Brooklyn Story (17 page)

Tony put the gearshift in park and left the engine running in front of my home. He leaned his upper body across the console, slipped an arm behind my head, and pulled me to his lips. Dusk was still far off but I didn't care about any prying neighborhood eyes, even those belonging to my mother. She would have to deal with things just as I had to do all the time, I reasoned.

Tony locked his lips on mine and probed my mouth with his tongue. All reason left me then, and my legs parted slightly. He slid his left hand over my cotton blouse, spread his thumb and pinkie finger, and pressed them into my nipples. The bolt I felt was followed by a much bigger one when that hand slipped between my thighs. I moaned as our lips parted.

Tony buried his face in my hair and his tongue found my ear. I thrust my chest forward and writhed as he licked and probed. When he stopped, I went limp and felt the wetness left behind as his short breaths bathed my ear. He squeezed the V between my legs and then moved his hand to my thigh. “I … tellya …,” he groaned, “ya … don' know … whatya … do … ta me, Samantha Bonti.” There was no mistaking the closeness
between us then and I wanted more. A Chicago tune that emanated from the dashboard echoed the way I felt:

If you leave me now, you'll take away the very heart of me …

“Do you have to go?” I asked. “It's Friday.”

Tony pulled away slowly and slumped in his seat with his eyes closed, his blond hair cradled in the headrest. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Seeya later.”

“What time?” I asked.

He opened his eyes and turned his head toward me. “I mean whenever.”

“Oh,” I said, and reached for the door handle. He sat up, grabbed my neck with his strong fingers, pulled me across the console, and held my mouth close to his. “Jus' one more for the road,” he murmured. I locked my arms around his neck and my lips around his narrow smile.

I never wanted to let go. But the truth is, I was beginning to wonder why …

When I turned sixteen in early October, Tony took me to Angelo's in Little Italy and gave me a platinum bracelet—he said it would remind us always of the dance club by the same name. A day later, I took a job at a small bookstore on Eighteenth Avenue. Tony didn't like that and told me he'd give me all the money I needed, but I wanted to help out a little at home and squirrel away a few dollars for my own future.

My life settled into a comfortable routine over the two months that surrounded my birthday. I didn't mind the time I spent at school, where I received positive reinforcement for my writing efforts, and each day brought me closer to the graduation that would be the last step before taking the first one into Manhattan. I also didn't mind the hours after school in the bookstore. Its aura of history and creativity and the feel of a volume cradled in my hand never failed to kindle new reveries of my own future. During quiet moments at work, I'd look around and imagine where among the shelves and displays my book would be.

And I didn't mind, either, the impromptu shopping sprees Tony took me on to the shops on Eighteenth Avenue, and his insistence on my having a standing appointment at Salon D'Belezza, the chicest place in all of Bensonhurst, where Italian
women idled away hours to look good for their men. It seemed that Tony took as much pleasure dropping me off there and basking in the admiring glances from the women in every corner as I did from the hours of pampering lavished upon me per his direction.

Other than the couple of times when Tony had made a date in advance, I never knew when I'd see him. He'd show up in his old Toyota or Vin's car at school or at work once in a while and we'd visit the usual haunts. I felt regal whenever I got into and rode in the Cadillac. But I didn't mind the beat-up car; Tony was paying his dues like I was. Besides, it made me feel less embarrassed whenever he was in my welfare apartment.

Tony called most days, but most of the time our conversations were brief. More often than not, he had something or other to do with Vin and Richie and I got to see him maybe two or three times a week. We became regulars at Platinum and other clubs, where he showed the new me off to everyone. It was fantastic to belong to his inner circle and to receive attention from people I hardly knew because of the respect they had for Tony. The times we had not only thrilled me, they supplied fresh material about people and places and relationships, and about how life worked in Bensonhurst. I wished I saw Tony more often, but I had plenty of the usual things to fill my time.

First and foremost was my writing. With each pat on the back I got from Mr. Wainright, on top of the unflagging praise from Janice, my confidence increased and the words seemed to flow from me without difficulty. Alone in my apartment one Friday night in mid-November, I sat back at my desk after a couple of hours of work to ponder things. Grandma had dragged Mom to the movies before Tony had called to inform me during another short conversation that we wouldn't be getting together that evening. We were on for Saturday, however. Tony said he had something to celebrate.

I thought about that in front of my old Smith-Corona. Our special occasions, other than my birthday, had revolved around something in his life such as a nice score or a pat on the back from Vin. I hadn't celebrated once with Tony my hard-fought advancement in writing. When I did bring it up every couple of weeks, he didn't probe or show joy. He did, however, remind me about his friend in publishing a couple of times. I didn't press him for more information about that and I was reluctant to toot my own horn, so I remained content to savor my progress within whenever I was with him.

Although I most wanted to share my writing passion with Tony, I was blessed to have others who took almost as much pleasure in my advancing steps as I did. Grandma was right behind Janice and Mr. Wainright with support, and often gave me a gentle pat on my behind with her words of encouragement. Father Rinaldi always mentioned my blossoming career when we sat in the pew together. I suspected he received regular updates about it from Mr. Wainright when he dropped by for a Saturday confession. I had been an observer at baptisms and First Holy Communions when I chanced upon them at Our Lady of Guadalupe, and although my interest in the Catholic faith kept growing, formal rites such as confession remained beyond my personal experience; my sins, I thought, would be voiced through my writing.

