Her mother’s car purred through the driveway at just that moment, declaring a truce. “Aren’t you serving dessert, Gold?” Patsy said, and turned on her heel.
I followed her downstairs.
Not more than half a dozen words passed between us as we spooned up the softened ice cream. I don’t know what she was thinking about. But I knew she was thinking. I also knew it was hopeless to try to second-guess her. I would just have to be ready for her.
But when the ice cream and brownies were gone, it seemed neither of us could think of anything to say. Which made it a good time to say good night. We gravitated to the back door and stood in the charged place where the warm and cold air exchanged greetings. It wasn’t all that late, but it was dark. And really cold. We didn’t hurry ourselves, though, there was a funny little gap that needed to be filled.
I said, “Want to go to a movie with me? Say, Wednesday night?”
“Wednesday?”
“The teachers have an administration day on Thursday, remember?”
“No school. I know.” Patsy gave me one of those size-you-up looks. “I like that.”
“What?”
“You’re not playing it cool.”
“By Wednesday you could be going with somebody else,” I said. Like Biff.
She said, “So. Wednesday. A movie.”
Patsy didn’t turn to go. We stood there, looking at the frosty glaze that was laying itself over the driveway, at the light burning in her kitchen window. Our eyes met once, accidentally, and we were caught in a kind of I-dare-you stare. I was afraid I would be the first to look away, so I leaned down and touched my lips lightly to hers.
It had a kind of elegance. Not touching except for our lips. “Seemed like a good idea to get that out of the way. Now there’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“Were you nervous?” Her voice shook ever so slightly.
“First times are always nervous.” Vinnie Gold made it sound sophisticated.
“ ’Night, Vinnie.”
It wasn’t my imagination. She was trembling too. Of course, it might’ve had to do with standing in the cold with only the sweater to keep her warm.
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
I shut the door as soon as she reached her own back door. The trembling had collected itself dead center in my belly and the muscles were working themselves up to actual spasms. I felt short of breath, my heart was banging against the walls of my chest, like I was standing in a large body of water. You can say what you want. But it was there in the way she looked at Vinnie Gold. He was winning her over.
THIRTY-FIVE
It was hard to say why I found that idea so unsettling. Whether Vinnie won her affections or Vincenzo had her ear even as we entered college and went on to grad school, I was in a win-win situation here, right?
If things went well on Wednesday evening, I could give her a Valentine’s Day card and quit calling. So why did I feel torn? Why did I feel for Vincenzo? Why was I pulling for him as if he would lose something if Vinnie succeeded? And why did I feel Patsy had somehow disappointed us? Me.
I didn’t know, but that’s how it was.
At midnight, I dialed.
“You could’ve told me there’s no H in the Italian alphabet.”
“That would have been self-defeating.” Very smug, that Vincenzo.
“I know about the others, Leonardo.”
“Others?” She sounded like she’d been crying again. Stuffed up. A little alarming, considering I’d just spent a couple of hours with her.
It suddenly occurred to me that she might care more about Biff than I thought. She kissed me, sure, but so what? People kiss other people all the time, they date other people, at least until somebody is going steady with somebody else.
“K, X, and Y, W, too.”
“Where are you getting your information?”
“From somebody who just says what’s on his mind. It’s refreshing.” Stuffed up and in a pissy mood.
“You don’t say.” I wasn’t sure which way this conversation was about to go. “Are we going to fight?”
“We don’t have to. You could take me to the Valentine’s Day dance, Luigi.”
“Hasn’t Biff asked you?” But I was gentle. I really was.
“That isn’t his name. It’s what you—”
“I know, I know. The jerk who wouldn’t let you out of his car.”
“He wouldn’t do that again.”
“What do you think he does for an encore?”
Click.
Did she have hopes that Biff would turn out to be a great guy? No, it just couldn’t be that. She was smarter than that.
I allowed myself one exasperated sigh, then dialed again. “You aren’t crying about Biff, are you?” My throat tightened, and I could taste salt on my tongue.
“Stop calling him that.”
“Or anybody … else, right?”
“I’d tell you, Mario. You know I would.”
“I don’t find that particularly reassuring.” And then I felt a little smile start. “We’re skipping to Ms?”
“One letter per call.”
“So the tears are for …”
“Look, I shouldn’t be talk—I should never have said anything about my parents. About the problem they’re having.”
“I’m an obscene caller. Are we worried about my opinion?”
She said, “I don’t think you’re, like, a hopeless case.”
Ordinarily I might have taken advantage of the chance to tease her, even jog her into hanging up. But I heard this little quaver in her voice. I said, “Thanks.”
We gave it a moment. She said, “You haven’t done this before, have you?”
“Nope. You’re the first.”
“And the last?”
“I doubt obscene callers generally find this kind of reception.”
“I’m not sure that’s the answer I was looking for.”
“You mean you’re hoping I’ll make a career of—?”
“Never mind. I’m not in the mood for the way you twist things around.”
“Me? I’m the twister?”
“Your parents are divorced, right?”
“Right.”
