Book II – Chapter 31: Housebound

Posted On September 27, 2020

Ferris should have known better than to ask if Demos wanted a cup of tea. He should have known it would be an ordeal that involved driving to a speciality shop because the canister was empty, that would require a thermometer, measuring devices, and a timer. He should have known the instructions would need to be written down. Warm the pot. Steep for three minutes—or was it four? Buy second flush darjeeling, not first. Use a tea bag and our friendship is over—something like that.

At least Demos had removed the standard stove-top kettle years ago—there hadn’t been one in Gino’s kitchen since. There was only an electric model that Demos claimed was for temperature precision, but Ferris knew better. He felt very much like a butler with the pot and two cups balanced on a tray, taking the stairs one at a time. The manor felt bright. Snow had covered the grounds outside, still falling, still filling every window with a bright, white bloom. Ferris had nearly made it halfway up the staircase when a voice held him fast on one step. No, two voices, downstairs—unsettling the silence that had come to rest over the home.

“How’s he doing?” It was Victor, his words low and tired.

“He blames himself for what happened to Salvatore,” came the other voice. Gino. It had been a long time since Ferris had first eavesdropped on these men from a staircase. Once again, they were talking about the Ghost.

“Going up there was Sal’s choice,” Victor said, then sighed. “That fucking kid. I swore to her—I swore to Bianca I’d take care of him. This was on me—I shouldn’t have let him go.”

Ferris’ eyes dropped to the white teapot. It was funny—he’d been thinking the same thing the last few days. There was a pause before Victor continued. “He’s all I have left of her.”

“I know,” Gino said.

“I have to do better.”

“You’re doing everything you can. He’s not a child, anymore. But—“

“But what?”

Gino let out a soft breath. “When was the last time you told him you loved him?”

Victor scoffed. “Come on, Papà.”

Ferris turned away, then continued up the stairs. He bumped through the cracked door of Demos’ room with his hip, taking a moment to observe his friend. Demos hadn’t moved from the bed—still propped on too many pillows, covered in too many blankets. After the fifth time Demos had insisted “I’m still cold.” Ferris had wondered if smothering him might have helped. Rocco was curled up like a croissant on Demos’ lap. That cat—he had to be at least thirteen years old. The same squashed, arrogant face, the same downy white fur that had led Ferris to a body in the back of that Lincoln. How long had it been since that night—a decade?

“Are you going to stand there staring at me,” Demos said. “Or are you going to bring over the darjeeling I asked for?

Ferris turned back toward the hallway. “Well, if you’re going to be rude about it—“

“No! No, please—come back.”

Ferris pretended to give the request some serious thought before caving. He would give Demos this one. He’d been bedridden for days, condemned to recover in the confines of his own home. Nadia had given the final tally that night after the casino: a sprained ankle and wrist, three broken ribs, a concussion, extensive bruising, and twenty stitches. Most of the swelling had gone down, but he still looked very much like a young man who had just fallen down a flight of stairs. But it could have been worse—it could have been a lot worse.

Steam rose in curls as Ferris poured it from the pot. “Thanks,” Demos said, accepting the cup. “And um—sorry you missed your office party.”

“It’s fine.” Ferris set the teapot aside.  “We never finished those cookies, anyway.”

Demos gazed down into the teacup, quiet for a moment. “You said you could never be a nurse.”

“Taking care of one lazy asshole doesn’t make me a nurse.”

“Well, you’re doing an okay job. I guess.” Demos took a gentle sip. Ferris waited for the cringe, the wince, the glare down into the cup that Demos always made when an inferior beverage dared cross his lips. It didn’t come. Thank God.

Ferris stretched an arm, making his way to the window to crack the curtains.  “Nadia said you should get fresh air, occasionally. I didn’t know how to tell her that the sun makes you explode into dust.”

Demos narrowed his eyes. “You keep calling me a vampire, but you’re the one with a widow’s peak that could open a fucking can.”

“That’s not—“ Ferris ran a hand over the top of his head. “Shut up. Finish your tea.”

“Fine. Then can I go fix my hair?”

“No. I told you—Nadia wants you to stay in bed.”

Demos groaned. “What does she know?”

“She’s a doctor.” Ferris shook his head. “And your hair looks fine.”

“Have you seen my bangs?”

Now seemed like a good time to change the subject. If there was one thing Demos could do with certainty, it was complain about his hair until the end of time.

“So—” Ferris said. “You think you’ll be okay for the wedding next month?”

Demos set his cup down. “Yeah.”

