He stared at his reflection in the glass of the door reading clearly through the dust into his distant eyes: With the grief in my heart, how dim and grayly falls the pain, the colossal, burdensome agony of discompassionate wretchedness.
CHAPTER 13
A DYSTHYMIC ROSE entered the door of her home at precisely the same moment Sam was locking the shop's door on his way to cook. Rose found Gina alone in the kitchen doing the supper dishes dressed in a light wrapper, slippers, her hair caught up, misarranged atop her head. Rose couldn't help thinking she looked as cute as a television star which immediately won her sympathy; and, then noticed she wasn't wearing anything underneath which only emphasized the lines of her healthy bust--so much for sympathy. Gina had rinsed the last of the pots, shook her hands, and grabbed the towel to start drying, grinning broadly at Rose.
--Hi! Aunt! She tossed her head toward the television room to indicate that was where she could find her parents. Rose nodded. I told them not to wait for you for supper because you were going out with Vito.
--You did good.
--But it looks like you didn't do so well.
--Gina, I know about life being a mystery; but there's no mystery about life being a bitch. Is there no hope the struggle will get easier? At least?
--Get rid of your things. I'll have tea for us by the time you come back.
They had tea last night, too, right after Rose saw Sam at the deli. How she welcomed Gina's offer to sit by the dim table light to share a consolatory companionship. It seemed they let the tea steep an inordinately long time with not a word between them. They both glanced up at each other, locking eyes.
--I was wondering what you were thinking about...
--And I you...
--You first.
--A rerun. The same theme. I was thinking about my English teacher. His name is Mr. Mamakos. He comes to class every day dressed like he's going to be the President of the United States. I can see he's very fussy about his clothes from the way he dresses. Sometimes sports clothes, sometimes suits, but every crease sharp, every inch pressed like it just came off a hanger. The knot in his tie just so, the tie holder a clip, antique, he said, jade, when someone asked. His shoes polished so shiny just as you'd expect. He wears his hair styled, a little bit long; just a faint smell of after shave, his nails manicured and polished. He must be about thirty years old. Always proper, a sense of humor which comes out now and then; and a little bit...uppity...aloof? You know what I mean? But now, the strangest thing. You'd never guess from all that what I discovered. He never wears matching socks! Honest to God! Isn't that odd? Since I found out, I haven't heard a thing in his class because I'm constantly daydreaming about him`! I make out like the socks are a sexual sign, some particular thing he's inclined--maybe compelled--to do. I always go up to his desk to get the assignment, really just to get close to him, to make him lean over me, to touch me in some way. And when I think of him, I don't think of him as handsome or not--just that he's a man. Aunt Rose, I really can't tell you how I feel being kept away from my own life, of the things I got used to. Do you know why I do what I'm told, and watch everything I do very carefully? I do it because I think: What if I do something I'm not supposed to and they put me in jail? At least here, I have hope that soon I can be free to have those things that make me happy with my life. Does that sound dumb? I mean, I'm not as smart as some people, but I know what I like, and what I want. If I were in jail, no matter how short or how long, I would die not being able to get close to a man. How do they do it? The women in Jail? And, to be real honest, it's not just...you know...doing that; making love. I don't want to sound like…a cheap thing; a slut; a nympho, you know, someone who does it because they love it no matter who they're with. It's just that there's something that happens to me when a man is near, that doesn't happen any other time in any other way with anything or anyone else. Like walking down a corridor, or going into a room, I can tell when there's a man around. But, especially, when he's there just for me, you know, and I get his smell deep in my lungs; or he holds my hand, or touches me, there's this pumping in my throat, and I breathe differently. If it's more than that, say, he kisses me; this thrilling sensation shoots right through my whole body. I react to it completely because I completely love it: the feeling, the marvelous enjoyment of pure pleasure. The shaking has never left me. Does anyone ever forget the first time they make love? I never will. But I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted me, and I could tell by the urgings in my body that I was going to let him because I wanted him to...I wanted somebody to. From the moment I realized that, I started this...shaking, I guess. Like, when you wake up cold, and the shivers run through you tightening all your muscles. There's this sex thing exploding in your sex thing. Well, I know now it was just plain nervous excitement, the anticipation of satisfying something so deep it would take more than the Pope, all the chiefs of police or the United Nations to keep me from it. It was never a question of morals. I wouldn't steal a dime from anyone, but I didn't feel I was breaking the law, or doing something wrong because I was having sex and wasn't married, doing something as natural as a squirrel climbing a tree. I couldn't have held myself back if I wanted to. I thought: what if I got in an accident and was paralyzed--heck, if I died it wouldn't make any difference!