Little Boy (37 page)

We spent the day sitting in the living room,
surrounded by the vertical mirrors and the sweet smell of cranberry
juice. That was your substitute for Rum and Coke at the time,
wasn’t it Mom? See, I remember. I still wasn’t speaking to you
much. We’d progressed from cold stares to icy silence to obligatory
idol chatter in the company of others. I also remember you
repeatedly sidling up to Maria. I think you were genuinely
interested in getting to know her, and I appreciated that. Dad, you
were a saint, helping Maria feel comfortable by talking to her
throughout the afternoon. Tracy, Daddy’s Little Girl, you followed
his lead and chatted with Maria about makeup and clothes and
music.

Not surprisingly, Maria was respectful and
polite. She nodded and smiled, said please and thank you, and
laughed politely at your jokes, and even helped with the dishes.
The afternoon sped by. It went surprisingly well. Maria liked
everyone, and everyone liked Maria. And Mom, when you settled the
obligatory Easter Sunday banquet bottle of white wine on the
ornamented dinner table, you steadily poured each of her guests a
full glass. You then poured yourself a glass of sparkling water for
yourself. I was still so lost in thought back then that I couldn’t
even feel proud of you.

We toasted. Raising my glass above my lamb
chops and mashed potatoes, superficially honoring a God I didn’t
believe in, I uttered a brief but eloquent remark: I said: “To the
resurrection of our souls in times of hardship.” I thought:
What
the fuck am I doing with my life?

***

Soon after dessert, I drove Maria back to
Ridgewood. On the way we had a spirited discussion about the movie
Rocky. Maria insisted that Rocky Balboa won the first Rocky. But he
didn’t. He lost to Apollo Creed. I told her, “He didn’t win until
the end of Rocky II.” But she didn’t believe me. “I’m gonna prove
it to you someday,” I said, smiling.

Parked in front of her house, holding hands,
Maria and I shared a peaceful love. Perhaps encouraged by the
moment, Maria suggested that we visit her grandfather, a man she’d
mentioned but I’d never met. “He’s home alone today, you know,” she
said. “I’d love to go and see him, just for a little while. I
haven’t seen him in almost two weeks.” For the first time in
months, I was compelled to do what Maria requested.

Grandpa Della Verita
. That’s what she
called him. What a mouthful, huh? It took her almost a half hour to
say it, but it was worth it. I thought it was cute that she called
her grandparents by their last names just like I did. We still had
so much in common, Maria and I.

I placed my arm around her and smiled proudly
as the door creaked open. “Grandpa Della Verita!” Maria beamed,
arms open wide, eagerly hugging him. He was hunched over at first,
but the elation of the moment seemed to raise his spirits and his
posture. After hearing his name, his ears perked. Maria
reintroduced me—proudly—and Grandpa Della Verita reach over and
firmly shook my hand. And then, he began to talk, and talk, and
talk. It was just as Maria had described the previous spring. As
Grandpa Della Verita spoke, he was rejuvenated. Seventy-seven years
old, he had one lung, one kidney, and was deaf in one ear. He had
just quit smoking cigarettes about a month before I met him. But
you’d never have known all this by the way he acted and spoke.

I listened to him as a loyal
caporegime
would his Godfather. I was awe-struck by his
presence. Grandpa Della Verita had a soft face dressed with only
two wrinkles, each extending from his ear to his nose, straight
across his cheek bone, and two crystal blue eyes. He had about nine
strings of hair, each slicked backward, and two giant ears, each
with an earlobe that looked like a steak. Donning an oversized
black suit and floppy bow tie, you’d think he was a Mob
wiseguy—come to think of it, he probably was—who had just joined
the Mafia circus. His hands and neck were elongated and veiny. You
could see his bones through his thin waxy skin.

