Lost

By Grace Murphy

The bar was empty, besides for the small litter of washed up drunkards dozing off at
different corners of the restaurant. The lack of business was unusual. Normally, every stool was
taken. But today, too many people were busy with work or mourning to spend the Thursday
afternoon drinking. The emptiness of the bar probably displeased Dante. The people who owned
the bar, like many people in the city, worked for Dante and any seat empty was money Dante
lost. But to Mikhail, the small crowd was a good thing. If the bar was empty, they could cope as
they pleased.
Plus the group wouldn’t have to face any lip from noisy patrons about bringing
Rosemarie’s granddaughter, Clara, in—even if six years old was well under the age requirement.
Her mother had enlisted the group of the girl’s godfather and honorary uncles and aunt to babysit
while she organized the necessary preparations for the reading of the will. They all knew each
other well enough from different “family and friend” events over the years, but the main thing
connecting them together was Clara. This meant that they couldn’t leave the girl stranded on a
curb while they diluted their grief with vodka. A bar that welcomed children (or was too afraid of
Dante to say otherwise) was a necessity because Mikhail needed a drink.
Mikhail was not a fan of the bars on this side of Brooklyn. He found them to be either
dirty beyond repair or too rowdy to think straight or both. For most people looking to drink, this
wasn’t an issue. Once drunk enough, no one paid mind to dirt or attempted to think straight
anyway. But Mikhail spent his entire day at the circus surrounded by dirt and rowdiness, so he
preferred the sleek quietness of Bushwick bars. There, he could trick trust fund babies into
believing he was the son of the Russian Prime Minister and bask in their drunken attention for a
few hours. He preferred the spotlight that fell on him in the small, boring bars.
Lev was the one who flourished in the dim, noisy bars of Crown Heights. He was the one
that would walk on his hands atop the bar in exchange for a shot or inspire the entire crowd to
chant Russian drinking songs. While Mikhail disappeared into the dark of the crowd, Lev shone
brighter through the shadows.
This bar, however, was neither dirty nor rowdy. Dante bragged in the few times he spoke
to Mikhail directly over the years about the quality of his bars. He didn’t allow dust to settle on
light fixtures, let alone allow dirt to cake into the wood. With the emptiness of the bar, Mikhail
could almost pretend he wasn’t in one of the rowdy bars hidden across the neighborhood. He
didn’t pretend he was at one of those fancy bars in Bushwick either.
Instead, this bar—with the warm lighting, soft clinking of glassware and aroma of
chianti—felt like a small piece of Rosemarie. If Mikhail closed his eyes, he could almost pretend
he was standing in the middle of her cluttered kitchen, waiting for her to return with plates of
meatball sandwiches.
The group of five made their way to the bar in the center of the room and sat down on
stools so that they sat shoulder to shoulder. The little girl was too short to sit comfortably at the

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bar stools, so with a snap of Dante’s fingers, the bartender brought over a phone book for Clara
to sit on. He placed some blank paper and a beat up carton of crayons in front of the girl.
The bartender was quick to serve the group. Mikhail ordered Stoli, neat. His brother
copied. Angela, the singer, got an espresso martini. Dante ordered a glass of Van Winkle
Bourbon and then ordered a shirley temple for the “little lady”.
No one spoke while the bartender made their drinks. Frankie Valli whispered softly from
a radio in the corner. Angela sniffled. Clara scribbled away on the paper, gentle enough with the
crayons that the wax scratched over the paper. While she colored, she hummed along softly to
Valli.
The drinks were placed in front of the group and the twins each took a sip of their drink.
They seemed to move in sync and Angela could imagine she was seeing double. The second the
vodka hit their lips, the silence over the group was broken. Angela sipped on her martini as the
twins made a commotion to her left.
“God, that wake was faker than my ex’s spray tan,” Lev complained, his accent heavier
than normal.
“Half the damn people there had never even met Rosemary,” Mikhail agreed.
Angela elbowed Mikhail in the ribs. “Watch your mouth. We don’t want Clara repeating
any of your colorful language.” Mikhail stuck his tongue out at her playfully.
Clara looked over at the two with wide eyes at the mention of her name and the twins
smiled. Dante patted her head and she went back to scribbling on the paper.
“Rosemarie was a cornerstone of this community,” Dante said as he swirled the ice block
in his bourbon. “Even if some of the people there were not as close with her as you or I, I’ve got
no doubt that she impacted their lives somehow. I’m sure each and every one of them has tasted
one of her meatball subs.”
“Are you using “meatball sub” in a literal or figurative sense?” Angela asked. She
wouldn’t usually tease the man. (She had heard he once shot a man for looking at him funny.)
But after hearing the mafia boss compare the woman they loved more than anything to a
sandwich, she couldn’t help herself. Plus, she knew he wouldn’t do anything in front of Clara.
“What I wouldn't give for one of Rosemarie’s meatball subs right now,” Mikhail groaned.
“Especially when she would use white bread and get it drenched in the red sauce,” Lev
said with a smile.
Angela sniffled again and her eyes began to tear up as they did in the church. Lev, with a
light huff, handed her the red handkerchief from his breast pocket. She took it and blew her nose
loudly. She offered it back to him, but he declined, his face scrunched in disgust.
“I just,” Angela croaked, “I can’t believe I'll never get to eat her food again. I’ll never
taste her red sauce again or store another land-o-lake's tub full of her meatballs in the freezer. I
wish I had known that the last time she force fed me ravioli, it would be the last time, you
know?”
“Well, maybe it doesn’t have to be the last time,” Mikhail proposed.
Angela’s sniffles slowed at his statement. She turned to look at him and Lev on his other

