Little Boy

by Anthony Prato

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, she turned to me and said, “Okay, I’m ready.” And then she dropped to her knees, right there onto the cold, wet concrete, and looked up at me. “A.J.,” she said, “I don’t have enough money to buy you a ring. But I can offer you an embrace, a hug that will last forever. I offer you this because I have nothing else to give but myself. But I am not insecure. I value myself a lot, and I just want to give myself to you.” She hugged me and placed the right side of her face on my coat. She clutched me even tighter and finally said, “A.J., will you marry me?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Of course, I wanted to say yes. Of course, I did say yes. “Yes, yes, yes!” I screamed, although it was only a whisper. “Yes.”

  I cried. Maria cried. But there was more.

  “I’m coming with you to Colorado Springs next year. I can marry you—I’ll be seventeen and I already looked it up, we can get married in Colorado. I can live with you, right there on the base, and I’ll cook and clean for you, and maybe go to college and become an English teacher or something.”

  Words can’t describe how exhilarated I was to hear those words. I mean, now that I think about it, Maria was propositioning me, as an adult, and it was real. She believed her words and so did I. Had I been a man rather than a boy, I know I wouldn’t’ve broken the contract we established that day.

  At that moment it all seemed so clear, as clear as the blue sky as you soar 20,000 feet above the earth: our future together, just Maria and me, away from Queens and our parents and all the losers in high school. It was all there, right before me. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

  Chapter 15

  Opera

  “How much did you enjoy getting drunk?” I asked that question over and over again when I called Maria the next night. She didn’t seem to understand that with forgiveness came consequences. Like new-found distrust, for example. She didn’t seem to realize that I was addicted to terrorizing her, because I was afraid, just like our parents were addicted to alcohol and gambling, because they were afraid.

  “Have you had anything to drink since we last spoke?” I blared.

  She said no, demurely. But occasionally she’d leap at me like an angry cat. “Why the hell did you get drunk?” she asked.

  I thought about this for a while. I didn’t really know how to respond. I couldn’t very well say that it was because I’d never tried it, and wanted to see what it was like.

  “I knew you’d gotten drunk Upstate, Maria. I was depressed about it at Rick’s party.”

  “I thought that—” she cut herself off. “I thought that when I told you I didn’t do it that you believed me.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was just waiting for you to find the right time to tell the truth. I—I really knew you had done it.”

  “But”—she attempted to interrupt, but I wouldn’t let her.

  “Please, Maria, just listen. You broke my heart with that news, you really did. I mean, to think that a girl with an alcoholic father would herself get drunk. And you know my mom drinks, too. You know the affect that’s had on me. It’s just—your decision to drink was just ridiculous. Your judgment is now in question.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said, as if she was a three year old kid apologizing for spilled milk.

  “It’s okay,” I said, surprised at my ability to forgive her. But Maria thought I had forgiven her completely. In fact, I’d accepted her to be my girlfriend again under false pretenses, because in my heart I knew that I had only forgiven her to the extent that she would show how sorry she was for lying.

  ***

  The next few weeks were good, but not as marvelous as the spring. Maria and I resumed going to Central Park as often as we could. We wrapped ourselves in blankets under the pine trees near the pond to protect us from the chilly fall gusts. The sweet scent of decaying foliage filled our noses as we hunkered amidst the piles of leaves by the pond, and kissed and hugged. We wrestled and skipped and pranced through those leaves almost as if we’d just fallen in love.

  On many evenings we’d go back to Queens and drive all the way back to Fresh Meadows to eat at Angelo and Al’s on Fresh Meadow Lane.

  Angelo, the owner, has known me since I was a kid. I remember going there even before elementary school. Mom, you never let me wander far, you were so goddamn paranoid. But I have to admit you always allowed me to walk across Utopia Parkway to Fresh Meadow Lane, to get a slice and a Coke from Angelo and Al’s, or play a video game at the candy store.

  Like always, Angelo was generous with the toppings. I’d pile it all on: mushrooms, peppers, black olives, extra cheese, the works. We loved it so much that Maria and I ate at Angelo and Al’s for dinner almost every time we traveled to or from Central Park. The warm waft of their pizza crust and tomato sauce baking in the giant steel oven thawed us each time we stepped from the cold into his shop each weekend.

  Sometimes we parked in Astoria and walked down Steinway Street before we went to Central Park. We never bought anything because we had no money. That was the wonderful thing about Maria. She didn’t need a four-course meal or a diamond ring to be happy. She was happy just being with me.