--I wouldn't know what I was missing--but not being able to feel anything, and wondering what making love was like would drive me bananas. But, anyway, this man--who just happened to be a medical doctor--knew what making love was all about. He was very patient with me, teased me a lot--a whole lot. He sort of burrowed my lips apart so I'd kiss with my mouth wide open, God! What a feeling! With all the shivering and shaking I didn't really feel him fondle my boobs, but I knew they were as hard as potatoes; but, then, when he touched me there...you know, the spot, the button, it was like he made a connection with a surge of electricity. My body reacted so completely. I never felt so...totally involved with anything in my whole life. Then, when he...came into me, slowly, gently, I reacted so violently because the ecstasy was so unbearable. I don't know how many times, I didn't think to count, but I came again and again and again. I could've died. We were in his room at the hospital, and we made love for ten-twelve hours straight. I'll never forget it. I look at a man now, and get that look--that look!--and I start shivering immediately. I never saw the doctor again, but I'll never forget the taste of him. Bet we could've set a world record that day except I happened to mention I wasn't quite fifteen years old. Boy! Did he get me out of there fast. As soon as I'm eighteen, I'm going to look him up. But, right now, it's this English teacher, Mr. Mamakos, the last couple weeks we got a thing going, not anything...like that. Just in class. I can read the look in his eyes; and I know he sees the same thing in mine. Today...I was as close to him as you are to me and our eyes met. I knew he was getting an erection, I just knew it. He tried to look away from me, but he couldn't. I tried to imagine what it would be like with him. He told me he'd never experienced anything like that before in his whole world. He never thought it was possible. I told him I'd go with him right then to wherever he wanted to take me. He said he couldn't do that. That the feeling would be our secret. He was my teacher, and he'd never violate that trust. So, maybe when I got out of high school. Well, that's okay for when I get out of school, but what about now? I thought of a movie of a similar situation where the girl became a little aggressive. So, I tried the same thing. I opened my mouth, and licked my top lip with my tongue as I reached down and slid my hand along his leg. True enough, he had an erection, just straining to burst out of his pants. It felt enormous! I rubbed it back and forth, I got so wet so fast in my pants, and I was ready for the experience--on top of the desk, on the floor, in the closet, wherever he decided. You know what he did? He yanked my hand away, and said if I did that again he'd take me to the principal's office! Movies suck, you know that? The he tried to be nice: he explained I was very attractive and desirable; but he couldn't take a chance fooling around with rape, or take advantage of his posit
ion. That's okay, I told him, having sex is no fun unless both parties enjoy it and have an orgasm, and how could he do that when he had no balls. ...Naturally, I was disappointed, frustrated. I could get any kid in high school if I wanted but they're all jerks. They fuck like diddering jackrabbits, can come five times in a row, like lighting a whole book of matches all at once to get a cigarette going--what a waste. They don't do a thing for me, not anywhere near the satisfaction I get from a mature lover. ...Oh! Well... My life is on hold. I could stick a knife in my neck. I asked Uncle and Aunt if I could get a part-time job after school to make a little spending money, not that they didn't get enough from my mother when she died to take care of me. I like to be independent. Course, I was also thinking I could use the time sometime to meet with a fellow, as a way to get out from under their thumbs. No dice. They wouldn't let me get past sentence one. Know what they hold over my head? That this is what my mother wanted for me, and I must carry out her wishes, promised on her death bed. I sort of think they know if I got cash, I got my freedom. My guess is my mother left some sort of a trust fund with the proceeds going to your folks for as long as I'm with them. Some banker Joe she was going to bed with set it up for her when she told him she thought she would be dead before I reached age. Anyway, I think once I leave your folks, all the trust comes to me. I don't how to find that out because if it's true I want to get my hands on it. You see, I asked your folks if I could go to college, and they said there was no money for that, and further, that in accordance with my mother's wishes, I'm supposed to live with them until I'm twenty-one years old. I don't believe that. I think they left out some details with the truth closer to the fact that if I were to remain with them until I was twenty-one then the money would come to me! But, if I were to leave earlier, or if I were to go to college--which makes me believe the trust holds more than just a few dollars--then in this case the trust would come to me sooner. Aunt, I want to go to school, CCNY or anyplace, because I know what I want to be. I love business and management. I want to be an accountant! Why should I waste four years! I wish you could help me. I need enough money first to get back home to see my mother's lawyer, whatever his name is; and learn exactly about the trust. Second, I gotta get some freedom. Isn't there something you can do?