The more he spoke, the more comfortable I
felt. He walked us into his living room and invited us to sit down.
The plastic-covered couch sang a wheezy tune as I sank into it.
Maria sat beside me, and politely introduced me to her Grandpa, who
sat before us on a black, velvety stuffed chair.

“Maria’s told me a lot about you,” he said,
with an Italian accent as thick as my mother’s tomato sauce. I was
startled. Prior to that evening, Maria hadn’t mentioned that she
spoke to him about me.
That’s okay
, I thought,
Maria
doesn’t have to tell me everything
. That thought is painful for
me to recollect now. But back then, at the precise moment I had it,
I felt a sense of relief that had eluded me for almost a year. I
truly loved Maria at that moment. I know for a fact that had things
not wound up happening soon after, I would have never cheated on
Maria, or yelled at her, or questioned her again.

Imbued by this new-found spiritual flow, I
smiled at Grandpa Della Verita as he continued: “I’m not a
well-liked man, A.J. That surprises you, huh? You think everybody’s
gotta love a sweet old man? Not so.” His chin sank and he waved his
finger before my face, shamefully, as if I’d just peed on his
carpet.
Where the fuck was he going with this?
“Well, not
everyone likes me, A.J. I’m a bitter old man, and people see it in
my eyes. I’m so bitter that it’s often difficult speak to others
without recalling distasteful memories. I have reason to be this
way. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, just like Sinatra
says—Maria, what’s that song by Sinatra, the one where he mentions
his mistakes and so forth?”

“
My Way
,” Maria answered, anticipating
his next sentence.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, excitedly, as excitedly
as an old Italian man with one lung could. “
My Way
. Like
Sinatra says in that song—
Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then
again, too few to mention
.” He took a deep breath, and whistled
as he exhaled. “Well, I’ve had too few regrets to mention. Like
you’re grandfather, I’m sure, I’ve lived through the Great
Depression, World War II, the Kennedy Assassination, a thousand
historical events that you kids couldn’t possibly comprehend.” He
paused to catch his breath. “I’ve also lived through some personal
tragedies, most of which I regret deeply. A failed marriage, a
lifetime of cigarette smoking, a few extra-marital affairs that my
son has no knowledge of.” Another deep, wheezing breath. I felt a
damp plume of sweet sambuca engulf me as he exhaled. Maria was
still smiling, frozen, and beet-red. “None of these things is worth
mentioning or even thinking about. And yet I think about them all
the time. Hell, I’m an old fart, so why bother, you may ask. But I
do think about them, A.J. I ponder them day-in, day-out. I live
each day carrying a cross called regret.

“You don’t know what regret is, you’re too
damn young. From what Maria tells me you’re the kind of young man
that’s never tasted remorse, grief, or sorrow. As a man sixty years
your senior, I must warn you, A.J.—and please don’t take this as a
sign of disrespect: Regret is just around the corner.

“From what my son tells me, you’re a shoe-in
for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He’s recommended you
highly, I know that. He has faith in you. Maria has faith in you.
And, frankly, so do I. But when she comes to me every week, and
chats with me and reminds me to take my medicine”—he winked at
Maria and reconnected with my eyes without missing a beat—she
always says, in so many words, ‘I love A.J., Grandpa. But why does
he have to act this way sometimes?’ And I wonder what to say to
her. And I wondered this for a long time. But now that I’ve met
you—and I like you, A.J., don’t get me wrong—I’ve decided that I
don’t have to say anything to her. It’s you I need to speak to.

“Maria is a
special
girl, A.J. Not
special in the workaday sense of the word, but truly special. She’s
done the laundry and studied for tests as she listened to her
drunken pop bellow incomprehensible commands at her mother. He has
his demons, as do I. And he’ll
regret
allowing those demons
to thrive most of his life once he’s my age, if he lives to be that
long. But at least he’s trying now to slay his demons while he
still has the strength…” Grandpa Della Verita trailed off and
lifted a cigar from the crystal ashtray beside him. He placed the
cigar between his thin lips and lighted it with a wooden match.

