“So, hav-have you have sex with lots of guys?” I asked her, nervously squeaking out ‘guys’ on a high note. I’m not sure which I feared most—getting a disease or Maggie popping me in the chin for even asking.
She giggled like a little school girl. But, then again, that’s what she was, I guess. Running her fingers through her hair, Maggie slid away from me and sat Indian-style, leaned back, and stretched out her neck and arms. She smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. For a moment, it seemed like she’d forgotten I’d even asked her a question. For that moment, I hated her.
Finally, she noticed the stern look on my face and responded: “Does it really matter?” She laughed.
That pissed me off. “Well, do you?” I repeated.
“Sometimes,” she said, grinning, as if she was telling me how often she roller-skated. She was beginning to piss me off. I had to find out more about her.
“Who do you hang out with? Lots of boys?”
“A few,” she said. “But mostly my cousin and her friends. My cousin is older than me. She introduces me to all of her friends.”
Overwhelmed by an urge to know all about her ‘friends,’ I abandoned my plan to break up with Maggie and decided to interrogate her instead. Sure, her friends were probably hoods and losers, each and every one of them. But just how greasy were they? Maybe Maggie was just another piece of shit on Queens Boulevard. Maybe she gave me a fucking disease!
“Like who? Anyone I might know?”
“A.J., there are like billions of people in New York!” She laughed again. Suddenly, she seemed to be a lot less interested in me. Her eyes wandered up at the trees and lake out of apparent boredom. She didn’t seem to take my questions seriously. It was frightening. And I was outraged. I would’ve walked away right then and there; but first, I had to know what kind of people she hung out with. Sure, I wanted to quell my fears. But I also wanted to discover something bad about her, something that would make me hate her, something that would compel me to kick her goddamn face and walk the fuck away, leaving her alone in the city. Or at least just walk away.
“All right,” I said, trying to hold back a burst of rage, “enough games. Just tell me a few names.”
She out her index finger to her chin. I still remember her stupid response—“Ummmmmmm…... Ummmmmm” as I sat there waiting for what felt like a lifetime. “Ummmmmmm, well, there’s this senior I know named Kerry—she goes to Stella Maris, too. She helps me get beer since I don’t have a fake ID. And then there’s this girl Laura. She gets me into lots of clubs. Then there’s Elizabeth. Her and her sister always drink with me at the park in Ridegwood, the one where no cops come, you know? She sometimes goes to Kearney’s, too. We even hooked up with the same guy in the same night once!” She laughed again. Roller-skating is fun! Hardy-fucking-har.
Had I stuck to my new plan, I would’ve bitch-slapped Maggie and walked the fuck away. I would’ve said “Catch ya later, whore,” and split. I would’ve laughed at her for laughing at me. Not a giggle laugh, but a vindictive one, a hearty chuckle that would’ve bellowed across the Central Park bridges and let Maggie know that she was a piece of shit and I knew it; that there were hoods in my school that had too much self-respect to come on her face; that no guy in Kearney’s could replace her long-lost daddy; that even her sexy body could not lure me away from The One.
Instead, like God had just snapped a picture, I was frozen in a cold flash of light. Then I felt something funny in my gut: butterflies. For the first time since I’d sat in that spot with Maria last spring, I had butterflies in my stomach. Only these butterflies didn’t tickle. They had stingers. And they danced and pricked my insides with glee. Unable to escape, plastered to the cotton blanket below, I forgot for the moment that Maggie was beside me. She simply disappeared. All that was left were the words that had just shot out of her mouth like a round of bullets. It was just butterflies…butterflies...butterflies…and then bullets. A moment later, I understood why.
“What’s her last name?” I asked. “Elizabeth’s, I mean.”
“Della Verita,” she said. “Why?”
***
I ran.
Through the park I dashed, huffing and puffing my way to the R train, hoping to catch Maria before more damage could be done.
The subway ride home lasted five years. I plopped into the hard plastic seat, and tightly gripped the slimy, shiny metallic pole. Somewhere in the tunnel between Lex and Queens Plaza, my body atrophied, all except for my head. My skull shook—trembled, actually—from side to side, preparing to deny everything that Maria would accuse me of. No, no, no! I didn’t do it! I practiced, silently within. The movement was non-existent to those around me, but I felt it.
I’d left Maggie alone by the pond in Central Park. Thinking about it now, she must have thought I was crazy for jumping up and sprinting away like that. At the time, however, had someone asked me, I wouldn’t have recognized the name Maggie, or the park. Who’s Maggie? I’d forgotten all that before I darted away from her. Perhaps that’s why I neglected to ask her to promise not to tell Elizabeth about me.
But, to be honest, I never even considered that. Within the recesses of my heart I knew that my doomsday had arrived. The long and winding road had led me to the gates of Hell. But I was going to fight it all, fight the inescapable, try to avoid my fateful journey through those gates. I couldn’t live without Maria. There was no getting around that fact. But that reality didn’t strike me until it was too late.
