“That’s the best I can do,” I said, regretfully.
“That’s okay,” she said. Flash! Startled by the light, I toppled out of the cockpit and onto the floor. Maria chuckled.
“You should’ve seen your face,” she said. “You looked like you didn’t know what you were doing there.”
“I didn’t.”
We left F. A. O. Schwartz, crossed Fifth, and found ourselves near the pond that we’d gone to on our first date. We embraced, passionately, and celebrated the marvelous day, and rolled around in our puffy winter jackets on the cold grass. Once again, I felt a lonely emptiness swelling within me. I wish I could explain how I felt—I loved Maria so much, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about her past. Even as I am sitting here writing this, after all that’s happened, I am angry at her for having a life before me.
Embracing Maria, just when I thought I’d lost all sense of direction, all perception of romance and wit, I looked into Maria’s innocent eyes. They inspired to take my house key from my coat pocket and key our initials into a giant London Plane tree. As I carved, pieces of bark fell to the ground to make way for our initials. And those fresh initials—JJL + MD—represented a new beginning for us.
I extended my arms and smiled and announced, “Look how beautiful this place is!” The gray webs of tree branches could have been the back-drop for a horror movie; however, they could have just as easily been the scenery for a romantic one, too. I preferred the latter image. Some things, like jets, were almost too amazing to have been created by man. That day, the remarkable beauty of Central Park was too ravishing even to have been produced by nature. Maybe there is a God, I thought.
“From this moment on, this is our tree, Maria. And we’ll come here—to this wonderful winter wonderland—every Christmas from now on and stand here, and reaffirm our love. I love you, angel.”
My words were corny, but they reduced her to tears. Good tears, for once. We embraced beneath the pine tree, and barely felt one another’s bodies through our jackets. We were still, and had only our frozen, moving breaths to remind us of our existence. I peered at the carvings on the tree bark. I felt as if my eyes were shooting a red-hot laser beam into its frigid husk. Maria and I will remain in this blissful state, I thought, as sure as those initials will stay carved in that tree.
“Why don’t you come over my house for dinner on New Year’s Eve?”
That’s how Maria began our phone conversation the night before January 31st that Christmas vacation. I’ll never forget it. It was that night, New Year’s Eve, when so much happened.
With that phone call from Maria, I realized that this was my chance to get to know her father. I’d met him before but never really had a chance to speak with him much. He’d gazed into my eyes almost as if I was the son he never had when Maria opened up her Christmas gifts before him. But that was the extent of my relationship with him for the six months or so that Maria and I were dating. She never wanted him to spend too much time with me. She was embarrassed by him.
He was a nice man, it seemed, and he always referred to me as “friend” or “guy.” He was very friendly and relaxed. At first I thought that maybe he knew he was a drunk, and he knew Maria told me so, and he was amicable to compensate for the negative image I’d already established in my mind. But then I realized, somewhat reluctantly, that he was a proud man. He was proud of his Maria. He also was proud because he was finally getting help. And with that help came a more loving relationship with his family, as well as a better perspective on life, I suppose.
Donning a pinstriped blue suit New Year’s Eve, I strolled into Maria’s home around eight o’clock like a prosecutor set to make his final argument of a case. I was going to have sex with her that night. I just knew it.
Maria’s family owned a house in Ridgewood. It was modest and well-kept, but not ostentatious, unlike the homes of many Italian-American families in Queens. On the foyer wall of Rick’s stubbornly Irish house, there hung two photographs: a picture of the Pope, and a black and white image of President John Kennedy. Maria’s Italian house was slightly different. Her parents, also devout Roman Catholics, had hung a picture of the Pope as well. To its right, however, were two more framed photographs: one of Joe Di Maggio, and one of Frank Sinatra. I chuckled silently to myself as I promenaded confidently through the foyer. It was the first time I’d ever noticed those pictures because usually I entered Maria’s apartment through the basement entrance.
When I walked into the living room, I noticed the long, vertical mirrors along the wall behind the couch. I looked at Maria, and looked back at the mirrors, and looked at Maria again. She knew what I was thinking, and she appreciated my remembering them.
We sat down and ate a pleasant dinner of London broil, stuffed shells, fresh broccoli sautéed in olive oil and garlic, and a salad. Of course, we ate the pasta first and the salad last. Maria’s chubby sister wolfed down her food in a frenzy, all she could do to avoid eye contact with me. At first I figured the big fat pig had heard so much shit about me from Maria that she felt I didn’t deserve the respect of her conversation.
Then I thought: No, she must be jealous of Maria. After all, Maria was gorgeous. She had an hourglass figure, huge tits, and a perfect face. Her sister—I wasn’t sure if her name was Leslie or Lizzie—was revolting. She looked like Elvis Presley in the mid-1970’s: ancient and bloated. As I munched on my salad, I strived to avoid gaping in disgust at her hideous sideburns.
She’d been dating a guy who lived around the corner with his mother, a guinea named Lester, for the past five years. Lester wasn’t a Mafioso. He was worse. He was a greaseball who longed to attain the status of a Mafioso. He owned a beat up Iroc-Z and two T-shirts. That’s it. He was a plumber’s assistant, a high school drop-out… and I was A.J. L’Enfant, a good-looking, well-spoken gentleman about to enter the U. S. Air Force Academy. Boy, was I on top of the world that night.
It was a pleasant evening for all until we brought in the New Year with a toast of champagne. The moment was frozen in time. Maria didn’t know whether she should drink the champagne or not. Mr. Della Verita was equally hesitant, but for different reasons. Not a second had gone by when, just like that—gulp, gulp, gulp—the frigid moment melted away as both Maria and her dad drank up. So did I.
Maria’s father had more than one glass of champagne that night. I felt bad for the guy, because I knew he shouldn’t have been drinking. Mrs. Della Verita quickly lit a cigarette, perhaps to help overcome her nervous jitters after witnessing her husband’s loss of self-control. Within minutes, or so it seemed, Mr. Della Verita was wasted. Maybe he wasn’t; maybe he just wanted to be. Either way, that’s when he started asking me about the Air Force Academy, shooting one question after another, seldom giving me a chance to respond completely. I told him that I’d been to Colorado recently and he seemed pleased.
Despite the champagne, his tone was lucid and polite. And although he was born in Italy, forty years in Ridgewood had diluted his foreign accent. After dinner, he eased comfortably into a stuffed rocking chair, rocked to and fro, and fired an intelligent question at me almost every time he leaned forward. I sat awkwardly on a brown hassock about five feet before him, fielding the questions as gracefully as Di Maggio played centerfield.
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.”