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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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Today I'm so mentally and physically depleted that I'm actually glad to be sitting on the filthy linoleum, breathing quietly in and out in the close company of the other unfortunate victims of their own impulses, with whom I have lately begun to feel a deeper kinship. I take my seat on the floor, positioning myself so I can stare into the laces of Mary Ann's brown Easy Spirit shoes and try to think quieting thoughts.
The only bright spot has been the catharsis afforded by the mutilated cushion, although even that has left me feeling exhausted. I know I'm being morose. Jerry's confidence ought to be infectious and probably would be, if it hadn't been for my suspicions, now rampant and unbridled, that Nicola is pregnant. And why should this matter so? I tell myself that I'm upset on Chloe's behalf. She has done nothing to warrant her father's rejection. I forced Jake into fatherhood when I should have known better. In truth, I viewed Jake's rejection of her as temporary, maybe because I still held out hope that our separation was temporary. I nursed a secret fantasy that perhaps it was her baby-ness that troubled Jake and once she began to walk and talk, as soon as she became a real person, Jake would come around. Only now, with the specter of Nicola's pregnancy, can I see how foolish I've been.
We're in the midst of our deep, cleansing breaths when my cell phone begins ringing. This is very bad. Not only was I late to class, but I've violated one of Mary Ann's other cardinal rules: Thou Shalt Not Forget to Turn Off Thy Cell Phone. I'm sure this particular instruction was repeated to everyone, as usual, at the beginning of class. Mary Ann is bristling, clearly prepared to excoriate the offender, so I follow my instincts and lie.
“It's me. I'm so sorry. My daughter has been quite ill, and I just didn't feel comfortable not being accessible. I'll just be a minute, I hope.” I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Jerry?” I whisper, as soon as I'm safely in the hall outside the room.
“Mira, is that you? It's Jerry Fox.”
At the sound of his voice I have a premonition that I should hang up instantly, let him think he got my voice mail. “I'm in anger-management class,” I whisper into the phone.
“Oh.” No apology. “Listen, I just got off the phone with Ethan Bowman. We need to talk.”
There's something in Jerry's voice that I can hear quite clearly now.
“What, what is it?” I can feel panic rising, a fluttering that begins tremor-like at the base of my spine. I slide down the wall so that I'm sitting on the floor.
“Don't panic, Mira. Just an unexpected development that could turn out to be to your advantage,” Jerry says, his voice intended to be soothing, but not in the least believable.
I hear him take a deep breath. “Jake's taken the option of buying Grappa. I know this isn't something we expected, but remember that we set the price for Grappa way above its fair market value. This can be a real windfall for you. . . .”
“Jerry,” I say, my voice rising, “I thought you said this wouldn't happen!”
“Look, we did our best to minimize the likelihood that something like this would happen, but apparently they found some other way to finance the deal—not something we counted on. Listen, Mira, you can stay in the restaurant business if you want. In fact, with the money you receive from this deal, you could even buy into a bigger restaurant. . . .”
“Jerry,” I interrupt, my voice steely, “I don't want another restaurant. I want this one. I want Grappa!
Your
job is to get me out of this deal. I don't care how you do it, but get me out of it. I will kill that fucking bastard and his whore before I see them take over MY restaurant!”
So absorbed and devastated am I by this news, I don't notice the door has opened. In fact, it's not until I find myself once again staring into a pair of brown lace-up shoes that I realize Mary Ann is standing right above me. I don't know how long she's been listening, but one look at her horrified face and I know that there's no way she has missed my last statement.
“Oh, Mira,” she says, her eyes tired, her shoulders slumped. And then, turning noiselessly on her rubber-soled shoes, she returns to the classroom, shutting the door quietly and carefully behind her.
chapter 12
Of course, I try my best to salvage the situation. Once I realize Mary Ann has overheard my conversation with Jerry, I hang up immediately, thinking that if I can pull myself together, maybe I can turn this around. I dutifully turn off my cell phone and reclaim my place in the circle, doing my best to make helpful and encouraging comments to my fellow classmates. When, in response to one of Mary Ann's bland inquiries, an uncomfortable silence hangs in the room, I even jump to her aid, offering up a rare nugget from my own childhood, which necessitates an uncharacteristic foray into the uncharted land of self-disclosure.
Apart from her pitying gaze and the soft and defeated way in which she'd uttered my name, Mary Ann gives me no indication that she is inclined to view my unfortunate outburst as anything other than what it really is—emotional, careless in the extreme, but perhaps forgivable for having been uttered in the heat of anger and born of overwhelming disappointment. When the class is dismissed, Mary Ann doesn't meet my eye or make any attempt to detain me, a response, at the time, that I choose to interpret as empathic and merciful.
Perhaps I should have stayed behind, offering some explanation, but I didn't want to risk changing her mind. I am worried that in my frazzled emotional state I might say something to make things worse. I am so bent on escape that I don't even stop to retrieve my thermometer from Paolo on the way out, the loss of which, at the time, seems a small thing.
