-depressed-about-fucking-up book. “You lusted, you lost” will be the first sentence. “Sucks, doesn't it?” will be the second. It will probably sell well. I mean, look at
Seinfeld.
That show was about nothing, and America ate it up and asked for seconds.

Then the phone rings, and I find I have a problem. Well, it's not really a problem. It's a conundrum. If I get up and answer it, I will be doing something, breaking my vow of doing nothing. If I
don't
get up and answer it, I will also be doing something, albeit in an apathetic, who-gives-a-shit kind of way. Which, then, is
less
nothing to do?

Decisions, decisions . . .