Anyone But You (24 page)

I looked up again. Tears had welled up in Nick Monte’s eyes.

“There’s more?” he asked. I nodded. “Go on, then.”

“Grandpa Benny?” Aunt Val whispered, aghast. “He and Grandpa Benny were
friends
?”

“There’s a postscript,” I said. “It reads, ‘P.S. You told me to keep this for you, but I think it’s time I gave it back.’” I pulled the baseball card from the envelope and handed it to Mr. Monte, who stared down at it for a long time without uttering a word.

“Ty, you’ve got to check this out,” Enzo finally said, his voice registering something akin to awe as he leaned over the elderly man’s shoulder. “Is this what I think it is?”

My oldest cousin slowly inched around me and stood next to his brother to get a glimpse at the long-lost treasure. In an instant, his face also gave way to disbelief.

“Honus Wagner,” he marveled.

“The one and only,” Roman said, joining my two cousins. “I got chills when Gigi first showed it to me.”

“Honus who?” asked my mom, confused.

“Let’s just say this is the Hope Diamond of baseball cards,” explained Roman.

“Make that the Holy Grail—at least where collectors are concerned,” Ty added. For a moment, at least, the two young men had seemingly forgotten their subway station fracas, jointly mesmerized, as it were, by this piece of sports memorabilia.

“Looks like it’s in semi-decent condition,” added Frankie, joining his twin brother. “If that thing’s real, we’re talking
crazy
money. Six figures, at least.”

“More than that, young man. It’s worth more than you could ever imagine,” Nick Monte replied, his voice husky. “As a matter of fact, you could say it’s priceless … to me, at least.”

I’m not exactly sure what Roman and I had expected would happen after we delivered that letter, so many years after it had been written. I guess a part of me hoped it might instantly tie up our families’ relationship into some nice little bow, the way things conclude so perfectly in the last five minutes of a feel-good movie. But as Roman’s mother escorted Mr. Monte to the head of the table for the ensuing dinner, that didn’t happen. Instead, life simply went on. It went on the same way things always did in the lives of Italian families: with food. From out of the Montes’ kitchen came steaming pots of pasta puttanesca, platters of meatballs and veal scallopini, Caprese salad and plates of charcuterie, which we all dined on, family-style, at the one long table in the room. The tone of the dinner, though stilted at first, eventually loosened up (the adults helped along, I suspect, by the dwindling carafes of Chianti dotting the table). Roman and I each did our part to make introductions and usher the conversation along where we could. Talk eventually turned from polite pleasantries to the common ground we all shared as fixtures on Taylor Street. As we exchanged anecdotes about our families and the neighborhood, the stories made me wistful about having to abandon it all. My cousins and Roman’s younger siblings debated the best flavors at Mario’s Italian Lemonade while my dad and Joe Monte got all starry-eyed singing the praises of Chiarugi Hardware. Roman’s mom and mine discovered they had attended the now long-gone Notre Dame parochial school within a few years of one another, and even Chef could be heard trading cooking tips with Roman’s grandmother, Marie. Curiously, I noticed that Carmen had pulled her chair next to Roman’s great-grandfather and the two senior citizens huddled in private conversation throughout much of the meal as if they were somehow making up for lost time.

“That’s quite a mural you folks have out in the front dining room,” my dad finally said over a dessert of profiteroles.

“My beautiful wife, Paula, painted that many years ago, God rest her soul,” said Dominick Monte. “Mr. Caputo, I’ve got to say, I’m truly sorry to hear of the troubles you’ve had with your restaurant.”

“Call me Ben. Yes, it’s safe to say the last few years have been difficult,” Dad said. Oh, no. Dinner had gone so well. Did we really need to end things on this note? No one reflected on the fact that the Caputo/Monte feud was partly to blame for Cap’s Taylor Street demise. But based on the silence at the table, one had to suspect it was on everyone’s minds.

“The fire,” Roman’s dad said, joining the conversation with a note of tactful condolence, “what’s the toll, damage-wise?”