“Good. I told Jake you were coming and they want you to play something—I mean, they want us to play something. If you’ve healed enough.”

“A duet?”

“Yeah.” Ferris returned to the bed, sitting in the armchair that had been angled beside it. “But I have no idea what song we could do.”

“We’ve gotten pretty good at Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” Demos said with a shrug.

“Demos, this—this is a straight wedding,” Ferris said. “We could always just go with Canon in D.”

“Yeah, sure—“ Demos waved a hand. “Nobody will be expecting Canon in D at a fucking wedding. What about Can’t Help Falling in Love? You always like playing that one.”

“It sounds better when it’s just the piano,” Ferris said. “And it’s kind of tired, don’t you think?”

Demos’ smile was faint. “No—you look happy when you play it.”

“Fine, we’ll do that one,” Ferris said, then shot Demos a wary look. “Wait, do you watch me when I play?

“Who said anything about watching you?” Demos was inventing hand gestures, the same way he always did when trying to deflect. “It’s getting late, shouldn’t you be making me some dinner?”

Ferris continued to eye his friend with suspicion. He couldn’t have known who looked where when he played violin. Ferris always closed his eyes. “Oh, right. What do you want?”

“Something homemade—like, something Jewish.”

Ferris leaned back in the armchair. “Um—can I crack open a jar of gefilte fish?” This was a bluff. There was no such jar anywhere in Gino’s kitchen.

“No.” Demos’ infamous pout was starting to show. “Cook me something.”

“So—bagel in a toaster?”

This earned Ferris a whack in the head with one of Demos’ many pillows. “Oh my God,” Demos said. “No.”

Ferris had known this would happen someday. The fated moment when he would have to cook something for Demos—demanding, impossible-to-please Demos. Whose two hobbies were cooking and complaining about other people’s cooking.

When was the last time Ferris had participated in crafting a homemade meal? He thought back to the house he’d grown up in, nearly every year in December. Ruth would banish him to a corner of the kitchen with a stainless steel bowl and a thousand potatoes. He would grate those potatoes, feeling very much like a sailor being punished for something. It always ended the same way—several pounds of shredded potato and three or four bandaids on his knuckles. That was the closest he’d ever gotten to ‘home cooking.’

“Fine,” Ferris said. “I’ll figure something out.”

He waited until he was back downstairs before calling Ruth.

“So which recipe do you want?” his mother asked. “Latkes?”

“No. Please, no. How about—“ It had to be something warm—comforting. Hydrating. Something suited for a broken, healing body. “How about your matzo ball soup?”

“Well, all right,” Ruth said. “If you think you can handle it.”

Handle it? It was matzo meal in broth—how hard could it be? He found a piece of scrap paper and a pen, jotting down ingredients as his mother listed them, one after another, until he ran out of space at the bottom. He flipped the paper.

“Mom, this is like a hundred ingredients—wait, an entire chicken?”

“You have to make chicken stock, bubele.”

“Can’t you just buy chicken stock?”

This was not the correct thing to say to Ruth Levinstein. He could hear her switching from ‘patient mother’ to ‘indignant Queens native’ in a heartbeat.

“If you want to make it from a can, make it from a can!” Ruth said. Even without seeing her, Ferris could tell she was waving at least one arm. “I’m sorry, I thought you actually cared about your friend.”

God, she and Demos sounded the same. It was chilling. At least Demos liked her cooking—maybe there was a chance this could work. Ferris took in a long, slow breath, then looked back down at the list of ingredients. This was going to take a while.

Hours passed before he returned to Demos’ room, this time carrying another tray. He’d had to order groceries, fumbling to boil the chicken stock while chopping dill and beating eggs. This was what Ruth went through every single time she cooked. This circus of culinary madness. But then—it had always been worth it, hadn’t it?

Ferris opened the legs of the tray, presenting it to Demos like a Mother’s Day breakfast.

“What happened to Mr. Neat & Clean?” Demos asked. His eyes were set on Ferris’ shirt. Sure enough, there was a smudge of egg yolk on it.

“Mr. Neat & Clean was booted out of his comfort zone.” Ferris had already turned to dig through a dresser for a new shirt. “Into this schmaltz and matzo meal hellscape.”

Demos poked a matzo ball with his spoon. “They’re—fluffy.”

Ferris tugged off the offensive yolk-shirt, tossing it to a laundry basket—and missing. “Well, some people like their balls fluffy—other people like the little hard ones.”

