Little Boy

by Anthony Prato

  I remember you and Tracy worrying about me. I’d get home from school, looking depressed and angry, and Mom would ask “What’s your problem?” Committed to my vow of silence, I refused to respond. Dad, you were more subtle. “Is something wrong? Is there anything you want to talk about?” you’d ask each day. “Oh, no, nothing,” I’d respond. “I’m just worried about getting into the Air Force Academy.” But that really wasn’t true. I should have been worried about that. I should have been worried about college. But I wasn’t. All that worried me was Maria.

  When she returned home from her trip Upstate she called me immediately. We talked for a while, but she seemed diffident. Just to give you an idea of how paranoid I was, I remember thinking: She’s always this way—as if she’s hiding something from me. But that night it was painfully obvious. I thought about attacking it from the beginning, asking her what the hell was the matter real quick. But, for some reason, my plan was to wait. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t push Maria to reveal her secret.

  As she told me about her cousin, Anthony, and her uncle’s barbecue, and a bunch of other stuff, I just sat back, smoking a butt, waiting for her to blurt out the bad news. She was speaking casually, but I didn’t hear a word she said. I was just waiting, waiting, waiting. Just when I started to think that maybe I was inventing it all, when I began contemplating the possibility that maybe I was crazy, that maybe Maria wasn’t hiding a thing from me...just when I began blaming myself for my worries and not her, just when a guilt began to set in as it never had before…Maria gave me every reason in the world to never trust her again.

  “A.J.,” she said, “I have something to tell you.” I didn’t say a word. I had predicted this moment long ago; I had no desire to interrupt fate as it unraveled itself before my eyes.

  “A.J., I got drunk while I was Upstate with my cousin. Not the baby, but with my older cousin. I got drunk with him because I was depressed. My parents have been discussing divorce lately, and I made a stupid mistake. I thought that drinking would solve the problem, but it was still there the next morning, when I woke with a hangover. I’ll never drink again. I’m really, truly sorry.” As she said the word sorry, she started to cry.

  Squinting my eyes, I saw beneath my lids every loser and scumbag that walked the halls of my school, every hood that danced the night away in the gym, every girl I’d ever dated, and, to top it all off, you, Mom, drinking like you used to, oblivious to the pain it caused others. Each lie ever told to me—each lie I ever told—became personified in one person: Maria. Even the word lie had a face, and two arms, and two dark little eyes. No, not arms. Tentacles. And as I extinguished my cigarette in a mug of water beside my bed, not just my body, but my entire soul, was engulfed by the lie. I didn’t know whether to cry or to throw up. Instead, I responded:

  “You fucking bitch. You mother fucking bitch. Goddamn you, Maria. I’m never fucking going out with you again. I despise you. I despise everything you just said. You are a piece of shit.” And then I hung up on her, and vowed never to call her again.

  ***

  I called her back immediately. And before she had a chance to say another word, I began the string of invectives once again. Unlike the first round of anger, I yelled. I didn’t even yell; I hollered. Cunt. Bitch. Asshole. Fuck. Slut. All of these words were part of my colorful repertoire. And she deserved each and every one. She’s just like everybody else, I thought. I knew it. She was going to destroy me.

  My mouth contorted itself into a frightening upside-down U; it felt weighted down, and there would never be anything else I could do to change it. My heart stomped. I nearly choked on my tongue. Finally, after I completed my mantra of profanity, Maria spoke up for the first time in at least ten minutes or so.

  “Please don’t break up with me!” she pleaded. “Please...” She broke down, wailing, like a mother at her little boy’s funeral.

  “Fuck you, cunt,” I said, icily. I slammed the phone in its cradle.

  I called her back.

  “Why didn’t you call me back? Aren’t you sorry? What the fuck is wrong with you?” I didn’t let her answer. “How much did you drink? Did you enjoy it? Did your cousin drink, too? What’s his name, anyway? Did you get drunk? I mean, really drunk? Did you enjoy it? Are you happy with what you did? You fucked up this entire relationship—you know that, right? Why did you do it? Did you drink beer? What? Whaaaaaat!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Answer my fucking questions, goddamn iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!” I was out of control.

  “I drank rum—rum and Coke. And a few beers.”

  “How much fucking beer and rum did you have, Maria?” Mah-ree-ah. I dragged her name out, as if it were the foulest curse in the English language. It was insulting just to recite it. That name, Maria, had meant so much to me just a few moments before she called. It had meant perfection. All I had. All I believed. I’d found my religion that summer—I believed in Maria. But, like a parishioner who discovers his priest is a child molester, I felt betrayed. My religion was a sham, my creed a hoax. Just as I was about to hang up on Maria for the third time, she interrupted her crying and, between sobs, said:

  “A.J., you said that you would forgive me for anything, as long as I was honest!”

  “I lied. Fuck you.” And I hung up on her again.

