Book II – Chapter 21: Grappa

Posted On June 17, 2016

The 14^th floor was by no means the penthouse, yet still offered a remarkable view of the city. Only a couple blocks west lay Foley Park, its lake rimmed with golden street lamps. Beyond that, past the river, one could see Southport Tower, a gleaming, gaudy spire of steel casting a glow onto the neighboring buildings. Yet, without focus, all Ferris could make out was a blur of color, of speckled lights scattered from one end of his vision to the other. He leaned into the railing, fingers wrapped around the iron bar. The wind was stronger on the 14^th floor, whipping the collar of his shirt against his skin. Such a view was wasted on a man like him.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a pack of cigarettes Demos had abandoned on a chair. It was strange, how much he hated the smell, yet found comfort in the way it lingered. He wondered, staring at the pack, if it would taste just as bad.

The door behind him clacked. He turned just in time to meet the barrel of a pistol, its grip wrapped in slim, ghostly fingers.

“Oh, God. You’re here.“ Demos let out a breath, lowering the weapon. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Ferris resisted the urge to clutch his chest, as his heart threatened to leap right out of it. “Scare you?”

“You didn’t answer your phone for like, two days! And then I get here and there’s dishes in the sink, and—“

“Dishes.”

“You always do the dishes. You love doing the dishes. I thought someone had— fuck, you drive me crazy sometimes. And you didn’t even answer the doorbell, and—“

“Since when do you use the doorbell?”

“I thought, I don’t know, that Alex might be here, and you wouldn’t—“

Demos trailed off, his brow narrowed. Ferris could feel the Ghost’s eyes tracing each part of his face and suddenly wished he could turn away. Demos could read him like a book, an old, dog-eared book, one he had read a thousand times over a thousand days. Ferris leaned back on the bar, the cold metal pressing into the small of his back. There was no escape.

“She was here.” Ferris dropped his attention to the terrace floor, set on the glazed wood. He felt sick, suddenly, as if his stomach itself had curdled into a putrid lump.

“Ferris.”

The word, his name, was soft — softer than Ferris had heard in a long time. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. He was glad Demos was there, grateful for human contact, for someone to stand with him on that dark, lofty terrace. Yet, at the same time, he wished his friend would simply go away.

“You were right.” Ferris’ hands tightened on the rail. “You’re always right.”

Wind buffeted the wall, whistling over the brick. Without looking up, he could tell Demos was still watching him. Though Ferris often stumbled with his words, it was rare that the Italian had nothing to say. All Ferris could hear was the rustle of fabric as Demos slid the pistol inside his jacket, then came to his side by the railing.

For a while, Demos only watched the city. His hair skirted his temples, black strands tossed carelessly by the wind.

“I’m sorry.” Demos shifted his eyes back to his friend. “I didn’t want to be.”

Ferris returned the look, wondering why he wasn’t making his usual comforting gestures — the hand on his wrist, the touch on his shoulder, the same, solicitous contact he always made when something was wrong. This time, there was nothing. There was only a look in his eyes, one that rarely crossed the face of a sinner. Somehow, there was guilt.

Demos’ spoke again, hesitant. “Was it because of me?”

“It wasn’t just you.”

“What do you mean?”

Ferris hugged his elbows, fighting the chill with crossed arms. “Gino, Victor, Dad — they all found someone. Mom loved him, and he was in even deeper than I am. It’s not the crime. At least, not entirely. I think I— well, maybe I’m just not worth it.”

“That’s not true.” Demos’ voice had sharpened to a point. “You know that’s not true.”

“I don’t—“

“I never want to hear you say that again.”

Ferris stopped trying, falling silent under the crack of his friend’s words.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Demos said. “When I thought the same thing, what you said to me.”

“I do remember.”

Demos waited. Light drifted from a neighboring window, leaving his cheek lemon yellow. For a moment, Ferris struggled to think of his exact words. It had been so long ago, back before college — back when he’d seen his friend heartbroken for the first time.

“I said— I told you, you are worth it.”

“I never said it again.” The fire hadn’t left Demos’ voice. “And I don’t want any of that shit from you, either.”

