Aliens on Aventine Hill

A Good Kid [Part 6]

Gray hadn't been to D'Angelo's in two years. In 1969, he, his brother, Joseph and Arnold had gone nearly every week, always on Saturdays at the end of Joseph's shift. He would slide exhaustedly down into the booth next to Gray, sometimes leaning his head on his shoulder and always smelling of good food and wine, let out a sigh and slip easily into their conversation. The last time Gray had been here—a painful evening sometime in the summer of '70—it had only been him and Joseph, and they'd hardly said a word to each other the entire time...

If it hadn't been for his present company, Gray wondered if he might've seen the former memories rather than the latter as he stared up at that blazing neon sign. The interior of the restaurant—down to its delicious aroma—had not changed one bit from that awkward afternoon, except for the faces of the employees flitting from table to table.

"You know," his father mused, glancing back at him as they followed one of the few D'Angelo daughters to a booth near the back, "your mother and I actually met here at D'Angelo's, Grayson."

"I knew that" Gray nodded disinterestedly, eyes stuck on the corner booth they had always sat in. The booth he and Joseph had shared that uncomfortable, final dinner in.

To his horror, his father raised a hand and pointed directly at it, "We used to sit right there and snog."

Gray rubbed at his sternum, trying to soothe a sudden ache. Roman tugged worriedly at his hand, and Gray gritted his teeth in a smile. I'm alright. I'm just... he watched the black-aproned staff weave through the tables with grace and glimmering grins, trying to name the emotion he felt.

Heartsick.

The daughter turned back, presenting their chosen table with a flourish and flashy practiced smile. She made sure to bat her thick, dark lashes at Martin, but her eyes watched Gray with a wariness he had become accustomed to. Grin fading, she doled out menus and quickly disappeared with a flick of her long, black ponytail.

Seeing the eager, and therefore dangerous, smile on his father's face, Gray snatched his menu and hid his face behind it. Why'd you have to choose to come here? It had to have been a calculated decision. He caught a peek of his father's crestfallen expression around the edge of his menu and reconsidered.

After all, his father had memories here too. In that booth no less. Gray looked again at it as he lowered his menu. Seeing the gaze, Martin voiced the thought, "You remember when we used to come here with your mom? Back when it was just the three of us?"

"Yeah..." Gray shook his head, "Always for special occasions."

"That's right!" his father laughed, bobbing his head and then sighing, "And your mother always used to get the eggplant parmesan, d'you remember? I always thought that was funny, always preferred to treat myself to a big, fat steak!"

Gray glanced apathetically down at the menu, and his father went on, "You were still ordering off the kid's menu then! Picky picky picky! Used to cry when they put parsley on your plain spaghetti."

Gray could feel the blood burning in his cheeks.

"Well," his father chuckled to himself, "I doubt it'll be plain spaghetti tonight though! Hell, I won't allow it. Go on, what looks good? Prime rib? Veal? Osso Buco?"

Gray made a face and shook his head, "Oh, I don't know. Something or other Bolognese, I suppose."

"Yes, yes, that's good here if I remember," his father nodded, that sunny tone sticking in his tone even as his face twisted a bit. He picked up the wine list now, waving it tauntingly at his son, "How's about a bottle of real Italian vino to celebrate?"