After talking for what seemed like hours, we stood, silently, holding hands and smiling. Maggie shivered in the frigid night, not minding the silence a bit. Her nipples pierced her silky blouse; whether she was cold or excited or both I didn’t know. Her long eyelashes went blink, blink, blink as the cold breeze whipped its way down Queens Boulevard, carrying with it stray garbage. I sensed it was my duty to help her. Clearly, she was too sexually promiscuous for a fifteen year old. I was shocked by everything she had said. In fact, I was a little jealous. Then I wondered: Is she telling the truth? Is she really bashful about fucking so many guys? Is she a nice kid from a rough neighborhood—or is she just a slut? With each shiver I questioned her motives. But she looked so cute and sexy. The longer the silence grew, however, the more curious about her and attracted to her I became.
But what the hell did I care? All I wanted to do was impress her, and fuck her. I interrupted the serenity and told her that I wanted to be a pilot in the Air Force, that I was probably going to the Academy in Colorado the next fall. Unimpressed by my confident plans, she answered with an oh-so-elusive look that I’d been watching for all night. It said: Who cares? Just fuck me.
“So, what’s your whole name? Margaret?”
“Actually, it’s Magdalena. But I don’t like that name, so I tell people to call me Maggie. Magdalena sounds so stupid.”
“I think it’s a beautiful name.” I really did like it. “What do you do for fun? You said you come to Kearney’s each weekend?”
“Pretty much. All I ever do is come to Kearney’s,” she said, as she curled her fingers toward her face and glanced at her red polished nails. “It’s the only bar around here that doesn’t card.”
“Well, maybe you should get a boy to bring you somewhere nice, like a museum. Or Central Park. That’s where I like to go with my girlfriends.”
“Oh, do you have a girlfriend?”
Quick as lightening: “No!” Down, boy, down. “I mean no, no I don’t.”
“Wow. Central Park! I’ve never been there on a date or anything.”
“I’ll take you, Maggie. Just name the day and I’ll take you.” She was all smiles. I felt better than I had in months. I really felt like I could show her a whole new world out there.
“You live fifteen minutes away, and you’ve never been there?”
“No,” she said. “But I can’t wait to go with you.” She looked up at me and smiled.
“And you’ve never been there, right?”
“No, papi, I’m tellin’ you,” she insisted. I loved her accent! She was so fucking hot.
Maggie seemed interested in my conversation as well as my looks. Her little eyelashes flapped. Her smile revealed a string of pearls. Her face beamed. She probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d bent her over the trash can and fucked her right there on the boulevard. Sounds dirty, huh? But trust me—those are the kinds of looks she was giving me. Even though I knew I could make a move anytime, I just stood there, talking and laughing. I don’t know why, but I continued to ramble on, waiting for the right moment. “You remind me of this plane used in World War II, the Consolidated B-24 Liberator.”
“Huh?”
“I told you, I’m really into jets and planes.”
“You did? Oh yea,” she giggled.
“And some people,” I said, only people I like, remind me of different aircraft. The Liberator was a neat and compact jet. Just like you.”
“What did the Liberator do?” I was so pleased to hear her ask that question. Other girls had asked it. But not in that accent!
“It was the priMegan long-range bomber aircraft of the U. S. Army Air Force during the second world war. It was mass-produced. They made over eighteen-thousand of them.” She didn’t give a rat’s ass about my love of planes, but at least she faked some interest, and that’s what felt so marvelous.
“Cool,” she responded. “I can learn a lot from you. You’re real smart.”
I thought: There’s a lot more besides planes that you can learn from me. I said: “I’m real smart?”
“Si, estas muy inteligente.”
“Soy muy inteligente,” I said, proudly.
“No,” she corrected me. “Estoy…”
“Estoy muy inteligente,” I said.
“Si, muy bueno,” she approved.
Magdalena looked up at the stars and blew a ring of smoke. The train rumbled below and shook the sidewalk. I placed my arm around Magdalena and kissed her.
Chapter 18
Critical Mass
Easter Sunday was two days later. Like most Catholic families in Queens, our family began the day in church at ten in the morning. Sitting in the pews as the choir bellowed its festive, joyous songs—Haaaaaallelujah! Haaaaaallelujah!
As the music shook me, I felt a mix of joy and sorrow, of accomplishment and regret.
Hallelujah! I exploded into Maggie, just as I had in the back seat of my Skylark on Good Friday. In my head I heard her screaming with ecstasy as my body tingled in nervous delight. Echoes of two naked strangers sharing a guilty pleasure in the middle of the night danced in my head. You’d think having sex with a girl like Maggie would feel lewd—but no. She was as sweet and innocent and fresh-smelling as Maria on New Year’s Eve. That night, she was the sweetest girl in the world.
Hallelujah! As awesome as it was, I couldn’t help but feel dirty. In retrospect, no other night has ever killed me like that one did. In that church, the one I’d been going to all my life, grief enveloped me with each passing moment. It smacked me in the face at the peak of the ceremony, as the last rows of parishioners stood up to receive their communion. Although I seldom attended mass, when I did go, I received communion. Not that day. I was so caught up in my thoughts—the scent of Maggie’s body, the grip of her hands, and an choking guilt—that I neglected to rise as communion was handed out.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Halleeehhhhhh-lujaaaahhhh!
And then, during the moment of silence between the end of communion and the beginning of the closure of the ceremony, I reached critical mass. As I knelt before the altar staring into a crucified Jesus, I sensed something that I hadn’t experienced throughout the duration of my relationship with Maria: GUILT.
Perplexed by that emotion, I raced out the church door and lit a cigarette. When you guys approached me amidst the crowd that had just been let out, I was lost in a state of confusion, ensconced by haze of smoke. “You have to go pick up Maria soon,” Dad said. “We’d better get going.” I smashed the cigarette butt underneath my heel and followed my family back to the car.
A few hours later Maria and I were driving along the Interboro Parkway, en route to Fresh Meadows. We were silent but happy. I tried not to think about Magdalena. Again, I was conflicted by thoughts of her soft lips and the look on Maria’s face if she only knew. But I tried not to think about that stuff.
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.