Rebecca Caruso
Home should promote the feeling of tranquility, blanketed love, and a safe place for whoever dwells within. Unfortunately, I can't say I relate.
Ever since my mother's death, the vastness of being alone haunts me — the creaking hardwood floors, the stained window vibrations, even the squealing steam radiators. Attuning silence, although welcoming during stressful times, drives my rationality into dark places.
I try to fill the void by immersing myself in throwback songs, baking a Neopolitan pizza for Christopher (though I end up eating most of it), listening to Nicholas Pileggi's 'Wiseguy' on audiobook, and yelling at a true-crime documentary or two. Yet, nothing can divert my mind from the relentless introspection.
"You'll just have to casually hang out with Marco for a few weeks, being nothing more than a pair of ears...."
"Christopher and I will comb through every bit of evidence and make sure the Montanari's get what they fucking deserve..."
Glancing at the clock on the stovetop, it was only 2:25 in the afternoon — time dragged dreadfully.
I pulled my phone from the kitchen's electrical-tape-held charger, checking the unread text sent to Christopher hours ago: Congrats on the promotion! I'm making your fav for lunch, hoping to pop a bottle when you get in. LMK when you're near.
Still no response. Not even a 'thanks babe,' —fuck, even a "read" notification would have sufficed.
This. This is what makes me momentarily not love him. The overbearing selfishness, the lack of true partnership—companionship.
But enough of the damning silence. I craved unbiased clarity, devoted acknowledgment, and someone to aimlessly vent to.
Growing up with a cop father didn't help my social life, except for Rafael, I had no one. Most of the time, I didn't mind it, but during circumstances like these, I felt lonely.
Shaking my head, I replaced that thought with another. Although unconventional and wrong in every way, the strong, cold comfort of a well-rounded drink helped settle down pending nerves; and honestly, at this moment, I could really use one.
I never classified myself as an alcoholic; perhaps it's the recent stress or the lingering resentment. Regardless, there were no decent bars in the Avondale area, and Christopher played the guilt game every time I had any hard stuff at home; so I did what any normal Chicagoan would do — I hopped on the CTA and headed downtown.
The hour-long train commute from Avondale to downtown Chicago partially fulfilled my palliative needs; a relaxing combination of train turbulence and noise proved soothing. You see all sorts of people on the train, each with their story, making my troubles seem less dramatic...
An elderly couple discussed prescriptions they couldn't afford. A mom of four struggled to keep her toddlers still. Two high-class businessmen discussed financial turnovers and deadlines. A homeless man struggled to keep balance with his shopping cart.
Chicago is a much more vibrant metropolis than New York City, Dallas, and LA combined; we just don't publicize all the camaraderie that comes along with it. Inequality, segregation, poverty — things most people glance away from; the very things that pull me closer.
I chose to be an officer not because of my father, but my pride for the people of this city — my yearning to oblige them. Unfortunately, our municipality doesn't care about its individuals; they only strive for the 3P's: Profit, Politics, and Publications. Something I learned the hard way...
Several passengers and I disembarked at the nearest station, prompted by the unfortunate incident of a homeless man relieving himself in our train car near one of the gangway connections — an unwelcome sight overshadowed by the distinctive entryway to 'The Alcove,' visible nearly a block down from the elevated platform.
I continued to observe in speculative awe as my train departed from the station. Even at nearly four in the afternoon, patrons continuously entered and exited this hidden underground gem. My initial intention was to hit up Bar Louie in Printer's Row, but that was another seven stops away.
Don't. Even. Think. About. It. Turn around Rebecca, pretend it's not there. There's no reason to go back.
But the echoes of familiarity persist. My gut tightens. The rational part of my mind urges caution, yet an inexplicable yearning for attention hints within those familiar walls.
A brief vibration jolted me from my thoughts. Glancing at my phone, I found a message from Christopher:
Saturday, Sep 1, 3:56 PM
Chris:
SORRY. Phone was on silent.
Just got done celebrating,
headed to Robert's for a quick nightcap.
You coming?
A sigh escaped me. Despite his apology, doubt lingered—an unrelenting gnawing that wouldn't subside. Why wait so long? Why silence your phone? Why not invite me to celebrate with you?