Demos made some kind of snort-chuckle right into a spoonful of broth. There was a tremor in his chest before his body submitted to a full blown laugh. His face was screwed up in some kind of half-pained, half-snickering expression that Ferris couldn’t quite place. Right—his ribs were still broken.

“It—it hurts,” Demos said, still laughing. “Why would you say that?”

Ferris only smiled. He pulled on a fresh shirt, straightening the hem around his waist. “That’s what you get for making me cook.”

Once Demos regained control of himself, his gaze returned to the soup. “I don’t have to eat this whole, do I?”

Now it was Ferris’ turn to laugh. It was unbelievable, how badly he wanted to say yes. How watching Demos try would be the funniest thing he’d ever seen in his life. “Shit—“ He took a deep, calming breath. “No. Just—cut it with your spoon. Did falling down the stairs make you forget how to eat food?”

Demos muttered something under his breath. The spoon clinked as he gathered the soup, then drew it to his lips. He swallowed, then closed his eyes. “Hm.”

Ferris sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Well—is it edible?”

“I’ve had worse,” Demos said. He bit his lower lip, but it wasn’t enough to hide his smile. Okay—he was smiling. Not spitting it out or crying or something. In Ferris’ book, that was a major success in the world of cooking. And there was no chance Demos was just being nice. Demos was never just being nice about food. “I’ve had worse.” was a victory.

It was dark outside by the time dinner was finished. This was the third night in a row that Ferris was staying. He had already called in to the office, using up whatever leave he’d saved to play caretaker for the next few weeks. Thankfully, the holiday break was approaching. Demos did, of course, have the support of his family, but Victor would probably just tell him to “walk it off” and Gina was more likely to throw him down an additional flight of stairs.

“Look, Rocco blinked at you,” Demos said. “That means he likes you.”

Rocco hadn’t left the bed. He had made several attempts to stuff his nose into the empty soup bowl, apparently hooked on the smell of chicken broth. Ferris peered at the cat, then at his friend. “Cat owners have a really low bar for signs of affection.”

Demos shrugged, scratching under Rocco’s chin. “We take what we can get.”

“Here—” Ferris reached for the tray. “Let me get that before he sticks his face in it again.”

He gathered up the trays, the dishes, stacking them like the world’s worst-paid busser. The kitchen was exactly as he’d left it—mostly clean, with a pot and some ladles in the sink. A sudden wave of embarrassment hit him—leaving dishes in a kitchen, someone else’s kitchen. Mostly clean wasn’t clean enough.

Suds piled and the hot water bit his hands. He had done this for years, at the restaurant. Washing dishes for under-the-table, near-minimum wage. It had been a sweaty, exhausting, soggy-vegetable filled hell. There was something different about this, though. Washing dishes at home, in a quiet kitchen. The rush of water and the scent of citrus dish soap. The same, repetitive motions. It was a good time to think.

“We have a housekeeper,” came a voice from behind him. Ferris glanced over to see Isabella. Gino’s wife—the one Demos called Nonna. He had seen her, here and there, in the last few days he’d spent in the compound. She had been nothing but kind to Ferris, but he still found himself hesitating to speak to her. There was something intimidating about the way she held herself—every word deliberate, every movement holding purpose. Ferris felt like a child staring at a Renaissance painting, one with history and meaning, one he couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Oh—” Ferris said. “It’s all right, I don’t mind doing this.” 

Isabella smiled. “Well, if you insist.”

That was supposed to be the end of that encounter. But she wasn’t leaving. He could hear her walk past him, turning on the espresso machine. This family—it seemed once breakfast was finished, all they drank was espresso and alcohol. Even after dinner—especially after dinner? “We appreciate you caring for Demos,” she said. “I know he can be ungracious.”

Ungracious. That was one way to describe Demos’ incessant complaining.

“I’m used to it,” was all Ferris could say. He probably should have defended his friend at that point, but couldn’t bring himself to lie to this woman. “He’s been ‘too cold’ since the day he was born.”

Isabella’s laugh was warm—sustaining. Like the smell of freshly baked bread first thing in the morning. “I regret that I missed much of his childhood,” she said. “But it brings me comfort to know he had a friend such as yourself.”

It was true. Though Gino had been building his empire in Southport for decades, Isabella had only joined them from Italy that very year. Ferris had heard, off and on, that she had been running certain ventures in his absence. But it seemed she wasn’t needed in Vicenza anymore.

“May I ask—“ Ferris said. He considered his words carefully. “What brought you here?”

She was quiet for a moment. All he could hear was the sound of espresso beans being freshly ground. Then, the rich, bitter scent that followed.