  Whenever we were in Astoria, I’d see Cronin and Phelan’s, at the intersection of Broadway and Steinway, and crave a beer on tap. By that point, I’d tasted beer, whiskey, rum, white wine, malt liquor, and vodka, some with Kyle and Rick, but most within the lonely confines of my bedroom after dark. Beer was my favorite. I wasn’t an alcoholic, though, and wasn’t worried about becoming one, either. I tasted these drinks because I wanted to check them out, nothing more. And, the more I thought about it, the more I desired for Maria to sample them with me. I didn’t want to get wasted with her; I simply wanted us to experience something we’d both done separately but now could enjoy together. I remember thinking, A few beers and I’ll open up to her about Mom’s drinking problem, and the stress about getting into the Academy, and all my strange dreams and fears. I longed to tell her so much. What were best friend for, after all?

  But I couldn’t bear to watch Maria sit at a bar and drink. The idea alone killed me. So I continued to drink alone in my room, while talking to myself, and wishing I had someone to share the conversation with.

  Though tempted to cheat again, I remained steadfastly faithful to Maria. I started to mature. I was a better boyfriend to her than I’d been before. Rather than demand that she compliment me each time we spoke on the phone, I’d praise her, regardless. Her happiness was slowly becoming more important than mine once again.

  Maria was also maturing. She’d unilaterally turned down two invitations to two Halloween parties, even though her friends begged her to go. “They’ll be drinking there,” she said. And that was all I needed to know. For a while, it was as if Maria had never gotten drunk and lied.

  At the lunch table each day in school there was nothing but laughter. As the passing days brought us closer to graduation, we treated each conversation as a waning treasure. Each member of The Family was confident about his future, as well as mine. Paul, Rick, and Mike talked about the Air Force Academy almost as much as I did. Kyle, always one step ahead of them, began calling me “Captain A.J., ” rather than Godfather or Boss.

  We’d all taken the SATs and done well. My 1330 was the highest score. Actually, I tied Kyle. He received a 1330, too. When I revealed my score to him, he grinned with delight. I had studied every night for months, while he hadn’t even opened a book. I always responded to his haughty grin the same way: “Well, Kyle, at least I have a girlfriend!” But that didn’t faze him. “All I need are my left hand and my guitar,” he’d say.

  Occasionally, we’d spend a Friday night drinking beer at Cronin and Phelan’s or Rockaway beach. I always kept my drinking in check. As Kyle puked his brains out after his tenth shot of the night, I’d sip a Coke and smile nonchalantly, proud that I could hold my liquor.

  Alcohol was an anesthetic for me. I mean, thinking about not getting into the academy, and Maria’s
lies, and all that shit. Well, it was just nice to get away from it all, and become comfortably numb. I never told Maria about any of the drinking, of course. If I told her, she probably would’ve started drinking herself.

  ***

  On Thanksgiving Day, Maria and I went to the parade on Central Park West. I handed her the following poem as we exited the subway to view the giant balloons:

  I’m in the palm of your hand. You don’t know how frail I am.

  I have a growing pain inside. A weakness that I must confide.

  If you only knew the helpless love I feel for you.

  If you only knew how much I pray that you are true.

  I’m in the palm of your hand. But you don’t seem to understand.

  I am drowning in my shame. Because I know it’s me to blame

  Time and again I say my love for you is real.

  But that is nothing compared to the way I feel.

  I’m in the palm of your hand. I’d walk away if I could only stand.

  But I won’t even try to fight. Somehow I feel I’m placed just right.

  So please be gentle and please handle me with care.

  Only you can decide how long I remain there.

  I’m in the palm of your hand…

  She adored the poem. Actually, it was a song that I’d been working on since the summer. I sang it to her right there on the sidewalk, amidst thousands of people.

  It was an exciting day. I’d watched the parade on TV every Thanksgiving since I was a kid, but had never seen it in person before. A pageant of multicolored balloons bobbed down Broadway. Maria and I stood with our backs to an apartment building and stretched our necks out to view Kermit followed by the Pink Panther, both old friends from childhood, hovering above. We stood for about a half hour, leering over the heads of hundreds of families, trying our best to see the balloons. We’d come all this way, and I really wanted Maria to see them up close. Growing impatient with the distance, my neck suffering from tremendous strain, I motioned for Maria to take my hand so I could guide her toward the curb.

  “Wait,” she said, “I’m tiny. I can squeeze through. Let me lead the way.”

  “Good idea.”

  Maria reached behind her and grasped my cold, gloveless hand with her fuzzy mittens. She weaseled her way through the crowd’s crevices and reached a wooden blue barrier that read: Police Line. Do Not Cross. She stood behind me with her arms wrapped around my brown leather bomber jacket, and poked her head over my right shoulder to see the balloons. I leaned forward against the barrier, my nose just a few feet away from the balloons.

  Closer, however, didn’t equal better. Not for me, at least. I was so close that I could see things I’d never seen on TV as a kid. Spider Man’s left shoulder was covered by a tacky blue patch which prevented his deflation before the admiring eyes of children. After the parade I found out that the patch had been his life support system since 1987, when the high-powered winds guided him into a lamppost and punctured his rubber skin.

