Maria’s bed. Now there’s an image that pains me to ponder. It’s just past midnight now. I could be in her bed right now. I had my future. I had Maria. Had I died that night, I’d have died a peaceful man. I almost wish I had died, right then and there. Peace like that has eluded my life since Maria. I wish for that kind of peace in my next life.
The rest is too difficult to repeat. It’s always most difficult to reiterate the greatest times we shared. All I can say is this: To this day, I’ve never felt as close to a girl—to any person at all—as I did that early morning with Maria Della Verita. We were in complete and holy isolation. We basked in the sun of a solar system that consisted of only two heavenly bodies.
Chapter 17
Magdalena
Four days into the new year, my body still tingling from New Year’s morning’s encounter, Maria’s father offered to write me a recommendation for the Air Force Academy. Finally, I had the surefire future, the beautiful girl, and the support of her family. I had it all.
But if that’s true then why was I such an angry and bitter young man? Why did a little devil sit atop my shoulder, incessantly coaxing me into doubting Maria? And why did I suddenly feel as though Maria wasn’t good enough for me?
Probably because the more obsessed I became with Maria’s drinking binge Upstate, the more I felt she lacked the control essential to be a good person. Oh, sure, when I got sloshed it was okay. Hell, I chose to drink. I wanted to experiment. But Maria had lost control of herself in a time of crisis. Was that the kind of girlfriend I wanted?
Each and every night Maria and I spoke for hours on the phone. In each conversation the following emotions manifested themselves: reluctant good-will, bliss, melancholy, depression, fear, and love—usually in that order. Although love ostensibly prevailed each time, the truth is that as I placed the receiver down on the phone every night at one or two a.m., there was one prevalent thought inside of my mind: Maria’s perfect. Too perfect. She must be lying to me.
About what I had no idea. Everything, I guess. If she said she went to K-Mart with her sister after school, I wondered who she really went with—a friend, a classmate, another boyfriend—and if she really went to K-Mart, or to catch a movie. When she said she stayed after school to get extra help from her biology teacher, I questioned her true whereabouts. Was she making out with another boy in her fluffy bed, or perhaps smoking pot on a street corner with her old hood friends? One night, when Maria said she liked vanilla ice cream, I thought: She probably likes chocolate.
If questioning her actions when I wasn’t present was a sin, suspicion of her thoughts in person was a crime. And goddamn, I was guilty of that crime on each and every date, no matter how smoothly the date was going.
On Martin Luther King weekend, for example, we had a playful snowball fight in front of her house. When she went inside to answer the phone, I built a snow fort. When she came back outside, I nailed her in the tits with a hunk of ice and snow. Without flinching, she dove to the ground and was camouflaged by her white puffy jacket. I peeped over my fort but couldn’t see her. Only her silent giggles indicated that she was a few yards somewhere in front of me. Just when I thought it was safe to stand up and begin searching for her body, she stood on her knees and smacked a well-packed snowball right in my kisser.
I hopped over my wall and tackled her. We wrestled in the snow for a good five minutes. Finally, both panting heavily from the scuffle, we ceased simultaneously and kissed passionately. Her tongue quickly melted into a wet, warm gummy bear.
Our mouths unlocked and we gazed at one another blissfully. Maybe, I thought, this is a new beginning for us. I love her and she loves me. What more could a guy want?
“I love you, A.J.” she said. “The more time I spend with you, the more I realize how, deep down inside, you’re perfect.” I’ll never forget her calling me perfect. It was the greatest compliment of my life. And, had I been smart, I would’ve accepted Maria’s sincerity and beauty, and kept the promise I made that day, and started fresh.
“I love you, too. You’re not so bad yourself.” I winked. “Let’s go in the house and make love under the covers.”
She smiled. “Good idea. Let’s go.”
We rose and shook the snow off our bodies. I brushed icicles out of her hair as she wiped snowflakes out of my eyelashes.
We were just about to walk toward the door when some kid, a guy that must have been three or four years younger than me, hobbled down the street struggling with a giant red snow shovel. He walked over to Maria’s front gate and asked if Mrs. Della Verita was home. Maria said that she was, but no thank you, she didn’t want her sidewalk shoveled that day. The kid said okay and walked to the house next door. Maria didn’t say his name, but it looked like they knew each other.
“Who was that kid?” I asked.
“He’s, um, Louie.” She seemed perplexed by my question.
“Louie who?”
“Louie Gick. Who cares? He’s lives up the block.”
“Do you think he’s cute?”
“He’s fourteen years old!”
“I didn’t ask his age. I asked if you think he’s cute or not.” My voice was penetrating and monotonous.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Actually, What da hellaya tawkin’ about? Maria’s New York accent always surfaced when she was angry.
“I saw the way you looked at him. You think he’s cute, don’t you?”
Maria picked up a hunk of ice and smashed it in my face. Blood trickled from my nostrils, past my lips, and down my chin, all the way to the bronze interlocking teeth of the zipper on my bomber jacket.
“I’m sick of this shit!” she bellowed. “Just go the fuck home!” Her voice echoed down the quiet white street.
“Wait, what did I do?”
“Please, A.J., just please go home.” She started walking inside, but I ran up the icy stairs and yanked her by the shoulder. She fell on her ass.
“Leave me alone!” Maria shrieked, as she plopped down not one, not two, but three stairs to the frozen concrete at the bottom. She struggled to stand and then I grabbed her mitten-covered hand and yanked her to her feet.
Looking straight in her face, I said: “I know you think he’s cute. I saw you looking at him. Just admit it.”
“You’re nuts,” she replied, huffing and puffing from her brief but vigorous fall.
“Damn it, Maria. Do you think he’s cute or not?” Rather than answer, she watched me intently as an expression of self-doubt came over my face.
I turned my head to either side, first the right, then the left, still clasping her hand with my glove. I heard our voices echo down the serene, snow-covered street as a yodel does off a cliff side. The only thing moving was the frozen air roaring in and out of our noses and mouths. We were both shaking; whether it was the product of nerves or fright or frigid air, I don’t know. The air was like a wall between us. Silence shouted between our bodies.
It was at that moment that I felt lower than I had in months. It was the first time in a while that I’d actually voiced my innermost worries. Until that instant, I’d tried like hell to hold them all in. Until that moment I’d wondered many things, but seldom wondered them out loud. But my cover was blown. The jig was up. My most intimate and frightening jealousies had been revealed; I no longer could control my thoughts or my words. I was enslaved by my fears. I was a fool, a wimp, a pussy. I was a charlatan mind-reader who, when his E. S. P. was proven a sham, tried to coerce the desired answer from his client. I was a little boy fleeing from his own shadow, only to discover it behind him once again each time he glanced back—because you can’t get rid of your shadow.