The edge of Ferris’ mouth lifted, an inkling of a smile. “Sounds fair.”

That sign of happiness, small as it was, died quickly. It took too much energy to smile, energy that Ferris simply didn’t have. The sickness in his gut hadn’t left. Demos was still keeping his distance.

“I thought I could have something normal.” Ferris rubbed his temple, fighting the throb at the front of his skull. “I thought—“

It didn’t matter what he thought. Whatever it was, from the very first day, he’d known how it would end. He’d known she would leave and had only managed to drag it on with dumb luck and lies.

“Is there anything I can do?” Demos said.

Throw me off this balcony, was the first thing that came to Ferris’ mind. He dropped the thought, distracted by the ache in his chest, the pain that had seeped through every raw bone in his body. Demos didn’t want him to say it, that he wasn’t worth the trouble, that he would continue to exhaust every trace of love and normalcy that dared come into his life. Even so, Ferris couldn’t help but think it.

“I don’t want to feel this.”

“Then I’ll introduce you to my old friend.” Demos smiled. “Mr. Grappa.”

“A drink?”

“Yeah.” Demos tapped a cigarette from the pack on the chair, then opened his lighter with a click. “Let’s raise hell.”

#

It was past closing at Ristorante Giorgetti. The last customer had left hours ago, heading home as any decent person should have. Keys rattled at the back door and a click of the light switch bathed the entire kitchen in white. Apparently, when Demos had suggested ‘raising hell,’ he had meant drinking alone in an empty restaurant.

Ferris waited for him at the piano. Dim shapes reflected off the surface, a sheen of bronze on black. He was grateful for the restaurant, for a quiet place without crowds, without chatter. Somehow, Demos had known to take him there — he had known without asking. He always knew.

Demos joined on him the bench, bumping him aside with his hip. Balanced in his hands were two cognac glasses and a fat bottle of perilous looking brandy. Grappa.

“This is the fourteen year Nonino.” The drink sloshed as Demos poured it into each glass. “Uncle Vic would kill me if I took the twenty-six.”

Warily, Ferris took the offered glass. “Shouldn’t you be saving this for a special occasion?”

“Every minute with you is special.”

“Oh my god.” Ferris dragged his free hand over his eyes. “Why does anyone let you talk?”

Demos only laughed, lifting his glass. “All right, now take in the aroma before—“

Ferris, clearly in no mood for complicated instructions, downed the glass with a single tilt of his head. It burned, with flavors of alcohol and bitter spice scalding the back of his throat. He felt it run all the way through him, like rocket fuel through an empty tank.

“Oh, fuck.”

Demos frowned. “That is not how you drink grappa.”

“It’s incredible,“ Ferris paused to breathe, “how much I don’t give a fuck right now.”

The bottle clinked against the rim as Demos refilled the glass. “Slow down, cowboy. This shit will knock you blind if you don’t—“

Once again, Ferris didn’t listen. The liquor stripped his insides, fumes rising up through his sinuses and pulsing behind his eyes. Perhaps it was a bad idea — no, it was a bad idea, but it was too late to stop.

“You’d better not haunt me if you die,” Demos said. He took a sip, a gentle one, taking in whatever flavor grappa was supposed to have.

“You’d deserve it.” Ferris set the empty glass down, then exhaled. “Haunting the Ghost. Who could pass up irony like that?”

“Deserve it? What did I ever do to you?”

“You locked me in an office.”

Demos’ fingers tightened, strained over his knuckles. “I— that was, I was trying to—”

“Protect me?” Without asking, Ferris refilled his own glass. “You give me a gun, literally gift-wrapped, take me to the shooting range, get your cousin to give me murder lessons, then lock me in a fucking office.”

“I know.”

Ferris was certain the grappa had dissolved the majority of his insides. Whatever was left was on fire. “That really pissed me off, Ghost. Do you have any idea what it would’ve felt like to be trapped in a little room just to watch you die?”

“Yeah.” Demos’ eyes fell to his glass. “I do.”