  And just as I slammed the receiver down, and heard that familiar echo of a bell sing through my room, I realized again that Maria had failed to call me back after I hung up on her previously. How sorry could she be? I dialed her number again.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you call me back? You fucking bitch!”

  “Please, A.J.”—she was really losing it now—please, I was only kidding. I didn’t get drunk, I swear! I didn’t drink at all. I swear!” I could barely understand her, she was crying so much. “I swear on my father’s life!” The words life-life—echoed faintly in my mind. I grew silent. For a moment, I thought that it was all a bad dream. I was confused. I was disillusioned, weary, suspicious.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.

  “I—I was making it all up. I just wanted to see how you’d react. I—I—I’m sorry, A.J. I was thinking about us a lot this week, and I’ve decided that I really do—trust you—I...” she just trailed off.

  I fired at her like a machine gun: “What the hell is your problem? Are you telling me the truth? Is this a fucking joke?”

  “No—I mean, yes—I’m…I didn’t drink.” She gulped her phlegm and panted briefly. “I just wanted to know what you thought about it.”

  At that point, I was shaking. Each word heaved from my gut. “Do you—do you swear on our relationship that you didn’t drink Upstate? Do you?”

  Silence.

  “I swear, A.J.” She sniffled.

  At that moment all of my hope returned. I wasn’t religious person, but I felt like my Jesus had resurrected.

  Chapter 12

  Mortal Sin

  At the end of October, New York was still in the throws of an Indian Summer. The air was heavy, choking. Cicadas still sang one Saturday morning as I walked up the block to the deli.

  I didn’t work very hard that fall, only one Saturday day a week. Some of it was cool, though. I could take anything I wanted and eat it right there. I loved that deli food. I loved finding a few minutes when the customer traffic slowed down, so I could sneak a hero sandwich in the stock room and engulf it. I’d pile provolone, salami, ham, bologna, turkey, roast beef, pickles, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, vinegar, olive oil—just about everything in the deli—on top of a big-ass hunk of fresh Semolina bread slathered with mayonnaise and mustard, sprinkled with salt and pepper and oregano. I must have eaten one of those things every Saturday during my senior year. And the moment I swallowed that last piece of hoagie each day, as I licked the vinegar and mayo off my fingertips, I walked out the back door smoke a butt. There’s nothing like a cigarette after a good meal.

  One day during a cigarette break, Rick came by and asked me to hang out at his house som
e night the next week. He was going to have a party, he said, and his parents wouldn’t be home. Not only that, but there would be tons of beer and liquor and pizza and stuff. I begged him to ban all alcohol from his party, but he wouldn’t listen.

  “You gotta do it,” I said, waving a leaf of romaine lettuce at him, “you gotta stop everyone from drinking. Drinking causes problems, dude.”

  “I used to think that, too, L’Enfant, but trust me. I was with these guys this summer, and trust me, it so fucking fun.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Trust me, L’Enfant.” I should’ve asked him why he was suddenly calling me ‘L’Enfant’; he never did before. It was almost like he was mocking me.

  But instead, I remember wondering, Should I drink at this party? To make up for what Maria said she’d done? Should I tell him about what happened with Maria? Should I ask for his advice about her lie? Rick had been out with a few girls—he could have given me some sound advice. It’s that last point that still smarts. I mean, what if I had asked him for some advice? I know he would’ve told me to forget about Maria’s past and drinking or whatever, and just enjoy being with her.

  But I was so fucked up. I kept everything inside. I was too afraid to ask him for some help.

  I was as shocked that Rick had become a “drinker” as The Family. Rick was the last person that you’d think would drink. He never really did so, not until that summer at least. But that summer, he was a valet at a club near Rockaway beach. Apparently, the guys he worked with there were all older than he was and they all went out drinking together. I was disgusted by it all. He was only seventeen, for crying out loud. It was as if, all of a sudden, I was friends with one of those goddamn losers at school that went out drinking on the weekends.

  All my life there was always this distinction between adults and kids. All of a sudden, all around me, my friends were becoming adults, and doing adult things, while I still missed the kid things. And I secretly hated them for that. I didn’t want anything to change.

  Between my family’s experiences with alcohol—yours, Mom, grandma’s, and both grandpa’s—and all the lushes at school, I was convinced that alcohol should’ve been illegal. In fact, I thought that all drugs should’ve been illegal—beer, pot, cocaine, vodka, whatever. As far as I was concerned, any substance that altered the state of the human mind deserved to be banned. Anyone who used drugs, I thought, should go to jail, even get the death penalty. I figured that there were enough problems in the world without people walking around stoned and drunk. I had no respect for anyone who drank or did drugs. I had no respect for people who lost control of themselves like that. Like you, Mom. And that summer, I began to lose respect for Rick. I kept thinking about what he was like during freshman year, and how he had changed. And it depressed me. He was just a short, mousy little kid, who didn’t speak much at all. Of all the people I knew, Rick was least likely to start a fight, or say something controversial. He was just a good kid. He studied hard, worked after school, and went home. That’s why I liked him.

