by Winton, Tom
It was warm and dry up there. We could have some privacy if we kept quiet. Our inside-out jacket-pillows, mine rolled up hastily, Theresa's folded ever so neatly, added a semblance of comfort to the hard tile floor. Still wet from the rain, we laid there holding each other. Sharing our body heat, feeling the beat of each other's heart against our chests, Theresa thanked me again for staying the night with her. Then an ancient urge swelled within us both. Cheek to cheek, body to body, our pulses quickened and so did our breathing. Heavy breaths against young necks aroused us with a heat that fueled our desires. This undeniable feeling suddenly erupted into an irrefutable passionate craving. Our lips met, and our tongues pulled to each other. None of it forced, everything coming so beautifully, so naturally. Instinctively, we wrestled out of our clothes. The rain pounding on the roof muted our labored breaths and pleasureful moans as we explored each other's flesh. When I entered her, Theresa withdrew her tongue from my mouth and whispered, "I love you, sooo much."
When it was over, we dressed, shared a smoke, and fell asleep in each other's arms. What we had experienced atop that tenement stairwell, couldn't have had more meaning if the act had taken place in the finest Park Avenue penthouse or the stateliest Hyde Park mansion.
Chapter 7
At about eight the next morning, we awoke to the slam of a door in the hallway below. Someone was leaving their apartment, probably going to church, the bakery, or to pick up the Sunday paper. As the heavy galloping footsteps of a man descended the stairs, we quickly straightened ourselves up the best we could. Still, we looked like what we were, two kids who'd spent the whole night out. Yet, Theresa, despite her damp rumpled clothes, lack of make-up and disheveled hair, was still beautiful. It boggled my mind that she actually loved me as hard as I did her, that she had given me everything she had to offer. Something, I had learned that night, she had never given to anyone before. I wanted this small moment to last forever.
Theresa said it would be safe to go back to her house by now. We could clean up, get something to eat. By this time her mother would be at 'The Point Diner', waiting her tables. We would be able to get inside. She couldn't possibly chain and deadbolt the door when she left for work. As we made our way to her house, neither of us said much. I hoped it was only fatigue from spending the entire night out, but I feared she might be regretting what we'd done on the stairwell. Maybe that wasn't even it. Maybe she was worried about the confrontation she'd surely have later with her mother.
As soon as we got in her house, Theresa put on coffee, then she asked me, "You don't mind if I take a quick shower, do you Dean?"
"No...Sure... go ahead."
While waiting, I smoked a cigarette and tried to recapture a vision of her lovely body. I couldn't. No man's memory can ever recall the clear splendor of a lover's body. It's always far, far better when he actually sees her again, when he loves her again. Like pain, shades of color, or scents, you simply can't bring them back into your mind as they truly are.
I punched out my smoke, ambled across the room to where that picture hung on the wall. The room daytime-brighter now, I could see it was a black and white of a little knobby-kneed Theresa in an adorable white dress, standing in front of her parents. The way Mrs. Wayman stood, her head tilted onto her husband's shoulder, reminded me of the way her daughter did that to me. She looked so different then. Mister Wayman appeared somewhat uncomfortable in his baggy suit, like a handsome, hulking tradesman who couldn't wait to get back into his jeans, like a small boy who'd been forced to wear short pants.
A few minutes later, sitting on that sofa’s middle cushion, I again worried that Theresa might resent what we had done on the stairwell. That’s when she came back out wearing just a white terry cloth robe. I was surprised by this new-found familiarity but at the same time relished it. But wait. Maybe my clunk-headed, testosterone-driven male ego was taking it out of context. Maybe Theresa simply figured she was covered and it didn't matter with what, and that's really all there is to it. Regardless, I thought it utterly marvelous that she'd now come out in front of me with a robe on, maybe nothing else. It was tough, but I did a pretty fair job of acting like the whole scenario was no big thing.
"Why don't you take a shower?" she asked. "There are clean towels in the bathroom."
"Nah, that's OK."
"No, really, you'll feel better," she said, massaging her scalp briskly with a pink towel.
"You sure it's alright?"
"Sure. My mom won't be home till mid afternoon."
Just the thought, of being naked in someone else’s shower, made me feel vulnerable. What if Theresa's mother came home? But I was real funky, as you could imagine, so I went ahead and did it. I can't honestly say I didn't worry about her coming home as I quickly soaped, lathered, and rinsed myself, but she was only on the fringe of my consciousness. All I could really think about was Theresa standing naked in the very same tub just minutes before. Both my imagination and my hormones were again in high gear. The small tiled room was damp, the window and mirror still steamed up, her bare feet were right where mine were now. I found it all quite erotic. I longed to hold her naked in my arms again. "Forget it," I whispered to myself while toweling off, "what's important now is that she isn't hurting, that I didn't put her on some kind of guilt trip."
Safe once again after toweling off and dressing, I stepped out into the kitchen to the aroma of the fresh coffee. On the counter two ceramic cups stood next to the percolator. In the middle of the small room, an old yellow-Formica table with chrome legs was grouped with its only two surviving chairs. Where yellow tape was peeling off the vinyl cushions; brown cotton-like dashes of padding were plainly visible.
