Little Boy (39 page)

“You know, I just realized that there’s only
one thing about me that you never found out—you never found out why
I’m a year behind in school. I was surprised that you never pressed
me on that one. Well, now I’ll tell you: I was left back because of
a custody fight between my parents when I was in the second grade.
They were legally separated for a year, and my mother took my
father to court to try and keep me. I was so upset that I failed
all my classes and got left back.

“So there you go, A.J.—Whew!—” she chuckled
defiantly—“now you know every little detail. Now I am truly free.
Now there’s nothing more you could possibly ask me. I won’t allow
you to make me relive that one. I’m one-up on you, A.J., for the
first time ever.

“I want you to leave my house and never come
back. Got that?” She poked my sternum so hard that I almost fell
over. “And it’s not just because of what you told me today. In
fact, I thank you for cheating on me, really, because it’s given me
the chance to break up with you—to never see your fucking face
again—sooner than I thought.

“I can’t wait to call Lynn and tell her.
Remember Lynn? She was my best friend until we both met you. Oh,
but you wouldn’t allow me to be her friend. It was against A.J.’s
Rules. So guess how many friends I have now? Zero. None. I haven’t
had a friend other than you in almost a year. I remember that
Kelvin and I used to hang out before class; nothing really, just
talk and that’s it. But you said Kelvin couldn’t be my friend, so I
haven’t spoken to him in months. I used to tell Cindy all about you
in history class every day. But I stopped speaking to her after you
went ballistic in the mall. And you said lots of other people
couldn’t be my friends—even when you didn’t say it, you implied
it—and I was afraid to have a friend besides you. I never trusted
people much, but that was always
my
choice, based on
my
experience. It was never forced upon me, through fear and
jealousy, by a person that made love to me, a person I gave myself
to.

“But we never made love, A.J. You fucked me.
No, it wasn’t rape, and I’ll never call it that. But I made love to
you and, in turn, you fucked me. I made love to you because I felt
guilty. Guilty! When I first made love to you that’s why I did it,
that’s what was going through my mind: All I kept thinking was
maybe now he’ll forgive me for drinking, for…for…for
living
!
That’s how wrong I thought I was. I never cheated on you. I never,
ever intentionally hurt you. And that’s all anyone can ever ask of
a friend or lover. We are only human, A.J. But you treated me like
a dog. Like your property.

“Well, it’s time to disown me, A.J. Time to
free your little slave. So I’ll tell you one last time before I get
my father to come down here: Get the fuck out of my house, you
maniac, and never come back.”

I was still on my knees, crying. It wasn’t
her words that wounded me, but her tone. Maria spoke to me as one
might speak to a little child: angry and condescending and firm.
She was practically taunting me with her words. I tried begging
again. I tried apologizing. I tried. But she responded with a grin
of all things, almost as if every word that left my mouth
buttressed her opinion of me. She didn’t even ask me who I had
kissed, and that angered me most of all.

Helpless, I stood up and turned toward the
door to leave. But something overpowered me—a feeling that for a
long time afterward I didn’t even regret.
I wanted to hurt
Maria
. Because she was right, I’d lost all control.

I thought about thrusting my clenched fist
toward that beautiful, angelic face, and punching her, hard, with
not a slap, but a smash. I wanted to see blood pouring from her
nose. She’d cover her face with her hands, and they’d become
bloody, too. She’d sniffle and pant heavily, as the blood
obstructed her breathing. She wouldn’t cry. She’d just moan and
wheeze.

That was my final plan for Maria, but I
refused to carry it out. I couldn’t do it. I loved her too much. So
instead, my fist loosened slowly, and my arm dropped to my side as
a leaf falls from a tree limb. Without speaking another word, I got
up and turned toward the door and left. Casually, I strolled to
Fresh Pond Road and waited for the Q58 to come. Quietly, I peered
through the window as the bus rumbled along. It went by many places
that Maria and I had been together—Stern’s, the European-American
Bank, Queens Center Mall—and each became frozen in the distance, at
the end of a long and winding road. I hummed that song all the way
home. I thought about the Academy. I thought of what Kyle had told
me so many times before: “I always win, A.J. I always win.”
Finally, I thought about fucking Maggie in the back seat of my car
just a few days before.

