Little Boy (38 page)

“Sometimes,” she said, grinning, as if she
was telling me how often she roller-skated. She was beginning to
piss me off. I had to find out more about her.

“Who do you hang out with? Lots of boys?”

“A few,” she said. “But mostly my cousin and
her friends. My cousin is older than me. She introduces me to all
of her friends.”

Overwhelmed by an urge to know all about her
‘friends,’ I abandoned my plan to break up with Maggie and decided
to interrogate her instead. Sure, her friends were probably hoods
and losers, each and every one of them. But just how greasy were
they? Maybe Maggie was just another piece of shit on Queens
Boulevard.
Maybe she gave me a fucking disease!

“Like who? Anyone I might know?”

“A.J., there are like billions of people in
New York!” She laughed again. Suddenly, she seemed to be a lot less
interested in me. Her eyes wandered up at the trees and lake out of
apparent boredom. She didn’t seem to take my questions seriously.
It was frightening. And I was outraged. I would’ve walked away
right then and there; but first, I had to know what kind of people
she hung out with. Sure, I wanted to quell my fears. But I also
wanted to discover something bad about her, something that would
make me hate her, something that would compel me to kick her
goddamn face and walk the fuck away, leaving her alone in the city.
Or at least just walk away.

“All right,” I said, trying to hold back a
burst of rage, “enough games. Just tell me a few names.”

She out her index finger to her chin. I still
remember her stupid response—“Ummmmmmm…... Ummmmmm” as I sat there
waiting for what felt like a lifetime. “Ummmmmmm, well, there’s
this senior I know named Kerry—she goes to Stella Maris, too. She
helps me get beer since I don’t have a fake ID. And then there’s
this girl Laura. She gets me into lots of clubs. Then there’s
Elizabeth. Her and her sister always drink with me at the park in
Ridegwood, the one where no cops come, you know? She sometimes goes
to Kearney’s, too. We even hooked up with the same guy in the same
night once!” She laughed again.
Roller-skating is fun!
Hardy-fucking-har.

Had I stuck to my new plan, I would’ve
bitch-slapped Maggie and walked the fuck away. I would’ve said
“Catch ya later, whore,” and split. I would’ve laughed at her for
laughing at me. Not a giggle laugh, but a vindictive one, a hearty
chuckle that would’ve bellowed across the Central Park bridges and
let Maggie know that she was a piece of shit and I knew it; that
there were hoods in my school that had too much self-respect to
come on her face; that no guy in Kearney’s could replace her
long-lost daddy; that even her sexy body could not lure me away
from The One.

Instead, like God had just snapped a picture,
I was frozen in a cold flash of light. Then I felt something funny
in my gut: butterflies. For the first time since I’d sat in that
spot with Maria last spring, I had butterflies in my stomach. Only
these butterflies didn’t tickle. They had stingers. And they danced
and pricked my insides with glee. Unable to escape, plastered to
the cotton blanket below, I forgot for the moment that Maggie was
beside me. She simply disappeared. All that was left were the words
that had just shot out of her mouth like a round of bullets. It was
just butterflies…butterflies...butterflies…and then bullets. A
moment later, I understood why.

“What’s her last name?” I asked.
“Elizabeth’s, I mean.”

“Della Verita,” she said. “Why?”

***

I ran.

Through the park I dashed, huffing and
puffing my way to the R train, hoping to catch Maria before more
damage could be done.

The subway ride home lasted five years. I
plopped into the hard plastic seat, and tightly gripped the slimy,
shiny metallic pole. Somewhere in the tunnel between Lex and Queens
Plaza, my body atrophied, all except for my head. My skull
shook—trembled, actually—from side to side, preparing to deny
everything that Maria would accuse me of.
No, no, no! I didn’t
do it!
I practiced, silently within. The movement was
non-existent to those around me, but I felt it.

I’d left Maggie alone by the pond in Central
Park. Thinking about it now, she must have thought I was crazy for
jumping up and sprinting away like that. At the time, however, had
someone asked me, I wouldn’t have recognized the name Maggie, or
the park.
Who’s Maggie?
I’d forgotten all that before I
darted away from her. Perhaps that’s why I neglected to ask her to
promise not to tell Elizabeth about me.

