Little Boy

by Anthony Prato

  The same scenario took place, and tens of thousands more were killed and wounded, by the second atomic bomb dropped on Nagasaki, three days later. Unlike Little Boy, the second plane didn’t hit its target directly. But it still caused thousands of deaths. Combined, they facilitated the end of World War II.

  The book went on to state that the war might not have carried on too much longer even had President Truman not ordered the atomic bombing of those two Japanese cities. However, in the interim, hundreds of thousands of American soldiers might have died in an inevitable land invasion on Japan. A few years after the war, President Eisenhower said the bomb was unnecessary, that Japan was about to surrender anyway. Imagine if that were true: The U. S. killed hundreds of thousands of innocent souls for naught; just as punishment, I suppose, for the stuff that the Japanese government did during the war.

  History, unfortunately, has a cruel way of only telling what did happen, and not what might have happened. Did Little Boy and its counterpart three days later kill hundreds of thousands to save hundreds of thousands? We will never know.

  The mass destruction caused by Little Boy fascinated me, as did the entire story behind it. Among the many vivid details of these explosive events, most striking was what Captain Robert Lewis, the co-pilot, wrote in his journal that morning: “As the bomb exploded, we saw the entire city disappear. I wrote in my log, ‘My God, what have we done?’”

  My God, what have we done?

  My mind now flips between the corresponding events of that mission—the dropping of the bomb Little Boy in an effort to win a war, and Robert Lewis’s departing words: “My God, what have we done?” I couldn’t help but feel connected to him, this pilot that was not much older than me way back then. I repeated those words—“My God, what have we done?”—silently and intently to myself alone in my room late one night. My God, what have we done…My God, what have we done?

  I began thinking: My God, what have I done?

  I wanted to go back in time, to the morning of August 6, 1945. If I could, I would’ve ripped the pencil from Robert Lewis’s hand and prevented him from asking that question. He had no right to do so. He was just following orders. He was only doing his job.

  That’s my question! I thought. I AM LITTLE BOY!

  That’s all I thought about then, that’s all I think about now—I am the real Enola Gay. I am Little Boy. I could’ve been a man. I could’ve learned from my mistakes as they sprang up—I made them each and every goddamn day—and each one could’ve become a valuable lesson rather than a fire that shortened an ever-shrinking fuse. I could’ve extinguished the fire before it scorched my face and Maria’s, before it scalded our love into a state of disrepair. Mine was a war against myself that I’d never won. It still is.

  Few thoughts dominate my condition as do those of that World War II military plane and its connection to my existence. The story of Little Boy and the Enola Gay has sparked an unconscious obsession to study and contemplate and predict what a loving and remarkable relationship Maria and I were destined to have were it not for my inhuman treatment of her.

  These are the thoughts which shall hold me locked in place for the rest of my life. I will no longer think about her past—only what I am, and what we could have been.

  Chapter 20

  My Last Cigarette

  As you know, I never did get into the Air Force Academy.

  To this day, I don’t know whether or not Maria’s father canceled his letter of recommendation for me. Perhaps, upon seeing the tears on his daughter’s face, Mr. Della Verita called up Colorado Springs and told them what scum I was. Perhaps not. I’ll never know.

  The summer after senior year, instead of packing for the Academy, I got back my old deli job at Key Food and enrolled in Hunter College in Manhattan. But I never did find myself. And I didn’t bother to reapply to the Academy, either. Instead, traveling on the subway each and every goddamn day into the city, disgusted by the yuppie scum and winos surrounding me, I imagined myself shooting through the skies in a B-1 Bomber. Cornering the subway tunnels, screeching to a halt at each stop, more often than not my eyes swelled with tears with the thought that my flying career was over—and yet it had never begun. I took the same train that Maria and I took when we went to Central Park, the R train. Often, I search for her on the train, but I never find her.

  I didn’t make many friends in college. I strolled around the hallways with my head down, never bothering to talk to anybody, continuously replaying the events of that single year Maria and I had spent together.

  One person I did meet was Megan. Like I said before, most of the time we didn’t hang out together, but we studied with each other on occasion.

  Megan impressed me. Not so much her looks but her personality. She was a sweet kid, kind of nerdy. When I passed by her, with my face anchored to the pavement, she’d tap me on the shoulder and greet me with a cute, angelic smile on her face. She didn’t seem to mind that other people thought she was weird for speaking to me. I know that they thought that, too. Megan used to say, jokingly, that I was the Invisible Man, but she had a special ability to see me. I always insisted that she was delusional, and she responded by smiling.

  For one reason or another, Megan was very friendly toward me. In the library, when I went off to make a photocopy or check-out a book, Megan would leave cute little notes in my bag that said “hi ” or “how are you? ” It was weird behavior, if you ask me. But I suppose it was nice to be noticed.

