by Winton, Tom
I wasn’t about to hang around for an after dinner smoke. I stood to leave and Theresa followed suit. I almost popped a gut when she thanked both my role models for having her then told Ma that the food had been very good.
A minute later, when we stepped out of the apartment into the hallway, I yanked the door closed, and instantaneously all hell broke loose inside. The slam of the door had the same effect as a starter's gun as Saint Leo's 'Man of the Year' began screaming and cursing his way out of the state of grace. Talk about disgusting words! My dad knew them all. And being a creative sort of guy, he made up some pretty darn good original ones too. His booming profanities, both the clichéd and the copyrighted, thundered throughout the first floor hallway and probably could be heard all the way up on the fourth.
I swore I saw the foot thick plaster walls undulating as Theresa and I hustled, speechlessly, she wide-eyed, down the three hallway steps. Man, were we relieved to be the hell out of there.
But then, just when I thought the worst was over, I freaked.I leaned on the building's behemoth entry door and saw through the glass a bunch of our neighbors, most of them parked on lawn chairs, right outside our kitchen window. As my luck would have it, the spring evening was flawless, clear and balmy, and for the first time that year half the damned building's tenants were camped out there.
Old Mrs. Frankle, the self-perceived matriarch of our building, sat stoically on her webbed chair watching life pass by on Sanford Avenue just as she'd done for the past forty-six summers. The De Fillipos from 4D were there too, along with Donny Sculley’s mother and nosey old Mrs. Jacoby. Mrs. Strunk was the only one standing. Of course her husband, Mister Strunk, wasn't there. Surely by now he'd be struggling to keep his balance atop a barstool at Paddy Q's, one of the old man's bars down on Bowne Street.
With Theresa in tow I laid a group hello on all the busybodies. Then I had another stroke of bad luck. Before they could return my greeting, Dad's booming, hoarse profanities erupted onto the avenue. For some reason they had moved their shouting match into the kitchen. My father was yelling so loud you could hear the panes vibrating on the kitchen window just six feet behind the crowd. Old lady De Fellipo was so shocked she nearly flipped her lawn chair. The profanities coming out of Dad's big mouth were so loud they momentarily drowned out all the other city noises, kids yelling and carrying on, the cooing of soot-gray pigeons up on the third floor fire escape, all the traffic racing by, even the music blaring from the Mister Softee truck across the street by the schoolyard where a swarm of little kids pushed and shoved in line. From where we were, none of this racquet, nor all of it, came even close to competing with Dad's nicotine-stained lungs.
Embarrassed as all hell, hyper-humiliated once again, I dropped my jaw, turned my head the other way and rushed Theresa past the neighbors, not bothering to introduce her. My Father's disgusting words chased us down the sidewalk, "YOU SLUT, WHAT’D YOU FUCKING START THAT FOR? YOU CRAZY-ASSED PIECE A SH … "
Head down like a halfback, dragging Theresa in my wake, I picked up yardage fast. We skedaddled as quickly as my Converse hightops could lead us, short of breaking into an all-out run.
"There he goes, Theresa! Listen to him! Saint Leo’s finest at his best!"
Finally, down near the corner where the sidewalk slopes toward Parson's Boulevard, we were out of earshot. Theresa and I slowed down. A relieved smile now wide across my face I asked my sweetheart, "Well...all things considered, what do you think went smoother, my meeting your mother or your introduction to…to June and Ward Cleaver?"
"I’d say it was close. Maybe we should have a run-off, do it all over again some time."
We shared a long hearty laugh and, as we continued down the avenue, I leaned over and kissed my new soul-mate on the forehead.
