Little Boy (26 page)

At my kitchen table that morning, drinking a
glass of orange juice, I wondered what to do. Nobody was home, and
I had to be at the deli soon. I would’ve called Maria, but I
couldn’t figure out what to tell her about the party. She might
break up with me once she found out that I’d gotten drunk. I’d
committed a mortal sin: I was the son of an alcoholic dating the
daughter of an alcoholic who’d kill his girlfriend if she had ever
gotten drunk—and I’d gotten drunk. And I didn’t give a shit.

I wondered:
Why is it called a mortal sin
if you don’t die after it’s committed?

Chomping on my Cheerios, faced with a
dilemma—to lie or not to lie—I did what I usually did when I had an
important decision to make: I took a nap.

Lying in bed, with the blinds drawn, amidst
the darkness of my air-conditioned room, each sound of silence
pulsated into my ears. It was always like that when I was alone in
my room, especially when I was sheltered by my soft covers in the
dark.

I began to doze.

I dreamt about a silent room, with tiled
floors and nobody to speak to but the shadows. There was a
deafening silence around me. As the fear within me filled my chest,
and as I turned around to escape, I knocked goldfish bowl to the
floor. Its crash echoed around me. Each shard of glass its own
entity, making a unique crackle, then spinning like tops, as the
water flowed into a puddle around me.

It was a lonely feeling.

For some reason, after Rick’s party, I was
always lonely at night. I guess I should’ve been thinking about
Maria to calm me. But since her past made me so tense, as I lay in
bed each night, I felt death lingering just outside my window. It
was a clawed hand ready to strike—ready to take me away, kicking
and screaming, to Hell.

I had another dream. There was a janitor at
school I knew. Not Zachary, but another one named Nelson the guy
who always came in the gym after we played basketball or
volleyball, and mopped up our sweat and spit. The thing is, he
never seemed to mind mopping that stuff up. He sort of was glad in
a way, like he was part of the game. He’d wash the gym windows or
pick up the garbage, occasionally glancing over his shoulder in
delight, catching a great volleyball play. Sometimes, he’d even
stop washing the windows and stand in on the sidelines, cheering us
on. Afterward, he’d walk gingerly to the court, wearing a big smile
on his wrinkly old face. Most of the guys were oblivious to his
existence. But I saw him waving as we filed back into the locker
room.

The poor bastard really enjoyed his job. He
was the closest thing to a cheerleader we had. Nelson was a real
nice man.

One day, toward the end of our junior year,
all the guys in our gym class decided to chip in and buy him a
gift. A really popular asshole named Dwayne walked around with a
brown envelope while we were all changing in the locker room. He
asked for a dollar from each of us; that would give him a total of
about thirty bucks to buy Nelson a present. I was the last guy he
came to, because I always stood in the corner at the end of the
bench, changing into my clothes. Actually, I wore my gym clothes
underneath my shirt and tie and pants because I didn’t like to let
anyone see me naked. But I still didn’t want to be near everyone
else. “How ‘bout a dollar,” Dwayne said, “for our main man,
Nelson?”

“Sorry, I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, come on, L’ Enfant, it’s only a
dollar!”

“The name’s A.J. And, no, really, I don’t
have any cash on me. I’m sorry.”

“Well, maybe next gym class, all right? Make
sure you bring a dollar.”

But he never came back for that dollar, and
he knew I wasn’t going to pay up. When my classmates discovered
that I hadn’t donated to the Nelson Fund, as the called it, they
began to disregard me. I used to ignore them, but now they ignored
me.

I never liked gym, so I did everything
possible to sit out of the basketball games. Usually, I’d tell the
gym teacher that I was sick and he’d allow me to avoid
participating. Occasionally, I’d bullshit with Nelson on the
sidelines. He thought I was crazy for not wanting to play. “Why you
so boring, A.J.?” he’d say in a Jamaican accent. “If I were you, I
would want to be in gym all day, playing soccer or volleyball.” I’d
just smile back at him, waiting for him to change the subject. My
classmates often called out to me, “A.J., get your butt in here, we
need you” and then I’d have to rejoin the game.