Precisely what happened next has been erased from my mind. All I know is that somehow I ended up standing in front of Maria’s house, shivering more than the spring air called for. Her doorbell sounded like fire alarm to my ears. Impatiently, I waited for her to answer.
A plane thundered overhead. It resonated like a B-1 bomber; however, glancing toward the sky, I noticed that it was a simple Boeing 747, perhaps en route to Paris or Rome, or some other place I’d never visit. How I longed to be sitting in its cockpit, traveling to a faraway place.
As Maria opened the door I was still staring at the sky. I’d completely forgotten about my tar-stained teeth and smoky breath, a result of the cigarettes I’d sucked down on the subway platform, and on the walk to the subway, and on the walk to her house. Had it not been for the terrible look in my eyes when she first saw me, perhaps Maria would’ve noticed the odor of tobacco. Instead, she stood before, quiet and still. I didn’t ask if her parents were home; I didn’t know what day it was, or what time of the year it was. Trying to hold back a torrent of sad tears and vomit, I just stood there, waiting for her to make the first move. Maybe she doesn’t know anything, I thought, despairingly. Maybe it’s not too late to save our relationship. Maria’s cutting stare filled me with more uncertainty than ever before. I didn’t know whether or not Maria knew about my encounter with Maggie. I didn’t know whether her silence was a result of my unexpected visit, or a sign of the news she’d just learned of from her sister, Elizabeth, or, God forbid, from Maggie herself.
She made an about-face and began walking down the staircase toward her room. I remained in the doorway ready to cry and throw-up at any moment. Then she motioned for me to follow her. I snapped out of my trance and plodded behind her.
I don’t recall pondering my first statement to Maria that day. I suppose my assumption was that—God, I don’t know—if I could control what was told to her first, she would disbelieve other versions of the story. It was the very first time in our entire relationship that I can’t recall even attempting to devise a plan of action. The only specific thing I do remember was wondering what she would tell her father and mother. If she remained my girlfriend, was her love strong enough to keep my disloyalty a secret? Despite what Grandpa Della Verita had said, I didn’t know for sure if her father had sent in the recommendation. Academy acceptances and rejections would be delivered within a few weeks.
Maria was staring at me. She had an uneasy look, one I’d never seen before. When someone who’s trusted you ha
s caught you in a lie, they have this look—you know what I’m talking about, because it’s a look you only see in that situation.
That look melted me as we stood in the center of her room, a room that had witnessed an unimaginable number of fights and kisses over the past year. That special bed, Maria’s bed, sat silently in the corner, the covers tucked in tightly. I looked down at my sneakers, then up at the light. There was nothing to say, except: “Maria, I—I cheated on you.”
Maria was a cool character ordinarily. She’d installed those mirrors in her living room as her father sat in the den, downing his ninth beer of the night. She’d quit smoking and turned to Shakespeare of all things for solace. She’d accepted my questions about her past, groaning only occasionally.
But that day Maria was not cool. Her icy stare melted away and within seconds she broke down crying. She bawled for several minutes. It seemed like hours. She was so upset, in fact, that I honestly thought she was going to attack me. But Maria never lost control, so she didn’t do any such thing. Instead, she turned toward her dresser and opened a drawer, softly, meticulously. Equally cautiously, she picked up several poems I’d given her over the past year. They were still in the original off-white envelopes, as fresh and crisp as the day I wrote them. Violently, she stripped her neck of the date-plate I’d given her for Christmas, breaking it at the clasp. I heard it ping against the wooden floor.
Remaining silent, Maria handed me the letters, and started to cry. I accepted them, not knowing what else to do. I heard a garbage truck rumble down the pothole-ridden street. Its thunder shook my insides and smooshed them into mashed potatoes. Maria grabbed my shoulder, attempting to force me to turn around, and said, flatly: “Get out.”
That’s when she stopped crying. That’s when I broke down in tears.
“Please, Maria,” I began to beg, “Please don’t do this. It was only one kiss. I’m sorry!”
“Get out.”
I screamed, “Pleeeeeaaaase!” and dropped down to my knees like an animal. And I am not saying that figuratively. I was literally an animal, writing in pain on the floor, like a rhino that’s just been shot by a hunter. I smothered Maria’s boots with my wet face. I licked them, slurring out an occasional “I’m so sorry” amidst an avalanche of tears and a wall of wails.
After a minute or so, I heard someone on the floor above us, walking solidly toward the door which led to the staircase downstairs. Her mother yelled downstairs, asking if everything was all right. Maria told her Mom not to worry, to go back inside, that she had the situation under control.
“Get out.”
