Little Boy (29 page)

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she
turned to me and said, “Okay, I’m ready.” And then she dropped to
her knees, right there onto the cold, wet concrete, and looked up
at me. “A.J.,” she said, “I don’t have enough money to buy you a
ring. But I can offer you an embrace, a hug that will last forever.
I offer you this because I have nothing else to give but myself.
But I am not insecure. I value myself a lot, and I just want to
give myself to you.” She hugged me and placed the right side of her
face on my coat. She clutched me even tighter and finally said,
“A.J., will you marry me?”

I didn’t know what to say. Of course, I
wanted to say yes. Of course, I did say yes. “Yes, yes, yes!” I
screamed, although it was only a whisper. “Yes.”

I cried. Maria cried. But there was more.

“I’m coming with you to Colorado Springs next
year. I can marry you—I’ll be seventeen and I already looked it up,
we can get married in Colorado. I can live with you, right there on
the base, and I’ll cook and clean for you, and maybe go to college
and become an English teacher or something.”

Words can’t describe how exhilarated I was to
hear those words. I mean, now that I think about it, Maria was
propositioning me, as an adult, and it was real. She believed her
words and so did I. Had I been a man rather than a boy, I know I
wouldn’t’ve broken the contract we established that day.

At that moment it all seemed so clear, as
clear as the blue sky as you soar 20,000 feet above the earth: our
future together, just Maria and me, away from Queens and our
parents and all the losers in high school. It was all there, right
before me. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

Chapter 15

Opera

“How much did you enjoy getting drunk?” I
asked that question over and over again when I called Maria the
next night. She didn’t seem to understand that with forgiveness
came consequences. Like new-found distrust, for example. She didn’t
seem to realize that I was addicted to terrorizing her, because I
was afraid, just like our parents were addicted to alcohol and
gambling, because they were afraid.

“Have you had anything to drink since we last
spoke?” I blared.

She said no, demurely. But occasionally she’d
leap at me like an angry cat. “Why the hell did
you
get
drunk?” she asked.

I thought about this for a while. I didn’t
really know how to respond. I couldn’t very well say that it was
because I’d never tried it, and wanted to see what it was like.

“I knew you’d gotten drunk Upstate, Maria. I
was depressed about it at Rick’s party.”

“I thought that—” she cut herself off. “I
thought that when I told you I didn’t do it that you believed
me.”

“No, I didn’t. I was just waiting for you to
find the right time to tell the truth. I—I really knew you had done
it.”

“But”—she attempted to interrupt, but I
wouldn’t let her.

“Please, Maria, just listen. You broke my
heart with that news, you really did. I mean, to think that a girl
with an alcoholic father would herself get drunk. And you know my
mom drinks, too. You know the affect that’s had on me. It’s
just—your decision to drink was just ridiculous. Your judgment is
now in question.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, as if she was a
three year old kid apologizing for spilled milk.

“It’s okay,” I said, surprised at my ability
to forgive her. But Maria thought I had forgiven her completely. In
fact, I’d accepted her to be my girlfriend again under false
pretenses, because in my heart I knew that I had only forgiven her
to the extent that she would show how sorry she was for lying.

***

The next few weeks were good, but not as
marvelous as the spring. Maria and I resumed going to Central Park
as often as we could. We wrapped ourselves in blankets under the
pine trees near the pond to protect us from the chilly fall gusts.
The sweet scent of decaying foliage filled our noses as we hunkered
amidst the piles of leaves by the pond, and kissed and hugged. We
wrestled and skipped and pranced through those leaves almost as if
we’d just fallen in love.

On many evenings we’d go back to Queens and
drive all the way back to Fresh Meadows to eat at Angelo and Al’s
on Fresh Meadow Lane.

Angelo, the owner, has known me since I was a
kid. I remember going there even before elementary school. Mom, you
never let me wander far, you were so goddamn paranoid. But I have
to admit you always allowed me to walk across Utopia Parkway to
Fresh Meadow Lane, to get a slice and a Coke from Angelo and Al’s,
or play a video game at the candy store.