But, to be honest, I never even considered
that. Within the recesses of my heart I knew that my doomsday had
arrived. The long and winding road had led me to the gates of Hell.
But I was going to fight it all, fight the inescapable, try to
avoid my fateful journey through those gates. I couldn’t live
without Maria. There was no getting around that fact. But that
reality didn’t strike me until it was too late.

Precisely what happened next has been erased
from my mind. All I know is that somehow I ended up standing in
front of Maria’s house, shivering more than the spring air called
for. Her doorbell sounded like fire alarm to my ears. Impatiently,
I waited for her to answer.

A plane thundered overhead. It resonated like
a B-1 bomber; however, glancing toward the sky, I noticed that it
was a simple Boeing 747, perhaps en route to Paris or Rome, or some
other place I’d never visit. How I longed to be sitting in its
cockpit, traveling to a faraway place.

As Maria opened the door I was still staring
at the sky. I’d completely forgotten about my tar-stained teeth and
smoky breath, a result of the cigarettes I’d sucked down on the
subway platform, and on the walk to the subway, and on the walk to
her house. Had it not been for the terrible look in my eyes when
she first saw me, perhaps Maria would’ve noticed the odor of
tobacco. Instead, she stood before, quiet and still. I didn’t ask
if her parents were home; I didn’t know what day it was, or what
time of the year it was. Trying to hold back a torrent of sad tears
and vomit, I just stood there, waiting for her to make the first
move.
Maybe she doesn’t know anything
, I thought,
despairingly.
Maybe it’s not too late to save our
relationship
. Maria’s cutting stare filled me with more
uncertainty than ever before. I didn’t know whether or not Maria
knew about my encounter with Maggie. I didn’t know whether her
silence was a result of my unexpected visit, or a sign of the news
she’d just learned of from her sister, Elizabeth, or, God forbid,
from Maggie herself.

She made an about-face and began walking down
the staircase toward her room. I remained in the doorway ready to
cry and throw-up at any moment. Then she motioned for me to follow
her. I snapped out of my trance and plodded behind her.

I don’t recall pondering my first statement
to Maria that day. I suppose my assumption was that—God, I don’t
know—if I could control what was told to her first, she would
disbelieve other versions of the story. It was the very first time
in our entire relationship that I can’t recall even attempting to
devise a plan of action. The only specific thing I do remember was
wondering what she would tell her father and mother. If she
remained my girlfriend, was her love strong enough to keep my
disloyalty a secret? Despite what Grandpa Della Verita had said, I
didn’t know for sure if her father had sent in the recommendation.
Academy acceptances and rejections would be delivered within a few
weeks.

Maria was staring at me. She had an uneasy
look, one I’d never seen before. When someone who’s trusted you has
caught you in a lie, they have this look—you know what I’m talking
about, because it’s a look you only see in that situation.

That look melted me as we stood in the center
of her room, a room that had witnessed an unimaginable number of
fights and kisses over the past year. That special bed, Maria’s
bed, sat silently in the corner, the covers tucked in tightly. I
looked down at my sneakers, then up at the light. There was nothing
to say, except: “Maria, I—I cheated on you.”

Maria was a cool character ordinarily. She’d
installed those mirrors in her living room as her father sat in the
den, downing his ninth beer of the night. She’d quit smoking and
turned to Shakespeare of all things for solace. She’d accepted my
questions about her past, groaning only occasionally.

But that day Maria was not cool. Her icy
stare melted away and within seconds she broke down crying. She
bawled for several minutes. It seemed like hours. She was so upset,
in fact, that I honestly thought she was going to attack me. But
Maria never lost control, so she didn’t do any such thing. Instead,
she turned toward her dresser and opened a drawer, softly,
meticulously. Equally cautiously, she picked up several poems I’d
given her over the past year. They were still in the original
off-white envelopes, as fresh and crisp as the day I wrote them.
Violently, she stripped her neck of the date-plate I’d given her
for Christmas, breaking it at the clasp. I heard it ping against
the wooden floor.