  Seeing that patch made me sad. I used to enjoy watching this parade on TV as a kid, I thought, as the aroma of lasagna and turkey, our traditional Thanksgiving combo, wafted up the stairs to my nose. It wasn’t Thanksgiving without that scent. It just wasn’t Thanksgiving without seeing those beautiful balloons.

  As Snoopy, dressed as the Red Baron, drifted by, my sadness turned to rage. I was angry at those balloons. I remember getting angry at you, Mom. I’d never savored a Thanksgiving turkey without first tasting airborne nicotine and tar. I’d never sipped a soda at Thanksgiving dinner without watching you sipping rum and Coke in our dining room.

  Maria was oblivious to my thoughts as she gazed childlike at the balloons passing overhead. An hour went by when, finally, out of the corner of my eye I saw Santa’s sled drifting down the street.

  I remember thinking about when I was a kid, just as Santa appeared on the screen, I knew guests would be arriving soon and lasagna was about an hour away. Adulthood seemed light years away back then.

  When I’d left my house that morning, I’d smelled the lasagna baking. Sadly, everything else was different. I was still so jealous of Maria’s—I’m not sure what—I guess everything. I swear, worrying about Maria took up 95% of my waking hours. I had no outlet, no true leisure time. No time to just live in the moment, the Here and Now. Instead of sledding and watching TV on weekends I was worrying about Maria and studying and working, and trying to maintain my GPA. If I didn’t get into the Academy my life would be ruined. There was never anything earth-shattering about an elementary school book report, or having cookies and milk after school. Now my life’s happiness hinged on the Academy’s decision. And even if I got in, I still had Maria to worry about.

  “I have to ask you about your vacation Upstate last summer,” I barked to Maria, trying to be heard above the crowd. I said it as if my decision to debate had already been made, my lines already written.

  “A.J., we’re at a parade! I thought we went over this! You haven’t brought it up in days!”

  “I know, but I just have to know this—did you enjoy getting drunk? What I mean is, are you not doing it anymore because of me, or because you just don’t want to?”

  “I—I don’t know. If you don’t like it, then I don’t want to do it, baby.”

  I exploded. “What do you mean? You mean that you want to? I thought you didn’t like it!”

  “I didn’t like it! I just wouldn’t—” she cut herself off. “Why the fuck do you want to know? Jesus Christ! Right here at the parade! We were having such a nice time. We haven’t fought in days.” Her face looked as though she’d just been stabbed: snow-white, clammy, and cold. Her eyes squinted as if she were holding back an avalanche of tears.

  “Can’t you just tell me? I can’t believe this. You fucking bitch,” I said, just loud enough to be heard only by her. But then my voice escalated. “Can’t you just answer the goddamn question?” A little boy behind her turned his head so swiftly that his earmuffs flung off and hit the pavement. Adults and children alike began to stare.

  Without thinking, without giving any thought to where I was, I unleashed my arm like a limp lasso, swung my open hand, and whacked Maria’s face. Her head jerked. She looked at me for and instant before sprinting off like a runner at the sound of the starting gun. She squirmed through a crack in the police barricades and raced across Central Park West. She was so upset that she must’ve not been looking at where she was going, and she careened off of Santa’s sled and toppled to the pavement. It all happened so fast that nobody, not even Santa, had time to do anything. There wasn’t a cop in sight; the dancing snowflakes and reindeer just watched in horror.

  I jumped the barricade and sprinted after her. I felt naked crossing Central Park West in front of thousands of people. I felt like lightening, I got to the other side so quickly. I was exhilarated, yet angry. Where is she? I thought. Masses of people leaving the parade and she’d just blended in with the crowd. To get to a lamppost I smacked a little girl’s balloon out of the way. I stood on its base and saw Maria making her way to the subway. She’s on her way home! I jumped down and jetted through a stream of people toward the corner.

  Panting frozen air, standing at the top of the filthy, grimy staircase, I saw her. People were shuffling by, but she was sitting on the bottom step rather complacently.

  In a flash, I jumped down the stairs like a super hero. Grabbing her left shoulder from behind, pressing my fingers through her bulging coat, her little face turned back toward me, almost in slow motion. She screamed.

  I slammed the palm of my hand over her warm, wet mouth. I felt her teeth clenching beneath my fingers; for a moment I thought she was going to bite me. Kneeling down on the step beside her, I mashed my body against hers, squeezing her against the filthy tiled wall of the stairwell.

  “Please, Maria,” I said, beginning to cry heavily, “please don’t make this happen. Please don’t ruin a good day.” She squirmed around like a gerbil in a vest pocket.