But the next gym class after the Nelson Fund
incident, nobody gave a shit when I sat out. Nobody asked me to
join the game. Nobody even looked at me, sitting there alone in the
creaky wooden stands. Not the gym teacher, not Nelson. When one kid
got injured and had to leave the game, the team was left with 4
players against five. Down one man—and losing by about 20
points—they didn’t ask me to join.

After calling into work sick, I dreamt all of
this that morning and afternoon, in no particular order, sort of
all together, as I lay shivering beneath my covers in the darkness.
The dream ended with an image of Nelson’s happy face—not his body,
just his face suspended in midair—smiling at me and saying
“hello.”

“Hellooooo,” said Nelson, and then—poof!—he
was gone. I sat up, shivering yet sweating, wondering what the hell
time it was, rubbing my eyelids open.

I wonder where Nelson is nowadays. He’s
probably still a goddamn janitor. The poor bastard.

Chapter 13

That Goddamn Game

One Saturday morning, a few weeks after
Rick’s party, I walked to work with a fire burning my stomach. My
mouth was dry, but I lit a cigarette anyway. It was like sucking on
a paper towel. Strangely, my head felt light, but my legs were iron
pilings, drilling into the pavement as I increased speed. My heart
was punching my chest from within, as if it were attempting to
break free. I had downed four shots of whiskey before I left for
work.

There is nothing like being drunk. You feel
as though you’re flying, and yet you’re heavy. Your perception
seems so clear, as if all before you is illuminated by high beams
in a pitch black night, and yet you’re unfit to do the simplest
tasks. As the sweat began to soak my armpits and clothing, as
streams of saltwater rolled down my back and chest, my pace slowed,
and I realized that I was walking in the wrong direction.

Skip work today
.
Go to Maria’s
house
.
Make love to her
. Those three sentences whirled
around my mind. Those, and
I love Maria
,
I love
Maria
. They didn’t simply repeat, they throbbed. I had to get
to her house. Somehow, I had to get there.
Yes
, I thought,
I’ll go to Maria, express my love, and prove it with
passion
.
I’ll admit that I drank at Rick’s party—and she’ll
forgive me
. I don’t know if was the alcohol talking. Whatever
it was, my mind was set: I wouldn’t—no, I couldn’t—keep a secret
from her. Our love was strong enough to withstand all.

I sprinted back home and gunned my car’s
engine. Racing toward Maria’s, I thought about what I’d say to her
when she saw me. I wondered if she’d notice I’d been drinking, and
whether or not she’d forgive me. I just wanted to get it over
with—come clean and then feel us become one. I thought about
rolling around the floor, embracing her naked body. I hungered to
sleep that night with the scent of her skin on my own. I wanted to
eat her mouth for dinner, and the rest for dessert. Drooling,
buzzing, and panting like an animal, I parked my car and galloped
down the block toward her house.

It was like a dream when Maria appeared at
the door. Maria was naked although she was fully clothed.

Her jaw dropped. “What are you doing
here?”

“Let’s go to your room,” I said, ranting that
I’d explain everything once we were locked inside. We sat on the
bed, my sweaty hand wetting hers, and I began to stutter.
“M-M-M-Maria,” I said, “I want to make love to you today. I know
this sounds awful, I know it. But—listen…I really love you, and I
swear I would never leave you. I swear we’ll be together as long as
you’d like. I swear.”

“A.J., my God…” She was flushed. “This is—my
God—this is a surprise. My God, I don’t know what to say.”

“Just don’t say that you’ve never thought
about making love to me. Please, don’t say that.”

“No, no. I mean, of course I have. I mean,
I’ve considered it a lot.” She smiled, and touched her hair. “I
really have. But…”

“Can we do it today?” I asked. “Can we make
love right now? Please. I promise I’m serious.”

“Well, A.J., my parents won’t be home ‘til
seven, so I guess, technically, we could.”