Chapter 9
The second Saturday in June was to be Theresa's prom night. And, I was well prepared. For a week and a half I'd been selling the baptismal certificates that I helped myself to while working at Saint Leo’s. Just like Theresa, a good number of the girls graduating from Catholic and public schools throughout Queens would not yet be eighteen, so they'd need phony proof. You see, back then it was customary for New York City kids to go night clubbing after their proms ended, and although most clubs were pretty lax with the kids on their big night, they still had to produce some kind of proof. Everybody wanted to get into the big name Manhattan places such as the Latin Quarter and the Copacabana, so I accommodated them. Every day after school, at Kress' soda fountain, I was raking in anywhere from five to twenty-five bucks, tainted bucks. And, don't think it didn't bother me. It bothered the hell out of me that I had to get 'the root of all evil' the way I did, but for me there was no other way. To this very day it bothers me. But nobody I knew was going to give it to me, or even lend it to me for that matter. Anyhow, by prom night, I had put together almost a hundred and a half, enough to take care of the tux rental, Theresa’s corsage, my share of the limo rental, and a night of partying at the Copa, that famous hangout of gangsters and celebrities.
When the big night arrived, I somehow convinced my father to give me a lift to Theresa's in his Ford Falcon. The only other time I’d ever ridden in it was the day he brought it home from the dealership, six months earlier. He had to borrow twenty-three hundred to buy that car. It was the only new one he'd ever owned. Unfortunately, a few short months after the prom, he had to sell it and buy a jalopy because the debt was overwhelming his budget. At any rate, I was thankful for the ride that night. I would have felt really lame taking the bus on such an occasion. I could just imagine all the passengers gawking at me in my blue tux, frilly shirt, and cummerbund. I don’t think so!
During the twenty minute drive over to Theresa’s that night, Dad and I barely exchanged a word. But when he dropped me off in front of Theresa's place, I thanked him for the ride, popped the door open, and was about to step out when he said, "Here … take this. You might need it." It was a ten dollar bill. I opened my mouth, was about to tell him thanks anyway, I have enough money, but caught myself. I realized my refusal would have ruined for both of us this rare benevolent fatherly gesture. For this was one of the few times in my life I'd felt anything other than indifference toward my father. I took the money and I thanked him. Maybe, I thought, we were finally making some sort of father and son connection. I climbed out of the white Falcon feeling a brief pang of optimism for our relationship. I thought maybe now that I'd turned eighteen, was graduating high school, becoming a young man, we just might have more in common. But it was just another short-lived hope. A few short weeks later, with everything back to abnormal, I realized it was nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment thing. And I felt like a sap.
When Theresa opened the front door, I was dumbstruck. She looked absolutely elegant, like a woman, better than any woman I had ever seen on the cover of Cosmo. She looked so different, so much more mature. In her French curls, high heels, and that green gown with its low neckline, she was enough to make any red-blooded male howl like a coyote.
"Geez, Theresa, you look great!" I understated.
She smiled wide, did a couple of cute little poses and a pirouette. Then, checking me out, she said "Oh, Dean, look at you! You look sooo handsome." She gave me a mischievous look, pointed a manicured finger at the corsage in my hand and asked, "And what do you have there, Mister Cassidy?"
"Oh yeah … this is for you … and you know it. Now come here." I took the flowers out of the clear plastic container and clumsily slipped them over her wrist.
"Thank you, sweetie," she said in a teasing tone, her eyes transmitting immeasurable joy. Then she leaned forward, kissed me on the cheek, and I noticed gleeful tears welling in her eyes.
But all of our joy quickly went to hell. Our tender moment was cruelly raped when from the kitchen her mother's hoarse grating voice lashed out, "Where's that goddamned camera?” She stormed into the living room, not realizing I was there. “You idiot, I told you ta … ” Seeing I had arrived, she stopped mid-sentence a
nd said, "Oh … hello." The dejection in her voice was so apparent she might just as well have said, Oh it's youuu, how you doin', asshole?
"I think the camera's in my room, Mom," Theresa said, trying to force her voice to hold its jubilant tone, not having much success.
"Well, come on and help me look for the godamned thing," Mrs. Wayman slurred.
"Be right back." Theresa said, extending her upright palm toward the battered sofa, smiling sadly. "Have a seat."