  We had our ups and downs, Megan and I, like I’ve already described. After the Deck the Halls Ball we didn’t speak for months. Still, I always felt that eventually she would call me. Even though I was wasted and out of control, I was sure she thought being defended in front of The Plaza was romantic. By the time summer rolled around—the summer right after my freshman year and her sophomore year—we’d become reacquainted. She called me a few times in Queens, begging me to go see a movie or get some pizza. I always said no. I usually said no and ended the conversation quickly, because I always preferred to stay in my room and watch the game. I’d sit in there and smoke cigarettes one after the other like a fiend. Alone, lying on my bed, in my smoky room, I’d think all about Maria. Either that or I’d watch TV or listen to the radio, trying to get her out of my mind. Trying like hell to think of her, trying like hell not to think of her—that was my life, day-in, day-out. A spectator would’ve thought I was a lonely guy, but I wasn’t. I actually enjoyed hibernating in there, with nothing but cigarettes as my friends, and my TV as my confidant. You guys were worried about me. And I want to take a moment to say thank you for coming to my room, and asking me if you could help in any way. You didn’t know what had happened, at least not all of it, but you responded with kindness and patience.

  On one such murky, hazy late night, as Frank Sinatra was just beginning to sing at the end of the Yankee game, Megan called me up and said she had a great idea. “Why don’t we go to Central Park tomorrow?” Central Park? I thought. I’m there. Immediately I knew fate wanted me back at the place Maria and I fell in love. It was my destiny. “Lemme check the schedule,” I said. The Yankees weren’t playing until seven the next day so I’d be home in time for the game.

  “Don’t say no, A.J.! You’re coming out with me!”

  “Okay, babe. I don’t mind traveling into the city even though school’s out. It’ll be fun.” I sighed.

  I still can’t believe I said yes.

  ***

  …So there we were, Megan and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of New York’s Central Park. We were exhausted after having walked all over Manhattan, chatting incessantly. Don’t ask me why, but despite my previous reticence I’d decided to talk to Megan a lot, at least at first. I guess what all of that talking confirmed for me was that Megan was not Maria. And it’s funny, because I didn’t even contemplate her being The One until I decided that she wasn’t. Nevertheless, it was a disappointing discovery.

  But by late afternoon, I was so bored. I reall
y did feel like strangling myself. About to bolt, Megan broached a topic that I loathed to consider: our plans for the future.

  Megan had recently decided to apply to law school. She was really excited about it. And she must have thought that I cared about it, too, because she became enthusiastic about it and delved into the topic in great depth.

  Trying to feign interest, trying not to fall asleep, I looked up at the trees above. They were beautiful. “Hello,” I said to the trees, silently. “Remember me? I used to visit you with another woman, a beautiful woman named Maria.” I started humming “Maria” from West Side Story. The canvas of leaves and branches did not respond.

  Muh-reee-uh! The canopy was so tight and motionless that the little light piercing through appeared more like twinkling stars than sun rays. Muh-reee-uh! The dinning and humming of the traffic and people created a bustling wall of silence that separated me from Megan and everything beyond the tress.

  Hoods and yuppies and weirdos walked by us, rushing in one direction or another. They seemed happy, so I peered at them in disgust. As Megan chatted away, I thought: None of them know what I’m feeling, and none of them could possibly understand my condition. I studied each passer-by intently, searching for reasons to hate them. I heard the rumble of a Concorde in the sky above, probably on its way to Paris, glanced at it in disgust, and returned my gaze to the pathway before me.

  That’s when I saw Maria.

  She hurried by Megan and me; she made eye contact with neither of us. I wanted to run up to her and ask what she was doing there in Central Park that day. Oh, my dear, sweet Maria, did you travel into the city in hopes of finding our initials in our tree? Did you recognize me on the subway ride that morning, hoping to confront me one last time, and spit in my face?—or shoot me?—or hug me? Yes, that’s it! Maybe you saw me on the R train and wanted to declare that you’d finally read my poem and desired to be my present love once again? Sweating, I contemplated these and other questions for a few moments. I never unearthed the answers, though, because, upon my second look, Maria had vanished.

  I tensed-up. My flesh turned cold and hard. My body hair stood on end. The homeless man reappeared, the one that was singing A Hard Day’s Night just a few moments before. I could have sworn I heard him change his tune, and begin singing—yelling, actually—the words to The Long and Winding Road.

  How does he know? I wondered. How does he know?

  Did Maria spitefully give him a buck and request that song after noticing me on the bench with Megan? I hated her for doing that. And I felt as if all of Central Park’s visitors were covering their mouths, smothering their giggles, not because they were happy, but because they were laughing at me. As I sat on that goddamn bench, with a goddamn girl I didn’t want to be with. The sounds of the park became a drum playing a slow roll, taunting me, mocking me.

  Most distinctive in my left ear was that bum singing that goddamn song; most distinctive in my right was the little, stupid conclusion to what was until that moment Megan’s soliloquy.