Taking a slow exhale to collect my thoughts, I knew answers might elude me. A drink was exactly what I needed to calm these nerves. My fingers glided across the screen, firing off a swift and succinct response: Not home. Out with Raphael. Don't wait.
Chris:
He's in town?
Layover, I replied, my fingers tapping out the letters with restrained annoyance, silently hoping he'd sense it.
As I put my phone away, I took a moment to take in my surroundings. Screw it, The Alcove is right here. It doesn't matter—it shouldn't matter. I'm just going in for a quick drink. In and out. With that many people, no one will notice.
Despite the chaos inside my head, I stood resolute as I made my way off the train platform and onto the city street.
Although it had been no more than twelve hours since I last stepped into The Alcove, I honestly expected the ambiance, perhaps the structure, to appear different. An entity of je ne sais quoi fueled my imagination after the events of last night — yet, even at four in the afternoon, the speakeasy was as robust as the night prior.
A novice musical act performed a jazz rendition of Radiohead's 'Paranoid Android' on stage as people — couples, and businessmen alike occupied the booths, tables, and dance area to the fullest. I kept my head downward, hoping not to catch the attention of anyone of the numerous cameras within the vicinity. All while doing my best not to act overly suspicious nor out-of-place.
As luck would have it, there was only one stool available at the bar, and it was sandwiched between an older businessman enjoying a scotch on the rocks and a group of young women chatting while sipping on bright pink cosmos. The moment I sat down, the bartender from the night before recognized me.
"Rebecca! Hey girl, it's been a while," she sarcastically remarked with a kind smile that warmed her face with delight.
Fuck, there goes my animality. How did she remember my name?
I couldn't for the life of me recall hers, but clearly, I made a blatant impression. Perhaps it was Marco's doing, or maybe the entirety of the Alcove staff came together and spoke about what happened to their co-worker, Frank. Either way, at least this was a kind regard, not one fueled by fear, hatred, or surprise.
"Well...," somewhat fibbed while giving her a forced smile in return, "I know it sounds cliche, but was in the area." Because in all honesty, I too didn't expect to be back. "And really need a drink."
"You've come to the right place," The bartender, whose name I swore began with an 'A,' pulled out two shot glasses from beneath the table. "Glen Milseas, right?"
"Oh, no, no," I quickly expressed as she turned to grab the liquor bottle from the display case, "A White Russian, easy-easy if you can?"
The older man beside me interrupted, "I'll take the Glen, Evie. Let the others know I'm closing the tab for the evening too."
Evie? The name was ringing a familiar bell. Of course...it was EVE! Her name was Eve. I wondered where the 'A' thought came from.
"Of course, sir," Eve reacted while pouring him the drink.
Her focus afterward shifted with nervousness toward me. I immediately noticed the luster from her face dissolving as soon as she obliged the man's orders.
"I—I gotta go in the back to grab..." There was a momentary pause alongside a crackle in her voice, "More Kahlúa for your drink..."
"Do your thing," I automatically responded noting the fear in her eyes.
"So sorry, excuse me. "
The sudden change in Eve's behavior piqued my curiosity. I watched as she whispered something into her co-worker's ear before they both disappeared behind the 'employees only' door. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. Was something wrong?
I gave the man next to me a side-eye stare while aimlessly looking at the alcohol on display. He reeked of smoked tobacco and substantial cologne; he was genuinely well-kept with a dark-tailored suit that had olive green accents and a Rolex watch face to match.
My gut twisted with a sense of urgency.
"Glens are an expensive choice," he commented as he downed one of his shots. "Must've been an occasion."
I took a moment to gather my thoughts before replying, trying to keep my tone casual. "Just drinks with a friend," I said, hoping to keep him at ease. Despite my attempt to remain calm, my heart was racing. Something about this man made me uneasy.
"A friend? Hmm, now that's something..." He sneered with a devoid grin, "Marco doesn't have any friends."
My eyes widened with the realization of who I came across — the one man I told myself I'd avoid at all costs, Angelo Montanari. I cursed myself for not listening to my instincts and staying home.
"Sit, Rebecca," he demanded, his voice laced with a hint of threat.
"I—I really should get going," I stammered, attempting to stand up from my seat.
"Don't make me ask you twice," he said sternly, his gaze locking onto mine.
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