Mr. Della Verita ceased rocking and stared at me intently. “You know much about jets, A.J.?”
“Sure,” I said, “I know a little, Mr. Della Verita.”
“Hey”—he snapped his finger at me and winked—“call me Mr. D.”
“You got it, Mr. D.”
“When I was just a little older than you, I flew an F-4D Phantom in Vietnam. Ever hear of it?”
“Sure, one of the most versatile jets used in the war. It’s the first U. S. Navy jet to be accepted for service by the Air Force. And you know how strong the rivalry is between the Air Force and Navy.”
“Navy men are a bunch of pussies!” he bellowed. Maria and her sat silently, startled at his burst of profanity. Mrs. Della Verita lit another cigarette. Not too drunk to be embarrassed, Mr. D glanced at his wife and daughter and quietly apologized.
“I know what you mean, Mr. D.,” I said, trying desperately to continue the conversation unabated. “The Air Force did the real work in ‘Nam.”
“You bet, guy. And that F-4D Phantom II did more work than any two battleships combined. It carried two laser-guided bombs and three air-to-air missiles. We blasted Charlie to hell, I tell ya. The Phantom could do it all: photo reconnaissance, bombing missions, anti-radar assignments. I can’t think of another jet that did so much.”
“My dad said he always wanted to fly the Phantom, but he got stuck with a B52D Stratofortress.”
“Stuck? Are you kidding me? If I could’ve flown any other aircraft in Vietnam, it would’ve been the Stratofortress. Hell, the Phantom flew close to the ground, almost got us killed a hundred times over. But the Stratofortress dropped its bombs from what, 20,000 feet?”
“30, 000,” I said, smiling.
“30, 000 feet! Christ! I bet he came home without a scratch on him!”
“He got home okay, just like you did.” My words hung conspicuously in the air as if in a cartoon bubble. Mr. D. downed another glass of sparkling yellow champagne.
Maria and her mother sat upright, parallel to one another like two tight-lipped totem poles, on the sofa across from the rocking chair. I got the impression that Maria was pissed at me because her father and I were so buddy-buddy. Mr. Della Verita was oblivious to his wife and daughter as he continued to reminisce about his war experience. Suddenly, I had the strangest feeling: It was almost as if he was hinting that his marriage destroyed his love affair with the Air Force, because that’s when he had to settle down and become a garbage man in New York. He went on and on, literally for hours, drinking champagne and telling me amazing stories about his life in the Air Force. I can’t remember the stories, exactly, but I sort of feel like I’m still there right now.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you need anything, guy, to help you get into that Academy, and I’ll give it to ya. I’ll make some phone calls for ya. You just let me know.” That’s how he concluded our conversation about the Air Force at one in the morning on January first of the New Year.
Mrs. Della Verita stiffly motioned for Maria to bring me down to her room. She was mighty pissed at her husband. I could tell that a fight was brewing.
Once in Maria’s room, apologies gushed out of her mouth as quickly as the tears fell from her eyes. I had no idea why she was crying.
“I’m so sorry, A.J., for my father’s behavior upstairs. I don’t know what got into him. I was angry at you at first for being so friendly with him. I was jealous, because we hardly ever talk that way anymore. Me and you, I mean. And, actually, me and him. But now I realize that I was actually angry with my father for allowing himself to lose control.”
“It’s okay, angel, really. I was—sort of angry that he started drinking, too.” But, to be honest, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. All I could think about was that recommendation I needed.
“Really? Is it okay?”
“I’m okay, really. I’m over it. But I wish you hadn’t had that glass of champagne. That was sort of sad to see.”
“I’m sorry!” she howled at the top of her lungs. It was not in anger but fear—fear that I would storm out of her house right then and there. But I wasn’t angry with her at all. Hell, I had the perfect match: her father’s admiration for me and her loss of whatever respect she had left for him. At that moment, for the first time in months, I was the only person in the world she could turn to for love and guidance.
“It’s all right, baby. Really. I love you so much. I forgive you. I know why you drank. Hey, it’s New Year’s Eve, right?” For a moment I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could tell her that I’d learned to enjoy drinking, that maybe we could be drinking buddies.
But she looked at me with those doey eyes and said, “I don’t want to turn into my father.” She sniffled.
It was then that I realized how sorry she was for drinking the previous summer. Tonight, I thought, I have truly forgiven her. But I would’ve forgiven her for anything that night, I was so happy.
Soon we were entangled in a passionate kiss. With the rumble of her parents’ argument thundering above our heads, we stripped naked and rolled around on the carpet. It was cold outside that night, but I felt nothing but a warm little pillow that was Maria.