“The market has changed in Italy,” Isabella said. “Beyond our control. There is nothing left for us there.”

Ferris didn’t have to guess what she meant by ‘changed.’ He’d seen it in the news, in international articles. The drug trade—opioids, narcotics. The line of business that brought incredible fortunes, followed by incarceration, betrayals—mass killings. Gino had made it a point to forbid ventures into that particular industry. But it seemed that was no longer an option back home.

It was obvious, though. Gino had known this was coming—for a long time. He had ensured his second son, Victor, would be born on U.S. Soil—a citizen with an American name. A foothold on the east coast, the beginning of a transition. Here, in Southport, the Marianis had already given in to the allure of narcotics. The Giorgettis, however, had learned from the mistakes of others.

“We won’t allow it to happen again,” Isabella said. “Not to us—not here.”

Ferris set the last pot on the drying mat, then wiped down his hands with a dish towel. “I see.”

“Ah, but we still have the villa in Vicenza—for holidays. I don’t suppose you’ve visited, yet.”

“No,” Ferris said. “I haven’t.” Visiting their oceanside house on Long Island was one thing—a trip to Italy was another entirely.

“You really must. I’m certain you would enjoy it.”

Maybe someday. Someday—when Demos didn’t look like debris leftover from a shipwreck. When Ferris had earned back all his leave, when things were quieter. Calmer. In truth, Ferris wasn’t sure if someday would ever come.

“Thank you—“ He offered the woman a tired smile. “I’m sure that I would.”

Once Ferris had returned upstairs, Demos didn’t waste a second before complaining again.

“What took you so long?” Demos said. He was multi-tasking, petting the cat with one hand and scrolling through phone messages with the other.

Ferris returned to the bedside, wrapping the bag of ice he’d brought in a thin cloth. “I was finishing the dishes.”

“We have a housekeeper,” Demos said—echoing his grandmother word-for-word. “The place is so quiet—I thought you went somewhere.”

“No, but everyone else left. They’re meeting with Lee.”

Demos’ attention piqued. “He said yes?”

“I think so.” Ferris pulled back the layers of comforters to expose Demos’ ankle. It had been propped over a pair of pillows, elevated to prevent swelling. “Don’t worry, you’re still getting the credit for it.” He rested the ice pack against the bruised skin, taking care not to apply too much pressure. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s—it’s better,” Demos said. “Thanks.”

“Okay—just take the ice off in twenty minutes. There’s still ibuprofen on the nightstand, if you need it,” Ferris said. “You want anything before I go? Some water?”

Demos didn’t answer right away. He lowered his phone, averting his eyes to the other side of the room. There was a mild heat in his face.

“Actually, um—“ Demos pushed a piece of hair back behind his ear. “Could you stay? Just in case.”

Ferris blinked. This was the first night he’d requested this. Ferris had been sleeping in a room just down the hall, only returning in response to midnight texts insisting that Demos needed another pillow or help getting to the bathroom.

“Yeah,” Ferris said. “Sure.”

He grabbed the paperback he’d left on a nightstand, settling in to the opposite side of the wide bed. The first thing he noticed was the mattress—some kind of ridiculously comfortable five-layer NASA memory foam that probably cost more than his car had. Of course.

“I’m sorry—” Demos was looking at the ceiling, hands laced over his stomach. “That I tried to leave you behind at the casino. If you weren’t there, I—“

“It’s okay. You won’t do it again, will you?”

“No,” Demos said. “I won’t.”

Ferris only smiled, opening the book on the chapter he’d marked. Neither spoke for the rest of the night. He could hear Demos’ breathing slow, softening. An hour passed and Ferris glanced over to see that he’d fallen asleep. That was good—he’d had trouble sleeping the last couple of nights.

Ferris watched him for a while. There wasn’t any pain in Demos’ expression, no tension in his brow. It seemed he was healing, albeit slowly. Half of his face was obscured, coal-black hair draping over his eye and onto the pillow. Ferris wasn’t thinking as he reached over, fingers brushing that fringe, gently tucking it away past his temple. It was rare, to see his entire face, his forehead—that scar. Just as rare was that expression while he slept. Calm. Quiet.

Ferris closed his book, then reached over toward the lamp on the nightstand. The light clicked off, plunging the room into a deep, hushed black.

“Good night, Ghost.”