“So okay, given that you know parents have a life outside of being parents, what do you think of—” She broke off with a little sigh. “You already know. One of them having an affair.”
“What do I think of it? Well. It happens.” I thought I knew what she wanted to hear and came out with something I thought sounded nearly profound. “Lots of men do this sort of thing—”
“Shut up!”
I did. I should have quit while I was ahead.
“You’re wrong. My dad would never—” She began to sob. She didn’t even try to hide it. Then she hung up.
I sat in the darkness. Clearly, I was a total jerk. I thought about calling back. Decided against it.
Then I dialed.
“What?” she said through her tears.
“I apologize.”
Silence.
“No wisecracks. Just, I’m sorry.”
“It’s really nice to hear someone say that, Nino.”
I wondered if she was thinking of a line from the movie we’d just watched. I had to make out like it meant nothing to me. “Nino, huh? You’re making real progress tonight.”
If she’d baited a little trap that didn’t catch me, she didn’t linger over it in disappointment. She said, “You have to tell me if I at least get to the right letter. That’s one of our rules, isn’t it?”
“It gets easier,” I said, not quite ready to go back to being flippant. “About your parents, I mean.”
“Is that what happened—”
“Not exactly. But it’s hard to know one of the most important people in your life is hurting the other one.”
“What do you do?”
“Watch. It has a horrible fascination.” My voice thickened and I waited for the tears to retreat. “After a while, you find something else to focus on.”
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“That’s like something one of my friends said. That if she was in love, she didn’t pay any attention to what her parents were doing.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It doesn’t always happen that people turn up right when you need them.”
“You turned up.”
I swear my heart twisted like someone turned a knife in it. It hurt like that. It was strangely good. She had found something in our talks to help her. Me too. We sort of depended on each other. Probably we depended on each other in a way we couldn’t if we were dating in the usual way.
The tears were not just an odd sound in my throat. I needed to give it a glib finish. “What you tell me goes no further. Obscene callers are like priests. And of course, my secrets are safe with you.”
“You’re not funny.” She was gentle. Sad. “Thanks, uh …”
“I think you can give it a rest till tomorrow.” You had to be on your toes with Patsy.
“It makes me feel better just to hear your voice.”
“I guess the thing to do next time I’m feeling obnoxious is, don’t say anything,” I said, teasing her.
Patsy sniffled and said, “Can I have your phone number?”
Tears hung suspended from my eyelashes. The effect was peculiar, like looking at everything from underwater. I could even feel the pressure on my chest. “Patsy—”
“I need to talk to you sometimes.”
“I’ll call you more often.” My chest ached with the need to come up for air.
“Sometimes I need to call you.” I could hardly hear her. I thought sound traveled so well underwater.
“I can’t give you my number.” This came out with a muted, garbled sound, like the escape of air bubbles. And I thought I heard her say “please.” “I would if I could.”
“But you won’t.” Her voice went flat, cold.
“Can’t,” I pleaded. “It’s different.”
“Not to me, it isn’t.”
“You know why that is?” I was angry all of a sudden. “You don’t see me as a person who lives twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day after I talk to you. You never think what these calls mean to me. Or what it might mean if you knew who I am. You just talk until you’ve said what you want to say, and if I’m not telling you what you want to hear—”
Click.
—you just hang up.
I guess I made my point.
THIRTY-SIX
Something she said really got to me, I guess. I could hardly sleep. I watched the clock record the passing of minutes. I dozed awhile, then woke to stare at the clock again.
I really wanted to be Patsy’s friend, not just over the phone, but sitting in class, standing in line in the cafeteria, riding the bus. I wanted Patsy to want me, Vinnie Gold, to give her a valentine. But I remember a conversation my parents had once when they were still getting along, still loved each other the way they were supposed to.
I was maybe ten, and they were just talking when my mom said, “Remember Paul?” and they both laughed. It was a little bit mean-sounding.
My impression was, Paul was a real clown. Which was what I called a jerk back then. So I asked, “Who’s Paul?”
And Mom said, “I dated him in high school.”
“You guys didn’t go to high school together, did you?” I was pretty sure. Mom was from Long Island and Dad was from Milwaukee.
“No, no,” Dad said. “But your mom told me about all her guys. I told her about all my girls.”
I was ten, so I shrugged, but it made an impression on me. And what I knew now, no matter what happened between me and Patsy from here on out, once she knew it was me making these calls, I would, someday far in the future, be the guy she remembered as someone who loved her, yeah—but what a clown.
I really didn’t want to be that guy.
And now it was too late to be any other.
The next morning I did just what Patsy asked, true to my word. I told Mr. B that she needed Italian names for an assignment. But he didn’t know that many Italian names.
“Let’s see. I had an uncle named Salvatore. My brother was named after our father, Roberto.”
Left to his own devices, he’d made breakfast—bread with a circle cut out of it and fried with an egg dropped into the empty circle.
“You can cook?”
“Sure, I cook,” he said. “I’ve been a bachelor a long time. But in my mother’s house, the wife cooked. And your mom was so excited about the kitchen, I thought she must love cooking. So I stopped when I got married.”