  “So, that’s it,” she said, “I really want to be a corporate attorney. My dad’s not just a Deacon. He’s an attorney, too, but he works mostly on cases involving very poor people. It’s not like we’re rich or anything. He said I should shoot for something better, for a job where I can not only have my own office and make good money, but also defend high class people. The money’s not that important to me, though. I won’t owe much after college, because I’m in the Air Force ROTC program at Hunter, and it pays most of my tuition.”

  My ears perked. I felt as if I’d been given a steroid injection.

  “I never mentioned that I was in the ROTC, did I? I guess that sometimes I’m sort of embarrassed about it, you know, because I couldn’t afford to go to school without it. And I never had much of an interest in the Air Force. To be honest, I really just do it for the financial aid. It’s not bad, though; I get to fly planes at Camden Air Force Base in Jersey. It’s pretty cool. And when I graduate from college in a few years, I have to serve in the Air Force for a while. But that’s okay. I heard that it’s good to take a few years off after college before you go to graduate or law school. It should be a good experience. Hey, didn’t you mention once that you were really into planes and stuff? A.J.? A.J.—are you all right?”

  She’s in the ROTC? Megan’s a fucking pilot? The blaring drum roll engulfed my trembling body. It was anticipating something or another, though I didn’t know just what.

  Megan sounded so—what’s the word I’m looking for?—sure. Sure about herself and about her plans for a bright future. She was confident, but not cocky; happy, but not idealistic. There was nothing about her that I could have possibly hated that moment, and that’s precisely why I loathed her so. That’s why I didn’t respond for a few moments, hoping she’d think that I wasn’t listening, that I didn’t give a shit about her goddamn plans. She’s a tease, I thought. But what she was teasing with exactly, I had no idea.

  She was as confident and hopeful as my old friends from high school seemed to be. And it killed me. I thought of all of them at that moment. Kyle and Paul and Rick and Mike—they’re all doing well. Kyle, currently the youngest DJ in the history of Long Island’s WNHR, is destined to be a famous comedian, I’m sure. He always managed to be crass and make people laugh without offending and harming people, and now on his morning show he’s being paid to do just that. Paul’s doing an internship with Chase Manhattan Bank this summer. I guess those extra math classes finally paid off. Mike’s the editor of New York University’s daily newspaper—a first for a freshman—and he reviews two movies per week. His dream is to review movies for the Daily News, and I have no doubt he’ll realize it soon. Rick’s at the New York Restaurant School, majoring in restaurant management. He co-manages a bar in Greenwich Village part-time between classes.

  And Maria? Well, I ran into Lynn last month on the R-train and she updated me on Maria’s life.

  “So, A.J.,” she said, “where are you going on the R-train at 8 a.m.? To morning work out at the Air Force Academy?” She chortled, vindictively, like the Wicked Witch of the West as she set upon Dorothy’s ruby slippers. But I had no lightening to zap her away.

  “No, I go to Hunter College now. I decided to take a year off before the Academy.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “What are you doing on the subway so early? Gonna catch a train in Grand Central and head up to Saratoga to race?”

  Unfazed by my sarcasm, she responded: “No, actually, I’m on my way to a bridal shop on Central Park South. I’m going to be a bride’s maid in a beautiful June wedding. June 21st, to be exact—the first day of spring. Isn’t that romantic?” She spoke as if there was a viper up her sleeve.

  “Not really,” I said. “I think marriage is a waste of time, no matter what month it’s in.”

  “But don’t you want to know who the bride is?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She smiled. “Maria.”

  My heart fell to the subway’s filthy floor. I stared at the ground and searched but it had already degenerated. The train screeched to a halt at the Fifth Avenue and 59th Street stop. Ding-dong went the bell, signaling everyone to board or get off. “Toodle-oo,” I heard her say. I looked up and she was gone.

  To this day I have no clue if Lynn was telling the truth or not. Hell, what are the odds that Maria got engaged and was about to get married all in a little over a year? Regardless, it stung. Regardless, it made me realize how much of a shmuck I really was, how pathetic I was.

  I used to think I was so cool. But the more I reflect on my mistakes, the more obvious it becomes that I was a putz. I think a lot about Maria getting married, wearing that beautiful white dress, and how she told her new husband what an asshole her ex-boyfriend was. I think a lot about the time that Mike and Rick dumped water on my head, how Kyle reacted so coolly as I screamed in anger. Only now do I realize that they weren’t laughing at us. They were laughing at me. All of these realizations an
d thoughts struck me like lightning bolts at that moment in Strawberry Fields.

  Megan remained silent, wondering what the hell had just shaken me. I ignored her as every second of the plan Maria and I never shared together exploded before my eyes—every detail that I’ve just described, every memory that should have been. It’s been a long time since Maria and I met at that dance, well over a year since we laughed and played and talked near the pond in Central Park. One year condensed right before my eyes, like a movie on a giant screen, with Dolby surround sound. I was all alone watching that movie, as sure as I was alone in the blackness of my room each night watching the baseball game.