Anyone But You
Authors: Kim Askew
A TWISTED LIT NOVEL
Kim Askew and Amy Helmes
F+W Media, Inc.
Chapter 1: From Ancient Grudge Break to New Mutiny
Chapter 2: She Doth Teach the Torches to Burn Bright
Chapter 3: It Is an Honor That I Dream Not Of
Chapter 4: Is Thy News Good or Bad? Answer to That
Chapter 5: Then, Dreadful Trumpet, Sound the General Doom!
Chapter 6: What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?
Chapter 7: You Kiss by the Book
Chapter 8: This But Begins the Woe Others Must End
Chapter 9: My Only Love Sprung from My Only Hate
Chapter 10: The Earth Hath Swallow’d All My Hopes But She
Chapter 11: Here’s Much to Do with Hate, But More with Love
Chapter 13: I’ll Pay That Doctrine, or Else Die in Debt
Chapter 14: Sad Hours Seem Long
Chapter 15: Beautiful Tyrant! Fiend Angelical!
Chapter 16: No Warmth, No Breath, Shall Testify Thou Livest
Chapter 17: A Madness Most Discreet
Chapter 18: Why the Devil Came You Between Us?
Chapter 19: Thou Canst Not Teach Me to Forget
Chapter 20: See What a Scourge Is Laid Upon Your Hate
Chapter 21: Two Households, Both Alike in Dignity
Epilogue: And the Rank Poison of the Old Will Die
For our grandparents.
From Ancient Grudge Break to New Mutiny
I
TOOK A DEEP BREATH
and backed through the swinging stainless steel door, leaving the chaos of the kitchen and entering the hushed, dimly lit dining room. Our sound system piped in Dean Martin’s “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You” for no less than the fifth time that night. What a horrible sentiment, I thought, surveying the all too familiar scene. I’d been working at Cap’s, our family’s Italian restaurant, since I was old enough to know a two-top from a four-top. Located one flight of stairs below street level, the eatery had been a speakeasy during the Prohibition Era, and still looked as though it would be an ideal spot for a clandestine rendezvous. The low arched ceilings might have made the place feel vaguely cryptlike were it not for the smattering of regulars and the remarkably nondescript tourists who came in for our house specialties, including our “world-renowned” deep-dish pizzas (though let’s face it—practically every pizza joint in town liked to claim this distinction). A sign outside decreed the building, built prior to Chicago’s Great Fire of 1871, a historic landmark. I knew if tonight didn’t go well, our restaurant could be history, too—only not the kind that gets commemorated with plaques.
My arms were laden with plates, probably one more than I should have attempted. A thin film of perspiration formed on the back of my neck from the effort to keep everything from sliding to the floor. Glancing up at my intended destination—the coveted corner booth of the restaurant’s elevated mezzanine—I saw my dad already standing there, turning on his legendary charm as if he were George Clooney’s slightly less dashing stunt double. Correctly interpreting my visual distress signal, Dad excused himself and swept down the four steps to remove the plate of risotto precariously balanced on my inner elbow.
“Gigi,” he said, hissing into my ear, “that was the mistake of a rookie waitress. On tonight, of all nights?”
“Sorry, Dad,” I whispered back, following him back up the steps toward our waiting VIP.
“Never mind. Where’s Mario?” he said, asking about our maître d’. (Did I mention our restaurant was older than “old school”?)
“With Chef. They’re having a disagreement over the dessert. Chef told Mario that—”
“Never mind.” My father groaned almost inaudibly as we reached our destination, the popular Monroe booth. A framed black-and-white photo on the wood-paneled wall above the table revealed the source of the sobriquet. In the picture, seated at that very booth, was the revered (even by diehard Cubs fans) New York Yankees center fielder, Joe DiMaggio, feeding a spoonful of spumoni to his then-bride, a laughing Marilyn Monroe. Though we usually saved the popular engagement spot for couples, tonight’s guest was a chubby, middle-aged man in business casual, dining solo. He’d told my dad that he was a banker in from Boston for the week, but we knew differently. The minute he walked in the restaurant’s leaded-glass front door, Mario rushed forward to seat him at the Monroe table before ushering everyone on staff into the kitchen for a group huddle.
“It’s him,” Mario said in near hysterics, his heavily gelled black hair cascading in molten volcanic waves atop his head. In one hand he held aloft a mug shot type of photo that had been tacked to the kitchen wall for the last three weeks. Not a Wanted poster, per se, though it inspired the same sense of apprehension. The pixilated photo had been e-mailed to us by my distant cousin Olivia, who knew a proofreader at the New York office of the famed restaurant ratings publication
Zwaggert
. This unassuming man, who’d made a reservation under the equally unassuming name (or was it a pseudonym?) of Jason Smith, was the reviewer who would be responsible for updating or, perish the thought, removing our entry in their iconic foodie bible. To my family’s growing chagrin, locals and tourists both seemed increasingly inclined to spend their paychecks at the latest trendy spot rather than at a venerable neighborhood institution like ours. Making matters worse was an Internet rumor claiming that our secret marinara sauce was actually a well-known grocery store brand. This vicious lie had recently spread across restaurant review sites like a mutant virus. Coupled with the costs for upkeep and outrageously high property taxes, the truth was this: without our
Zwaggert
rating, we could no longer stay afloat. The restaurant my great-grandfather had opened more than half a century ago was on the verge of oblivion, and “Jason Smith” held our future in his pudgy little palms.