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side did the same. Angela could see his eyes widen and jaw drop. She’s sure she looked similar.
What he was implying would be world changing.
Angela knew the two were close. But they were close enough that she would share her
most prized possession with him? She didn’t know if she should be jealous that Rosemarie didn’t
give her the recipe or grateful they still have it. She chose to be grateful for now. If she could
taste Rosemarie’s Sunday sauce one more time, maybe she would be able to convince herself that
the wake was just a dream.
“You have Rosemarie’s recipe?” Lev asked. Both stared at him in astonishment.
“No,” Mikhail said bluntly. Lev’s expressions turned from amazed to annoyed. He
muttered something in Russian and took a chug of his drink.
“She kept that sauce recipe so close to her. I would be shocked if it's even written down
somewhere,” Angela rested her face on her hand as she slumped against the bar.
“But,” Mikhail responded, “she might have trusted it to someone she was very close to.
Like romantically close to.” As Mikhail trailed off, he turned his head to the right, looking past
Angela. Angela and Lev followed his gaze.
Dante turned to meet their stares when he felt their eyes on the side of his head. He
turned to them with a look that was impressively filled with annoyance, confusion, and disgust.
“I don't have it.”
・❥・
Dante did not mean to fall in love with Rosemarie Esposito.
He had heard that his subordinates were trading labor and goods for food from a woman
who made a mean chicken parm. Dante was a fan of chicken parm but was not a fan of
unapproved trades. He decided to pay the woman a visit and after one sandwich, he was
unquestionably in love.
He visited her daily—sometimes without even getting a sandwich. He brought her gifts
and they shared stories about the separate battlefields that are the Brooklyn streets and the
kitchen on a Sunday for an Esposito woman. Dante would have given up everything else in his
life if it meant spending a single minute with Rosemarie as his wife.
However, Dante did not expect the woman to have a husband or a daughter. It’s not like
she told him. He had to find out from a PI buddy of his. He didn’t know how to proceed. Dante
was a man who always got what he wanted, but the thing he wanted most was the one thing he
couldn’t have. Rosemarie agreed to keep seeing him, but only in secret. She wanted him to sneak
through windows for her and whisk her away in the midnight darkness.
But they were both old by the time they found each other. Their skin was already
wrinkled. Their hair was turning gray and their backs ached with the rain. They were far too old
to sneak through windows or pretend their love was anything more than an affair.
Dante had done many shady things in his day. An affair was not the sin that would bar
him from heaven’s gates. But his mother had definitely made it to heaven and if she ever found
out that he was sneaking someone’s wife away without even giving her some type of gift, she
would smack his sorry ass all the way down to Hell.

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 Rosemarie was never happy about his habit to bring her gifts unprompted. She called him
her “crow”. But he did it anyway. Perhaps, if he didn’t, she would have one day come to love
him more than any other man.
Dante knocked on her apartment door with his left hand. In his right was a bag of
expensive spices. Rosemarie opened the door slowly before realizing it was him. She then
pushed him away from the door and followed him into the hall. The door shut firmly behind her.
“What are you doing here?” She shouts in a whisper.
“I came to see you. I had a deal gone right for once and wanted to celebrate.”
“My husband is home.”
“So? I thought you were going to tell that bum to hit the road?”
“No. You just thought I would tell him that. I love him, Dante.”
“If you love him, what are we doing? You can’t love me too.”
“I do,” She reassured. Her eyes were closed and she pinched the bridge of her nose with
wrinkled fingers. “I do. But he’s my husband, Dante. I’ve been married to him for forty seven
years. I can’t just toss that all away because a charming thug came knocking on my door three
months ago.”
“You think I’m charming?”
“I also called you a thug.”
“But a charming one.” Dante wiggled his eyebrows. They both laughed.
“See, this is why I love you, Dante. With Eddie, I can’t laugh like this anymore.”
“Then just stay with me.”
“I can’t. I just told you I can’t. You just like me now because I’m fun for you. But I need
more than that. Eddie gives me stability. I know what life with him is going to be like. You, on
the other hand, I’m not even truly sure you can care for someone.”
“I care for you.”
“No you don’t. You just think I’m pretty and can cook good.”
“You are pretty and you do cook good. But I love you for so much more than that,
Rosemarie.”
“No you don’t.” She grabbed the bag of spices with a sad smile. She then gently pushed
him away. He complied and took a step back. “Good bye, Dante.” She walked back inside and
shut the door firmly behind her.