Speaking to her ankles: “Please, Maria. I—I was joking. I made the whole thing up. God, I—I was testing you. I didn’t kiss another girl. I didn’t do anything. It was all a set-up I did with me and some girls I met at a bar. I swear. I love you.” I spoke through a gush of tears which flowed so hard and fast that I heard them splashed onto the floor, joining the jumbled golden links.
“Nice try,” she said. “You’re full of shit. It’s taken me a long time to realize that, A.J. But you’re full of shit. And you’re full of yourself. But I guess that’s redundant, huh?” And then she laughed.
I was flabbergasted. She continued:
“Do you think I haven’t told my parents and sister all about you? Well, kiddo, I have. I didn’t at first, though, because I thought everything was my fault. I thought I was wrong for having friends that you didn’t know, a past you weren’t part of. I hated—hated—myself for drinking Upstate with my cousin. I hated myself for having a life before you. You made me feel that way. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been drinking every weekend since August. You can’t fool me.
“I wasn’t sure about it at first. Like I said, at first I really thought it was my fault. I really thought I was a bad person. Oh, sure, you were great—wonderful, in fact—for the first few dates. But then, the more I told you about myself, the more you resented me.
“You should have loved me, A.J.! You should have loved me for baring my soul to you. Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno. Remember that, A.J.? Remember that? I thought you were my confidant. I trusted you more than my own father. I thought I could confide in you, and that we could grow old together, just like we used to talk about.
“But, no, you had to fuck it up, didn’t you? It wasn’t until Christmas—remember the opera?—when I first told my mother about you. The real you. She brushed it aside; she defended you. She said I was overreacting, and I believed her. But more and more I became convinced that I wasn’t overreacting. You were. If I didn’t say ‘I love you’ first-thing each time we spoke on the phone, it was a crime. If I was friendly with somebody else, it was a sin.
“Last summer, I was depressed about my father and mother, because I thought they might be getting divorced, so I drank. You sentenced me to death for that crime, didn’t you? You couldn’t just forgive me for it, like any decent person would’ve done. I begged for you to forgive me. I even begged God to forgive me, because I thought your anger at me was equivalent to God’s.
“And you convinced me that it was. But slowly, A.J., very slowly I figured it all out. I figured out that you didn’t love me, you only loved being my God. You wanted nothing more than to control me. Control, A.J. Do you understand what the hell that means? You controlled me through your questions—no, your interrogations. You had to know each and every detail of my life, didn’t you? Oh, sure, I wanted to open up to you, I wanted you to be my confidant. But you just had to take it too far. You wouldn’t quit until both you and I had relived each and every dreadful moment of my life. Never the good times; only the bad ones.
“You know, I just realized that there’s only one thing about me that you never found out—you never found out why I’m a year behind in school. I was surprised that you never pressed me on that one. Well, now I’ll tell you: I was left back because of a custody fight between my parents when I was in the second grade. They were legally separated for a year, and my mother took my father to court to try and keep me. I was so upset that I failed all my classes and got left back.
“So there you go, A.J.—Whew!—” she chuckled defiantly—“now you know every little detail. Now I am truly free. Now there’s nothing more you could possibly ask me. I won’t allow you to make me relive that one. I’m one-up on you, A.J., for the first time ever.
“I want you to leave my house and never come back. Got that?” She poked my sternum so hard that I almost fell over. “And it’s not just because of what you told me today. In fact, I thank you for cheating on me, really, because it’s given me the chance to break up with you—to never see your fucking face again—sooner than I thought.
“I can’t wait to call Lynn and tell her. Remember Lynn? She was my best friend until we both met you. Oh, but you wouldn’t allow me to be her friend. It was against A.J.’s Rules. So guess how many friends I have now? Zero. None. I haven’t had a friend other than you in almost a year. I remember that Kelvin and I used to hang out before class; nothing really, just talk and that’s it. But you said Kelvin couldn’t be my friend, so I haven’t spoken to him in months. I used to tell Cindy all about you in history class every day. But I stopped speaking to her after you went ballistic in the mall. And you said lots of other people couldn’t be my friends—even when you didn’t say it, you implied it—and I was afraid to have a friend besides you. I never trusted people much, but that was always my choice, based on my experience. It was never forced upon me, through fear and jealousy, by a person that made love to me, a person I gave myself to.
“But we never made love, A.J. You fucked me. No, it wasn’t rape, and I’ll never call it that. But I made love to you and, in turn, you fucked me. I made love to you because I felt guilty. Guilty! When I first made love to you that’s why I did it, that’s what was going through my mind: All I kept thinking was maybe now he’ll forgive me for drinking, for…for…for living! That’s how wrong I thought I was. I never cheated on you. I never, ever intentionally
hurt you. And that’s all anyone can ever ask of a friend or lover. We are only human, A.J. But you treated me like a dog. Like your property.
Little Boy Page 30