Ferris quieted. He’d been trying to forget, and almost had. That day always came back to them, one way or another. Just as his scar began to throb, Demos spoke.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

“It’s fine.” Slowly, Ferris glanced over to the piano. There was one thing that could make both of them feel better. “You should play something.”

Demos managed a smile, trailing one hand over the keys while keeping his glass in the other. His finger stopped on a D sharp, lingering for a moment. A few light notes rose into the air, tittering as he took another sip of his drink. It took Ferris a minute to put the notes together, struggling past the dizziness that was seeping through his skull. Fly Me to the Moon.

“How are you playing so badly?” Ferris pinched the bridge of his nose, bumping up his glasses. “You’re not even drunk yet.”

Demos glared, but didn’t stop. “You try playing with one hand.”

“Fine, I will.”

The moment Ferris finished speaking, he wished he hadn’t. He couldn’t play piano — not with one hand, nor with two. He squinted, trying to remember which keys went in which order. Only a handful of notes came through before Demos groaned.

“That’s not even a song.”

“You shut up.”

“It’s okay.” A smile surfaced on Demos’ face — the smug one everyone hated. “It takes skill to handle a piano.”

“Oh, fuck you. Violin is harder.”

“Sure it is.”

“I bet you’d sound like shit on strings.” Ferris scoffed, alcohol-tainted air drawing through his teeth. “You’d sound like— like subway rats hate-fucking. Right on the tracks, at 3 AM.”

“Well, now I know what kind of drunk you are.”

“Hilarious?”

“Mean.” Demos swallowed what was left in his glass. “And shitty.”

“Yeah. That’s what kind of boyfriend I am, too.”

Demos was in mid-pour when the bottle stopped. A single drop rolled from the rim as he mulled over the sudden claim. He set the bottle down.

“You weren’t mean to Alex.”

“I lied to her.” Ferris turned his wrist, watching the grappa swirl. “A lot. That’s pretty much the same thing.”

“Don’t think about it. Not right now.” Demos struck a single key, a low note. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Fine. How many guys have you been with?”

Demos reddened, his body tensing down to his fingertips. The question seemed to hit him like a train. “What?”

“You’ve never told me.”

“I— I don’t remember.”

A weak smile made its way over Ferris’ lips. “You ever regret it?”

It was now Demos’ turn to drink irresponsibly. He gave up the sipping, finishing another serving in one pull. He let out a breath, as if warming his hands in cold air.

“Sometimes. But I learned from those experiences.”

Ferris refilled his glass — it was the fourth, maybe the fifth. He’d lost count. “Bullshit.”

“No, really. I learned what I don’t want.” Demos looked up over the edge of the cognac glass. “And what I do.”

“And what is it you want?” Ferris searched his friend’s face, as if he could find the answer somewhere in the hook of his eyes. There was nothing there, only faint reflections of wall sconces, of gilded lights on chestnut.

Demos only laughed, leaving the question sidelined, forgotten. He turned back to the piano. The drink was set aside, allowing him to trace over the resin. Notes rose from black and white, his fingers casting shadows as they rolled over the keys. He was using both hands now.

That song — Ferris knew it well, a duet they’d played together a hundred times. Another Sinatra – Blue Moon. As he listened, he forgot his question. He followed the movement of Demos’ hands, the bends of his knuckles and jutting wrists. It was strange, the power he held in such thin fingers —  to draw a song up from nothing, from silence — the pull of the trigger, that measured grip as he poured whisky. They must have been the Devil’s hands — perfect, wicked in every way.

The song soaked through Ferris. It settled in his chest, warm. It was almost enough to make him forget the liquor pumping through his veins — almost. He inhaled, trying to fight the sickly sweet churning in his gut. The notes, he had to hold onto them, the words implied, unspoken.

Ferris blinked, his vision wavering. “They still strove through that infinite blueness—“

“To seek out the thing,” Demos said, “that might destroy them.”

The song was over. Ferris stared at his friend, unsure if he had heard correctly or was under some kind of alcohol-induced hallucination.

“You read it.”

Gently, Demos closed the piano lid. “Of course I read it. It was the first book you ever lent me. Six hundred pages on one fucking whale.”