Sitting stiffly in my tux, I lit a smoke. Three hits later I heard the witch’s hushed voice from two rooms away. She spoke louder than she realized but probably wouldn't have given a shit if she had, since she was all juiced up again. "I knew you'd lose that fuckin' camera!"
Shit, why doesn't she leave her alone? It's her daughter's godamned prom night. I fished the pint of Bacardi's from my jackets inside pocket, broke the seal, took a hot swallow, and put the bottle back in my pocket.
Then, thank God, Theresa found the camera. "Here it is, Ma … right here in the closet."
SLAP! The impact of hand against Theresa's face carried through the kitchen clear into the living room. I shot out of the sofa, caught myself, and sat back down. Somehow I fought off the urge to run in there and kick her skinny ass.
"Why'd … why'd you do that?" Theresa cried, her voice straining with emotion.
Hearing this hurt in her voice, I just about crushed the sofa's armrest in my bony grip. I clamped my jaw and ground my teeth with more force than an enraged great white could possibly muster.
"Ah'm lookin' all over the place like an idiot, and you hid the goddamned thing in your closet."
Theresa was sobbing now, pleading in a low voice, "Please Mom, stop … it's my prom night."
A hushed moment passed. Then they came back into the living room, together. Theresa was crushed.
Her mother stuck a finger toward the door and ordered us both to stand by it. "Go on … both of ya."
I wanted to spit in her miserable face, but I didn't. I just stood up, snuck her a hateful look, and waited as Theresa came to me. Together, we dragged ourselves to the door where Theresa rested her arm around my waist. I felt it trembling. I looked at her face more closely now. Her left cheek was a deep red. A coursing tear-track had cut through the fine dusting of powder on it. Only once before had I seen her so sad. I snuggled her waist as reassuringly as I could as we grudgingly posed for the demon on the other side of the camera.
Just as the flash popped, a horn honked outside. Thank God! It was Theresa's friends in the limousine.
Mrs. Wayman made her way unsteadily across the room. She handed her daughter the camera, and then, as if it were a mandatory matriarchal duty, she began straightening her daughter's dress and corsage. Staring smack into Theresa’s devastated eyes, she snapped as if being held at gunpoint, “Have a nice time.” Saying any words that remotely resembled even a token of benevolence was next to impossible for this tormented, tormenting, broken woman. Those few words she had managed, “Have a nice time”, came across as a lame attempt to retract her vodka-fuelled behaviour. Nevertheless, it was an attempt.
"Let's go.” Theresa said, as she slowly eased her eyes from her mother's.
Out on the street, the chauffeur held open an outsized black door for us to join our four waiting friends. Standing behind Theresa as she climbed in, I heard that sad bluesy music starting up again.
Chapter 10
Theresa and I worried for weeks that Sister Carmella might be going to the prom. Although her attendance had always been questionable because she was so frail, so up in age, there had been no guarantee she wouldn't be going. If she did, we would not have been able to. You can imagine our relief when a few days before the big night Theresa heard through the grapevine that the diminutive principal’s doctor decided it would be better if she did not go. All the loud music and excitement could prove to be too much for her. This revelation, plus the fact that there’d be no chaperones other than some of the nuns and faculty, added to our relief.
The prom was held at a posh catering hall out in Great Neck. I've long since forgotten the name of the place but still remember its huge glowing chandeliers, massive cut-glass works of art that looked like exploding glaciers bursting from the towering ceiling. There was a spacious staircase too. Bigger, wider, plushier than the one at the Keith's Theater, it gracefully swirled up to the second floor banquet rooms. Decked out as I was, promenading up these wide elegant steps with my arm around Theresa’s waist, I felt like blockade-runner Rhett Butler must have when he climbed Tara’s stairs with his beloved Scarlet Tara during their happier times. So swollen with pride was I, it’s a wonder I didn’t pop my cummerbund.
Despite the damper Mrs. Wayman had cast on our big night, young and resilient as we were, we had a ball. The prom turned out to be one of those extra special good times that you hated to see come to an end, like a good book or a good movie. It seemed to wrap up before it ever fully got under way, long before we’d had enough. But the night was young and there was still plenty ahead.