I concluded: Neither Maria nor I had won the
war. It was a tie. And that was just fine by me.

Chapter 19

Little Boy

I never saw Maria again.

I haven’t hated her even for a brief moment
since we last spoke. I know it’s all my fault. That’s why every
moment since I was last at her side has been absolute torture. I’ve
never had an operation, or had any sort of organ removed, but I
sure as hell know what it feels like. As trite and cheesy as it
sounds, Maria amputated my heart—meticulously, like a surgeon—and I
haven’t seen it since.

It’s not just my heart. It’s my soul, and
every other amorphous part of my conscience and mind, which elude
you until you actually lose them. I don’t know what to think. I
constantly speculate what a joy it would be to get whatever it is
that’s missing back.

It’s been a long and winding road away from
my life with Maria. At each turn in that road—and there are many of
them—I break down and cry. The tears may not even form, but I’m
shedding tears within each day. They refuse to pause, even for a
second.

Shortly after our break-up, I called her up
and quietly said “hello.” She hung up. I called a dozen more times
over the course of an hour until, finally, she disconnected her
number.
There won’t be a L’Enfant Reformation or New A.J. this
time
, I thought.

One day, a few weeks after Easter, just as
the weather was beginning to warm up again, I drove over to Maria’s
house and rang her doorbell. I saw her peek through the blinds and
see me but she didn’t answer. I left this poem in her mail box:

The present is a memory, still living in my
heart.

I maintain your timeless love, as if we did
not part.

You claimed that it would be with me until
the bitter end.

But where’s your smile and guiding faith, my
present love and friend?

I’ve survived our separation, by oceans and
by land.

But wasn’t wary of the rift I’d dig with my
bare hands.

Where are you, my present love, so precious
and so new?

You’re with me each and every day, but am I
with you?

Maybe it was meant to be, our love felt by
one.

My eternal agony, to be shared with
none.

Present love, you are still here; I know
that I’m not there.

Please let me in your present life; be more
than a prayer.

I don’t know if she ever read it. But the
words are true to this day. Maria is with me each moment, every
second. I said earlier that ever since Maria and I parted I’ve felt
like I was missing a vital organ. But that’s only somewhat
truthful. Much of the time I feel as if I’m carrying something
extra—a hefty load, a back-breaking guilt.

Often, I sense that the hunter shadowing me
is for real. Never before was he anything more than an image, a
phantom. But the moment Maria abandoned me, he transformed himself
into an anchor. He no longer hides in the darkness; instead, he
drags behind me and weighs me down. He’s on my shoulder, whispering
into my ear, annoyingly, persistently. And his tone is terribly
high-pitched and condescending and cruel, much like Maria’s the
last time I saw her. I couldn’t even tell you exactly what it says,
but I’m forced to listen. When my ear strays even for a moment, the
voice briskly transforms and resembles my own.

I die each day when I hear that voice, but I
never resurrect. I just continue to die, over and over again. I
wish I could get it to stop. I wish I could call Maria explain how
much I love her and how sorry I am. And I do love her dearly. I’ve
always loved her. How can you love a woman and hurt her at the same
time? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I search for it
each minute of the day to no avail.

There is a condition of emotion that lies
somewhere between weeping and laughing. It is, I think, a temporary
state within which most people rarely find themselves. Practically
everybody drifts abruptly between a smile and a frown. That’s it,
day-in and day-out. You’re always where your circumstances guide
you—either sorrow or elation. Most people probably don’t realize
it, however, because most people have never been in my situation.
Nobody has.