Dry as as the Sahara, my mouth remained
motionless and speechless as I attempted repeatedly to swallow. My
throat closed up and it seemed as if it would never reopen.

“Listen, A.J. I don’t mean to bore or
frighten you. I don’t mean to ramble on. I’m just an old man, like
I said. Maria’s told me a lot about you, and, being a contemplative
old man, I can’t resist the chance to think about you and try to
rescue your potential. You seem to be afraid of my granddaughter,
afraid of her past, afraid of her mistakes. Perhaps even afraid of
her future. Well, let me give you some advice…” He leaned forward
and sat on the edge of the chair.

“
Don’t be
. Instead, be her hero. Be a
man. Don’t be her keeper, but don’t go AWOL. Moderate yourself.
Listen to her every word patiently, sympathetically, because, not
too long from now, I won’t be around to do it. Humor me for a
moment, and allow me to give you one last snippet of advice: Don’t
be afraid of little Maria.
Don’t do too much of anything
.
Relax. Enjoy life. Enjoy Maria, life’s gift to you. Don’t allow
petty fears to pollute your love.

“In short, to borrow a phrase you’ll hear
many times over the next few years:
At ease, L’Enfant
.”

Dumfounded, I gently extended my hand toward
the old man, and he shook it firmly with his callused paw. “Thank
you, sir,” I said. “I knew this morning at mass that this was a
unique day, a day of transition, of rekindling. I didn’t know why
until just now. This morning I felt guilt, a guilt that, possibly,
could have lasted a lifetime. I was unaware of its meaning. You’ve
given me the spark I need to slay my demon, sir. To kill the hate.
And to give to both myself and Maria what we’re worthy of
accepting: a new A.J. L’Enfant.”

Maria and I departed Grandpa’s apartment in
silence. Old A.J. would have been disgusted with Maria for
divulging secrets about me to others. New A.J., however, placed his
hand on her face and simply said, “Maria, I love you very
much.”

I hadn’t said that to Maria for the longest
time.

***

I asked Maggie out the next evening. I
resolved to meet her in Central Park, confess my love for Maria,
and end it with that. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t end it
without bringing her to Central Park, even if it was to break up
with her.

We sat on the very same spot that Maria and I
had sat the previous spring. Maggie looked around, up at the Elms
and London Plane trees, and at the glistening water. “It’s so
beautiful,” she sighed. From where we were, I could see the giant
pine in the distance that bore mine and Maria’s initials. It had
been a long time since I’d been there on my first date with Maria.
It had also been so long since I’d really been with a girl, really
had a plan to impress her.

I reached over and rubbed Maggie’s bare
shoulder. She leaned across the blanket and nestled her body into
my arms. I was so happy. There was nothing in particular about
Maggie that I liked; but the idea of introducing her to something
new really made me happy. It had only been a few days since we met,
but I felt like I’d known Maggie for a long time. I really enjoyed
hearing about her life, and her family. She wasn’t as dumb as I’d
thought.

Still, I remember being all set to break up
with her. I swear to God that I was. But in the few hours we were
together that afternoon in the park, I really grew to like her. Old
A.J. would have liked her so much that he’d fuck her. New A.J.,
however, liked her so much that he had to confess the truth.

I was about to start talking, to start
explaining the situation with Maria, when I grew too worried to
speak. It wasn’t even about Maria finding out, or Maggie getting
angry when I told her the truth. I was worried about having
unprotected sex in the back seat of my car. Disease and pregnancy
didn’t enter my mind around the corner from Kearney’s, on
46
^th
Street, where we fucked in a drunken stupor. But
now I knew I’d never see Maggie again. Terrified that I’d gotten a
disease, or worse, would transact one to Maria unknowingly, nervous
jitters overwhelmed my body. It was a warm day and yet I shook. I
had to end these worries. I had to probe a bit.

“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.