Like always, Angelo was generous with the
toppings. I’d pile it all on: mushrooms, peppers, black olives,
extra cheese, the works. We loved it so much that Maria and I ate
at Angelo and Al’s for dinner almost every time we traveled to or
from Central Park. The warm waft of their pizza crust and tomato
sauce baking in the giant steel oven thawed us each time we stepped
from the cold into his shop each weekend.

Sometimes we parked in Astoria and walked
down Steinway Street before we went to Central Park. We never
bought anything because we had no money. That was the wonderful
thing about Maria. She didn’t need a four-course meal or a diamond
ring to be happy. She was happy just being with me.

Whenever we were in Astoria, I’d see Cronin
and Phelan’s, at the intersection of Broadway and Steinway, and
crave a beer on tap. By that point, I’d tasted beer, whiskey, rum,
white wine, malt liquor, and vodka, some with Kyle and Rick, but
most within the lonely confines of my bedroom after dark. Beer was
my favorite. I wasn’t an alcoholic, though, and wasn’t worried
about becoming one, either. I tasted these drinks because I wanted
to check them out, nothing more. And, the more I thought about it,
the more I desired for Maria to sample them with me. I didn’t want
to get wasted with her; I simply wanted us to experience something
we’d both done separately but now could enjoy together. I remember
thinking,
A few beers and I’ll open up to her about Mom’s
drinking problem, and the stress about getting into the Academy,
and all my strange dreams and fears.
I longed to tell her so
much. What were best friend for, after all?

But I couldn’t bear to watch Maria sit at a
bar and drink. The idea alone killed me. So I continued to drink
alone in my room, while talking to myself, and wishing I had
someone to share the conversation with.

Though tempted to cheat again, I remained
steadfastly faithful to Maria. I started to mature. I was a better
boyfriend to her than I’d been before. Rather than demand that she
compliment me each time we spoke on the phone, I’d praise her,
regardless. Her happiness was slowly becoming more important than
mine once again.

Maria was also maturing. She’d unilaterally
turned down two invitations to two Halloween parties, even though
her friends begged her to go. “They’ll be drinking there,” she
said. And that was all I needed to know. For a while, it was as if
Maria had never gotten drunk and lied.

At the lunch table each day in school there
was nothing but laughter. As the passing days brought us closer to
graduation, we treated each conversation as a waning treasure. Each
member of The Family was confident about his future, as well as
mine. Paul, Rick, and Mike talked about the Air Force Academy
almost as much as I did. Kyle, always one step ahead of them, began
calling me “Captain A.J., ” rather than Godfather or Boss.

We’d all taken the SATs and done well. My
1330 was the highest score. Actually, I tied Kyle. He received a
1330, too. When I revealed my score to him, he grinned with
delight. I had studied every night for months, while he hadn’t even
opened a book. I always responded to his haughty grin the same way:
“Well, Kyle, at least I have a girlfriend!” But that didn’t faze
him. “All I need are my left hand and my guitar,” he’d say.

Occasionally, we’d spend a Friday night
drinking beer at Cronin and Phelan’s or Rockaway beach. I always
kept my drinking in check. As Kyle puked his brains out after his
tenth shot of the night, I’d sip a Coke and smile nonchalantly,
proud that I could hold my liquor.

Alcohol was an anesthetic for me. I mean,
thinking about not getting into the academy, and Maria’s lies, and
all that shit. Well, it was just nice to get away from it all, and
become comfortably numb. I never told Maria about any of the
drinking, of course. If I told her, she probably would’ve started
drinking herself.

***

On Thanksgiving Day, Maria and I went to the
parade on Central Park West. I handed her the following poem as we
exited the subway to view the giant balloons:

I’m in the palm of your hand. You don’t know
how frail I am.