After nearly getting rug-burn, we rose and walked toward her bed, stopping intermittently to kiss and kiss again. And as I swirled my tongue within her mouth, as I felt her breasts flatten against the middle of my bare chest, my hands found her bulbous ass. She was a woman with a nine year old girl’s behind, a schoolgirl with a woman’s touch. It was tight, yet yielding, and it thrust my hard-on though my boxers in one fell swoop. Of all the things I experienced that New Year’s Eve, I’ll never forget what happened before the sex: the feeling of Maria’s ass clenched tightly within my two hands like two ripe cantaloupes, and my dick piercing her belly like a knife. There’s no other feeling in the world that compares. I remember it well.
She welcomed my body as we fell on to the bed. Interlocked, we tore at one another like a lion and a lioness. I kissed and nibbled—everywhere. Her head, face, neck, breasts, shoulders, arms, and belly. I felt as if I weren’t making love but eating a fine meal. And she smelled like one, too. There is nothing in this universe like the scent of a naked woman you love—the fragrance of a dab of perfume between her breasts, the aroma of her perspiration, the subtle bouquet that arose as I smooched my way down her tummy and toward her vagina. It’s not flowers or perfume, but flesh and skin. A warm body aching for mine. Such a smell can’t be reproduced by Calvin Klein or accurately described in a romance novel. The closest comparison would be to that of a security blanket I embraced when I was just a kid while sucking my thumb—completely barren of anything that was unfamiliar me, familiar yet fresh, and oh-so-comforting.
We were both virgins. But Maria knew exactly where to place her hands and mouth and cheeks; and I answered with all that I knew could pleasure a woman at the time. I covered her entire body with gentle kisses; her body erupted in goosebumps. I sniffed her eyebrows and ears; I bit and tugged at her nipples and elbows. Each movement was a prelude to the next. We flowed like the water rolling onto the sands of Rockaway beach.
And just as the waves come together, that night there was a total surrender of my body to Maria’s. I savored the most private part of my body melding with the most private part of hers. I felt Unity. But even that word itself does nothing to begin to illustrate my feelings that night.
Our rhythm was perfect. It was almost as if each previous kiss together had been practiced solely for one act. The thumping above us was drowned out by lustful breathing. The room we were in, the bed we were on—they did not exist, either. That night Maria and I soared higher than any jet, well beyond each cloud we had gazed upon in Central Park. All that I desired at that point and time, all that I needed in the world, had been secured during those few hours in Maria’s bed.
Maria’s bed. Now there’s an image that pains me to ponder. It’s just past midnight now. I could be in her bed right now. I had my future. I had Maria. Had I die
d that night, I’d have died a peaceful man. I almost wish I had died, right then and there. Peace like that has eluded my life since Maria. I wish for that kind of peace in my next life.
The rest is too difficult to repeat. It’s always most difficult to reiterate the greatest times we shared. All I can say is this: To this day, I’ve never felt as close to a girl—to any person at all—as I did that early morning with Maria Della Verita. We were in complete and holy isolation. We basked in the sun of a solar system that consisted of only two heavenly bodies.
Chapter 17
Magdalena
Four days into the new year, my body still tingling from New Year’s morning’s encounter, Maria’s father offered to write me a recommendation for the Air Force Academy. Finally, I had the surefire future, the beautiful girl, and the support of her family. I had it all.
But if that’s true then why was I such an angry and bitter young man? Why did a little devil sit atop my shoulder, incessantly coaxing me into doubting Maria? And why did I suddenly feel as though Maria wasn’t good enough for me?
Probably because the more obsessed I became with Maria’s drinking binge Upstate, the more I felt she lacked the control essential to be a good person. Oh, sure, when I got sloshed it was okay. Hell, I chose to drink. I wanted to experiment. But Maria had lost control of herself in a time of crisis. Was that the kind of girlfriend I wanted?
Each and every night Maria and I spoke for hours on the phone. In each conversation the following emotions manifested themselves: reluctant good-will, bliss, melancholy, depression, fear, and love—usually in that order. Although love ostensibly prevailed each time, the truth is that as I placed the receiver down on the phone every night at one or two a.m., there was one prevalent thought inside of my mind: Maria’s perfect. Too perfect. She must be lying to me.
About what I had no idea. Everything, I guess. If she said she went to K-Mart with her sister after school, I wondered who she really went with—a friend, a classmate, another boyfriend—and if she really went to K-Mart, or to catch a movie. When she said she stayed after school to get extra help from her biology teacher, I questioned her true whereabouts. Was she making out with another boy in her fluffy bed, or perhaps smoking pot on a street corner with her old hood friends? One night, when Maria said she liked vanilla ice cream, I thought: She probably likes chocolate.
