One by One. Nicholas Bush
notice for the first time that he has a peach fuzz mustache and dark eyes, just like his father. His spiked hair makes me think of a frightened cat.
“What’s this mean, dude? What do you guys want?” I ask Giovanni, spilling my insecurity all over the place. He is quiet, so I look back at his father. “I can be friends with Giovanni, sure, no problem,” I say, the worlds tumbling out. I just want to leave.
“You don’t make threats to my family without . . . Greta, what’s the word?”
“Repercussions,” she chimes in with such charm that I become enthralled all over again.
There is silence for a moment, and then Francesco clears his throat. “Good,” he says. “If you are friends with one of us, you are friends with all of us.” He holds his arms out wide, gesturing that the friendship will include Giovanni, Greta, and himself.
“What if I don’t want to?” I ask, squirming. The panic that’s been stored in my gut since I arrived is finally releasing.
“Then I take you into the garage and I break your fucking legs with a baseball bat.”
Greta smiles, picks up the key, and holds her hand out to me. I reach for it because they’re all looking at me and I’m not sure what else to do.
She says, “That is a house key, young man, and you can come over whenever you like.”
The instant my fingers grasp the key, Francesco, with a raspy voice and a grimace, asks, “Friends?”
“Yeah,” I reply coolly, though with a tangible feeling of danger, “Friends.” I begin to hate everything that’s led to this moment.
Time passes and somehow I agree to join them for dinner. I think I have to. I’m certainly keen on staying far away from Francesco and his baseball bat. Besides, while I’m utterly confused and pretty freaked out, I’m also very curious. And then there’s the fact that I can avoid my parents while I’m here.
Once seated at the dining room table, Greta serves dinner: meatballs floating in a large rectangular dish with some sort of balsamic vinegar and red wine sauce; two metal trays of grilled sliced vegetables, kinds that I’ve never had, stuff like eggplant with parmesan sprinkled all over; a bowl of cheese-stuffed ravioli pillows mixed with spaghetti noodles; a napkin-laden basket with sliced Italian bread, which is steaming; and bowls of red and white sauce for the pasta. Everything is homemade, even the noodles, and smells so good. “What’s that stuff?” I ask as I point to a cutting board with several types of meat sitting next to a knife.
“Shark, alligator, and iguana,” Francesco answers, and then, “Want olives?” He passes me a bowl of gigantic olives. I ask if I can try the mysterious meat and when he asks which one, I tell him I don’t know. He laughs and says, “You want all of it.” Then he turns to Greta. “I like him, he’s very brave, not afraid to try something new.”
While we’re eating, they say that they’ve been fascinated with me and indicate that they think I’m respected in the neighborhood and at school, which is weird. Giovanni must have told them everything he thought of me, and then some. “With respect, a man can do anything, and without it, he’s got nothing,” Francesco says. “You can do anything you want and get away with it.”
I try to normalize the conversation, complimenting the food as the best I’ve ever even caught a whiff of, let alone eaten, and they pour me a glass of red wine, which I’ve never had before. Then Francesco and Greta tell me that if there’s anything at all that I ever want, all I have to do is ask one of them for it. I’m confused, but nod thank you and let them continue to lead the conversation. Francesco looks at me and asks, “Do you ever ask questions in your mind?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I mutter, “Uh, yeah, I guess,” and then what he says gets even harder to follow. The conversation, if you can call it that, quickly becomes impossible to make sense of, as if they’re speaking a different language. Eventually, I’m so lost that I can’t help but ask what they’re talking about. Francesco answers vaguely, his accent so thick that his words become even more unintelligible. I can make out only that he’s suggesting I can talk to the universe—that I can talk to the universe and the universe will answer me. I nod, but my body recoils and I start to feel repulsion sinking in. Under the table I crumple a napkin in my sweaty palms. I can tell that they’re deep into some spiritual shit. I’m now thoroughly creeped out—yet captivated.
The supper culminates with Francesco chuckling at me and speaking with Greta in Italian. Then, as if they have eyes everywhere, he says, “Pick your hands up from under the table and put your balled up sweaty napkin on your plate. Why don’t you go downstairs and get to know Giovanni better?” His words are more a directive than a suggestion.
Once downstairs I tell Giovanni how I feel, even though I barely know him and it’s his parents I’m talking about. He tells me not to worry about anything at all, and shows me his drum set and guitars. He has a Tama kit, an upgrade from my Yamaha starter kit, and assorted Sabian and Zildjian professional grade cymbals.
From this day forward, my life is never the same. Giovanni and I hang out at school and then I head home with him and we play music and eat the most delicious food. Soon, I’m going to the Russo home after school every night for dinner and spending every weekend with them at their house. I even get my own room there. They buy me clothes and take me on family outings to places like the movies or a theme park. I even learn how to cook a bit because it means I can spend time in the kitchen with Greta. For the first time in my life, I’m being treated with love, perhaps even spoiled. I mostly tune out Francesco when he speaks about his brand of new age universal philosophy, though I act as if I’m listening politely. I know that if I play my cards right, this newfound family will see me as a second son.
Being treated like a son is all I’ve ever wanted. At my house, I am treated like a dog. There’s no other way to say it. My father must see me as a dog-man because he beckons me with, “Come;” calls me to dinner with, “Sit;” and tells me, “Eat,” if there is still food on my plate, and it’s always been like this. My sisters are treated like pretty young girls, which they are, and my younger brother is told in front of me, “You’re the good son. Everything I have is yours, do you understand?” I may as well own the hard labor chores of the home because they are all mine. I’m the only one who has to do them.
Looking back, it will be clear that this period of my life is when the Russos took control of me. I even began dreaming about them on most nights, especially Greta. I get to know Giovanni’s sister too. Adriana is three years younger than me and we develop a friendship that will have a certain romantic quality to it over the years. To be perfectly honest, though, I never seriously pursue her out of a fear of disrespecting her family and ruining my friendship with them.
Never with the Russos does it feel like there is a sinister motive behind their treatment of me. Never do I think there could be some sort of catch yet to be revealed. But this doesn’t make their behavior any less weird. One night, Francesco gives Giovanni a book about how the mafia started and tells us to read it. It’s all about how the mafia, or La Cosa Nostra, started back in Western Sicily at the turn of the nineteenth century. Ultimately, it reveals how important it is to be the boss of your territory, your family, and your life.
Chapter 3
It’s while I’m fourteen and first getting to know the Russos that Giovanni and I start making a habit of procuring weed and beer on weekends to escalate our chances with older girls and up the ante of fun to be had. It’s my job to get the alcohol, which usually involves inviting Gavin to join us, since he can get beer from his dad. Giovanni, who is quickly becoming a brother to me, takes care of scoring the weed. He is always able to obtain the highest quality kind, seemingly without effort, pulling it out of thin air. When I ask how he gets all this bud, he tells me it’s from his friend in Chicago. Sometimes he simply says, “Chicago.” It’s more complicated for