“Till this morning,” I said.
“I like eating,” Mr. B said. “Breakfast especially. Donuts are okay, but I need something to keep the chill off when I’m standing on that field. I need hot food.”
“Looks great.”
“There’s plenty here for all of us,” he said.
“So. Names?” I handed him two plates.
“There’s, uh, Mario and Giuseppe and Giovanni. You think that’s enough?”
“Sure. How many could she need?”
“What are you two talking about?” Mom asked as she whisked into the kitchen for a glass of juice.
Mr. B was still in pajamas. I was in my sweats, but I’d taken to sleeping in the ones I’d wear the next morning, so in a way, I was in pajamas too. Mom was already dressed for work, a little tornado of energy.
“The neighbor girl needs some Italian names for some project or other,” Mr. B answered, shrugging.
Packing her little travel bag with heels, appointment book, her purse, and the red thermos, Mom said, “Sounds like the project is to get closer to you, Vinnie.”
Actually, I’d meant to tell them I had a date with Patsy on Wednesday, but it felt weird now. Really weird. “I hardly know her,” I said, dipping into the cereal box I’d been munching from.
“That’s what I mean.” Mom noticed what I was doing. “Don’t eat standing up. And don’t eat straight out of the box.”
Mr. B set the plates on the table, where sliced tomatoes lay on a small cutting board. “Hungry?” he asked her.
“Not yet. I’ll get something at work.”
I sat down across from Mr. B, who forked a tomato slice onto the top of my egg and toast. He said, “I don’t see you making any friends, Vinnie. Are you getting along okay?”
“Fine,” I said, attacking my meal with knife and fork.
“Who’ve you been hanging around with?”
“Nobody in particular,” I said around the first delectable bite.
“Out of particular, then,” Mr. B said with a note of real concern.
Mom said, “Dom—”
“I’ve gotten to know a few kids,” I said quickly. “Just nobody I want to hang around with.”
“How about girls?”
“Dom!”
I stood up, downing the rest of the egg and half the fried bread in two quickly swallowed bites. “I’ll get around to girls,” I said as I dragged on my backpack. “I’m heading out for my run.”
“I’ll drive you to school,” Mr. B said, rising from the table.
“No. No. I’m still working up to being seen on the track.”
But I’d eaten too fast and my energy drained away as I jogged to the end of the block. I walked toward the bus stop. I saw Patsy there, and then I saw Biff coast up to the corner from the other side of the block.
The girls walked over to the car and talked to him for a minute. Even Patsy. Clearly, she had accepted an apology for Biff’s behavior. Did that mean she’d accept mine?
After a minute, she got into the car with him and he drove off. I could hardly believe my eyes. Okay, they were headed in the direction of the school. But he was history. Wasn’t he history? Does attempted rape get a second chance? Why didn’t she get him to find her some Italian names if she thought he was so terrific?
I couldn’t make myself go stand and wait for the bus and have to listen while Brown Bunny commented on this turn of events. I headed back the other way. Steamed, I kept on walking in the
wrong direction.
When I turned around, I was already late to school. I ran one block, then walked one. My throat didn’t burn, but I couldn’t expect to win a race if I couldn’t run much farther than a block. It occurred to me that I might have chosen the wrong sport.
If I didn’t regret my commitment to become a track star enough, Mr. B had singled me out for some special attention, even though I missed half the class. He nodded to me approvingly several times, the way he does with his football team. I felt like a complete fake.
Sometimes you can’t win for losing.
Biff was in the locker room afterward. He was in some mood, talking about putting the wow on some girl. I’d already sneered at the dance posters on the way to class, and what he had to say held no interest for me.
But he had a willing audience in the guys standing around the locker room. They received his next line with an encouraging nod of their heads, and several slaps to the arms.
“So I put a hand on her shoulder in this fatherly way, ya know how I mean, and I brought her up real close, and I said, ‘I really like you, Patsy, better than any girl I ever knew.’ She was eating it up, I swear, and I let my hand drift.”
Anticipatory moans urged him on.
“I was thinking I’d have to sit like that for a while to get her used to it”—ol’ Biff wasn’t one to be rushed through a story he was enjoying so much—“but when I moved in to kiss her, she about swooned—”
I can’t stand guys who do this. I really can’t. But mostly I couldn’t stand listening to Biff do this. I wanted to be the one to say those things to Patsy, do those things with Patsy. Not under the exact same circumstances, of course, but I wanted to be the one. So sue me.
“I went ahead and slid my hand right onto her boob. It did her in, man! I mean, she was so …”
I slammed my locker door, interrupting the party for a split second. Then their heads swiveled back to ol’ Biff. “She’s such a babe, you know, just ripe for it—”
Girls haven’t been that uneducated since the Middle Ages. If then. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?” I said.
“Huh?”
That was Biff, but even I could hardly believe what I said. There was nothing to do but follow up. “Some guys talk like that before they’ve done it. And then either they grow up or they keep on talking about the girls who are nice to them because they have a problem. So which one are you?”
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