A Matter of Love in da Bronx

by Paul Argentini

  --You'll never believe. Somehow, she did know we were going to be there tonight, that's why she was dressed in all black. Smoking like crazy because she was nervous. Somehow, too, she knew I had the gift. I can read auras, you know, a glow some people have around their heads, usually, but sometime it can be around the whole body, or just a part of it, like the hands, or the legs. The color of the aura is the messenger. Some colors are better than others. You heard me tell her she had blue. She knew she carried an aura. She thought it had changed color. She wanted to know. Now she knows.

  --How does she know you didn't lie? How does anyone except you know auras really exist?

  --Because one doesn't make apocryphal statements about life and death. You have to believe me that auras do exist.

  --And she told you all of that in her brief whisperings?

  --No! I knew all immediately when she asked me to read her. What she whispered in my ear was more fascinating. I just don't know if I should tell you.

  --You just try it, and I get on the bus alone!

  What she said was marvelous. He convinced Mary that he would tell her when they got off the bus because it was the last thing he wanted her to hear before they parted. More special than that because of the immediacy was the way he searched out her hand, and held it on her lap; then continued to hold it when they got out of their seats, left the bus and walked the short distance to the Santini Moving and Storage building on Morris Park where she felt they would find a safe haven for a few precious moments before her short walk alone down the street to her home. Near invisible in their grotto, she put her hands around his waist; he held her close by her shoulders. --For certain I will go insane long before noontime waiting for you to call.

  --How desperate I'll be to speak to you.

  --The woman said not to be concerned: It was our destiny to make love to each other, but not to prevaricate too long and tempt fate.

  --Talk about going crazy...

  Their kiss was gentle, unhurried, full of grace and feeling. It was not sensual, demanding, heated. Rather it was deliberate. A searching for the ineluctable elegance and supreme enravishment that distinguished this as an enthralling moment imparadised as the first kiss between them as lovers.

  There would be others, but different.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE PREMONITION ENGULFED Mary Dolorosso the very instant she turned away from Sam to walk the short distance to her home. A terremoto was waiting for her. The earthquake was papa. The cause eluded her, there seemed to be so many. Because she was home late? Because Vito stopped by to ingratiate himself to explain why he wasn't bringing her home? No. Not for what she was feeling.

  Gina.

  Mary made the choice at the door, her back to the jamb, her head pushed against it, her eyes closed. Face them? Or not? She exhaled slowly. She was playing such a stupid game with herself! She damn right well would walk in as if she were in control to do otherwise. If she could only explain why she subjected herself to their frustrations. Perhaps because it was easier to deal with them than with her ownshortcomings. --Oh! Dear God in heaven above! Her only oasis of relief. She steeled herself for the barrage, opened the door, and exposed her own vulnerability. --Hello! Ma. Sorry you felt you had to wait up for me. Are you okay?

  She thought she'd better wait up was the reply, but indications were ominous, like an ambulance parked on the sidelines at a spectacle.

  Rocco rolled into the kitchen. Quietly, smoothly, swiftly. Two pulls on the wheels, and he effectively blocked the path to the front and bathroom doors. Sanctuaries now denied her.

  --Papa, I'm sorry I'm home late...

  --Come--index finger beckoning--come give me a kiss to show you love me...

  --Papa, please...don't...

  --Come...quietly, menacingly.

  --Yes, Papa. As she drew closer she could smell the mixture of sour wine, whiskey, and overbrewed anger. Instinctively she tried to retrorocket out of reach. The smell of insanity overpowering.

  Rocco had stoked his seething rage with envisioned rehearsals of what he was going to do to her when she came home for too long a time. His fist was too fast, powered with years of collected frustration. The knuckles dug in just below her cheekbone crushing flesh, arteries, eyebrow. And her sensibilities. Her eye exploded in. a frightening kaleidoscope of blasting rockets; the pain stripping the breath from her chest; the anxiety propelling her towards a grim blackness.

  Unaware of the force with which he made contact, he misjudged how fast her head would snap back, his left hook missed by a foot, its force carrying him far over the side spilling him and the chair to the floor.

