I’m only allowed to go to one specific gym where all the Italian types hang out. It’s got none of the high-tech machines I’m used to, and it stinks like a gym locker. No artisanal teas or smart water after a workout; no hot men to stare at and maybe hook up with in the showers, not that I’d want to these days. But even if one of these dudes were actuallyintoit, none of them would dare to approach me. Marco hangs around like a cold I can’t shake off, glowering at anyone who even nods at me.
And all of them, without a doubt, recognize me as Luca D’Amato’s husband. I can hear his name whispered around when they think I’m not listening. They all look for the ring on my finger, just to see if it’s true, and then I might as well be a dirty sock in the changing room for all the attention they pay me.
Marco comes with me to the cafés for lunch, sitting there right next to me so that even when old friends come up to say hi, he’s an intimidating void of warning. It’s embarrassing, and people have started just staying away from me now, so after a week I don’t bother going out for lunch. I get it to go, and make the smallest of small talk.
I try dropping in on Celia a few times, but she’s actuallybusy. She has shit to do, even though she doesn’t work and she has no kids. Who knew? She does a bunch of volunteer work for the local Catholic church, which seems really boring and mostly involves washing and ironing donated clothes. Once Marco and I go with her to do the grocery shopping, and it’s like stepping into another world. Celia seemed to enjoy having me there, and I guess it was better than watching her sort clothes, but grocery shopping only happens every two weeks.
So after a few weeks I just don’t bother going out anymore.
I send out for food or make my own depressing sandwiches. I still go to the gym, because I’m vain, and I refuse to let this hard-won body go to seed just because my life’s on a downward spiral.
Every day I feel like I’m drying up from not having that regularcontactwith people. I terrified the postman one day, waiting for his footsteps outside and then flinging the door open before he could put the mail in the slot. I tried to invite him in for coffee, but he looked like he thought I was a serial killer or something. I guess the two hitmen at the door and Marco looming behind me in the entryway didn’t inspire confidence.
Marco’s okay. He’ll talk to me if I talk to him, but he’s mostly into sports. Sometimes I go out on the stoop and talk to the guards there, but they either shut down conversation or talk in monosyllables. Plus, they keep calling me Mr. D’Amato, and it pisses me off.
“It’s Mr.Donovan, you fuckers,” I said the other day, and stormed back inside.
I wonder how they covered that in their daily report to Luca, because I know they email him about everything I do. I even invited Marco into the bathroom with me the other day to inspect my toilet leavings.
He declined, but I bet Luca still got a report about the offer.
And as for that fucker I married, he’s like a ghost in this house. He gets up early so he’s gone by the time I wake, and he never comes home before midnight. If this were a normal marriage, I might have trust issues about the whole thing. I might think he’s getting tail elsewhere, maybe some boy toy he’s banging out in Brooklyn or something.
But I know he’s staying true.
How do I know? Well, maybe it’s because I know my man, and whatever else he is, he’s loyal. He made a vow to be faithful, and he’ll keep it.
There’s that.
But there’s also the fact that he’s been sneaking into my bed at night likeI’mhis piece of ass on the side instead of his ball and chain. I’ve become accustomed to the nightly shift on the bed, Luca sliding under the covers and pressing up against me silently, his body begging for me.
Some nights I wonder what he’d do if I stayed turned away, didn’t arch back into him or open my legs for his hand to slide up my thighs. But I’d just be spiting myself if I rejected him. I still want him, even when he puts his hand over my mouth or swallows up my questions with kisses. I don’t try to talk anymore. It’s like he wants plausible deniability or something, and hearing my voice would make it real…would break the spell.
The sex we have in those darkest hours of night is like nothing I’ve experienced before. Sometimes he’s rough, sometimes he’s gentle, but there’s always something underneath it, something unspoken that he’s determined will remain unspoken.
It’s only those unspoken words that are keeping me here. I could disappear in this City because I know it as well as I know him.
But I still have faith in what we could build together. I still have patience.
For now.
* * *
And now here weare today, which is a red-letter day because there’s a real livefunctionto take up the morning: the Morelli Family Wives have organized a welcome brunch for me.
“Most of them see each other regularly, almost every day sometimes,” Celia tells me on the way. Marco’s driving us, and we’re in the back seat of his car. “They meet at the hairdresser or get mani-pedis, or have brunch, or throw parties for their kids. I’m so busy, though, I don’t always have time to catch up, and I’m kind of unpopular right now after I had to miss two kiddie birthdays in a row. I was…busy.” She looks away as she says it, and I wonder.
I know Celia loves kids. She’s forever talking about her sister’s kids and even taking care of them sometimes. But she and Frank have none of their own.
She turns back with a bright smile. “But every now and then they have something special, like today. They wanted to welcome you, honey. So gird your loins.”
It feels less like a welcome and more like running a gauntlet once we arrive the house where it’s being held. Mimosas flow and the Wives give me the eye in little groups, faking smiles when I catch them looking, or when they have to come up and chat to me. But soon enough they forget about me and fall into the real business of the day: gossiping about their home lives, about each other, and—most of all—about the Mistresses.
The Mistresses are the most regular and common topic of conversation at these gatherings, according to Celia, who keeps up a running commentary about everyone I meet. She finds the whole thing as ridiculous as I do, or almost. But then, Frank worships the ground she walks on, and everyone knows it, so she doesn’t have much to add when the talk turns vicious and Mistresses are slandered.
See, in thisFamiglia, cheating men are never to blame. They’ve been led astray by whores, bitches, sluts. Never by their own dicks, and when I suggested that maybe their men need to keep it in their pants to one little group of Wives, it went down like a lead balloon.
“Angie is Joey’s wife,” Celia whispered to me after we moved on hurriedly, like that explained it. She shepherded me over to the snack table, which no one was near.
