Page 14

Rhue

As much as I have tried to avoid it, dinner with the “family” remains unavoidable.

And if Mohammed refuses to go back to Rochester for the mountain, the mountain has found his way to Ithaca one weekend after Laura.

He brought my sister along, too, though I’m not sure why.

She looks utterly miserable. At least the table we’re seated at is round.

It sort of brings us together but keeps an arm’s length between us.

Dad likes Italian restaurants most, which is funny considering we’re of Mexican descent. It’s a nice place he’s picked. Downtown, plenty of parking, and complimentary rosemary focaccia and sparkling water. I like it. Or at least, I would have liked it, if it I wasn’t sitting at the table with him.

The walls are painted a soft cream with white gesso sculptural crown molding.

The floors are proper walnut hardwood, provoking a dark contrast against the tall, white baseboard.

The curtains are lacy ivory with satin tiebacks, and the tablecloths are pearl linen beneath milky porcelain and brassy cutlery.

It’s an excellent combination, and though I’m not usually one to stop and admire the décor, here I am doing just that.

Proves how good this place is on that front.

It’s a busy night at Il Truffatore, but the music is mainly Sinatra and melodiously blended into the background, drowned out only by the occasional bout of laughter and clinking of glasses, so the atmosphere is just right.

Which makes our presence here just wrong.

Dad sits in his chair with a partial slouch, one elbow resting on the table as he checks his phone.

Laura pokes a fork through bits of focaccia on her plate, absent and awkward while checking the time on her phone every other second.

She can’t wait for this to be over. And I cannot possibly blame her for wanting to get out of here.

We’re still looking at the menus, pretending we actually have an appetite.

Well, I speak for Laura and myself, at least. Dad has always been a beast of his own.

It’s hard to even look at him, after everything that has happened.

Maybe part of what makes the sight of my father so unbearable is how much we look alike.

I’ve got my mother’s eyes, but most of what I am comes from Julian Echeveria.

Most of who I am, too, as much as I hate it.

In the end, it’s why I came to Cornell. To take his place, someday.

He loves me, he dotes on me, and I can barely stand being around him.

“How’s the school so far?” Dad asks after a long and awkward silence.

I think he’s talking to me, since Laura is still in high school. “It’s great,” I tell him. “Everything I imagined it would be.”

Living as an Echeveria has taught me to say the things I know he will want to hear.

It usually keeps him content and helps keep conversations to a minimum.

I couldn’t tell him to fuck off. When Dad says we’re having a family dinner, well, then, we’re having a family dinner whether we like it or not.

Laura takes a sip of her sparkling water.

Steve is in the car outside, waiting to be summoned if needed.

“And the apartment? I suppose we’ll be seeing it later,” he replies. There’s a flat smile on his face that irks me beyond belief. I steal a glance at Laura. Poor soul. She desperately wants this to be over.

“It’s good,” I say. “Comfortable. Has all the necessary amenities.”

The waiter returns to take our order. “Have you decided? Or perhaps you would like me to make a recommendation?” He’s got a powerful Italian accent. It’s almost comical watching my dad watch his lips.

“Can I make a recommendation before we go ahead?” Dad asks, and the waiter nods politely.

Julian Echeveria has a way of establishing himself as the domineering force in a room, and it begins with his sartorial choices.

Tonight, he reigns supreme in black pants and a casual dark blue shirt with a woolen sweater resting on his broad shoulders, sleeves loosely tied at the front.

He’s anyone’s Ivy League nightmare. “Lose the fake accent. It’s an insult to any Italian who might walk into your establishment.

And it’s an insult to me, as well, since I was able to spot it.

Any idiot with half a brain can tell you’re a Jersey Guido, at best.”

The waiter freezes, and so do I. Laura is wide-eyed and utterly embarrassed, while my focus bounces from Dad to the waiter, and then back to Dad.

I cannot believe this is happening. The man will pick a fight with anyone at any time.

Jesus fucking Christ, he is the most combative person I have ever met.

“Ex… Excuse me?” the waiter manages, now pale as a sheet of paper.

“It’s just ridiculous. You don’t need an Italian accent to sell Italian food, and if you’re going to fake it because the boss tells you to fake it, at least do it right.

