Page 8 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The way he says it is not the same.
It sounds like a fact instead of flattery.
“Don't get poetic with me,” I say, because if I make it a joke, it can't plant roots. “I'm only nice because my uncle used to bribe me with cannoli to do my chores. It altered my brain chemistry.”
He sets the cup down with a soft clink. “Your uncle has good taste.”
“Obviously,” I say, and I don't tell him that the bakery has been dark for almost two years, that the ovens still dream of bread when it rains, that I can still smell yeast on the walls if I close my eyes too hard.
I don't tell him anything. That is the point.
By four, he is gone.
I go into the room to change the linens and all that is left is the faintest trace of cologne and a quiet my body does not trust.
His bracelet sits on the tray with the stickers peeled back.
“Unknown adult male” remains unknown.
The lion under his rib is burned into my mind like an afterimage when you stare at something too bright.
The rest of the shift slides by in its usual messy ballet.
A kid with a skateboard meets a curb and loses.
An elderly woman insists her chest pain is only gas until the EKG disagrees.
A man cries over stitches because they are not as bad as the needle in his lip for the piercing he did at home.
Rizzo gets her Twix and offers me one bite that turns into two.
At six, the night begins to loosen its fingers.
The bay smells like old coffee and bleach.
The windows go gray with a new day.
By seven thirty, my double is almost done.
I sign charts.
I tuck loose hair back under my cap.
I think about my apartment three blocks away, which is really my uncle’s extra unit over the bakery.
The hallway is lined with framed photos in black and white, all joy and hats.
My mother smiles in every one like she is daring the camera to catch her looking sad.
If I'm good, I can shower and sleep for four whole hours before the world remembers it needs me.
“Go,” Rizzo says at eight on the dot, swatting at me with a clipboard as if she is shooing a cat off a counter. “If you start another task, I'm locking you in the supply closet to teach you a lesson.”
“I could nap in there,” I say, already untying my mask. “No one would find me until noon. It would be a beautiful story.”
“Goodnight, Marino,” she says, and I wave at her because if I say goodbye it will turn into a conversation about meal prep and we will both die on the spot.
The air outside is not fresh, but it's not recycled.