  --Dio mio! Auit'a me! From Lilly.

  --Che ti po si n'e ammazzatto! His wish for his daughter to be murdered.

  But Mary didn't hear him, beginning to sink to the floor vaguely aware of the turmoil.

  --Mary! Quickly! Help me! Your father's hurt himself! Mary! For god's sakes!

  Aware only of the pounding explosions to her face, in her head, Mary staggered, then struggled with her mother to right the wheelchair and resituate her father. It depleted her reserve completely.

  Anxious to complete what he had rehearsed for hours, Rocco shook off the indignity, and picked up in the script. --Why didn't you come home with Vito?

  Silence. He knew the story. He was milking the moments to vomit out his spleen. She would not contribute to his madness.

  Unaware he could still move so fast, she found her wrist welded to his hand. He yanked her violently, snapping her head. --Answer! Puttana che sei!

  --Vito told you!

  --Vito nothing! Answer me! This time the jerk crashed her into the wall.

  --Vito went crazy! He started a fight...

  --Liar! A cook insults you, Vito protects you and you blame him! You went crazy, not him! And then you run off with him! How much did he pay you? Show me? A hundred dollars? Are your services worth a hundred dollars? Show me!

  --Papa, let me go! You're hurting me!

  --Tell me you didn't make the whore tonight!

  --I didn't! I didn't!

  A sharp pull brings her within range. Rocco's left hand this time finds its mark on her rib cage just below her armpit.

  Oh! Good Lord! He's going to kill me! Don't scream! Lord! Don't scream it only infuriates him. Swallow your tongue! Anything! But don't make a sound. God! Does it hurt! He must've broken my ribs... --Ma, help me! Papa, please don't hit me any more! Please...! In defense she collapses to the floor at his feet, but he does not release her. I'm telling the truth!

  --I'll give you a chance to tell the truth... A twist of the wrist wrenches the armbone in its socket.

  The pain produces a muffled gasp.

  --Try to lie about Gina I'll break your head! His fist crushes into her back just below her kidney.

  --Papa! Please stop!

  --Gina! Comes out like a tornado through his gritted teeth.

  --What about Gina?

  --Gina!

  It would take a miracle to hold back the tears, and she knew when he saw them it would incite him to new acts of violence. She had asked a priest to help her find a way through such moments, and he replied that she should forgive him then and there because they were not the acts of her father, rather the outpouring of misery reaped by a strong, healthy man bound to a wheelchair. Fuck the misery he felt! She could get killed! In a burst of energy, she sprung to her feet, jerking her arm wildly to free herself, and jumped away out of his reach. Gingerly she crossed one hand to her face, the other to her ribs. --You're not my father! You're not even a human being anymore. It was your accident that put you in a wheelchair, why should I suffer for that?

  --Strunza! Bitch of a whore! Gina! She's run away, and you helped her!

  --I'm glad she's gone! What a happy day for her to be rid of you two!

  --Ungrateful slut! Only my daughter knows how to have the shit roll from her mouth after what we've done for her! Gina will be back, and will kiss my feet. Wait and see. An empty bel
ly and a chill up her ass will send her back, grateful for the comfort of this house! But you gave her money, right? You're too stupid to know any better! You gave her just enough to get her in trouble. How much did you give her!

  Silence.

  --How much, puzzolenta, schifosa che non sei n'ient'altra! How much did you give her!

  --If I'm putrid and loathsome remember I'm your daughter!

  Again she didn't realize how fast he could move. This time he pushed himself forward at the same time he grabbed the broom resting near the wall down by its head, and swung it swiftly. It caught her arm just below her shoulder snapping in two.

  She forced herself not to cry out, but realized as she stared venomously back at him, that the blood in his eyes was about to vaporize, so close was he to going beyond the nimis. --I gave her money. I gave her my money.

  --Of course it was your money. How much of your money did you give her? How much!

  --Two-hundred-and-fifty dollars...

  --Oh...!

