The Exceptions

SIX


I am not the man I once was. I am not the person I once was. I look in the mirror and see a familiar toothbrush going into a familiar mouth, wash a face with scars from events I can still recall, but I might as well be staring at a departed spirit. All those years ago when the government recreated me, people would call me by a name I did not own. I would walk right by these folks as though they did not exist, as though I did not exist. But now, having lived in Clemson, South Carolina, for seven months, I am Michael Martin. Jonathan Bovaro is nothing more than a memory of an old friend, a loved one who died and was buried long ago. Michael Martin does not smoke, loves to cook, knows a lot about Italian culture for a guy with an English heritage, does not travel north of Richmond, south of Jacksonville. Michael Martin measures time in semesters, not months. Michael Martin is Felicia’s husband, the one linked to her fabled wedding band, the guy no one had seen for three years at two different universities, the one always absent from Felicia’s side at the department dinners and holiday parties and picnics, the guy no one thought existed. How wrong they were.

As I wipe my face dry and look at myself in the mirror, Felicia slowly walks up behind me, closes her eyes as she slips her arms around my body, slides her hands under my T-shirt and rubs my stomach, kisses my back. I reach behind me and put my hands to her lower back and pull her in a little, close my eyes as well, assure myself it is all real. Forget the past, I think. Ignore the future, I think.



Though Sean obviously knows where we are, he’s remained absent from our lives in any real sense. Whatever it is he thought I might “owe” him, whatever future use he imagined I could possibly have, seems to have been shelved, at least for now. I confided and confessed everything to Felicia, told her how Sean and I battled it out in Baltimore, how he cared enough about her to bring me to her door, how he promised to leave us in seclusion, to never give our location to anyone else, to never admit we were even alive. That our secret was “three people deep.” That I had no choice but to let him take care of making me officially disappear.

Even though Sean is a link to our current and former lives—the final one—we never considered running again. The words never passed our lips, the thoughts never materialized. Clemson is our home, the place where Felicia works on her doctoral dissertation and I work as a sous-chef at a local bistro via a social security number that belonged to a Michael Martin who died twenty-seven years ago. We are determined to be the people we say we are, to stay and live and grow here, to become a part of the community. Nothing has shaken us, nothing has scared or disturbed us, even when we strolled out from Memorial Stadium—Death Valley—embedded in a sea of orange after Clemson went into overtime against Georgia Tech, and walked right past Sean as he ate a hot dog at the end of our exitway, passing us a wink and a nod as he noshed. We slowed, but nothing more. Not a smile, not a lingering glance, not a word.

Forget the past, we think. Ignore the future, we think.



Perhaps the greatest vanishing act of all was the way the Bovaros disappeared from the newscape. I’ve been hard pressed to find any new information over the last half year. I’ve tried repeatedly, and as far as I can tell Justice has grown to ignore the entire organization, focused increasingly on the families we once battled; those crews now appear with regularity. I can only imagine how Randall told Justice time and again that he never gave me any list, that producing one would have been risky in and of itself, that he was above that kind of behavior. I do not doubt, despite the proof that Randall gave me information of one particular witness, he eventually swayed them all into thinking I was the liar I claimed not to be.

But over time, as key figures in the other crews drop and go missing, become popular news items for no more than a week or two, I do not for one second believe that Justice is truly incapable of gaining evidence against all things Bovaro, would be like living in Miami and assuming a hurricane will never hit. I hope that Pop and Peter and my brothers understand what I know from this far distance: Justice is saving the best for last.



One bitter cold day between the fall and spring semesters, South Carolina’s Department of Motor Vehicles contacted Florida’s to get a digital copy of my lost driver’s license—in order to issue me a new one by way of the Palmetto State. With that new license, the plastic still warm as I plunged it into my pocket, Felicia and I traveled to Kentucky, where the only requirement for marriage is one proof of identification; you don’t even need to be a resident of the state. Though so much of what we are was fabricated, right down to calling each other husband and wife to those around us, this was the one component we wanted to be original, to be real.