Remaining silent, Maria handed me the
letters, and started to cry. I accepted them, not knowing what else
to do. I heard a garbage truck rumble down the pothole-ridden
street. Its thunder shook my insides and smooshed them into mashed
potatoes. Maria grabbed my shoulder, attempting to force me to turn
around, and said, flatly: “Get out.”

That’s when she stopped crying. That’s when I
broke down in tears.

“Please, Maria,” I began to beg, “Please
don’t do this. It was only one kiss. I’m sorry!”

“Get out.”

I screamed, “Pleeeeeaaaase!” and dropped down
to my knees like an animal. And I am not saying that figuratively.
I was literally an animal, writing in pain on the floor, like a
rhino that’s just been shot by a hunter. I smothered Maria’s boots
with my wet face. I licked them, slurring out an occasional “I’m so
sorry” amidst an avalanche of tears and a wall of wails.

After a minute or so, I heard someone on the
floor above us, walking solidly toward the door which led to the
staircase downstairs. Her mother yelled downstairs, asking if
everything was all right. Maria told her Mom not to worry, to go
back inside, that she had the situation under control.

“Get out.”

Speaking to her ankles: “Please, Maria. I—I
was joking. I made the whole thing up. God, I—I was testing you. I
didn’t kiss another girl. I didn’t do anything. It was all a set-up
I did with me and some girls I met at a bar. I swear. I love you.”
I spoke through a gush of tears which flowed so hard and fast that
I heard them splashed onto the floor, joining the jumbled golden
links.

“Nice try,” she said. “You’re full of shit.
It’s taken me a long time to realize that, A.J. But you’re full of
shit. And you’re full of yourself. But I guess that’s redundant,
huh?” And then she laughed.

I was flabbergasted. She continued:

“Do you think I haven’t told my parents and
sister all about you? Well, kiddo, I have. I didn’t at first,
though, because I thought everything was my fault. I thought I was
wrong for having friends that you didn’t know, a past you weren’t
part of. I hated—
hated
—myself for drinking Upstate with my
cousin. I hated myself for having a life before you.
You
made me feel that way. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been
drinking every weekend since August. You can’t fool me.

“I wasn’t sure about it at first. Like I
said, at first I really thought it was my fault. I really thought I
was a bad person. Oh, sure, you were great—wonderful, in fact—for
the first few dates. But then, the more I told you about myself,
the more you resented me.

“You should have loved me, A.J.! You should
have loved me for baring my soul to you.
Amici con tutti,
confidenza con nessuno.
Remember that, A.J.? Remember that? I
thought you were my confidant. I trusted you more than my own
father. I thought I could confide in you, and that we could grow
old together, just like we used to talk about.

“But, no, you had to fuck it up, didn’t you?
It wasn’t until Christmas—remember the opera?—when I first told my
mother about you. The real you. She brushed it aside;
she
defended you
. She said I was overreacting, and I believed her.
But more and more I became convinced that I wasn’t overreacting.
You
were. If I didn’t say ‘I love you’ first-thing each time
we spoke on the phone, it was a crime. If I was friendly with
somebody else, it was a sin.

“Last summer, I was depressed about my father
and mother, because I thought they might be getting divorced, so I
drank. You sentenced me to death for that crime, didn’t you? You
couldn’t just forgive me for it, like any decent person would’ve
done. I begged for you to forgive me. I even begged God to forgive
me, because I thought your anger at me was equivalent to God’s.

“And you convinced me that it was. But
slowly, A.J., very slowly I figured it all out. I figured out that
you didn’t love me, you only loved being my God. You wanted nothing
more than to control me.
Control
, A.J. Do you understand
what the hell that means? You controlled me through your
questions—no, your interrogations. You had to know each and every
detail of my life, didn’t you? Oh, sure, I wanted to open up to
you, I wanted you to be my confidant. But you just had to take it
too far. You wouldn’t quit until both you and I had relived each
and every dreadful moment of my life. Never the good times; only
the bad ones.