Mary was on her second cup of tea. She found it hard to concentrate on Gina's words. Before her, Sam's face in all its fury when she turned him down. Mary really wanted her solitude to reflect on the recent events in the deli, to rehash them over and over again, to wonder and to wonder and to wonder. But, she couldn't deny the intensity she also found in Gina's face, her voice, her movements. And when she talked about her need for sex! Lord! Like talking gourmet food to the starving! Could Gina guess she was a virgin with a mountain of wonderments, speculations and feelings about sex of her own? All this had to be shunted aside. Gina needed her more than she needed to analyze her own no-love life.
--Aunt?
--I'm not your aunt. Why do you insist on calling me ‘aunt’?
--Because I think I need an aunt more than I need a cousin. Haven't you been listening to me?
--Yes. I have. I may have an answer for you sooner than you expect.
--Like what? When? Something I should get excited about?
--Let's say I'm working on it. No promises. If it works out, fine. If it doesn't the disappointment won't even show.
--Aunt, you know what that means to me? Just that you have an interest, which you can sit and listen to me? I've no one else to talk to in the whole world; do you know what a difference that can make to someone like me?
--Tell me about it.
--What did you say?
--Nothing.
--I didn't hear you.
--You weren't supposed to.
--Oh! Okay. So? Heavy date tonight with Vito?
--I suppose you think that makes me lucky.
--Of course, any man is better than nothing. My doctor friend would say, `Better dyspareunia than no pareunia at all.’ Dyspareunia means...
--...I know, painful intercourse. But I bet both you and he don't know that best of all is Parousia.
--Now what's Parousia?
--The Second Coming! Gina clapped her hands and shrieked.
--I love it! I wish I could tell him that! You see, we both knew we really wanted each other. He was very apologetic when he said his room at the hospital wasn't really very romantic, but it was there or no place. Hell! Compared to missing out, it was Paradise! Vito can't be all that bad.
--Vito is more painful than the wrong kind of intercourse in the wrong room in the wrong place.
--Then why go out with him? That's not like you. Do you make it with him?
--Do you mean...? Good Heavens! No! I told him to stop coming around, they--my folks-- make me go out with him. They get so abusive. They think he's some kind of millionaire businessman because he owns his own bakery and is going to dump a whole limousine load of dough--ahem--on them. I told him, he always smells like something that's always fermenting, so he loads himself with this cologne, so now he smells like a fermenting load of rotting flowers. He keeps asking me to marry him--sure, out of the frying pan into the baker's oven. I told him I'd never marry him, and I told him I was forced to go out with him. Do you know, he says it really doesn't bother him. He tries to stick his tongue in my mouth, and I spit in his face. He smokes those guinea stinkers, those little black bits of rope, so I tell him it's just like kissing a spittoon. He just laughs! Then tries to feel me up, to get in my blouse, or claw at my crotch. I tried to scare him off by saying I'd tell my parents just exactly what kind of a person he was, trying to take advantage of their daughter. Do you know what he said? I couldn't believe it! He said he already spoke to my folks and said they could be sure if I became pregnant he would marry me! And he said my father wanted to know what the hell he was waiting for! I think he's lying, but I wouldn't put it past them.
--Aren't you afraid he'll try to rape you, or something? I mean, a guy'll go along for just so long.
--He wouldn't dare! Once he tried to feel me up in the movies, I told him I had to go to the john. I got up and came home instead. Then, about a month ago we were having dinner at a restaurant--I think he was just sort of testing--and said he had reserved a motel room for later, so when I said I had to go to the john, this time he followed me right there. Know what I did? I stayed in there until he promised to take me right straight home. Now we have a truce: When he takes me out, all he gets is my company, and I get my parents off my back. He does have some spunk, though; he drew the line at us going Dutch...!
--Least you get out of the house...on a date, no less. She got up to get hot water for them.