In addition to the disastrous Grappa negotiations, the incident in class gives me one more thing to worry about. I decide to give myself twenty-four hours to properly digest the news before calling Jerry back. So, the next day, when Ellen comes back into the kitchen to tell me that Jerry is in the restaurant and asking for me, I'm only a little surprised. I assume he's annoyed that I haven't returned his phone call, although I tell myself he might just as easily be meeting a client for lunch and wanting to make sure he got a good table. But, one look at his face, exhausted and lined, and the way his body seems to deflate once he catches sight of me, and I know the news isn't good.
“You should have at least told me,” Jerry says, sneaking a glance toward the front door of the restaurant. He then slides a legal-sized manila folder onto the empty plate in front of me.
It seems that Ethan Bowman has filed a contempt petition against me and a warrant has been issued for my arrest. I'm charged with violating the Order of Protection—the evidence of which, Jerry tells me with a small and very tired smile, is two death threats made on the lives of Jake and Nicola, one verbal and the other involving the “willful destruction and mutilation of a black leather couch in the victims' private office, constituting an obvious threat to the health and well-being of said victims.”
Jerry hands me the papers.
The State of New York v. Mirabella Rinaldi
. Attached as Exhibit A to the Emergency Contempt Petition is a typed letter from Mary Ann Chambers, MSW, describing, complete with an unfortunately accurate quote, my overheard statement in the hallway. In addition, she notes that in her considered professional opinion I have not demonstrated sufficient effort in the class, as evidenced by my chronic lateness and my previous lack of control.
And that was even before Ethan Bowman had gotten to her.
Ethan received a copy of the letter by messenger early this morning, conveniently timed to coincide with a phone call from Jake and Nicola reporting their discovery of the couch cushion late last night. The substance of Ethan's follow-up phone conversation with Mary Ann is attached in Ethan's affirmation (Exhibit B of the petition), wherein she allegedly responds to Ethan's allegation that I had been stalking Nicola as “consistent with my prior behavior.” She also claims that my behavior and psychological state creates “a significant risk of further injury to said victims.” I wonder whether these are really Mary Ann's statements or, like Ethan's tactics in our negotiation session, rococo-style elaborations of the truth.
The letter opener, the alleged weapon, has been removed from the premises as evidence, along with my confiscated meat thermometer, relinquished by Paolo when it had gone unclaimed. The petition seeks my immediate arrest for violation of my parole.
And so, Jerry has arrived at Grappa one step ahead of the sheriff, in an attempt to spare me the ignominy of another public arrest. “In situations like this, where potential for imminent harm is alleged, they arrest first and hold the hearing after. When I received service of the petition this morning, I called a friend at the sheriff's office and asked them to let you turn yourself in voluntarily. We have until two this afternoon to get you down there. If you do this voluntarily, it will also help us get lower bail.”
“Jerry, how could this be happening? What am I supposed to do about Chloe?”
“My partner Martin is meeting us at the courthouse. He's already working on an answer to the petition. If you come voluntarily, and things go as I expect, we can post bail and get you back home by dinnertime.”
Once we are both safely seated in the back of the Lincoln Town Car Jerry's firm sent, Jerry pours two scotches.
“Drink this. It'll take the edge off,” he tells me, handing me one of the cut crystal tumblers, then taking a hefty swig himself.
Nothing short of a lobotomy, however, could have taken the edge off arriving at the courthouse, where, for the second time in three months, I'm fingerprinted, photographed, and asked to post bail, which I'm granted, but only on the condition that I not come within two hundred yards of Jake, Nicola, their residence, or their place of work. I'm banished from my own restaurant, at least until the parole revocation hearing, scheduled for December the twenty-third.
 
In the two weeks since the bail hearing, Jerry's partner, Martin, the criminal attorney who will take the lead in defending me, has been calling me regularly with lists of things I should do to help prepare my case. One of my primary assignments has been to round up character witnesses, people who are willing to testify that I am, in fact, a reasonable woman, kind, friendly, a good mother. I've asked Renata and Hope and, to my surprise and gratitude, Tony has also volunteered to testify on my behalf, a risky move given the fact that allegiance to Jake, or at least not offending him, would be a much safer bet for his future livelihood. Although touched, I tell Tony that I can't accept his offer and that he best keep his head down in this conflict.
Yesterday's “to do” list, which I'm just getting around to fulfilling, was to find a witness from Chloe's day care to testify about my good parenting skills. I spent the better part of yesterday blanching at the idea, but because my legal team has managed to convince me of the seriousness of the charges I'm facing, I've agreed to do it. It is the thought of this loathsome task that has me awake and crying in the predawn gloom, waiting until a little bit before seven when I know that Chloe's teacher, Lucy, will arrive at the day care. I'm steeling myself to disclose the entire sordid story and convince her that she should help me. I should be embarrassed, but at this point embarrassment seems a strange and distant emotion, a luxury I can no longer afford.
Martin has told me that we have no defense to the charges that I'm technically in contempt—I cannot deny making the statement I made, and my fingerprints are all over the letter opener. We will plead nolo contendere to the charges and focus on the fact that, while perhaps a technical violation, there was never any serious threat to Jake or Nicola. In addition, we must develop a proposal to convince the court that I'm in no position to cause them any further harm. Martin and Jerry want me to agree to exile myself—to voluntarily leave the city for at least the next six months. They assure me that given a choice between jail and Pittsburgh, I should choose the latter.