This winter she became—legally—Felicia Martin.

Felicia and I are slowly becoming who we claim to be. We speak of things that’ve occurred in our short history, recall events from our new life together. Lives built on truths. We have made a collective transformation that could only occur through the reflection of another human being, another person who can step up and say, “That’s not how I remember it.” We are real because we are loved—by each other; the false personas are given life through this love. We are perfectly cast for the roles we have to play, two people with experience in lying and manipulation, in convincing those around us we are something other than what everyone sees—something else, if not something greater.

We were magicians performing vanishing acts upon ourselves. Now we’re here to stay.

We appear so happy, so enamored. There is something different about us, something unusual that can’t be identified. Whatever rules are applied to relationships, however couples are assembled and fueled through life’s inspirations and survive through its trials, we’re doing it in ways that could hardly be understood. Those around us say, “All the couples we know have gone through this type of thing”—then the pause—“except maybe Felicia and Michael.” Compare us to the multitude and know this: We are the exceptions.

You might wonder about your own neighbors, the ones with the incongruous backstory to their lives. You might wonder, “He doesn’t seem like the accountant type,” or “I would never guess she grew up in Georgia.” You might wonder what has them moving into your neighborhood in the middle of the night, has them staying out of view. You might wonder.

At your next block party, church gathering, company social event: Look closer.

And so here we are, Felicia and I, walking and living around you South Carolinians, the nice married couple down the street. We accidentally bump your cart in the grocery store. You wait behind us in line at the coffee shop. You wave our car in front of you as we exit the ramp. We blend in, then wash out and fade away. We’re the couple walking hand in hand down the shoreline until completely out of view. Could you ever be sure we’re even here? Indeed, we are. We’re right behind you. We’re all breathing the same air. Ghosts among the real, my friend. Ghosts among the real.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book was written in the dark—or during it, at least. The entire manuscript was composed between 3 and 6 a.m. in the basement of my home, seven days a week, for a full year, the only way I could balance writing and working a full-time job with the federal government. And it would not have been possible without the support of my wife, Jana, whose endurance of my crankiness, exhaustion, and lack of availability was far greater than any burden I had to bear. She is a true partner in every sense of the word, and this book could never have been completed without her. From her daily encouragement to her editing skills, this story would not be what it is were she not in my life.

That said, I should also thank the Mayorga Coffee Company of Rockville, Maryland. I drank over sixty-six gallons of their Colombia Supremo while writing this book. It was 3 a.m., after all.

And thanks to God, for perseverance on the days I wasn’t sure that I could do it anymore. Indeed, all things are possible.

Special thanks to my editor, Michele Bidelspach, for possessing the remarkable skill of being able to refine the big picture and the pixels simultaneously, and for knowing exactly what needs to be modified and why. She is a pleasure to work with, and this book is all the better because of her. Thanks also to my copy editor, Roland Ottewell, for his astounding attention to detail, and to Claire Brown for designing a beautiful cover. And to everyone at Grand Central, especially Mari Okuda and Bob Castillo for putting it all together.

Much appreciation must be given to my agent, Pamela Harty, who has guided me through an industry I still struggle to understand, and for being a genuine advocate and perpetually available for guidance and direction. She has been with me since day one. Thanks also to Deidre Knight, Elaine Spencer, and all the wonderful folks at the Knight Agency. You guys are awesome.

And thanks always to Jacob and Megan for being the best, and for cracking me up when I needed it most. To my family and friends who have been so enthusiastic and supportive throughout this journey, and to all the booksellers and librarians who tirelessly help bring my books to a greater audience. And to every reader and for all the wonderful emails. You are what make this possible.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR


DAVID CRISTOFANO has worked for different branches of the federal government for over fifteen years, serving such agencies as the Department of Justice and the Department of Defense. His debut novel, The Girl She Used to Be, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best First Novel by an American Author. He currently works in the Washington, DC, area, where he lives with his wife, son, and daughter.