Little Boy

by Anthony Prato

  “Oh, do you have a girlfriend?”

  Quick as lightening: “No!” Down, boy, down. “I mean no, no I don’t.”

  “Wow. Central Park! I’ve never been there on a date or anything.”

  “I’ll take you, Maggie. Just name the day and I’ll take you.” She was all smiles. I felt better than I had in months. I really felt like I could show her a whole new world out there.

  “You live fifteen minutes away, and you’ve never been there?”

  “No,” she said. “But I can’t wait to go with you.” She looked up at me and smiled.

  “And you’ve never been there, right?”

  “No, papi, I’m tellin’ you,” she insisted. I loved her accent! She was so fucking hot.

  Maggie seemed interested in my conversation as well as my looks. Her little eyelashes flapped. Her smile revealed a string of pearls. Her face beamed. She probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d bent her over the trash can and fucked her right there on the boulevard. Sounds dirty, huh? But trust me—those are the kinds of looks she was giving me. Even though I knew I could make a move anytime, I just stood there, talking and laughing. I don’t know why, but I continued to ramble on, waiting for the right moment. “You remind me of this plane used in World War II, the Consolidated B-24 Liberator.”

  “Huh?”

  “I told you, I’m really into jets and planes.”

  “You did? Oh yea,” she giggled.

  “And some people,” I said, only people I like, remind me of different aircraft. The Liberator was a neat and compact jet. Just like you.”

  “What did the Liberator do?” I was so pleased to hear her ask that question. Other girls had asked it. But not in that accent!

  “It was the priMegan long-range bomber aircraft of the U. S. Army Air Force during the second world war. It was mass-produced. They made over eighteen-thousand of them.” She didn’t give a rat’s ass about my love of planes, but at least she faked some interest, and that’s what felt so marvelous.

  “Cool,” she responded. “I can learn a lot from you. You’re real smart.”

  I thought: There’s a lot more besides planes that you can learn from me. I said: “I’m real smart?”

  “Si, estas muy inteligente.”

  “Soy muy inteligente,” I said, proudly.

  “No,” she corrected me. “Estoy…”

  “Estoy muy inteligente,” I said.

  “Si, muy bueno,” she approved.

  Magdalena looked up at the stars and blew a ring of smoke. The train rumbled below and

  shook the sidewalk. I placed my arm around Magdalena and kissed her.

  Chapter 18

  Critical Mass

  Easter Sunday was two days later. Like most Catholic families in Queens, our family began the day in church at ten in the morning. Sitting in the pews as the choir bellowed its festive, joyous songs—Haaaaaallelujah! Haaaaaallelujah!

  As the music shook me, I felt a mix of joy and sorrow, of accomplishment and regret.

  Hallelujah! I exploded into Maggie, just as I had in the back seat of my Skylark on Good Friday. In my head I heard her screaming with ecstasy as my body tingled in nervous delight. Echoes of two naked strangers sharing a guilty pleasure in the middle of the night danced in my head. You’d think having sex with a girl like Maggie would feel lewd—but no. She was as sweet and innocent and fresh-smelling as Maria on New Year’s Eve. That night, she was the sweetest girl in the world.

  Hallelujah! As awesome as it was, I couldn’t help but feel dirty. In retrospect, no other night has ever killed me like that one did. In that church, the one I’d been going to all my life, grief enveloped me with each passing moment. It smacked me in the face at the peak of the ceremony, as the last rows of parishioners stood up to receive their communion. Although I seldom attended mass, when I did go, I received communion. Not that day. I was so caught up in my thoughts—the scent of Maggie’s body, the grip of her hands, and an choking guilt—that I neglected to rise as communion was handed out.

  Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Halleeehhhhhh-lujaaaahhhh!

  And then, during the moment of silence between the end of communion and the beginning of the closure of the ceremony, I reached critical mass. As I knelt before the altar staring into a crucified Jesus, I sensed something that I hadn’t experienced throughout the duration of my relationship with Maria: GUILT.