“Nothing can go wrong tonight,” my dad had warned us, unnecessarily, or so I thought at the time. We had all nodded in complicity and prepared for the evening ahead as if for battle. Having sharpened his knives resolutely, Chef Angelo hunched over his prep station with all the intensity of a surgeon being forced to operate at gunpoint. Mario and Mom frantically inspected the glasses and flatware for stealth water spots. Even my notoriously wayward cousins set about their waiter and busboy duties with startling sobriety, plying our ancient waitress, Carmen, with double espressos to jolt her otherwise sloth-like step into high gear. We Caputos knew how to stick together, and nothing in life was more important to us than Cap’s. It wasn’t just our family business; it was our nucleus, the center of our existence. As much as I sometimes yearned to escape into the wider world, I couldn’t imagine who I would be without this place, or what I would do if I didn’t have it to come back to.
Subtly sizing up our important patron, I lowered the dishes onto his table, gave him what I hoped was an endearing smile, and made a quick retreat as my dad resumed conversation with the seemingly ambivalent reviewer. As I headed back down the steps and into the main dining room, I took in the scene around me with a more critical gaze. The dated decor was quaint bordering on cliché. Red-and-white checked tablecloths were topped with blood-red glass candleholders, in which tealights flickered. Raffia-wrapped Chianti bottles hung from the ceiling. The brick walls were barely visible, covered as they were in hundreds of framed photos featuring headshots of has-been Chicago “celebrities” and yellowed pictures showing what the neighborhood looked like back in the “good ol’ days.” We may have been stuck in the past, but fortunately we were busier than usual tonight, and most of the tables were filled. A few couples on dates held hands while they waited for their first courses to arrive. Several of the old-timers were there, too. My favorite cousin, Ty, winked at me as he leaned over to refill the water glasses for an older couple who came every Saturday night without fail. Other than Mario and Chef’s typical stoveside spat over whether to serve our standard tiramisu or the more elegant
panna cotta
, things couldn’t have been going any more perfectly.
As I think back on that unblemished moment of calm, it was almost as though I’d been watching everything from underwater, where it was all peaceful and floaty, only to surface during a raging thunderstorm full of sound and fury. It all began when a brusque male voice I didn’t recognize shouted that one damning word: “Fire!” As if on cue, the obscenely loud smoke detector started wailing its ear-splitting tone. Ty and I exchanged concerned glances, then he raced toward the kitchen, colliding with customers who were trying to make their way to the front door. As this fiasco unfurled, the overhead sprinkler system gave an initial venomous hiss before showering us all with water. The diners in their exodus let out screams, some toppling over chairs in their hurry to escape. As I started toward the front of the house to help direct traffic, my black flats slid on the wet tiles, and I grabbed the brass rail on top of a nearby booth to catch my balance. You’d have thought we were all on a downward-listing
Titanic
.
“Gigi!” My mom shouted to me from the kitchen pass-through, looking frazzled but resolute through the unexpected rain. “Help Mario get all the customers out of the restaurant safely. There’s no rush; no one needs to be trampled. The police and fire department are on their way. Let everyone know there’s no danger.”
“But what about the fire?” I pushed wet strands of hair from my face and looked around in dismay. “What set off the alarm?”
“It’s not a matter of what,” yelled Dad as he brushed past me, looking as angry as I’d ever seen him, “but
who.
I’ve got to go shut off the water. Let everyone in the dining room know their next meal here is on us.
If
we reopen for business, that is.” He stormed off through the back hallway. The smoke detectors continued their obsessive shriek.
“You mean, there’s no fire?” I shouted over the din to another of my cousins, Frankie, who was occupied in supporting the elderly Mr. Garcetti toward the front of the house. Frankie shook his head grimly, yelling back, “It was
them
!”
Them.
I knew instantly whom he meant. Their pranks and petty sabotage were one thing, but this time they had gone too far. As I digested the news, a loud cry seized my attention. Spinning around I saw, sprawled at the bottom of the mezzanine stairs, the
Zwaggert
reviewer, Jason Smith. He was clutching his leg and writhing in pain. I dashed over to him and crouched down.
“Sir! Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” he muttered through gritted teeth. Given the strange angle at which his lower leg jutted out on the floor, it was clearly broken. As the remaining customers exited through the front door, water continued to pour down on us, a baptism by false-alarm fire.
“We called 911. You shouldn’t move.”
“As if I could,” the food critic groaned. “Can’t anyone turn these infernal sprinklers off?”
“My dad’s working on it,” I assured him. “I’m so sorry! Here, wait one second.”
“Not going … anywhere,” he said, grimacing in pain.
I went to a nearby booth, grabbed an oilcloth tablecloth—at least the underside of it was still mostly dry—and spread it carefully over him.
“I’ll stay with you until help arrives,” I said, situating myself on the step next to him.
The dining room now resembled a still life portrait of abandoned bacchanalia. Pools of water had formed on the floor. Wine and water glasses overflowed like dozens of mini Niagara Falls. Abandoned meals sat bloated, while streams flowed in tiny rivulets off the tables. All of it, ruined. I used the sleeve of my white blouse to wipe the water from my face, and, if I was being completely honest, the tears from my eyes. It was true that tonight’s incident had “Monte payback” written all over it—but why? Why did they have it so in for us? I wasn’t oblivious to our restaurants’ long-running rivalry, and my cousins never wasted an opportunity to trash-talk our rivals, who owned an upscale Italian joint three blocks away—but there was a big difference between “friendly competition” and malicious destruction.