I have a growing pain inside. A weakness
that I must confide.

If you only knew the helpless love I feel
for you.

If you only knew how much I pray that you
are true.

I’m in the palm of your hand. But you don’t
seem to understand.

I am drowning in my shame. Because I know
it’s me to blame

Time and again I say my love for you is
real.

But that is nothing compared to the way I
feel.

I’m in the palm of your hand. I’d walk away
if I could only stand.

But I won’t even try to fight. Somehow I
feel I’m placed just right.

So please be gentle and please handle me
with care.

Only you can decide how long I remain
there.

I’m in the palm of your hand…

She adored the poem. Actually, it was a song
that I’d been working on since the summer. I sang it to her right
there on the sidewalk, amidst thousands of people.

It was an exciting day. I’d watched the
parade on TV every Thanksgiving since I was a kid, but had never
seen it in person before. A pageant of multicolored balloons bobbed
down Broadway. Maria and I stood with our backs to an apartment
building and stretched our necks out to view Kermit followed by the
Pink Panther, both old friends from childhood, hovering above. We
stood for about a half hour, leering over the heads of hundreds of
families, trying our best to see the balloons. We’d come all this
way, and I really wanted Maria to see them up close. Growing
impatient with the distance, my neck suffering from tremendous
strain, I motioned for Maria to take my hand so I could guide her
toward the curb.

“Wait,” she said, “I’m tiny. I can squeeze
through. Let me lead the way.”

“Good idea.”

Maria reached behind her and grasped my cold,
gloveless hand with her fuzzy mittens. She weaseled her way through
the crowd’s crevices and reached a wooden blue barrier that read:
Police Line. Do Not Cross. She stood behind me with her arms
wrapped around my brown leather bomber jacket, and poked her head
over my right shoulder to see the balloons. I leaned forward
against the barrier, my nose just a few feet away from the
balloons.

Closer, however, didn’t equal better. Not for
me, at least. I was so close that I could see things I’d never seen
on TV as a kid. Spider Man’s left shoulder was covered by a tacky
blue patch which prevented his deflation before the admiring eyes
of children. After the parade I found out that the patch had been
his life support system since 1987, when the high-powered winds
guided him into a lamppost and punctured his rubber skin.

Seeing that patch made me sad.
I used to
enjoy watching this parade on TV as a kid
, I thought,
as the
aroma of lasagna and turkey, our traditional Thanksgiving combo,
wafted up the stairs to my nose
. It wasn’t Thanksgiving without
that scent. It just wasn’t Thanksgiving without seeing those
beautiful balloons.

As Snoopy, dressed as the Red Baron, drifted
by, my sadness turned to rage. I was angry at those balloons. I
remember getting angry at you, Mom. I’d never savored a
Thanksgiving turkey without first tasting airborne nicotine and
tar. I’d never sipped a soda at Thanksgiving dinner without
watching you sipping rum and Coke in our dining room.

Maria was oblivious to my thoughts as she
gazed childlike at the balloons passing overhead. An hour went by
when, finally, out of the corner of my eye I saw Santa’s sled
drifting down the street.

I remember thinking about when I was a kid,
just as Santa appeared on the screen, I knew guests would be
arriving soon and lasagna was about an hour away. Adulthood seemed
light years away back then.

When I’d left my house that morning, I’d
smelled the lasagna baking. Sadly, everything else was different. I
was still so jealous of Maria’s—I’m not sure what—I guess
everything. I swear, worrying about Maria took up 95% of my waking
hours. I had no outlet, no true leisure time. No time to just live
in the moment, the Here and Now. Instead of sledding and watching
TV on weekends I was worrying about Maria and studying and working,
and trying to maintain my GPA. If I didn’t get into the Academy my
life would be ruined. There was never anything earth-shattering
about an elementary school book report, or having cookies and milk
after school. Now my life’s happiness hinged on the Academy’s
decision. And even if I got in, I still had Maria to worry
about.