Outside the catering hall, we all six piled into the limo. Theresa and I had knocked off the Bacardis on the way to the prom and now went to work on the beer and wine the driver had on ice for us. The driver seemed like a real nice guy even though I’d caught him stealing glances at Theresa. If he hadn’t been, I would not have fought back the nagging urge I had to tell him to keep his God damned eyes on the road. Anyway, after he drove us to Regina Skow's house to pick up her boyfriend’s car, we gave him a nice tip and thanked him.
Regina’s boyfriend (I think his name was Eddy), who was a bit older than the rest of us, had a Plymouth Duster. He was a sophomore in college and also our designated driver for the night. I felt bad for him as the rest of us partied all the way into Manhattan, but he didn’t seem to mind. Anyhow, we all had another terrific time at the world-famous Copacabana. The Supremes were there and put on one heck of a show. Diana and the girls banged out one mega hit after another. When they finished up the show with 'Someday We'll Be Together', Theresa and I decided then and there it would be our song.
After leaving the Copa, prom night being the marathon it was, we took a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. We all thought it was cool as hell when Eddy drove his car right into the belly of the thing. As soon as he killed the engine he, Regina and the other couple rushed right up to the observation deck. Theresa and I stayed behind telling them we'd be up in a little while. We talked for a few minutes but, as soon as all the other cars were parked, we went right to it, hot and heavy in the back seat. And it was kind of strange, as if we'd already been in the middle of the act and, after a brief interruption, jumped right back where we’d left off. As if some imaginary switch had been flipped, we instantly returned to more torrid, more passionate heights than we’d ever reached before, like two lost lovers who had finally found each other after a very long and painful separation. But that wasn’t the only strange part. As frantic, desirous, enthralled and cramped as we were, I still remember hearing the long eerie drone of a ship’s fog horn somewhere off in the dark distance. I know it’s weird, but the moment I heard that horn I thought it was telling me something. Sure, I’d had a lot to drink, but that wasn’t it. That blast from somewhere out in the late-night harbor cut right through my alcohol induced haze. This was something different. Deep inside my consciousness I simply knew there was a message, a sign, maybe a premonition traveling through the darkness with it. Never one to believe such stuff, always the first to discount such thinking as hokey, I was absolutely certain this incident had some kind of meaning. Although I wasn’t about to stop the act Theresa and I were about to culminate, I was dead certain that blast had something to do with our actions. It would be a long, long time before I’d come to realize exactly what that message was.
The next morning, after just two hours sleep at Regina's place, the six of us drove out to Jones Beach. Talk about some played-out kids. All of us were exhausted and, except for Eddy, terminally hung over. As
soon as we spread Theresa’s blanket on the sand, I passed out. For hours I slept as the hot afternoon sun beat down on my back and legs. I was roasted like you wouldn’t believe, but Theresa fared far better. She slept right alongside me the whole time but had sense enough to wear a long man-tailored shirt over her swimsuit.
About four that afternoon she came to. Moments later I awoke to the feel of soft kisses on my neck. "We've been sleeping for hours," she said feathering her hand across my back.
I stiffened up, and she said, "Oh Jeez, I'm sorry, Dean. You look like a boiled lobster. Put your shirt on right now."
"Yeah, I'll bet I do,.” I said, ever-so-gently wrestling into my tee. “Are you OK?"
"Sure. I had my shirt on. I'm just a little burnt on the back of my calves."
I rolled over, gave her a peck on the lips, then rose to my elbows surveying the beach. When we arrived earlier, the place had been packed. Blanket to blanket, it looked like one gargantuan patchwork quilt spread as far as you could see. It probably covered every grain of sand all the way out to Gilgo. But now most everybody was gone. The wind had really picked up and breakers were crashing in the surf. The only beachgoers left were a handful of young folks scattered here and there trying to stretch the weekend.