Raveled by Anne McAneny Page B

remembered. Back then, he was strong, but in that underfed, spindly way, slim from shoulders to hips. His head had seemed large for his gaunt body, like a beach umbrella about to topple in the wind. But not anymore. He’d grown up and out, like a sapling coming into its sturdy branches and healthy leaves. A smile made his café au lait face downright gorgeous, setting off the bumps in his nose that emanated a well-earned manliness. His coal-touched eyes lay deep in his face above jutting cheekbones while his shoulders, no longer slender, tapered down to a lean waist. Though muscular, his arms fit like a well-oiled nut and bolt in his custom-made suit. At least the shiny, black hair looked the same, slicked back but not greasy, and no doubt trimmed and styled by a professional every three weeks.
    He waved in my direction immediately. Not as challenging to recognize me, apparently, since I’d reached my full height of 5’3” by age thirteen and had barely gained or lost a pound since. My hair had always hung in the same dark, wavy chestnut, thick like my mother’s but glossy, and I still pushed it behind my ears.
    Striding to the booth in the same energetic manner I remembered from his youth, Enzo leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Allison, my goodness, you look exactly the same. I’m so happy to see you.” He paused for a moment to look me in the eyes. Although it was a warm gesture, his left eye seemed to remain in a permanent squint of assessment, shaded over by a crooked brow that gave off an air of both intelligence and mystery.
    The poise and grace of Enzo’s greeting threw me for a loop. This was not the jerky, impulsive kid my dad would disparage lightly over dinner. That damn Enzo screwed up another transmission today... kid drops more tools than a monkey on drugs... should pay him in pesos for all the money his family sends back to Mexico. And on and on. From what I understood, my father hadn’t exactly held back on the criticism to Enzo’s face, but had leveled it with an undercurrent of tenderness, maybe even paternal affection. More than I usually got.
    “Nice to see you, too, Enzo. Thanks for coming.”
    Enzo took a moment to fit his sizeable frame into the booth. The hungry cracks in the red vinyl would feast on those expensive, pressed pants. When the waitress approached, we both ordered iced tea, his sweetened, mine plain. She filled our waters, slapped two menus down in front of us, and disappeared without another word.
    “ I’ve got to be honest,” I said, “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”
    He laughed from deep within his throat and shook his head. “I was only seventeen when I started with your dad. Eighteen when the whole Bobby thing went down.”
    Very gentlemanly use of the passive description. For my sake or his?
    “I didn’t really grow ‘til I turned twenty-one, not coincidentally the year I got away from my family.”
    “T hey repressed you?”
    “No, I never had anything to eat ,” he said, grinning. “There were sixteen of us living under that roof, mostly male and trying to grow. Thank God for your mother’s cooking.”
    My mother had often sent leftovers to the garage for Enzo. I’d sometimes accompany her as she delivered fresh-baked, slightly dry muffins, cookies, or a rabbit stew to the garage when it stayed open late. Enzo had scoffed it all down gratefully. I remember thinking my mother’s cooking must have been better than I’d realized, my opinion having been influenced by Dad’s complaints over the years. Turns out Enzo was just hungry.
    “How is your mother, by the way?”
    I talked around my mother’s bad bouts with memory, tried to make Kevin’s stint in rehab sound like a good thing, and then asked about his crazy family. The waitress appeared with our drinks and despite neither of us having touched the menus, Enzo ordered chicken salad while I went for tuna. He sucked down half his tea before I’d touched mine and I used the