Ahhhhhhhhhh!
I thought.
She’s okay
with it!

“Where did they go? Are they at work that
late?”

She paused and looked down. “No, they’re at
an AA meeting.”

“Really? Wow. That means I can stay for a
while, huh?”

“Don’t you care that my father is finally
getting some help? Why are you only thinking about sex?”

She was right. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I
really am. When did your father decide to get help?”

“Just a few nights ago. I’m glad you dropped
me off from that party early, because when I walked in my house, my
mom and dad were sitting on the living room sofa in tears. That’s
when they told me that my father had slipped outside while drunk,
and fallen down the stairs, and almost killed himself. The stairs
were slick from the drizzle and he fell down all eight steps, from
the very top to the very bottom.

“He said he didn’t even realize he was drunk.
He looked like a hobo,” she said, sniffling. “He was wearing his
old brown leather Vietnam bomber jacket, one that looks like the
jacket that you have. As he fell, the sleeve caught the railing,
slowed his fall, and probably saved his life. The Air Force emblem
was torn off and buttons scattered everywhere. Some neighbors heard
his scream and came to help him get up. It was an awful scene. He
was so embarrassed.”

I placed my face on her shoulder and sniffed
her neck. Momentarily. I did this out of shame.

“I don’t know,” she continued, “I guess
that’s what made him realize he needed help. Actually, he really
wanted to go to AA for the longest time, but never had the guts to
do it. Sometimes it takes a near tragedy to get the guts to do
something scary.”

“So they go, what, every night?”

“No, twice a week. They could go every night
if they wanted to, though.”

“I’m frightened,” Maria said. I was about to
speak, but she interjected: “It’s dangerous when someone has a
problem and can’t admit it. You wind up hurting more than
yourself.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but he’s finally getting
help. Thank God.”

I felt bad for her. But honestly, I wasn’t
thinking about her father. And since I was too afraid to bring it
up, not another word was spoken about making love. We were thigh by
thigh on the bed, staring at one another’s eyes. It was destined to
happen within moments—just as soon as I examined and inspected the
contour of the body I was about to shroud with mine. I would see
her, all of her. And so much more. I couldn’t wait.

I touched her cheek with the back of my hand,
as if I was checking a milk for a baby. So few sensations are as
gentle and spine-tingling as the touch of a loved one’s skin.

I had all sorts of strange feelings. I wanted
to violate Maria—kindly. I wanted her to do the same to me. Soon, I
knew, her beige shorts would be off, and her silky panties would
slide down her white hips, down her legs, to the floor. And then I
would open her like an envelope, and embrace the smells and sights
before me. The vagina, my friend Kyle once told me, is a holy
place.

I sniffed Maria’s ear, and thought of flowers
and grass and sunlight. I almost cried at that moment, as I stopped
myself from planting the first kiss on her lips.

“Maria,” I said, hesitating, “there’s
something I have to tell you first. Before we…” I trailed off; mere
words couldn’t characterize what was about to happen.

“What is it?” She was calm.

“I—I dr—rank…at Rick’s party. I’m sorry. I’ll
never do it again.” I let the air out of the bag inflated within my
chest and stomach. I felt so relieved. I couldn’t touch her until
she’d forgiven me.

She looked down at the floor, pondering
something. Then her eyes returned to mine, and she smiled a tight,
wrinkly smile, her eyes squinting, as if she was trying to decide
whether to weep or laugh. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know
what she was going to say, if anything at all. I was so happy that
I’d told her the truth; I was so happy that we were about to make
love that nothing could kill my bliss.

Maria smiled. “A.J., do you believe in
fate?”

“Yes,” I said, “of course, I do. That’s what
brought us together.”

“Well, I this is something we can share,
because of fate. I was telling you the truth last week, about the
drinking. And then I got so scared when you yelled at me. And I
lied to you. I drank with my cousin when I went Upstate. I got
drunk, too. It’s okay if you did. We both won’t do it again. I love
you.”