  She knew by his tone that he was restraining himself, which his internal pressure had gone up a dozen pounds or more. --And how did you come by this money, this piddling amount?

  When she told him, she knew he'd believe her because she handed the same amount to him the previous year.

  --You bitch! You betray your own father! Steal money that belongs to the family! I'll kill you!

  There was no question in Mary's mind that he meant what he said. With the way blocked to the front door and bathroom, she knew she would have to retreat to her bedroom. It would be only temporary refuge before he broke the door down and was upon her. He punctuated his seriousness by thrusting the broken point of the broom at her. She jerked to one side, and watched as the wood buried itself in the wall. Now she screamed. Although trapped physically, she was also mired psychologically as the loyal and loving daughter who should accept the punishment dutifully or lose the love of father. That was no longer a consideration after he smashed through her bedroom door.

  He hurled the broom at her as a spear. It shattered the vanity mirror. He picked up a small chair, prepared to splinter it on her body.

  --Papa, don't come closer. I don't want you to hurt me anymore...

  --Hurt you! I'm going to beat you right to your last breath!

  It would be so, she knew. The choices were to try to run past him, but the chair was much too formidable; to take the beating, but she doubted she would survive; and to elude him at whatever cost. So, she opened the window. --Papa, if you come one inch closer, I will jump out! Please believe me.

  --That will save me a lot of trouble! And he started the roll to charge her.

  Mary screamed, and watched as Lily brought the wine bottle down on his head.

  Sam, I told you, we should've gone upstairs to the room.

  CHAPTER 17

  Friday evening

  MY DEAREST HEART, MARY: Your name alone conjures a

  distillation of such purity its exquisite essence blossoms to envelop my mind, my heart, my soul, and fills my very being with such passions of the earth, the sky, the winds, and universe that I actually envision you before me so consuming is my desire to be with you. I liken it to seeing a freshcut morning-dewed rose, which, long before its quintessence slips deliciously inward, its scent has already bestirred a memory's niche to transport one’s esthetics to ecstasy's nimiety.

  Dare I challenge the ineffable to say what I find inside when I feel the touch is you? Your hand in mine, I do so much tenderly recall, so small, so soft, so warm it chills my flesh disexpansively. How did I find the courage to release that hand, to let you glide out of my sight knowing full well the agony I would find in the hours empty filled with anguish; knowing, too, that memory makes poor a balm for the lightest heartfelt hurt. And I do ache for you. Do know how I ache for you. Not with vanity and ardor, nor arrogance and determination, but with humbleness that befits your inward loveliness, your beauty, your grace. I ask not to crush you in my arms, to put the burn of my lips on yours, to find your spirit deep inside; no, not that; nor to have your hand to just caress my face; no, not even that; nor, to throw a kiss then watch you touch your heart; no, not even that; but, yes, to have me hear you whisper my name, and allow me to reply --I love you, Mary: that be all and all and always. Can we do that? Can we challenge all the wonderfuls and greats with such sublimely illuminating simplicity? Just: I love you, Mary: that be all and all and always. There is no concatenation of magnificent symphonies that can fill the world of sound more beautifully: I love you, Mary: that be all and all and always.

  Then, would you care to see my ectoplasm re-etherealize to comingle with the vaporous heavens? Would you care to hear a sigh that would cause a whippoorwill to listen? Would you care to feel a heart give a thousand beats as one? Then, my dearest, say to me: I love you, Sam: that be all and all and always. Just that.

  I wonder how many more of your wonders shall be mine. I kissed you twice. The first, so delicious, so sweet, so soft but so short did it lie on my lips, I thought a breeze did practice its caress for teasing a dreamer into waking. So exquisite was it I wondered if it was. Brief, yes, but how to the depths of my soul it still plumbs. The second kiss will be mine forever, an accomplishment ensearing my walls within, an affirmation of the rapture waiting, waiting for release to us. I wonder if my senses can sustain such contemplation. But most I wonder: Shall there be another kiss?