I don't like Martin, and I'm not sure how much I should trust him. The best assurance he can give me is that even if the judge fails to suspend the sentence, it will definitely be a “short term in a minimum security facility.” No sweat. It may not seem like much to Martin, who represents clients who go to the “Big House” to spend decades of their lives wearing orange jumpsuits and rubber-soled shoes, but to me it is precious little comfort. Jerry, on the other hand, has been more optimistic, saying that he thinks it likely that the judge will give me a suspended sentence, particularly in light of our voluntary exile offer. But, after his miscalculation on Grappa, I'm not much inclined to trust his judgment either.
Perhaps I've already begun to anticipate the inevitable. If I'm fortunate enough to escape jail time, I'm prepared to flee, and Pittsburgh now has more to recommend it than it did a few short weeks ago. For starters, I have at least two people there who love me, two more than this city of six million can claim. And even if Jerry and Martin hadn't convinced me to offer to exile myself, I couldn't have stayed here, in this apartment, a mere three blocks from Grappa, and where I can no longer buy an espresso and a
Times
at my favorite coffee bar without danger of arrest.
Of course, there are other possibilities, other cities, other countries even. I could go back to Italy, where for years I'd been happy. While there's something to be said for seeking anonymity, it, like embarrassment, might be a luxury I can no longer afford. There's Chloe to think of.
A child needs family, and I doubt that, on my own, I'm strong enough or competent enough to give her all she needs. Sure, I can feed and nourish her body, because that's what I know how to do, but what about nourishing her tiny soul? How can I do that when all reason, all capacity for self-control is seeping out of me, a slow and steady leak that began when Jake left? When will I stop leaking, and what will happen then, when there's nothing left? Could love and betrayal really have transformed me into this rash, vengeful person?
With a sigh I fling back the coverlet in which I've cocooned myself, make my way to the kitchen, and put on some coffee. It's another misty day, cold and overcast from the look of it. I sit at the table, sipping an espresso and looking out the window below me onto Perry Street. It's only after I've been looking steadily, staring really, because I've been up for so long and am tired in a dazed kind of way, that I notice a person standing in the alleyway across the street. There's a slight mist, and he, or she, is wearing a rain jacket with a hood, so I cannot see a face, but the drawstring chef's pants are unmistakable.
Seconds later the phone rings, and I answer it with trembling hands. It's Jake. Looking out the window I can see him holding the phone to his ear. He's crossed the street and is standing on the bottom step of the brownstone, leaning against the railing. He looks up at the apartment window, and when he sees me watching him, he raises his hand in a kind of half wave. He doesn't say anything for several seconds, and I think maybe he's trying to spook me.
“I need to talk to you,” he finally says, his voice raspy and soft.
I don't ask him why. In fact, I don't say anything at all. I feel only a small shiver of apprehension as I cross the room and press the buzzer. I can hear his steps on the stairs, heavy and uneven. I open the door and watch his approach. I'm no longer afraid, not really anyway. Let him do his worst, whatever that may be.
“I didn't mean for this—” Jake begins, standing in the doorway, dripping onto the carpet. He can't seem to finish the sentence. I pull the door open wider and move aside. Even after everything that has happened between us, I'm unable to let Jake, the man who has cost me my beloved restaurant and everything I've struggled to build in the last decade of my life, stand there dripping on my front carpet. “Nicola doesn't know I'm here,” he says, stepping into the apartment and taking off his raincoat. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, slicking it back against his head. “But this needs to be done, Mira.” He doesn't look at me, hasn't from the moment he entered the apartment. Instead, he looks around the sparsely furnished room, at the empty boxes stacked in the middle of the living room.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
Where am I going?
“I don't know, Jake, but it looks like jail at the moment. I'll be sure to send you my forwarding address.”
He flinches. “Listen, Mira, that's why I'm here. I never meant things to go this far. I don't want you to go to jail. It isn't fair to you or to Chloe.”
“Well, Jake, exactly what part did you think was fair to us? Leaving me for Nicola? Abandoning your only child? Cutting me out of Grappa?” He looks stricken, as if I've slapped him.
“Cutting
you
out of Grappa? You had a fair shot, Mira! It was your prop—Wait, I'm not going to do this. I didn't come here to argue with you,” he says, raising his hands to cover his eyes, as if he can't trust himself to look at me.
“So, why did you come here then? What more could you possibly want from us?”
“I came here to offer you a compromise. I want Grappa. But I can't afford to pay you what you want
and
continue to pay child support.”
“But you agreed to the price!”
“I know. I know. But it isn't that simple, as I think you know.” He raises one eyebrow and flashes me a disgusted look. “Ethan's plan to help finance the deal was to file a civil suit against you, on Nicola's behalf, seeking damages for your assault on her. She went through a very rough time and still isn't over it. I didn't want to go along with that, but I didn't know what else to do. Now Ethan is pressuring us to press these other charges partially for the leverage it will give us in the civil lawsuit.”

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