I haven’t tasted euphoria in a long time; I
haven’t been depressed in just as long. Both euphoria and
depression are feelings others experience constantly, but I’m
trapped like a mosquito in a cobweb between those two extremes. I
only wish I could
feel
…
feel something…
just to know
I’m alive. I would kill to feel happy or sad—either one would be
fine. Never before Maria did I think there even was such a
condition. I always thought there’d be an ideal and content medium,
if anything at all. There isn’t—there’s just this—and I loathe
myself for having discovered it. I haven’t been to a psychologist
since Maria and I broke up. But I’m damn sure that he would tell
me: “A.J., don’t worry, life will get better as the days go on.”
And he’d be full of shit.

Well, maybe not full of shit. Actually, he’d
probably believe in his own words, not realizing that nobody has
ever been in my situation before.

I’ve never tried to explain my life to anyone
before tonight. Nobody, not even Kyle, knows about the real me.
I’ve never told you about what happened between me and Maria. Not
while it was happening, for sure…not until now. I didn’t want to
make you guys cry. And I didn’t want to hear you say “I told you
so.” I didn’t even tell Kyle, Rick, Paul, or Mike any of the
details about our break-up. I simply told them all that Maria and I
had broken up, too ashamed to admit the truth.

I sometimes think about that Italian phrase
Maria taught me—
Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno—
and
how I should put it on my tombstone. There is no confidant beside
Maria. Her imperfections made her perfect. She was comfortable with
herself. She knew she wasn’t flawless, only she didn’t let the
world know it. And she could have been mine had I just offered
myself to her as she offered herself to me. If I had the chance to
do it all over again—from our very first date in Central Park—no,
from the moment we first spoke at that goddamn high school dance—I
would reveal my true essence to her.

I ponder how Maria and I would’ve turned out
had I been true to her. And I don’t mean faithful in the sexual
sense of the word. I mean truly devoted to her as a lover and
friend, as someone to grow old with. I lay on my bed a lot, mulling
it over. All of those wonderful moments we shared could have been
certified by truth and love. I believe that had I chosen to be my
true self, Maria and I would be in love and married at this
moment.

But what is love? Is it a blessing from the
heavens, a state of unanimity that may be experienced by only two
people on Earth who may or may not find one another? Or is it the
Devil’s hex, a wicked prank that brings people together under some
evil guise for the sole purpose of procreating more pawns to play
the joke on?

I doubt very much that either of these
postulations is true. What’s more likely is that there’s no
distinctive God or Devil, but rather a singular creator and
destroyer who laughs as humans run around the planet like chickens
without heads, not knowing what the fuck to make of all that
happens around them. No good. No evil. Just a spectrum of emotions
and sensations that drive even the tamest people to do the most
insane things, some too good, some too bad.

I’m the proof. I know that I’m not a
bad
person. But I feel no
good
within me. I feel
nothing. I am the creator’s lost son, discharged to Earth to endure
every unit of the spectrum, good and bad alike, finally settling on
my mean. I’ve always considered myself an atheist, but I think I’m
more spiritual now than ever before.

I still remember learning about a chemical
called Argon in Mr. Dick’s Physics class. It is an inert chemical,
meaning it does not react with anything else. It’s just there, in
the air—

—and I’m just there, too. I move, and yet I
am immobile; I hear and yet I am deaf; I speak and yet I am mute.
For this reason, since I can’t possibly interact with anyone even
if I wanted to.

I am always alone. People speak to me, but—I
swear to God—I don’t hear them. Their voices are just resonations,
echoes. I don’t know whether they notice or not, but I do. I say
something—I feel my mouth move—but I barely know exactly what will
come out next. And I don’t care. It’s like being constantly drunk,
only with no side effects other than that the intoxication never
ends. I’ve been drunk. Usually, I enjoy being drunk. But nobody
wants to be drunk each second of every goddamn day. For once I’d
just like to be sober, both in thought and in mood.