“It was mostly confined to the back areas: the stockroom, office, and kitchen,” my dad answered. “The front of the house, which we just renovated a few months ago, was largely spared. Not that it matters. I imagine the next owner will opt for a complete gut and redo, anyway. Damn useless sprinkler system. If that fire wasn’t a signal it’s time for we Caputos to move on, I don’t know what is.” He sighed, then swallowed the last dregs from his wine glass in defeat.

“And on that note,” said my mother, taking her cue from my dad’s chagrined expression, “I think we Caputos have probably reached the limits of your hospitality. Gigi, shall we help clear the plates before we say our goodbyes?”

I rose from my seat to begin collecting the silverware—even as one of the honored guests at this event, my inner waitress lived on.

“Not so fast, young lady,” said Dominick Monte, reaching out one of his palsied hands to stop me. Though he’d been nothing but kind to me, I suddenly felt another flash of fear and trepidation course through my veins. “You’ve dredged up my past with that letter of yours,” he said, “so what do you have to say about it?”

“I … um … excuse me?” I stammered, confused and a little bit terrified.

“I’ve been watching you all through dinner,” he continued, “and I can tell by the look on your face that you have something on your mind, something you would like to say but are keeping to yourself. I know that because, well, I’ve spent most of my life wearing a similar expression.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I said, feeling more than a little discomfited.

“Have you ever heard the saying,
parlare fuori dai denti
?” he asked, his tone gentler. I shook my head. “The English equivalent would be ‘speak your mind.’”

My face flushed hot, and I glanced at the table, suddenly feeling as if I might collapse.

“Gigi?” my mother asked. “Is everything okay?”

“It was my fault,” I blurted out, my voice beginning to crack. “The fire. I’m the one who destroyed Cap’s. It’s all because of me.”

“Honey, no! It was an accident,” Mom said.

“If anything, it was Sampson,” Frankie pointed out, trying feebly to help.

“Sweetheart, nobody blames you,” my dad reassured me. “We had already said our goodbyes to the old place, and like I told you before, the building doesn’t matter.
You’re
the future of Cap’s.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s just it. I’m not!” I sighed and gently placed the fistful of forks I’d been collecting back down on my dessert plate. “You’ve been preparing me for it my whole life. It’s been your dream, but I don’t know if Cap’s … is
my
dream.” My dad looked at me, not so much angry as confused.

“I thought running the restaurant—taking it over from me someday—I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I’m sixteen, Dad. I have no earthly clue what I want from my future.” I wiped at a tear that had sprung up in my eye. “Your expectations of me—I’m really sorry, but it’s just all too much.” I didn’t want to let my father down. I didn’t want to hurt
anyone.
But I finally had to acknowledge the truth. As I said the words, it felt like opening a long-locked door with a newly discovered key. I was way too young to have “found my passion,” as people say, but I knew I had just found the one thing that would help me, some day, to figure it all out: my
voice.

“Okay,” Dad said. “Tell me what you
do
want. I’m listening.”

I wasn’t even sure how to respond to his question until I glanced down at Roman, who was still seated beside me. The look in his eyes gave me my answer.

“I want
him
,” I said, reaching to grab for his hand. “We love each other, and we don’t expect any of you to understand that, but we’re not going to hide it anymore. I can’t change the fact that we’re moving away. And I can’t change the past. But Roman and I—we can change the future. Our future.” I paused, and turned to Roman. “I won’t give you up. I know I would always regret it.” I stopped speaking, suddenly flushed with embarrassment. Roman stood up and put his arm around my shoulders.

“Me, too,” he whispered into my ear. My declaration of independence seemed to hang in the air like a gauntlet that had just been thrown down. No one wanted to be the person who broke the ensuing silence. But at last, Dominick Monte did.

“My best friend and I started our pizza joint when we were just about your age,” he said, addressing Roman and me. “That was our dream—Benny’s and mine—but I know I can speak for him when I say that it was never intended to be your burden.”

“Of course not, Gigi,” my Dad said softly.

