Little Boy (14 page)

“Well, if your dad drinks, that’s no excuse
for his behavior!” I said. I felt as if I should say something more
to Maria, something that would prove that I really understood,
something about my mother. But I didn’t. All I said was: “But you
don’t drink…do you?”

“No!” she paused, shaking her head. Her hair
flopped from side to side. “Never. Never. I never drink, and I
don’t want to. I just want him to stop blaming my mother for
everything, and stop yelling at her.”

“Well, as long as you don’t drink, you’ll be
okay, I guess.”

“That’s not true, A.J.” She said it as if I
really wasn’t getting her point at all. “That’s why I don’t trust
anyone. And that’s why I’ve never had a boyfriend. And that’s why I
hesitate telling you stuff about me. Because I don’t trust anybody.
Don’t you remember what I told you last time we were here? I said
that when I was a little kid my dad told me that I could always
trust my family. But that’s not true. I can’t trust him, or rely on
him for anything. So if he doesn’t keep his word, then who will? I
just wish…” She trailed off.

“I will,” I said.

“Well, that’s why I said you were hopeful.
Remember that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I think that maybe you
are
hopeful. You see, that’s the word,
hopeful
, that I use to
describe you to myself when I’m alone at night, or when my dad is
yelling, or when I’m depressed. I say to myself, ‘Don’t worry,
Maria, A.J. is hopeful.’ I talk to myself a lot.” She giggled
silently, but sadly.

“I want you to talk to me a lot. I want you
to have faith in me, and hope, because I’ll never let you down, as
long as you don’t let me down, either.”

“I won’t let you down, A.J. But please, let’s
not go too fast. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m
saying?
Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno
. It’ll be
hard for us to be confidants, because I’m so afraid.”

“There will be time,” I said. “There will be
time.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she
replied. And then she gave me a hug.

***

It was getting late. Maria and I had been
talking by the bench for maybe four or five hours. Actually, during
much of that time, we were in one another’s arms, loving that
feeling you get when you lay close next to someone you love.
Beneath the quieting trees, shaded from the sunlight but warm from
the air and each other, we slept for hours, only shifting
occasionally to get closer. When we awoke around 5 p.m., Maria had
to go home.

As we walked to the R train, I kept thinking
that within a few weeks, my seventeenth birthday would arrive, and
then I could drive her around instead of taking the subway all the
time. I could drive to her house, and have dinner with her family,
and watch a movie or in her living room. I’d go to school each day
anticipating one thing: the next time I saw Maria. And I’d drive to
her house every weekend and weeknight that I could.

She knew I was getting my license soon. But
the great thing about Maria was that she didn’t really care. What I
mean is, it didn’t take a car to impress her. She would’ve been
just as happy riding the subways with me. I respected her so much
for that. More significantly, I respected myself for attracting
such a noble person. The Central Park sun, coupled with Maria’s
radiant spirit, assured me that the future was mine to shape. There
was so much to look forward to.

I hadn’t even been inside her house at that
point, but I knew that I’d be going there a lot in the future. At
that moment in the park I could see it all—our wedding, our
children, growing old together. The future was reflected in Maria’s
eyes. I knew she felt it, too. And I hadn’t even kissed her
yet.

But that was the next step in my plan. I
always planned little things to happen on dates, and I was proud of
my plan for Maria. And I had no regrets about it, no ulterior
motive. I planned on kissing her that day. I knew it would be a
little difficult, because of Lynn. But I also knew that she wanted
me to kiss her.

As we descended the stairs, a guy walked by
us smoking a cigarette. So I asked her if she had ever smoked.

“I recently quit,” she said.

“What?” I was shocked. First there was the
thing about her father, and now this.

“Well, I hung around with a lot of people in
my neighborhood who smoked, so sometimes I’d smoke too.”

“How often did you smoke?”

“What difference does it make? I don’t do it
anymore. It was a stupid thing to get into, so I stopped.”

“How much did you smoke? I asked.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’ve been so
open with me, I just want to know everything about you.” But I was
more than interested. I was really pissed off. Only losers
smoked.

“About a pack a day,” she said.

“A pack a day? God, that’s so much! What’s
wrong with you?”

Maria became visibly pissed off at me for
pressing the issue.

“People make mistakes, A.J. And people learn
from them. That’s what happened with me. I hung out with the wrong
crowd; but now I’m with you, and I won’t do it anymore. I promised
myself right after I met you that I’d quit smoking. Because you
gave me so much hope that I didn’t think I needed to do it anymore.
Instead of having a cigarette when my father frightens me, I’ll
call you, and I know you’ll make me feel better.”

I was touched, but still angry. I kept
thinking:
What else don’t I know about her?

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. Well, as long as
you quit, it’s all right.”

“Thanks for your permission,” she said. Her
abrupt sarcasm surprised me.

“No, really,” I said, “I’m sorry. As long as
you tell me everything about yourself, it doesn’t matter what you
say.“ She just glared at me. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me
everything, only what you want to tell me. Uh, anyway, I just want
you to be my friend, and I want to be yours.”

What I didn’t tell her was that I smoked,
too. And I wasn’t planning to quit any time soon, either. But I
wasn’t like all those losers in my school. And I probably wasn’t
like Maria, standing on a street corner with a bunch of hoods and
losers smoking cigarettes. I don’t know, it was just different.

I didn’t want to let the revelation ruin the
day—I still wanted things to go as planned—so I figured I’d just
forgive and forget. It was no big deal, really.

We finally made it back to Ridgewood. It was
such a long ride home--two trains and a bus. Standing on the corner
of her block, 69
^th
Street and Fresh Pond Road, I leaned
toward Maria like I was going to kiss her. She drew closer, but I
quickly pulled away. It was a little trick I’d pull before. Just a
way to see her reaction. I think she was a little embarrassed by
that.