  Perplexed by that emotion, I raced out the church door and lit a cigarette. When you guys approached me amidst the crowd that had just been let out, I was lost in a state of confusion, ensconced by haze of smoke. “You have to go pick up Maria soon,” Dad said. “We’d better get going.” I smashed the cigarette butt underneath my heel and followed my family back to the car.

  A few hours later Maria and I were driving along the Interboro Parkway, en route to Fresh Meadows. We were silent but happy. I tried not to think about Magdalena. Again, I was conflicted by thoughts of her soft lips and the look on Maria’s face if she only knew. But I tried not to think about that stuff.

  We spent the day sitting in the living room, surrounded by the vertical mirrors and the sweet smell of cranberry juice. That was your substitute for Rum and Coke at the time, wasn’t it Mom? See, I remember. I still wasn’t speaking to you much. We’d progressed from cold stares to icy silence to obligatory idol chatter in the company of others. I also remember you repeatedly sidling up to Maria. I think you were genuinely interested in getting to know her, and I appreciated that. Dad, you were a saint, helping Maria feel comfortable by talking to her throughout the afternoon. Tracy, Daddy’s Little Girl, you followed his lead and chatted with Maria about makeup and clothes and music.

  Not surprisingly, Maria was respectful and polite. She nodded and smiled, said please and thank you, and laughed politely at your jokes, and even helped with the dishes. The afternoon sped by. It went surprisingly well. Maria liked everyone, and everyone liked Maria. And Mom, when you settled the obligatory Easter Sunday banquet bottle of white wine on the ornamented dinner table, you steadily poured each of her guests a full glass. You then poured yourself a glass of sparkling water for yourself. I was still so lost in thought back then that I couldn’t even feel proud of you.

  We toasted. Raising my glass above my lamb chops and mashed potatoes, superficially honoring a God I didn’t believe in, I uttered a brief but eloquent remark: I said: “To the resurrection of our souls in times of hardship.” I thought: What the fuck am I doing with my life?

  ***

  Soon after dessert, I drove Maria back to Ridgewood. On the way we had a spirited discussion about the movie Rocky. Maria insisted that Rocky Balboa won the first Rocky. But he didn’t. He lost to Apollo Creed. I told her, “He didn’t win until the end of Rocky II.” But she didn’t believe me. “I’m gonna prove it to you someday,” I said, smiling.

  Parked in front of her house, holding hands, Maria and I shared a peaceful love. Perhaps encouraged by the moment, Maria suggested that we visit her grandfather, a man she’d mentioned but I’d never met. “He’s home alone today, you know,” she said. “I’d love to go and see him, just for a little while. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks.” For the first time in months, I was compelled to do what Maria requested.

  Grandpa Della Verita. That’s what she called him. What a mouthful, huh? It took her almost a half hour to say it, but it was worth it. I thought it was cute that she called her grandparents by their last names just like I did. We still had so much in common, Maria and I.

  I placed my arm around her and smiled proudly as the door creaked open. “Grandpa Della Verita!” Maria beamed, arms open wide, eagerly hugging him. He was hunched over at first, but the elation of the moment seemed to raise his spirits and his posture. After hearing his name, his ears perked. Maria reintroduced me—proudly—and Grandpa Della Verita reach over and firmly shook my hand. And then, he began to talk, and talk, and talk. It was just as Maria had described the previous spring. As Grandpa Della Verita spoke, he was rejuvenated. Sevent
y-seven years old, he had one lung, one kidney, and was deaf in one ear. He had just quit smoking cigarettes about a month before I met him. But you’d never have known all this by the way he acted and spoke.

