Torture to Her Soul
Page 33
"Oh." She settles back into the seat. "I figured he did your work for you."
I say nothing to that.
I'm grateful she drops the subject.
It's late afternoon when we make it to the Mercedes dealership in Midtown East. The lobby is quiet, only a few people hanging around, talking to salesmen or waiting for their cars. A strange blue glow surrounds the desk as I stand in front of it, leaning against it, waiting as the receptionist finds room in the schedule to squeeze me in.
"It should just be a few minutes, Mr. Vitale," she says, bright red lips smiling widely, flashing her inexplicably white teeth at me. It's forced, and fake, the kind of smile that's bought and paid for. I hate when people smile needlessly, like their faces are puppets and corruption pulls the strings. "Just take a seat and someone will be right with you."
She takes my only spare key and waltzes away as I let out as a sigh and turn away from the front desk. Karissa is sitting in a blue chair across the lobby, right in front of the television, fidgeting distractedly.
I stroll that way, and she glances up at me, but I step past her to the counter along the side, to the small Dean & DeLuca set up, grabbing two shots of espresso before strolling back toward Karissa. She watches me warily as I hold one of them out to her.
"Here," I say. "We might be here a while."
They say minutes when it's always more like hours.
"Thank you," she says quietly, taking the little paper cup from me, offering a small smile of gratitude. Unlike the one that greeted me just minutes ago, this one is genuine.
I like this smile.
I miss it.
"You're welcome," I say, sitting down in the chair beside hers, stretching my long legs out as I take a sip of the espresso. It's thicker than usual, a slight bitter edge to it. I grimace, the taste lingering in my mouth, and glance at Karissa to see her do the same.
She scrunches up her nose. "This coffee is terrible."
"It's espresso."
She scoffs, taking another sip. "Same difference."
"Same difference? Really?" I shake my head. "You're a disgrace to Italians everywhere."
She laughs. "Good thing I'm not really Italian."
"Oh, but you are," I tell her. "Your father was an Italian citizen, so by default you would be, too."
She hesitates, taking another sip. "Is my mother an Italian citizen, too?"
"Uh, no, she's not," I say, leaning back in my chair as I regard her. "Her parents... your grandparents, as it is... were second or third generation."
Karissa's eyes widen. "My grandparents?"
"Yes," I say. "You have some of those, you know… most people do."
I can tell looking at her that she never thought about it, never considered the fact that she'd have more family.
"They're dead, though, right?" Her voice is quiet. "Growing up, my mom always told me her parents passed away."
"Yeah, they died in a car accident."
"So she didn't lie to me about that, at least."
"I suppose there's that," I say, drumming my fingers against the arm of the chair. "Although, you know, Carmela isn't your only parent. Johnny's mother is still around."
"Really?"
"Yes, she lives over in Harlem. She's a bitter hag, kicked your father out on his ass when he was just sixteen, but she's still around. Her name's Janice."
"Janice," she mumbles. "Interesting."
As I'm sitting there, sipping the espresso, the lady from the front desk comes waltzing over, that fake smile still plastered to her face. "Mr. Vitale, do you have some identification on you? I need to use it to verify you're the owner so we can order the new key from headquarters."
"Yeah." Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out the paper from the DMV, the temporary driving authorization until my new license comes in, and hand over my passport along with it, in case she needs a picture. She walks away with them both, returning a moment later and handing them back to me.
I start to slip them into my pocket when Karissa's voice cuts through the silence. "Can I see?"
I cut my eyes at her. "See what?"
"Your passport."
I hesitate, but figure there's no harm in letting her look. Anything she'd learn from it are just things I'd tell her if she asked, anyway. I hold it out, and she takes it, setting her espresso down.
I continue to sip my drink.
She flips the passport open and immediately bursts into laughter, the sound washing through me, easing some of the tension in my muscles. I know exactly what she's laughing at before she even says anything. "Michele? Your middle name is Michele?"
She pronounces it like most Americans, feminine and soft, her laughter escalating as she repeats it again and again. Michele.
"It's not Mah-shell," I say, correcting her. How many times did I say these words growing up? "It's Me-kale-ah. It's the Italian form of Michael."
"Are you Italian?"
"Clearly."
"No, I mean, are you a citizen like my, uh... Johnny? I figure you have to be, with a name like yours, but you have an American passport, so…"
"Oh, no," I say. "New Yorker, born and bred."
"So your parents just like, uh… traditional names?" she asks, tripping over the word traditional as she fights to keep her humor at bay. "Names like Michele?"