"Theresa," I called, after peeking into the empty living room.
"I'm in here," she answered, her voice sounding distant behind a closed door. “Come on in, Dean.”
Instinctively, I just had to glance out the living room window. The coast being clear, I padded into the kitchen and across the linoleum. The bathroom door was open and so was the one to her mother's bedroom. I knew it had to be hers, because it was a mess.
"You in there?" I asked the only closed door.
"Yes," Theresa giggled, "come on in."
The little room was immaculate. An antique white dresser and mirror stood against one wall and a twin bed with a matching headboard was opposite it. Theresa was on the bed, lying on her back, still in her robe, her head propped on a frilly pink pillow.
Patting the mattress, smiling, she said, "Come here, Dean."
Absolutely bewildered, I took one more nervous glance through the kitchen and out the front window, then, obediently I did as I was told. Stepping uncertainly toward Theresa, her wide bright smile began to fade. Just lips now, a different kind of smile, much more serious. I thought I saw desire in it but how wasn’t sure. Slowly, as if entering sacred ground, I sat on the edge of the mattress.
She raised her hand to my face and, in a gesture that seemed almost maternal, she stroked my cheek and told me "I love you, Dean Cassidy."
I felt the corners of my mouth slowly rise, then I said “I love you too, Theresa. I don’t want us to ever end.”
We held each other’s eyes for a long moment, then, slowly, I dropped my gaze from hers. I couldn't help it. I just had to. I’d noticed in the outer boundaries of my vision a movement, a movement that for lack of a better word embezzled my attention. Theresa was ever so delicately opening her robe. I watched now as the soft material fell alongside her naked young body. It was like petals parting on a most lovely white flower. Like a lone, white cloud in a blue sky had separated, revealing the kingdom of heaven and all its promise.
Chapter 8
Time passed quickly, the days piled into weeks. Theresa and I nurtured our deepening bond. Our love grew day by day atop its original flimsy infrastructure of strong physical attraction. Isn't that how it works almost always? No chemistry, no future. Good karma, boundless romantic possibilities. Yet it was far more than just the physical aspect
that helped forge our two young souls into one. I believe that the deficiencies in our lives helped propagate our love. All our troubling hardships actually seemed to strengthen what we had. Both of us coming from the social ladder's lower rungs, we had much in common. For starters, money had always been a problem for both of us. We each, all our lives, had eaten off of chipped plates with mismatched silverware. Both our mothers were dysfunctional, not exactly the types to help their kids with math homework. Theresa's father was deceased, mine was violently hot-headed and hardly ever around.
As far as my father was concerned, I can't say that I totally blamed him for everything that went wrong in our family. It was my mother’s far-out behavior that drove him out of our apartment every night. He'd volunteer for every church function he possibly could, just to get away. Six, seven nights a week he'd go down to Saint Leo's to help at bingo, say Novenas, do the stations of the cross, or pitch in at bazaars and Las Vegas nights. He'd help out at Sunday masses too, either by ushering or lecturing, and was a devout member of the Holy Name Society. Only four years after converting to Catholicism, he was named 'man of the year' in our parish.
Too bad he couldn't have spent more time at home instead. Sure, I know it could have been worse. He could have gone out and got drunk all the time like most of my friend's fathers did. He could have chased women too. Maybe he did. I don't know. One lady from the church used to call our place all the time, making sure dad would be going to this meeting or that one. But, then again, it was possible that nothing went on between them. Either way, it wouldn't have changed things at home.
I don’t know maybe he was a bigger man than I realize, just for coming home every night, for bringing home his paycheck each Friday, or for making all those TV dinners, because Ma would not cook. You see, she was terrified she might get germs on our food that would, in her mind, ultimately kill us all. Sure, Dad could have easily given up, just deserted us, but he didn't. Despite all his shortcomings, he hung in.
Still, life in apartment 1B was a real trip. With Dad's trigger temper and Ma's irrational behavior, even on the occasions when things seemed almost mellow, you had to be real careful. At the drop of a hat the ambience could change. The slightest irritation could get my old man going. Sometimes he’d go from almost docile to ballistic in a nanosecond. It was like we were constantly walking on blasting-cap eggshells instead of cheap linoleum and that remnant carpet.
A perfect example of Dad’s volatility took place the first time Theresa came to our place. I knew inviting her was risky, that things could, and probably would, turn into a first-class fiasco, but I had hope. I kept after Ma until she finally agreed to make us a Sunday dinner. I wanted to show her off to my parents just like Theresa had wanted to show me off to her mother that 'lovely night' I met her. I thought maybe, if I got lucky, some of the neighbors would see my prize too.
I told Ma how much Theresa meant to me, pre-pleaded with her to try to act normal. And she did, try that is. For the first time in months, she got out of that stained robe, got dressed, and actually cooked a small London broil. Boy, did she cook it. She cremated it. So long, and in an oven set so high, it was impossible for anything short of a pit bull’s teeth to penetrate it. This too was part of her illness. The way she saw it any meat that wasn’t totally scorched would definitely kill her family, trichinosis, salmonella, whatever. Lord only knows how many times before Theresa came over that day Ma washed and scrubbed our dishes, and her hands. Nevertheless, despite all the careful preparation, it still wouldn't be enough for her. Knowing Ma like I did, I knew she'd have new unfounded worries to add to her repertoire after we'd eaten. Maybe an extra rosary later on, after Theresa and I left, might save us all.