#

By the time Gino’s annual Christmas gathering arrived, Demos had recovered enough to make it downstairs. He had done less mingling and more sitting this time around, now settled on the piano bench with a pair of crutches at his side. They’d finished their duet half an hour ago, the same rendition of White Christmas that Gino requested every year. Demos still hadn’t found the energy to leave the piano.

“You’re sure your wrist is feeling better?” Ferris asked.

“Um—you heard me play, right?” Demos took a sip of wine, then set the glass on a side table. “You think someone with a jacked up wrist could sound that good?”

“Calm down. It was White Christmas, not Flight of the Bumblebee.”

This Christmas hadn’t been an especially white one—there hadn’t been any snow that week. The manor had been done up with hundreds of lanterns, leaving a soft glow over gold garlands and pine. Nearly everything in the house seemed warmer—closer. Ferris could feel the heat of the fireplace from the other wall, wood crackling under the flame. Most of the guests were elsewhere—there was some kind of toast happening in the main hall, leaving the two more or less alone by the piano.

This seemed like as good a time as any.

“Here.” Ferris set a large, silver gift bag on the bench beside Demos. “Hope you didn’t think I forgot.”

Demos blinked at the bag. After Ferris had given up on gifting, most of his presents had been in the form of a voucher in an envelope. This was larger than an envelope. Ferris could tell his friend was already wary.

“Oh, really, you didn’t have to—“ Demos paused as he pushed back the tissue paper. His eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

He lifted the bag from the, well, bag. It was the one Demos had been gazing at through the shop window earlier that fall. The black one— the one with the drummed calfskin and cotton twill lining. The one he’d said was perfect.

“You—you said you’d kill me if I got this bag.” Demos was running his hand over the front, fingers tracing over the stitching.

“Yeah. You know how hard it is to shop for you?” Ferris said with a glare. “I just wanted to win at gifting for once.”

“I don’t know, I got you a great Chanukah gift this year.”

Ferris’ glare held fast. “You got me a sweater for Stanley.”

“Yeah, but—“

“It said ‘diva’ on it.”

“Well, I mean—“ Demos brushed some hair back from his temple. “He is.” His eyes were still fastened on the bag, ears hot with a blush rising in his face. He really loved accessories, didn’t he? Demos tugged Ferris over by the sleeve, pulling him down into a tight—and surprisingly warm hug.

“Thanks, Fish,” Demos murmured into his shoulder. Finally. Finally, Ferris had gotten him a gift he actually liked. All it had taken was a death threat and enough cash to cover a month’s worth of rent. Easy, right? Ferris was already starting to accept that he’d hit his peak in gift giving when he felt fingers on the back of his head.

“You haven’t cut your hair in a while,” Demos said, pulling back to take a proper look. 

“Oh. I didn’t get a chance to get to the barber this month.” Ferris decided to leave out the ‘because I was waiting on you hand and foot’ part. “I should make an appointment.”

“I kind of like it.” Demos ran his fingertips up the back of his neck, combing through a handful of dark locks.  “You should grow it.”

Fingers through hair—it wasn’t a touch Ferris could ever remember feeling before. It had always been too short for that. Something about it made his chest seize, triggering a burn just under his ribs. He prayed to God it wasn’t visible in his face.

“Oh. Uh—maybe.” Ferris looked away. “I’ll think about it.”

Demos’ hand slipped away and Ferris took in a steadying breath. “Everyone’s out in the hall,” Demos said. “Should we join them?”

“Well.” Ferris swallowed. “Since I’ve got you at the piano, maybe we can practice that song for the wedding.”

Demos’ face lit up. “Oh, lets do Nuvole Bianche first.”

“You sure? It’s twice as long. I don’t want you wearing yourself out.”

Demos performed an ten out of ten teenage eye roll — a perfect landing. “It’s an easy song,” he said. “And it’s a piano, not a treadmill. I’ve, um—I’ve missed playing with you.”

“It’s been like a month.”

Demos’ only reply was an icy look. Apparently one month was one month too long.

Ferris held up his hands in defeat. “Fine, Nuvole Bianche. One play. Then we practice for the wedding. If you don’t heal in time we won’t even get to attend.”

“I’ll heal.” Demos traced his fingers over the piano keys, then glanced back over. There was something about his smile—the warmth in it. It wasn’t just in his lips. Everything in Demos’ face seemed to say it—the gratitude he hadn’t shown enough of. The ‘thank you’ he hadn’t yet said. Ferris could see traces of the fireplace in his eyes, hints of something else. Something that wasn’t in the room at all.

Demos looked back down at the piano. “After all—I’ve got the best nurse in town.”