Rose wondered what it would be like with Sam. She thought of Gina's description of the excitement she felt in anticipation of lovemaking. Vito was about as thrilling as a cotton ball. With Sam, there was that air of excitement both times she was to meet him. Then, last night in the deli, she couldn't explain how or why, but he made her feel...special. There was some kind of attraction, there was no question about that, yet...a feeling of impending doom, some harbinger of dark moments hung over their meeting, it seemed. Unshakeable. It wouldn't go away even when she admitted to herself that she would enjoy seeing him again, and again. The instinct to persevere was greater than her desire; she cut him off cold, then he came up with that wild notion that, if they were destined to be, nothing in the world could come between them. She expressed her ideas at lunchtime with Louisa, but her friend really had no room in her mind to give ear space to anyone. Louisa could only talk about her affair with Lou Harness, and what a wildly romantic combination they were. Simply, it was a contest between them to see who could fuck the brains out of the other. Louisa had found a way to slip in and out of her room, had done so, and had spent the whole and entire night in an atrociously excessive indulgence in venery. Rose could only quiet her by reminding Louisa of her insensitivity to the exiguousness of her own experience in such matters. Though reacting as if R
ose was depriving her of further pleasure, she made the sacrifice and listened to her friend. The topic was Sam, the meeting in the deli, as well as the possible directions of a hypothetical relationship. Louisa expressed her feeling that one problem was simply that Rose was so indecisive. She escaped the responsibility of running her own life, her own self, by leaving the matter of Sam up to fate. Not worth a fart, Louisa said, and lunch was over. It was this that Rose thought about for the remainder of the afternoon, not the prize she would pick up at school that night for winning the design contest. Was she really by-passing her own responsibilities to herself? She really didn't know what to think. There was so much to be concerned about, more than worry, what complications he would bring into her world! Just too much. First, the feud; and even if that weren't to be considered, her parents would never approve for someone who worked for a salary over someone who ran his own business--like Vito, of course. The romantic factor in their lives could be measured in quantity of dollars. Vito over Sam for them, hands down. But there was bad blood between the families, and how could that ever, ever! Be resolved? It had been around too long. It would be confrontational every single time for every single moment they met, as well as when they were apart. Forget it! Who needs the hassle? Besides, nothing would come of it. How could it be otherwise? Destiny? Destiny! With a helping hand from Sam Scopia there would be destiny, no other way. His meaning of destiny would be, as he'd manage to arrange it. So, she made Louisa swear on the Holy Mother and promised to say the rosary while working that afternoon that she would never, ever in any way aid and abet Sam Scopia to arrange for the two of them to meet in some sort of deliberately arranged accidental way. Louisa teased her while promising, there was no need for collusion--Sam and Rose would meet. It was destined. They'd meet again. And again. Louisa asked forbearance for an addendum: Rose would have to give consideration to the deliberate shorting of her possibilities, and pre-ordained failure with such thoughts. If she conceived that Sam could orchestrate a `destined' meeting, then, even if a meeting should occur deemed by the Gods for happenchance such a meeting would forever be tainted by her own mistrust of her world. How could she be sure the next time she met Sam it was purely accidental? Easy, Rose replied, plumbing her intellectual heart, because when next she saw Sam, she'd know. She would just plain know. That left Rose with the whole entire afternoon to think about her seduction, and much later in the day, she surprised herself to realize, finally, that the man she was thinking about all the while was Sam. Would he gently ease her lips apart when he kissed her to send an avalanche of red-hot coursing sensations throughout her body? Would she welcome his searching, searing tongue implanting volcanic desire for him in her soul? How could her mind remain earthbound as he at first fondled her bosom, then traced with his tongue the circle around her nipple before he pulled it suckling soft into his mouth to make her heart race her pumping breath. Then, how would she receive him? What would his...organ be like? Some enormous, outrageous butt log? Would her hymen resist his advance? Would he resist her hymen, refusing to be the despoiler of her innocence? Or, would he barge on through to make her bleed, a testimony to their destiny? Are the sensations as exquisite as the porno flics depict while pubes bash and smash one into the other? And what of the orgasm? Is she to wait for some signal to come? What is the indication of the impending climax between them that brings on the eclipse of sun, moon, stars? Or, is there a natural, mutual harmony that brings them to a simultaneous, stupendous orgasm? And how often can it be done? Was it true that that was the only way it happened with lovers? As she remembered hearing from her parents' bedroom, the action was gruff, grunt and done. She heard, too, the ecstasy could be so intense one could scream the bloody hair off one's head. Was the orgasm brought on by fucking so much more than jerking off? If so...Oh! God! Why was the pleasure so long in coming to her? And then there was the lovely peace that supposedly befell lovers which... Ahhhhrrrr! You depraved, wicked girl! You would send your eternal soul to burning damnation! To cast aside the Kingdom of Heaven for a few moments of fleshly pleasure? To defy all you have been brought up and taught to be! To turn such teachings into excrement and befoul your soul. How worthless a being you have become! Say it! Say it! ...Our Father who art...pray for our sins, pray for our sins, pray for our sins... Get on your knees! Pray for forgiveness! Thank you. Thank you! --Thank you! What I'd really like to do with this check is turn it right back to the school for their scholarship fund considering all the years I've been granted the privilege of coming here to study. Perhaps one day I'll be able to do that, to repay in some small way the generosity shown to me; but I find...a much more pressing need for this prize. I want to thank the judges for selecting my work for this award...
A Matter of Love in da Bronx Page 20