I say nothing to that.
I'm grateful she drops the subject.
It's late afternoon when we make it to the Mercedes dealership in Midtown East. The lobby is quiet, only a few people hanging around, talking to salesmen or waiting for their cars. A strange blue glow surrounds the desk as I stand in front of it, leaning against it, waiting as the receptionist finds room in the schedule to squeeze me in.
"It should just be a few minutes, Mr. Vitale," she says, bright red lips smiling widely, flashing her inexplicably white teeth at me. It's forced, and fake, the kind of smile that's bought and paid for. I hate when people smile needlessly, like their faces are puppets and corruption pulls the strings. "Just take a seat and someone will be right with you."
She takes my only spare key and waltzes away as I let out as a sigh and turn away from the front desk. Karissa is sitting in a blue chair across the lobby, right in front of the television, fidgeting distractedly.
I stroll that way, and she glances up at me, but I step past her to the counter along the side, to the small Dean & DeLuca set up, grabbing two shots of espresso before strolling back toward Karissa. She watches me warily as I hold one of them out to her.
"Here," I say. "We might be here a while."
They say minutes when it's always more like hours.
"Thank you," she says quietly, taking the little paper cup from me, offering a small smile of gratitude. Unlike the one that greeted me just minutes ago, this one is genuine.
I like this smile.
I miss it.
"You're welcome," I say, sitting down in the chair beside hers, stretching my long legs out as I take a sip of the espresso. It's thicker than usual, a slight bitter edge to it. I grimace, the taste lingering in my mouth, and glance at Karissa to see her do the same.
She scrunches up her nose. "This coffee is terrible."
"It's espresso."
She scoffs, taking another sip. "Same difference."
"Same difference? Really?" I shake my head. "You're a disgrace to Italians everywhere."
She laughs. "Good thing I'm not really Italian."
"Oh, but you are," I tell her. "Your father was an Italian citizen, so by default you would be, too."
She hesitates, taking another sip. "Is my mother an Italian citizen, too?"
"Uh, no, she's not," I say, leaning back in my chair as I regard her. "Her parents... your grandparents, as it is... were second or third generation."
Karissa's eyes widen. "My grandparents?"
"Yes," I say. "You have some of those, you know… most people do."
I can tell looking at her that she never thought about it, never considered the fact that she'd have more family.
"They're dead, though, right?" Her voice is quiet. "Growing up, my mom always told me her parents passed away."
"Yeah, they died in a car accident."
"So she didn't lie to me about that, at least."
"I suppose there's that," I say, drumming my fingers against the arm of the chair. "Although, you know, Carmela isn't your only parent. Johnny's mother is still around."
"Really?"
"Yes, she lives over in Harlem. She's a bitter hag, kicked your father out on his ass when he was just sixteen, but she's still around. Her name's Janice."
"Janice," she mumbles. "Interesting."
As I'm sitting there, sipping the espresso, the lady from the front desk comes waltzing over, that fake smile still plastered to her face. "Mr. Vitale, do you have some identification on you? I need to use it to verify you're the owner so we can order the new key from headquarters."
"Yeah." Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out the paper from the DMV, the temporary driving authorization until my new license comes in, and hand over my passport along with it, in case she needs a picture. She walks away with them both, returning a moment later and handing them back to me.
I start to slip them into my pocket when Karissa's voice cuts through the silence. "Can I see?"
I cut my eyes at her. "See what?"
"Your passport."
I hesitate, but figure there's no harm in letting her look. Anything she'd learn from it are just things I'd tell her if she asked, anyway. I hold it out, and she takes it, setting her espresso down.
I continue to sip my drink.
She flips the passport open and immediately bursts into laughter, the sound washing through me, easing some of the tension in my muscles. I know exactly what she's laughing at before she even says anything. "Michele? Your middle name is Michele?"
She pronounces it like most Americans, feminine and soft, her laughter escalating as she repeats it again and again. Michele.
"It's not Mah-shell," I say, correcting her. How many times did I say these words growing up? "It's Me-kale-ah. It's the Italian form of Michael."
"Are you Italian?"
"Clearly."
"No, I mean, are you a citizen like my, uh... Johnny? I figure you have to be, with a name like yours, but you have an American passport, so…"
"Oh, no," I say. "New Yorker, born and bred."
"So your parents just like, uh… traditional names?" she asks, tripping over the word traditional as she fights to keep her humor at bay. "Names like Michele?"