I didn't know if I'd ever be baptized but I did know I'd maintain my connection to the Blessed Mother. That's what I found in Father Rinaldi's church every time I was there, and I intended to keep Her with me always. Father Rinaldi never failed to direct his gaze at the statue of my patron saint at some point during our conversations. The Blessed Mother's hand in my life, I knew, was as real and as close to me as the ones of those dear to me who touched me in my daily life.

I looked at the half-filled page in my typewriter. My dating series had progressed to my satisfaction and had fed my writing
passion, with all manner of topics from what to wear and what to say, to what to think and what to feel. But the words on the paper that night were only for my book. They were about the other passion in my life, the one that blossomed every time I was in Tony's arms. My body's responses to his attentions were the physical representation of the stirring I had in my soul. I was a writer, I knew, but I was also a young woman and Tony helped me to know what that felt like.

Sexual contact was a part of every date I had had with him, from a couple of minutes kissing to prolonged petting. I was grateful that Tony hadn't forced the issue of consummation with me and let me set some boundaries. There were a lot of things I wanted him to leave behind, but his respect wasn't one of them. Nor was the softness that his deference bespoke. That's what gave me hope that he was the type of guy who belonged with me on the other side of the river. His business and his irregular hours would be a thing of the past then.

As I gathered my thoughts to write some more that night, I couldn't help but sense the feeling of accomplishment growing inside me, and I marveled about how I had felt differently about some things in only a few short months. My attachment to Tony made my distance from my mother easier to take, and I was more tolerant of her shortcomings. Maybe she sensed my growing independence and its inevitability, too, I thought. And my new life had made me recognize how old my grandma was and how much more I should cherish my time with her. Serious writers always confronted mortality head-on; it was part of the bleeding they had to do, Mr. Wainright had told me. I knew my time with Grandma wouldn't last forever and I vowed to get as much of it on the page as I could.

I had different feelings about writing, too. The satisfaction with my work and the acknowledgment of its merit I received from people who mattered became more important than the material things my career might provide. I had had some fancy
meals and expensive gifts bestowed on me by Tony, but they never seemed to mean as much to me as my work did.

I hovered over my typewriter and then thought about the feelings that had remained the same as time went on. Father Rinaldi would never be other than what he was, pure as the halo around the Blessed Mother. And Janice was a constant throughout. We caught up all the time on the phone, and met at Sally's or huddled on her bedspread. Janice and I shared the latest developments and the giggles and hugs that always accompanied them. She took great pleasure in my blossoming as a woman and I didn't know what I'd do without her in my life. Grandma, Mr. Wainright, and Father Rinaldi were wonderful, but it was only with Janice that I could reveal intimate details of my throes of passion, and only she could read the words describing the stirrings within me that Tony engendered.

Despite the occasional volatility in their relationship, Janice and Richie remained connected. They were much farther along as a couple than Tony and I were. I hadn't got past the feeling of dating yet with Tony and it seemed I learned something new from her every time I was with my best friend. That helped me to develop my relationship—and my writing. Janice was far ahead of me with her sexual activity, too, as were most of the Brooklyn girls who were my own age, but she never looked down upon my limited experience and halting steps in that area. Janice said my descriptions of what was going on inside me reminded her of how she had felt when she first started having serious physical contact with a boyfriend. Her tales of intercourse and shared orgasms—things I could only contemplate—showed me how much more growing up I had to do and stirred my imagination about what awaited me.

My fingers edged toward the keyboard and then flitted with renewed zeal from letter to letter as I poured my heart onto the page before me.

On Saturday night, I sat in the living room with Mom and Grandma while I waited for Tony to pick me up. When I heard the toot of a familiar horn, I sprang up, grabbed my pocketbook and new leather jacket, and bolted for the door.

“Now he doesn't even bother coming up,” Mom snarled, cigarette dangling from her lips. I ignored the crack as my freedom neared, just as I had ignored just about everything she said and did recently. Mom raised her voice. “Why should he? Everyone knows he's turning you into a
puttana,
” she said, “right in front of our home.”

I kept my thoughts about who was the whore in our family to myself and turned the knob in my hand. “Bye, you two,” I said over my shoulder.

“Have fun,
bubelah,
” I heard Grandma shout as the door closed behind me. I skipped down the stairs and couldn't help thinking that the chapter of my life that was on the other side of that door was just about closed, too. I jumped into Vin's Cadillac and into Tony's waiting arms. He pulled me to him and embraced me as Van Morrison held my heart in his voice. Tony brushed my hair aside with his fingers and kissed my neck. I felt goose bumps rising all over my body.

Making love in the green grass
Behind the stadium with you
My brown-eyed girl

“Ya smell so good, Samantha Bonti,” Tony moaned into my ear. I buried my face in his chest and his own scent enveloped me, sending me adrift as he traced kisses down my neck and back. Tony grabbed my hair and brought my lips to his, and I drank from the well that sustained me when I wasn't with him.