  But summer before senior year, Rick went berserk. He’d call me up on Sunday mornings, hung-over, and tell me how much fun he had with his new friends. He’d describe the new drinks he’d tried—his favorite was Long Island Iced Tea—and encourage me to come out and drink with him. But I’d just yell at him, in a sort of friendly way, and tell him he was nuts.

  I yelled at him that day in the deli, like I always did. And he responded like he always did: “You said the same thing about cigarettes two years ago.” He was right, of course. Before my sophomore year in high school, I vowed I would never smoke. But that was different. You can drive a car and smoke a cigarette, and they don’t make you lose your goddamn mind.

  Kyle had been a big drinker ever since I met him, but I was used to it and it never bothered me. That was just part of Kyle’s style, I guess. But Rick’s behavior broke my heart. To see him drink was to hear Maria lie. It was unnatural, offensive, and evil. He’d changed so much that summer, I wondered if we could even be friends anymore. He didn’t become mean or anything. If anything, he was friendlier than ever before. More relaxed. Real California. He was more talkative, had more friends, and went out more often. I don’t know, I just hated seeing him become an adult.

  As Rick told me more and more about the party, I got more excited about the free pizza than the free beer. I figured I’d go to the party, eat, and leave within an hour or so. I couldn’t stand to see him lose control. Actually, Maria lived nearby. I figured I’d make an obligatory appearance at the party, and then, since I had the car, I’d planned on serenading Maria from the sidewalk outside her two-family attached house. Funny how things never go as planned.

  “Can I bring Maria?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. I smiled. “But is she as anal about alcohol about you?” I told him that she hated alcohol as much as I did, but tempered my words by adding, “don’t worry, she’s cool.” Again, I wondered about her trip Upstate. But I believed her story, and tried to forget all about what she’d told me.

  Strangely excited about the party, I picked Maria up at her house the following week. As usual, she was beautiful. She had a white sundress with a violet floral print and new penny loafers. It was a muggy night, but Maria didn’t sweat a bead. I, on the other hand, felt bullets dripping down my back and forehead. I was nervous about that night, I admit it. I’m not really sure why. I suppose that I was unsure about bringing Maria to a party with The Family since we’d never socialized with my closest friends before. Also, there was Maria’s lie about drinking, and now we’d be among dozens of teenagers guzzling Heineken. But there was something else that. Something…indefinable.

  With a queasy tingle in my gut, I rang Rick’s doorbell, expecting the party to be inside. Nobody answered. Maria heard some laughter coming from the backyard and motioned for us to go there.

  My introduction to everyone was knocking over a beer keg as I turned into his yard. About 50 people stopped moving and talking and looked at me—but only for a second, thank god. Kyle, his eyes watery as if he was already drunk, laughed his ass off as he came running over to place the keg upright. The party was really going. There were tons of people, especially girls, who Rick had met over the summer. Mike was sitting on a swing set with a plastic cup filled with beer in his hand. Paul was playing basketball with himself, using Rick’s driveway hoop. I didn’t know what the hell to do, so I just yelled out Rick’s name into the crowd. He came running over to me, clutching a bottle of rum, saying my last name over and over again.

  “L’Enfant! L’Enfant, baby! What the hell’s up, dude?” I could tell that he was already a little drunk, because he never called me by my last name, otherwise. It made me a little sick to see this nice kid from freshman year totally lose control of himself like that.

  Revolted, I placed my hand firmly on Rick’s shoulder and said: “The name’s A.J. ” He didn’t seem to give a damn. “By the way, where the hell’s the pizza?” He said there wasn’t any left. I wanted to leave right then and there.

  I glanced at my watch. It was ten o’clock and we’d only been there about fifteen minutes but I wanted to go home. A light rain fell from the sky, but that didn’t slow the party one bit. Maria tugged at my shirt, leading me around the backyard, saying hello to each of my friends. She was so fucking cool. She completely cheered me up. Suddenly, I realized that I was with Maria, my best friend, and that was all that mattered. As Rick and Kyle and even Mike downed beers and shots one after the other, Maria stretched her tiny fingers around my wet hand. “Are you having a good time?” she’d say every so often. “I love you, baby.”

  Proud and pleased, I strode around the backyard with Maria by my side, showing her off to idiot after idiot. At first glance, when I noticed their smiles and laughter, I assumed that they were in awe of my beautiful girlfriend. But then the truth became obvious: The Family, as well as everyone else there, was oblivious to my existence. They didn’t give a shit about me or Maria
. It wasn’t on purpose, that much was clear. They were just having so much fun, because of the alcohol, that they didn’t bother with the two sober nerds.