feeling in my stomach as I blare a Slim Shady CD through my Discman. I approach the park on foot and sure enough, there he is, Giovanni Russo. I’m wearing a classic pair of three-stripe Adidas sneakers, carpenter jeans, and a tight white Quiksilver T-shirt. He’s dressed like a skater with thick-soled flat shoes, ragged cargo pants, and a flannel shirt, and it appears as though he doesn’t want to fight. Slowly shifting his weight and walking back and forth, he glances up and to the side in a perfunctory manner, as though contemplating a higher train of thought than my own. It seems to me like he knows something I don’t, which gives me a sense of unease and a need to clarify what is about to take place. Giovanni calmly makes an attempt to reason with me. He takes a step toward me and in a calm voice says, “You know, it’s actually in your best interest not to fight me.” I reply in many cruel and inflammatory words that it’s in my interest to do whatever I have to do to get the girl I like. He seems calm and unafraid and tries to reason with me. By now he’s increasingly throwing me off and it’s alarming. I take a fighting stance, my fists raised and chin tucked, and start walking toward him, my eyes locked and glaring.
I don’t make it half of the twenty feet separating us before I hear, “Vonn-ny!” called out from a distance about two hundred yards ahead of me. I glance and see a woman beckoning with her hand while calling in a friendly and beautifully mesmerizing voice. A man with dark shoulder-length curly hair stands next to her. He’s lurched forward with his hands on a house’s deck railing. They are just beyond the small creek adjacent to the road that hems the park. I stop and tell Giovanni what a coward he is for having his parents interrupt us. He turns to acknowledge them, and I, for some reason that will forever remain unknown to me, am unable to bring myself to rush him and deliver the beatdown necessary in order to ensure the romance with my prize.
Giovanni waves off his parents, and then turns back to me. “Okay, look, how about this . . . I’ll back off Cassie if you just come over to my house.”
The statement is so odd, but his tone is so confident, even friendly. I drop my hands, letting my guard down. Time stands still and we just look at each other: he waiting for me to respond, me confused and not knowing what to say.
In the awkwardness of the moment, a lonely, awful feeling encircles me and wraps around me, growing tighter by the second. Where does my aggression come from? For the briefest of moments, a flood of horrifying suppressed memories flashes through my mind. I’m not sure what he’s doing and it’s messing with me. Is this a trick, or is this what kindness is? Am I so broken by what I’ve endured that I can’t even recognize kindness? Giovanni turns to face me. He motions for me to walk with him to his home. I’m not sure what to do, but I sure don’t want to go back to my house, especially not with the fire that’s building inside me. He then says the kindest word that’s ever been spoken to me, “Please.”
We walk together through a garden, following a pebble-strewn path that blends into the tree line and then curves behind a stream and pond before continuing on. His house is a sprawling two-story red brick building with black trim: nice, normal looking. Another garden, which occupies the entire front yard, is hidden from the street by woods and underbrush. The path feels wondrous and beautiful and continues until we arrive at a wooden archway covered in vines. Past it is a line of flat limestone stepping-stones leading up to concrete stairs that lead you to the front door or the driveway if you veer right. It’s clear the place was thoughtfully designed.
Giovanni and I enter through the main door and make our way into the living room, where he sets down his backpack and I follow suit. He then walks across the white oak floors, going past the fireplace to the left and toward the back of the home. He tells me, “Just wait here.”
I watch him silently disappear around the corner in the silent home and assume he’s going to see his parents who are still out back. While he’s gone I wait uncomfortably, standing alone and noting the strange, foreign artifacts on the shelves that line each wall from floor to ceiling. There are small statues and tall djembe drums, and a wealth of other oddities. I guess the furniture is modern, but I’m not sure if that’s the right description. It’s downright weird looking, straight out of the film Beetlejuice. A curved chair with only one armrest is covered in a black-and-white tiger fur pattern. It looks like a throne for Cruella de Vil.
After standing awkwardly for a full minute, and with the coast clear, I slowly make my way around the living room, continuing to note the strange furniture, strewn about seemingly randomly. Gothic artwork lines the walls, with images of death such as a skull being cradled by a beautiful woman, and other pieces suggesting the contrast between good and evil. I am drawn to one particular item, a long handmade wooden pipe that has bright Mediterranean-colored feathers tied to and hanging off of it. I pick it up and examine it closely. I can tell that it’s functional.
I sit in the only normal looking chair in the room. It’s in the corner and is a soft, deep red, cushioned leather chair with a very high back. A half-second later, a sharp, heavily accented voice says, “That is mine.” Startled, I looked up and see a dark figure peering around the corner at me, quietly drawing closer as I hurriedly stand up and back away from the item. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, “Welcome to my home.” No hand is extended with this greeting, but the man, who is surely Giovanni’s father, continues, “We are enjoying the spring sun, step onto my veranda.” The man has the thickest Italian accent I’ve ever heard and emanates a palpable confidence as well as a callous indifference. I’ve never been afraid of anyone, but this man intimidates me—and it’s made worse by the fact that I’m in his home, his space.
I follow the man out of the living room, walking around a large fireplace composed of gray and black stones, seemingly made out of mortar, and enter a room lined with deep red and violet hues mixed with a theme similar to that of the pipe I am for some reason still holding. Bright Mediterranean colors and decor decorate the area. The bright white oak floors continue on into the kitchen, which is furnished with a thick, dark brown walnut table. Its chairs are cushioned with dark red backing and their dark wooden trim is shiny, clearly well polished. On the fireplace mantle, which divides the living room and kitchen, is the giant skull of some large beast, maybe an ox. It has two long curvy horns. Lying horizontally in front of the skull is a very long, winding shofar.
Directly adjacent to the table are two glass sliding doors that make up the wall. When we approach, Giovanni opens them and I step out onto a dark brown deck with black iron chairs surrounding a large black iron table. The table has gargoyle heads woven into its design. On top it is a large and thick glass ashtray with a burning cigarette resting on its edge. There is a crude bench that appears handmade and lines the entirety of the railing that Giovanni’s father was leaning on earlier, and Giovanni goes to sit on it.
The man looks at me and says, “I am Francesco Russo.” You have met my son, Giovanni.” I nod as he refers to himself and then Giovanni with a wave of his hand. “And that is my wife, Greta.” He points and I see a woman rounding the corner of the deck, which seems to surround the whole house. She’s the one who called out to Giovanni right before I was going to sucker punch him; it is clearly his mom. Up close I see how gorgeous she is. She’s full bodied and has sandy blonde hair that waves down just past her shoulders. She wears white sunglasses and a fancy red dress, and as she comes closer I see that she has matching red nail polish on the toes of her bare feet.
When she approaches, she smiles at me and says, “Welcome home, Nicholas.” The words flow from her mouth like syrup from a jar held high, and I melt. Never before have I been so thoroughly and instantly seduced by a woman, and in front of her husband and son! Did she say, “home”? I ask myself. We talk and somehow I stop acting like myself. With her I feel childlike, like a polite little boy.
Francesco points to a chair by the veranda table and says, “Please,” and the three of us sit at the table together. Greta smokes cigarettes and Francesco uses shining silver cutlery to eat from a plate of thinly sliced meat. The meat is decorated with a few olives and accompanied