  Ah! Beware before you make such promise mine! The winning of that treasure will cause the harmonics of the world to add one vibration per hemidemisecond more to its quintessibillions. And! Dare we harvest Olympian envy? What would be our penalty? That we must show them how? How to beseech such royal endurement? How to beg their dissatisfaction so that in their view we do strive again and again for perfection, they unaware from the start that we have found it to be so from our very first. Then, know, too, such anticipation will inundate my senses, covering all causes well and bad that would sheet my world in thoughts of you. Remove the hope. It would be the same! From what source could derive an otherwise thought? As it is, I think only of you; I dream only of you; I consume the vision of you; hear nothing if it is not your sound; enjoin no smell that brings you not to me; and what is there else to touch in this entire world that would cause embarrassment past pale to everything when compared to our scintillation?

  How much have you captivated me? I can show you. Give me the magic to accomplish anything on earth. Fill the air with music, laughter, poetry, perhaps? Invent an invention? Produce a production? To level the steppes? To wall the equator? To capture the clouds? To seize the universe? Pssshawww! What trivialities! I would toss them all aside as mere immortalities. Instead, let me have just one complete moment with you. Let it be a whisper. Let it be a look. Let it be a touch. Let it be anything, but let it be you, purely you.

  Did you hear my constant breath with your name upon it as you walked down the street away from me and into my dreams this night? Did you feel my heated breath pursue you to your dreams? Did you know I dreamt I found yours--those angelic huffs so captivatingly sweet and warm--in mine? Did you sense those tiny inhalations as I searched every atom for a trace of you? If you know, tell me how to endure the exquisite pain that comes abounding with the thoughts that you as a goddess shall be denied to me by some malefic, envious god's petulance. I would challenge whate'er would come between us preferring the occlusion of life completely than to be incomplete missing the smallest particle of you. How unworthy of a single thought of yours concerning my smallest anxiety, I say on one hand. But on the other! How my heart sings that you should think of me at all! The recognition would be overwhelming! Imagine when I wonder if you ever think you could love me! Could you? Could you? I want to know! No! I don't! Wait! Perhaps I do, perhaps a cowardly I do. Fair heart ne'er won... Oh! No! A stalwart heart I have for winning! How I could sustain the transports to the aisles of enrapturous bliss. But, if you're not to be mine! What a fracturous calamity! One could pick through every bit by tiny bit a
nd recognize each particle of my heart: They will quiver through eternity. And that may be as that may be; and I satisfied, at least, that you answered me.

  Now, how does this come about that I have you to love? For instance, dare you think of all the billions of days before, and all the days to come, that there was just one day--this one--that you and I should be here in this verysame exact one? That in the winking-blink of an eyelash--as long as a life's lasting--that you and I should share this similar moment? That of all the world's crannies and continents that you and I should share a hairsbreadth proximity? It happens because even if it were made not to be so, it would be arranged to be so. Forgive my bold assumption, my concern then, is not if you shall love me; not when you shall love me; not how long you shall love me; but what shall I do to be worthy of your love? I could become faultless, impeccable as a God. Yes. I could do that. But, what shall we do to assail such delicious ramparts that derive uniquely from sweet kisses of forgiveness? I could be perfect. I could. And if I was, what need have I of you, who completes my otherwise imperfect perfection? I could become immortal, but how cheap and miniscule it makes our tenderest moment. I could go on and on, but, no, only in one way can you and I be one: If I could become as you are. I could. I could do that. What God dares let his shadow befall my path?

  Can you see, even at this moment, I can't let you go? I decree these words go on forever! No! I take that back! If they go on, how do I again find you flooding every bit of me? Perhaps, if I stop this instant, the sooner you will appear? No. The only truly magic is what we have found in each other. Thought, body, soul, we belong together as one. Though the world may try to hold us apart, there is a moment waiting that will be just ours, I promise you, I promise you. My fervent wish is that I forever remain aware of the treasure I have in you; that I shall always have the capacity to adore you as you should be adored; that I can share the happiness I want you to have; and that in loving me you find the magnificence I have found in loving you. And, it's true, for me to just suggest I could do otherwise indicates nothing calamitous, merely that I am in my more lucid moments of my catatonia.