Merv was right. I wasn’t the prettiest thing to grace the earth. My hair was a dull brown, my eyes hazel—my DNA couldn’t decide between gold, green, and brown—and my nose…well, I was told by a kid in the old neighborhood that I had what his mother called a “whopper schnozzola.”
Jocelyn had told me not to worry about what the kid had said. He didn’t know shit, just like his mom didn’t know if his dad was the barman or her husband.
Jocelyn had said that I had an aquiline nose, or sometimes people called it a “Roman nose.” It was beautiful and it fit my face, she had said. She went as far as calling my profile “regal.” She even brought me to the library to look at pictures. I had to admit that, compared to some, I had a good Roman nose, one that seemed right for my face, but it was still different.
At least my skin was clear. Well, when it wasn’t bruised.
What does the guy in the suit think about my nose? After a second, I blinked, bringing myself back to the moment. Unconsciously, I had been stroking the bridge of it, calling attention to my thoughts.
What in the hell was going on with me? Why would I even think about it, or much less care?
I still didn’t look away, though, and neither did he. Not until something made him turn to look. An unmarked car cruised down the street. It seemed like it was heading toward the restaurant. A second later, the man in the suit disappeared behind the door with Smart Mouth on his heels. I got the strangest feeling then that maybe the man in the suit hadn’t wanted to leave, but had to.
Was he going to talk to me? I couldn’t even explain why I thought that.
Then I started to laugh. I laughed while I packed up my things, preparing to go to the shelter. It was so ridiculous, him coming to talk to me. He was probably assessing me, trying to figure out if I was going to become a problem. If he even remembered me. Maybe he was trying to place me.
My fingers stilled when I noticed the piece of pottery at the bottom of my bag. I turned it over in my hand for a second, admiring the butterfly I’d drawn. I had wanted to up Vera’s living space and had drawn a few things on her pot. The butterfly was my favorite. I always admired things that had to struggle to find beauty in life.
If only we all could be so lucky to find our beauty, our peace, our purpose before we left this earth.
The piece landed at the bottom of my bag again, and after zipping up, I stood, brushing some dirt from my hands on my jeans.
A tall man in another pricey-looking suit came out of the restaurant’s door, going straight for the unmarked car. Two detectives got out, and the man met them before they made it to the door.
I could hear snippets of the conversation, but not much. The tall man had a strong Italian accent. It sounded like he was explaining to the detectives that the man they’d asked to see wasn’t there, and if they had any more questions, they should contact his lawyer first.
For a minute, I thought that maybe they’d called the cops on me, but common sense kicked in. I doubted detectives would be called out for someone who sat against the building and colored most of the evening.
Not wanting to get caught up in any kind of trouble, because I was already in my own kind of hell, I decided to leave.
“Hey!” a man’s voice shouted from behind me. “Hey, wait! You with the backpack!”
I stopped, turning around. A young guy weaved around foot traffic to get to me. He carried an icepack in his hand. When he got close to me, he held it out, and I took it.
“Mr. Mac wanted me to give you that. And this.” He dug in his back pocket, coming out with a gift card. “He said come in whenever you want. Just use that card.”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “Mr. Mac, your boss? The guy who got out of that car?” I nodded toward the expensive one. The young guy nodded and I went on. “Does he always hand out these cards to the needy?” I held it up.
The guy squinted at me for a moment before his features relaxed. “No.”
“What about women?”
“Uh, no.”
“What about the other guy, the one who rushes out to meet Mr. Mac? Will he give me any trouble?”
“Bruno?” His nose scrunched up. “No. Whatever Mr. Mac wants, Mr. Mac gets.”
I nodded, he nodded, and then he hustled back inside. I stood there for a moment staring at the card. If there was one thing I had learned throughout my life, it was that nothing was ever free. Everything came at a price. I didn’t mind Mr. Mac looking at me, for whatever reason, but this—no matter how nice—made me feel like a charity case.
Yeah, okay, I was a charity case, but for some reason, coming from him, I couldn’t stand it.
Maybe because I wished that I was on steady ground with him. I wished, for once in my life, to be a woman who could compete with his…everything. Even if I wasn’t poor, I doubted he would’ve been interested in me. Not with the models that came and went from the restaurant he either owned or frequented. If anything, he noticed me because I was poor. It was no secret when you looked at me.
Jocelyn once told me that a woman should never want to be treated as a man’s equal. She should demand to be treated better. Our doors should be held, along with receiving the same pay and opportunities, that sort of thing. And she also said that if a man truly loved you, he’d treat you as though he didn’t deserve you, but hell if another man could do better.
My feelings and thoughts were not truly lining up, but for whatever reason, one somehow fed the other. Either way, I gave the card for Macchiavello’s to a woman and her daughter on the subway. The mother had cancer. She had a scarf wrapped around her head, no hair underneath, and dark circles underneath her eyes. Maybe a nice dinner would get their minds off things, even if for a short amount of time.
I was too late arriving at the shelter. So I walked the streets the entire night, thinking of the man in the suit, Mr. Mac, and why he’d been so kind to me. If I couldn’t accept his kindness, maybe thoughts of him would ward off any evil until daylight brightened the darkness.
5
Mariposa
“Shit! Mari! What in the hell happened to you?”
Keely grabbed me and pulled me so hard into her that I winced. She was a hugger, but since she had been my best friend since we wore kiddie underwear, and I considered her family, I didn’t mind.
Keely Ryan and her family had lived next to mine on Staten Island. Her parents were Irish/Scottish immigrants who had seven mouths to feed. Keely had four brothers. But after the kids were old enough to fend for themselves, her parents decided to move back to Scotland. Keely and two of her brothers stayed in New York. The rest of the boys followed their parents.
We stayed close even after I’d been put into foster care at ten.
She released me so suddenly that I almost stumbled back. She was a whirlwind. Her hair was fiery red with countless ringlets. Her skin was pale with freckles. She had the purest blue eyes, and she was at least five foot ten inches tall. The volume of her hair probably put her closer to six.
“I called Caspar and he told me what happened.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Why didn’t you come see me sooner? Why are you just standing there not answering my questions?”