“So many memories have been reawakened for me today. Some wonderful,” Mr. Monte continued, glancing fondly at Carmen, “and some very painful. You’ve reminded me, Gigi, of something your great-grandfather Benny once told me.” He brought the tips of his fingers together and tapped them thoughtfully. “He said it was the things we
didn’t
do that we’d regret. My greatest regret turned out to be not making things right between us before he died, especially since all the anger that drove me for so many years finally shriveled up and blew away. One day I woke up, and it was just … gone,” he said, waving one hand as though he were brushing away invisible cobwebs. “Letter or no letter, I
should
have taken care of Benny’s family when he died. I didn’t. Instead, I launched a feud that has hurt so many people.” He paused as if to catch his breath, but instead his head slumped forward and his shoulders began to shake. I couldn’t see the tears—he kept one timeworn hand cupped across his face, hiding what could only have been decades of pent-up emotions. Aside from the sound of his quiet sobs, there was a deferential silence in the room. It was clear to everyone that we were collectively witnessing a profound and deeply personal moment. Releasing his grip on my hand, Roman approached his great-grandfather’s wheelchair, knelt, and sweetly placed one arm over the old man’s convulsing shoulders. As if at the insistent urging of some mysterious outside force, I felt compelled to join them and rushed to kneel opposite Roman at Nick Monte’s side. I gripped the arm of his wheelchair, uncertain of what I should say or do next, when the old man clutched my hand and Roman’s and joined them both firmly in his.

“It ends here, today,” he told us in a barely audible murmur. “It ends with you.”

“O
RDER’S UP!”
Ty shouted over the din, sliding it onto the new pass-through ledge and slamming his hand down—
ding!
—on the old-fashioned call bell.

Standing nearby, I instinctively reached to grab the bowl of steaming hot
cioppino
, planning to deliver it to Table Seven.

“Uh-uh. Not tonight, you don’t,” Mom said, swooping in front of me to retrieve the dish.

“Mom, seriously, I can do it,” I said, shaking my head in comic frustration.

“And spill something on your dress before your date even arrives? No way.”

“You’re off duty, Gigi,” Dad yelled to me from across the dining room as he escorted a family of five—future loyal customers, we could only hope—to their table.

This wasn’t the old Cap’s. It was something else entirely. I glanced contentedly at surroundings that still seemed slightly unfamiliar. Standing as placid as a pillar in the midst of this strangely comforting commotion, I felt centered. Grounded. The days, months, and years ahead were pages of an unwritten book; I had no earthly idea where my life would eventually take me, but of one thing I was certain: This was home. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, our family business had been reborn, and in many ways you could say the same thing about me. So much had changed. And therein lay the most ironic part of it all: The only thing that
hadn’t
changed was … our address.

“Hey, Chef, where’s my veggie deep-dish?” said Frankie, stashing his order pad in his apron and shoving his pen behind his ear.

“It’s coming up right now—you can’t rush perfection,” called that old familiar voice from the kitchen as Mario, grabbing more menus from behind the bar, stopped long enough to remark, “It’s pizza, not
The Last Supper
.”

It hadn’t been easy for my father to accept Dominick Monte’s offer. The last thing Dad wanted was to be considered a charity case, especially by our one-time sworn rivals. But Roman’s great-grandfather insisted that he was going to cash in Honus Wagner, and he argued that if our family refused a portion of the remittance, we’d be depriving him of his chance to atone with God. That kind of name-dropping trumps everything for Roman Catholics, which is why my parents eventually yielded. The generous check from Mr. Monte erased my family’s money problems in an instant. Dad paid Rich Beresdorfer back his loan plus interest, leaving the vulture to go conduct his business elsewhere. Though the insurance company had balked on covering the damages at Cap’s because of the malfunctioning sprinklers, it didn’t matter. We had money enough to rebuild from the fire damage
and
cover all of Ty’s medical bills.

Cap’s was closed nine months for renovations, giving me just the break I needed to take stock. I concentrated on school, my friends, and, of course, Roman. By the time the business reopened, I really missed the restaurant and was glad to be back in the swing of things with our new and improved digs. Still, my folks—seeing how much happier I was with more time for myself—decided to dramatically curtail my shifts. Roman’s parents—not wanting to see him suffer the same level of burnout that I had—had become equally liberal with his time off.