Girl at War(35)

The restaurant was called Misty’s after his dead dog, a name everyone in the family did remember because of the time Misty took a shit under the table during Thanksgiving dinner. Inside Misty’s was dim and warm, and the hostess recognized me and let me have my pick from the row of green leather booths along the wall. Junior appeared shortly thereafter in pinstripes, a red carnation pinned at his breast pocket.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, kissing my forehead. “And who is your gentleman caller here?” I introduced them and Junior planted a wet kiss on his cheek while Brian tried not to look surprised. “Welcome to my place,” Junior said, and poured us red wine from a carafe. “The seppia’s fresh tonight. You want that?”

“Sounds great,” I said. Brian ordered pasta and Junior yelled something in bastardized Italian back through the kitchen doors, then pulled a Yankees cap from behind the bar and went outside for a smoke.

“So that’s the infamous uncle,” Brian said. “How have you never brought me here?”

I hadn’t wanted Brian to meet Junior; I had been keeping him away from all my family, afraid of what they might let slip about my past. But now I was half-hoping Junior would say something that would force me to tell the truth.

“I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“I didn’t realize you were that Italian.”

“I’m not,” I said. Then, when he looked confused, “I mean, he’s kind of exceptional.”

Brian made some Godfatheresque gestures and laughed, then kissed my hand.

“Watch where you put those lips,” someone whooped from the corner booth, where a group of men were hunched over their tumblers playing cards. Brian gave them a sheepish smile and dropped my hand.

“I don’t know them,” I whispered.

The group laughed. Junior poked his head back in the door. “That sounded too happy. You up to no good?”

“No, Jun,” was the collective response, morose, like a pack of schoolboys in trouble.

“They bothering you, Ana?”

“We’re fine,” I said.

“Yeah, well, just knock it off in there or I’ll make you pay for the drinks this time.” The men returned their focus to the card game.

“You know,” said Brian. “Maybe next time you take off to go home you could invite me.”

“Why? I’ve told you how awful Gardenville is.”

“I don’t care about Gardenville. I’d just like to go with you. Maybe meet your family or something? You met mine last fall.”

“I know, but—”

“Why don’t you want me to meet them, Ana?” His use of my name made me feel like a child.

“Why do you want to meet them so badly?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He was rubbing his temple the way he did when he was frustrated. He sighed, then grabbed at my hand again across the table. “Just—I don’t want to fight. I’m graduating in two months. I need to start applying for jobs. Decide if I’m going to stay in the city. I was thinking, maybe, you might want to move in with me.”

Something was happening to my face, a tingling at my cheeks, and I couldn’t tell if I was blushing or going pale.

“We could find a place, a studio or maybe a loft, probably in Brooklyn, but we could look for something close to the train so it’d be easy for you to get to class—”

We had talked about living together obliquely before, but not like this. Not with a real plan.

“Brian—”

“You don’t have to make a decision right away. But I wanted to bring it up before your housing deposit is due—”

“Brian,” I said. He looked startled. “I just—”

“You don’t want to live with me?”

“It’s not that. I have to tell you something.”

My throat was dry. I slipped my hand out from under his, took a gulp of water, and tried to think rationally. Once, another time when I’d almost told him, I’d brought up the war, just to see if he’d heard of it. He had, of course, had even read a book about it, some journalist interviewing Bosnians in concentration camps. He knew what a bloody and complicated thing it had been. Surely he would understand why I’d kept it from him. Plus, he was my best friend; more than that, we were in love.

“Look, on Friday when I left your room I didn’t go straight to Pennsylvania.”

Now it was his turn to pale. It occurred to me that he probably thought I was cheating on him.

“I was giving a speech at the UN.”

“The UN? What for?”

“The thing is, I’m not actually—” I searched for a word. “Italian.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was born in Croatia. Zagreb. Well, it was Yugoslavia then. When I was ten, the civil war started. My parents got killed.”

“But what about your parents in Pennsylvania? And your sister?”

“We were adopted. Rahela—Rachel’s my real sister.”

I told him about Rahela’s illness and MediMission and Sarajevo. About the roadblock and the forest and how I’d escaped. About how the UN presentation had brought on the old nightmares. Our food arrived and got cold. When I finished, Brian was still holding my hand, but he didn’t say anything.