I can recommend a couple coaches out of West Hollywood who won’t mind teaching you and the rest of the staff to sound properly Italian,” Dad says in an annoyingly casual fashion.

“Can we just order our food?” I mutter.

Dad shakes his head. “No. This needs to happen.” He looks at the waiter. “What’s your name?”

“Ted, sir…”

“Ah, there he is… the all-American Ted. It is nice to meet you, Ted. So, let me get this out of the way, first. You will be more successful as a venue if you’re honest with your customers—or if you get better at lying to them in the first place.

The current formula is a failure.” He takes a deep breath and smiles, urging Ted to do the same.

“Come on, it’s not the end of the world.

A little bit of truth never hurt anyone. ”

“No, sir,” the guy replies. He must be in his early twenties, looking like a deer caught in the blinding headlights. Dad is the eighteen-wheeler coming right at him.

“I’ll have the tomato and mozzarella bruschetta as my starter, and the truffle fettucine for the main,” Dad says, swerving at the very last minute to avoid a head-on collision.

“We’ll decide about dessert later, but you can go ahead and open up a bottle of Banfi Fontanelle.

One glass, since I’m the only one at this table who’s legally allowed to drink.

” He adds that last bit with a chuckle. I’ve had my share of binge drinking with the guys, and he knows it.

He’s just using a public setting to rub his seniority in my face. “The kids are ready to order, too.”

Laura clears her throat and tries to smile. “Hey… so, yeah… can I have the burrata crostini and spaghetti Bolognese, please?”

“Sure thing,” American Ted replies while taking notes with a shaky hand and a sweaty pen. “Anything to drink?”

“The sparkling water is just fine, thank you,” Laura says.

He nods once, then looks at me, downright relieved to be out of my father’s clutches. “And you, sir?” His good humor has returned, and he’s actually thinking he’s going to walk away from this table unscathed. The poor idiot.

“The white bean crostini and the Amatriciana bucatini, please. Oh, and the minty lemonade.” If Dad’s buying, I might as well treat myself.

Besides, the kitchen here only works with original Italian ingredients.

This place is as authentic as it gets—which sort of makes Dad’s hissy fit about Ted’s accent rather valid, much to my dismay.

“No wine for you, then,” Dad remarks, clearly satisfied.

“You said it yourself. I'm not legal yet,” I reply.

Laura smirks for the briefest of seconds. “You’ve got another year, and then that’ll be over, too.”

“Will that be it?” Ted asks as politely as he can, though he actively avoids eye contact with my father as he prepares to leave this wretched table from hell.

“Yeah. For now,” Dad replies. “But I’ll be listening. Hope you don’t try and pull that accent garbage trick again. My review will sting.”

“Jesus,” Laura mumbles, no longer able to hide her disgust. “Could you lay off the guy?”

Dad shrugs as Ted walks away as though someone shoved a burning torch up his ass, and the flames are already eating through his pants. “I hate frauds.”

“That is no excuse to be a dick to people,” she replies. “I am so embarrassed right now.”

“Imagine how I felt eight months ago when I had to explain what happened to the paramedics who did a damn good job of stitching you back together.”

And there it is. The peak dick moment. The reproach that always comes whenever Laura says something that our father doesn’t like.

I don’t know how the fuck he does it, but he always finds a way to link her suicide attempt to virtually any rebuttal aimed at her.

It’s truly horrible and, frankly, astonishing.

It takes a certain skill. A skill only a down-to-the-bone asshole would have.

“Wow. I thought we’d be doing this part of the tango much later into dinner,” I cut in, surprisingly calm despite the growing desire to kick my own father in the balls.

It’s very hard to love this man. Mom said that once, but I was too young to understand what those words meant.

I absolutely get it now, though. “I was hoping we’d have a decent, or at least quiet, dinner for once. ”

Dad raises an eyebrow at me, while tears fill Laura’s eyes, twinkling like drops of dew in the morning sunlight. I feel bad for what she’s having to deal with, but I know we can’t just get up and leave. Well, I can, but it would be extra awkward for Laura, given the wheelchair.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Dad asks.

“I admit, I didn’t see the Ted thing coming. But you’d be a lot happier if you weren’t so easily offended by absolutely everything,” I reply.

“Oh, son, I’m not offended. Just annoyed. Why do you and your sister feel the need to make such a big deal about it?”