Moby-Dick or, the Whale. Ferris could have sworn the floor was moving beneath his body. He held the side of his own face, his palm meeting hot, flushed skin.

“You— you never gave it back.”

“Do you want it?”

Ferris shook his head. “Keep it.”

Something was trying to escape from inside his skull. His head was pounding, heavy. Sitting upright was now a challenge, a feud between his body and the law of gravity. Standing wasn’t an option. It seemed Ferris would have to stay on that piano bench for the rest of his life, or at least the rest of the evening.

Ferris rubbed his eye with a wrist, bumping his glasses crooked. “God, I’m garbage. I can’t hold on to anything. I couldn’t even hold on to a girl who liked me. She almost loved me. Almost.”

Whatever was inside his stomach was now rolling like a bouy at sea. Ferris swallowed. He had never felt more heavy, more rotten.

“You know, she— she tried to make me choose.” Ferris laughed, though it sounded more like a pained cough. “Why do I keep choosing you?”

Despite the iron weight of his eyes, Ferris managed to look over at the Italian at his side. Demos hadn’t spoken, only watching as Ferris verbally purged every loathsome emotion that had been rattling about his gut. For the first time that night, Demos reached for him, closing that Devil’s hand around his wrist. His palm was warm, like a fever.

“You.” Ferris finally gave in to his own weight. His forehead bumped his friend’s, their noses inches apart. “Why? Why can’t I just—”

Those were his final words for the evening. Ferris’ body slumped, finally overcome by exhaustion, by four or five glasses of overpriced Italian paint remover. He was out.

Demos sighed. He rested his chin on Ferris’ head, his fingers knotted in the fabric of his shirt. His eyes closed, settling.

“Didn’t I tell you to slow down?”

#

It was unusually late for Alex. She would normally be home at such an hour, but had immersed herself in lab work all day. It was the only thing that could distract her from what she’d left behind. It was only now, as she neared the entrance of her apartment, that her mind returned to that morning. She checked her phone before she could stop herself, finding the last text she had sent Ferris.

It had been a few days ago, just a single emoticon — a slice of pizza. That was it, the last thing she had texted him. Pizza.

That had been such a good night.

She swiped through, her thumb hovering over a button. Delete contact.

It was strange, how cold the air felt now. She hadn’t noticed it before.

“Evening.”

Alex glanced up toward the voice. There was someone on her darkened stoop, a figure leaning on the railing. She could smell cigarette smoke.

“What are you doing here?” she said. Instinct told her to run, but she rarely listened to herself.

Demos straightened himself, the shadows peeling back from his shoulders. “You know the answer to that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You hurt him.” His eyes narrowed behind a plume of smoke. It was then Alex noticed a glint from his hands, flitting back and forth. He was playing with a knife.

Her pulse quickened, yet her feet remained planted. She had almost fallen for the act.

“So you’re going to hurt me? Is that it?”

“I never said that.”

“I don’t get you.” Alex slipped her phone into her bag. “This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

The cherry of Demos’ cigarette glowed orange. Paper crumbled, the column of ash growing as he inhaled. A moth scrambled against the flickering entrance light, its body clicking against the glass.

“I didn’t want you to leave him in pieces.”

“He was like that when I found him.”

“But he loves you.” His voice had softened.

“He can’t love me.” Alex’s eyes dropped to the sidewalk, set on a gum stain. “He thinks he does, but he can’t.”

Demos went quiet, simply watching her. A single car drove past, its headlights crowning the street in blinding white. In seconds, it was gone, leaving the two in the shadows of the street. With a quick turn of his wrist, the knife snapped shut.

“I see.”

He slipped the cigarette from his mouth, breathing out a soft plume. One by one, he descended the steps. His shoulder had nearly met hers when she spoke.

“Take care of him,” she said. He didn’t stop, only continuing down the street. Sparks bounced as he flicked aside the cigarette, the butt rolling into a gutter.

“I will.” Demos gave her one last look. She could see it in his face, half-lit by the street light. There was no deceit there, no hint of his temper. There was only his conscience, aching, manifesting itself in his eyes.

“I promise.”