  I listened to him as a loyal caporegime would his Godfather. I was awe-struck by his presence. Grandpa Della Verita had a soft face dressed with only two wrinkles, each extending from his ear to his nose, straight across his cheek bone, and two crystal blue eyes. He had about nine strings of hair, each slicked backward, and two giant ears, each with an earlobe that looked like a steak. Donning an oversized black suit and floppy bow tie, you’d think he was a Mob wiseguy—come to think of it, he probably was—who had just joined the Mafia circus. His hands and neck were elongated and veiny. You could see his bones through his thin waxy skin.

  The more he spoke, the more comfortable I felt. He walked us into his living room and invited us to sit down. The plastic-covered couch sang a wheezy tune as I sank into it. Maria sat beside me, and politely introduced me to her Grandpa, who sat before us on a black, velvety stuffed chair.

  “Maria’s told me a lot about you,” he said, with an Italian accent as thick as my mother’s tomato sauce. I was startled. Prior to that evening, Maria hadn’t mentioned that she spoke to him about me. That’s okay, I thought, Maria doesn’t have to tell me everything. That thought is painful for me to recollect now. But back then, at the precise moment I had it, I felt a sense of relief that had eluded me for almost a year. I truly loved Maria at that moment. I know for a fact that had things not wound up happening soon after, I would have never cheated on Maria, or yelled at her, or questioned her again.

  Imbued by this new-found spiritual flow, I smiled at Grandpa Della Verita as he continued: “I’m not a well-liked man, A.J. That surprises you, huh? You think everybody’s gotta love a sweet old man? Not so.” His chin sank and he waved his finger before my face, shamefully, as if I’d just peed on his carpet. Where the fuck was he going with this? “Well, not everyone likes me, A.J. I’m a bitter old man, and people see it in my eyes. I’m so bitter that it’s often difficult speak to others without recalling distasteful memories. I have reason to be this way. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, just like Sinatra says—Maria, what’s that song by Sinatra, the one where he mentions his mistakes and so forth?”

  “My Way,” Maria answered, anticipating his next sentence.

  “Yes,” he exclaimed, excitedly, as excitedly as an old Italian man with one lung could. “My Way. Like Sinatra says in that song—Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.” He took a deep breath, and whistled as he exhaled. “Well, I’ve had too few regrets to mention. Like you’re grandfather, I’m sure, I’ve lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Kennedy Assassination, a thousand historical events that you kids couldn’t possibly comprehend.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’ve also lived through some personal tragedies, most of which I regret deeply. A failed marriage, a lifetime of cigarette smoking, a few extra-marital affairs that my son has no knowledge of.” Another deep, wheezing breath. I felt a damp plume of sweet sambuca engulf me as he exhaled. Maria was still smiling, frozen, and beet-red. “None of these things is worth mentioning or even thinking about. And yet I think about them all the time. Hell, I’m an old fart, so why bother, you may ask. But I do think about them, A.J. I ponder them day-in, day-out. I live each day carrying a cross called regret.

  “You don’t know what regret is, you’re too damn young. From what Maria tells me you’re the kind of young man that’s never tasted remorse, grief, or sorrow. As a man sixty years your senior, I must warn you, A.J.—and please don’t take this as a sign of disrespect: Regret is just around the corner.

  “From what my son tells me, you’re a shoe-in for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He’s recommended you highly, I know that. He has faith in you. Maria has faith in you. And, frankly, so do I. But when she comes to me every week, and chats with me and reminds me to take my medicine”—he winked at Maria and reconnected with my eyes without missing a beat—she always says, in so many words, ‘I love A.J., Grandpa. But why does he have to act this way sometimes?’ And I wonder what to say to her. And I wondered this for a long time. But now that I’ve met you—and I like you, A.J., don’t get me wrong—I’ve decided that I don’t have to say anything to her. It’s you I need to speak to.

  “Maria is a special girl, A.J. Not special in the workaday sense of the word, but truly special. She’s done the laundry and studied for tests as she listened to her drunken pop bellow incomprehensible commands at her mother. He has his demons, as do I. And he’ll regret allowing those demons to thrive most of his life once he’s my age, if he lives to be that long. But at least he’s trying now to slay his demons while he still has the strength…” Grandpa Della Verita trailed off and lifted a cigar from the crystal ashtray beside him. He placed the cigar between his thin lips and lighted it with a wooden match.