I remember sitting in the living room with Theresa that day, waiting for Dad to come home from another day of hustling his cab all over Manhattan. Arm-in-arm, we sat on the rickety wooden-legged sofa, while Ma, a nervous wreck from thinking about what her cooking was about to do to us, sat across from us in her chair. I remember the grievous look she shot at me after I got up and opened the shade over the dark room’s only window. Of course, she was sly enough not to let Theresa notice, but I picked up on it. I knew exactly what Ma was thinking: Are you crazy! Why'd you do that? God knows what germs you just picked up by touching that dusty thing. I saw her open her mouth to say something about my mindless, surely fatal, gesture but managed to catch herself.
We went on making small talk the best we could, but still there were uncomfortable breaks in the conversation. Eventually I got up and turned on the television, hoping a little noise might fill the holes in our forced, hollow conversation. Then as I started fiddling with the rabbit ears, the door opened and in came Dad. That’s when Ma stopped holding back. That's when it really hit the fan!
Ma refused to believe that this man walking into our living room was Dad. Theresa or no Theresa, she totally lost it. It happened that quickly! She insisted on inspecting the back of my father's neck with her germ-scrubbed hands, appendages all red, raw and shriveled from hundreds of daily scalding washings. She needed proof, demanded to see the scar on his neck, the one he'd gotten years before when he'd had a carbuncle lanced. She truly believed my father was an imposter, somebody in disguise, some mafia capo who'd undergone a series of painful operations just to trick her.
Though I'd forewarned Theresa to expect anything, she couldn't believe what was happening.
I tried to lighten the outrageous predicament. Feeling like an asshole, acting like everything was going just peachy, I said, "Dad, I want you to meet Theresa."
"Hi honey," he managed, in a fatherly tone unfamiliar to this son's ears. "Nice to meet you."
"It's very nice to meet you, Mister Cassidy."
Then Mom butted in again, as if Theresa wasn't even there, "This isn't your father, Dean. Who the hell ARE YOU? You’re not Frank."
My heart back-flipped one time, then buried itself deep inside my gut.
Theresa looked at me.
"He is so," I said. "It's Dad, Ma."
"No-he is-not," she said in that characteristic, all-knowing tone of hers. Then she rose to her feet. "Come here, YOU." she ordered this imposter, this murderer, this mobster.
Standing there, about to pop an artery, Dad said "Felicia, don't start this shit now, OKKK? I'm warnin' ya."
"I want a better look at your neck, BUDDY. Come here in the light."
That's when my old man really lost it.
"Shit, man … (When he started a phrase with that you knew the rest was going to be profound, it was time to get out of his way) … I told you not to start in, now." He would have stormed out of there right then, empty stomach and all, hauled ass up to Saint Leo's, if it wasn't for Theresa being there, shifting and squirming next to me on the sofa.
When my sweetheart's grip tightened on my shoulder, I glanced at her face. I saw apprehension, fear, embarrassment, shock, an entire gamut of miserable emotions, and I became enraged. The bad blood I'd inherited was boiling in my veins now. Realizing that we'd reached the point in this scene where it was too late to turn this ugliness around I said, "Welcome to the Cassidy's happy fucking household, Theresa."
"Oh my God, DEAN, don't talk like that," Ma pleaded. And, hoping she could intercept my words on their heavenly flight, she followed up with a lightning-quick sign of the cross.
"Come inside, Goddamit!" Dad said to Ma, relenting to her sick hunch now.
She'd worn him down. That was her way. My mother could wear down anyone. She probably figured she could wear down Jesus Christ with her prayers, and I wouldn't be surprised if she was making progress. Anyway, she followed Dad into the bedroom, her eyes not budging from the back of this phony's neck.
Alone at last, I asked Theresa if she wanted to split. "We could just run out the door, not have to deal with this shit anymore."
"I'd love to Dean. But we can't."
For two or three minutes, we sat in silence, listening to the indiscernible angry whispers in the next room. Then I tol
d Theresa that with Dad's short fuse it defied all logic that he'd been able to hold back like he had, and that he actually submitted to Ma's sick demand, even with a guest in the house, had to be the world's eighth wonder.
Eventually Mom finished her probe and, reluctantly, told us to come on in and eat.
Nobody spoke at the table. It was a typical, atypical breaking of bread at the Cassidy place. Theresa and I ate little, and we ate quickly. I saw the fear grow in Ma's eyes with each bite we took. When Theresa and I both passed on desert, a packaged frozen pie, she was visibly relieved. Again I knew exactly what she was thinking. Anybody could have poisoned that damn thing, a disgruntled worker, some delivery clown, a hit man! Yeah, that’s it, a hit man must have infiltrated the plant where they bake the damn things. The lengths those sneaky bastards will through to get you!