If questioning her actions when I wasn’t present was a sin, suspicion of her thoughts in person was a crime. And goddamn, I was guilty of that crime on each and every date, no matter how smoothly the date was going.
On Martin Luther King weekend, for example, we had a playful snowball fight in front of her house. When she went inside to answer the phone, I built a snow fort. When she came back outside, I nailed her in the tits with a hunk of ice and snow. Without flinching, she dove to the ground and was camouflaged by her white puffy jacket. I peeped over my fort but couldn’t see her. Only her silent giggles indicated that she was a few yards somewhere in front of me. Just when I thought it was safe to stand up and begin searching for her body, she stood on her knees and smacked a well-packed snowball right in my kisser.
I hopped over my wall and tackled her. We wrestled in the snow for a good five minutes. Finally, both panting heavily from the scuffle, we ceased simultaneously and kissed passionately. Her tongue quickly melted into a wet, warm gummy bear.
Our mouths unlocked and we gazed at one another blissfully. Maybe, I thought, this is a new beginning for us. I love her and she loves me. What more could a guy want?
“I love you, A.J.” she said. “The more time I spend with you, the more I realize how, deep down inside, you’re perfect.” I’ll never forget her calling me perfect. It was the greatest compliment of my life. And, had I been smart, I would’ve accepted Maria’s sincerity and beauty, and kept the promise I made that day, and started fresh.
“I love you, too. You’re not so bad yourself.” I winked. “Let’s go in the house and make love under the covers.”
She smiled. “Good idea. Let’s go.”
We rose and shook the snow off our bodies. I brushed icicles out of her hair as she wiped snowflakes out of my eyelashes.
We were just about to walk toward the door when some kid, a guy that must have been three or four years younger than me, hobbled down the street struggling with a giant red snow shovel. He walked over to Maria’s front gate and asked if Mrs. Della Verita was home. Maria said that she was, but no thank you, she didn’t want her sidewalk shoveled that day. The kid said okay and walked to the house next door. Maria didn’t say his name, but it looked like they knew each other.
“Who was that kid?” I asked.
“He’s, um, Louie.” She seemed perplexed by my question.
“Louie who?”
“Louie Gick. Who cares? He’s lives up the block.”
“Do you think he’s cute?”
“He’s fourteen years old!”
“I didn’t ask his age. I asked if you think he’s cute or not.” My voice was penetrating and monotonous.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Actually, What da hellaya tawkin’ about? Maria’s New York accent always surfaced when she was angry.
“I saw the way you looked at him. You think he’s cute, don’t you?”
Maria picked up a hunk of ice and smashed it in my face. Blood trickled from my nostrils, past my lips, and down my chin, all the way to the bronze interlocking teeth of the zipper on my bomber jacket.
“I’m sick of this shit!” she bellowed. “Just go the fuck home!” Her voice echoed down the quiet white street.
“Wait, what did I do?”
“Please, A.J., just please go home.” She started walking inside, but I ran up the icy stairs and yanked her by the shoulder. She fell on her ass.
“Leave me alone!” Maria shrieked, as she plopped down not one, not two, but three stairs to the frozen concrete at the bottom. She struggled to stand and then I grabbed her mitten-covered hand and yanked her to her feet.
Looking straight in her face, I said: “I know you think he’s cute. I saw you looking at him. Just admit it.”
“You’re nuts,” she replied, huffing and puffing from her brief but vigorous fall.
“Damn it, Maria. Do you think he’s cute or not?” Rather than answer, she watched me intently as an expression of self-doubt came over my face.
I turned my head to either side, first the right, then the left, still clasping her hand with my glove. I heard our voices echo down the serene, snow-covered street as a yodel does off a cliff side. The only thing moving was the frozen air roaring in and out of our noses and mouths. We were both shaking; whether it was the product of nerves or fright or frigid air, I don’t know. The air was like a wall between us. Silence shouted between our bodies.
It was at that moment that I felt lower than I had in months. It was the first time in a while that I’d actually voiced my innermost worries. Until that instant, I’d tried like hell to hold them all in. Until that moment I’d wondered many things, but seldom wondered them out loud. But my cover was blown. The jig was up. My most intimate and frightening jealousies had been revealed; I no longer could control my thoughts or my words. I was enslaved by my fears. I was a fool, a wimp, a pussy. I was a charlatan mind-reader who, when his E. S. P. was proven a sham, tried to coerce the desired answer from his client. I was a little boy fleeing from his own shadow, only to discover it behind him once again each time he glanced back—because you can’t get rid of your shadow.
But, the thing is, if Maria had waited just a minute longer to answer that question—if I’d had the time to thoroughly taste the bile of shame swelling within my gut—I still would’ve said what I wound up saying anyway. I couldn’t help it.
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