  Dry as as the Sahara, my mouth remained motionless and speechless as I attempted repeatedly to swallow. My throat closed up and it seemed as if it would never reopen.

  “Listen, A.J. I don’t mean to bore or frighten you. I don’t mean to ramble on. I’m just an old man, like I said. Maria’s told me a lot about you, and, being a contemplative old man, I can’t resist the chance to think about you and try to rescue your potential. You seem to be afraid of my granddaughter, afraid of her past, afraid of her mistakes. Perhaps even afraid of her future. Well, let me give you some advice…” He leaned forward and sat on the edge of the chair.

  “Don’t be. Instead, be her hero. Be a man. Don’t be her keeper, but don’t go AWOL. Moderate yourself. Listen to her every word patiently, sympathetically, because, not too long from now, I won’t be around to do it. Humor me for a moment, and allow me to give you one last snippet of advice: Don’t be afraid of little Maria. Don’t do too much of anything. Relax. Enjoy life. Enjoy Maria, life’s gift to you. Don’t allow petty fears to pollute your love.

  “In short, to borrow a phrase you’ll hear many times over the next few years: At ease, L’Enfant.”

  Dumfounded, I gently extended my hand toward the old man, and he shook it firmly with his callused paw. “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I knew this morning at mass that this was a unique day, a day of transition, of rekindling. I didn’t know why until just now. This morning I felt guilt, a guilt that, possibly, could have lasted a lifetime. I was unaware of its meaning. You’ve given me the spark I need to slay my demon, sir. To kill the hate. And to give to both myself and Maria what we’re worthy of accepting: a new A.J. L’Enfant.”

  Maria and I departed Grandpa’s apartment in silence. Old A.J. would have been disgusted with Maria for divulging secrets about me to others. New A.J., however, placed his hand on her face and simply said, “Maria, I love you very much.”

  I hadn’t said that to Maria for the longest time.

  ***

  I asked Maggie out the next evening. I resolved to meet her in Central Park, confess my love for Maria, and end it with that. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t end it without bringing her to Central Park, even if it was to break up with her.

  We sat on the very same spot that Maria and I had sat the previous spring. Maggie looked around, up at the Elms and London Plane trees, and at the glistening water. “It’s so beautiful,” she sighed. From where we were, I could see the giant pine in the distance that bore mine and Maria’s initials. It had been a long time since I’d been there on my first date with Maria. It had also been so long since I’d really been with a girl, really had a plan to impress her.

  I reached over and rubbed Maggie’s bare shoulder. She leaned across the blanket and nestled her body into my arms. I was so happy. There was nothing in particular about Maggie that I liked; but the idea of introducing her to something new really made me happy. It had only been a few days since we met, but I felt like I’d known Maggie for a long time. I really enjoyed hearing about her life, and her family. She wasn’t
as dumb as I’d thought.

  Still, I remember being all set to break up with her. I swear to God that I was. But in the few hours we were together that afternoon in the park, I really grew to like her. Old A.J. would have liked her so much that he’d fuck her. New A.J., however, liked her so much that he had to confess the truth.

  I was about to start talking, to start explaining the situation with Maria, when I grew too worried to speak. It wasn’t even about Maria finding out, or Maggie getting angry when I told her the truth. I was worried about having unprotected sex in the back seat of my car. Disease and pregnancy didn’t enter my mind around the corner from Kearney’s, on 46th Street, where we fucked in a drunken stupor. But now I knew I’d never see Maggie again. Terrified that I’d gotten a disease, or worse, would transact one to Maria unknowingly, nervous jitters overwhelmed my body. It was a warm day and yet I shook. I had to end these worries. I had to probe a bit.