Again, we looked at each other, happily
anticipating what was about to happen. I kept waiting for the right
time to make a real move. First I thought that I should give her a
peck on the cheek, and then make out. Then I thought it would be
best to kiss her forehead first. And then I thought that maybe I
should just go right in and kiss her on the lips.

But Maria threw me for a loop—she kissed me
first, smack on the lips!

“You don’t know how to kiss!” I
interrupted.

“What?” she said. She was surprised that I
was so goddamn blunt. But I was telling the truth. She didn’t know
how to kiss. She did it like all those jerks at the school dances I
went to—like Lynn, like Rachel—like she was trying to inhale my
face. All tongue, no lips. I hated to kiss that way.

“What I mean,” I said, “is that I prefer to
do it this way.” And with that I placed each hand on either side of
her tender face. I pulled Maria toward me and leaned against her. I
kissed her just as I’d dreamed. At first, just the lips—no tongue.
Just a few gentle pecks on her soft lips, my mouth hardly open.
Then I let my tongue slip in a little. But it wasn’t disgusting; it
was passionate. It was beautiful. Just like in the movies.

“You kiss like all those people in the
movies,” she said, with a huge puppy dog look on her face. “It’s
not like all the other guys.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, I really did. It was the best kiss
I’ve ever had.” She was so happy.

“Then that’s all that matters,” I said.
“You’ll find that I do a lot of things different than all the other
guys.” Maria and I embraced. God, her body was so warm and
accepting, a blanket in the cool spring evening air.

“I’ve done a lot of talking today, A.J. But
you’ve been pretty quiet. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to
say to me, nothing you want to get out in the open? I can’t imagine
that you’re as perfect as you seem, but that’s okay. I don’t want
perfection. I just want a confidant.”

Wincing at the thought of unveiling my dirty
little secrets, I placed my arm around her shoulder and goaded her
to continue walking. “No, don’t worry. It’s not that I’m perfect.
I’m just not very interesting.” We chuckled in unison.

“You’re the most interesting person I know,
Hopeful
. But if you say you don’t have any secrets to share,
then I believe you. I care about you either way.”

At that moment I realized that Maria was
perfect despite her faults, perfect for having the courage to be
honest. It was a bravery that I’m only now beginning to truly
appreciate.

***

It’s amazing that sometimes one part of my
life flourishes, while the other part founders like the Titanic.
Case in point: the summer before my last year of high school, right
around my first real date with Maria. At that point in my life, I
had almost everything a guy could want—almost. My beautiful
girlfriend went hand-in-hand with my bright future.

But things were different at home. It almost
seemed as if the East River, which divided Manhattan from Queens,
also separated personal happiness from anguish. Central Park was my
paradise, a special place impervious to Satan’s work. Just a few
miles away, however, sat you, Mom, in the den,
where I played
with blocks and puzzles as a child
, seething because I was an
hour late for dinner. You were waiting for me like a cat about to
pounce on a canary. Do you remember? You’d just quit drinking and
smoking, and I thought that would inspire a new relationship
between us. It didn’t.

Apparently, I was supposed to be home by six.
Instead, I arrived at my front door around seven. I was instructed
to call home if I was going to be late but I didn’t.

I guess I should have known what was coming.
I should have realized that you would have to be a goddamn bitch
after I had such a great day. The moment I walked into the family
room, you started up.

“Where were you?” you screamed. “Why are you
an hour late? Dinner was ready an hour ago! Where the hell were
you?” And Dad, you just sat there, watching TV.

I felt as if I were about to choke on my own
tongue—and then throw it up in your face. All at once, the two
halves of my brain were arguing with one another. Two halves of my
heart, too. The softer piece—the piece that still loved you, I
guess—the piece that experienced lust and joy and wanted to tell
the whole world about Maria—was aching to release the chirping,
happy little bird fluttering around beneath my ribcage. That part
desired nothing more than to be a momma’s boy, to tell both you
guys about how beautiful and special and perfect Maria was.

Should I just answer her question, politely,
and leave? Or should I explode? Had you, Dad, stood up—had you even
lunged slowly toward me—I would’ve exited—no,
fled
—and hid
in my room, infuriated, contemplating a revenge that I was too
childlike to carry out. Instead, you sat there. All 230 pounds of
this forty-eight year old blob I loved so much…you punished me by
sitting still and silent. You hated her as much as I did, didn’t
you? But why didn’t he say anything? You saw what I saw: a paradox
of a woman—horns and fangs on a body designed to bear children, to
create life, but chose instead to snuff it out.

Why, mommy, did you
seethe
? I was only
an hour late. Had you simply asked about my day I wouldn’t have
thought what I thought those few moments in the family room: that I
didn’t need you any longer; that I had found someone to replace
you; that I had discovered an oasis in the desert of life whose
hands were, for some mystical reason, de-clawed. I know, for I had
felt Maria grip my hand more lovingly than you have ever held
mine.

More vividly than the date itself, I still
remember that night I came home from my first real date with Maria.
My two halves battled for a few seconds—for what seemed like a few
hours. Dad, however cool you were on the outside, orange flames
licked your insides. I could tell. I remember thinking:
How can
I satisfy my own hatred, and calm my father’s ulcerous stomach,
while halting the stampede of wild horses that was my mother?
That’s the last thought which pulsated through each half of my
brain as I gave up on pondering it just as quickly as I’d conjured
it.

My fists were clenched but stapled to my
side. “Fuck you…” I declared, only I was so nervous that it sounded
more like a question than a command. It was the first time I’d ever
used the F-word to you, Mom. “I’m never speaking to you again,” I
said.