“What’s her last name?” I asked. “Elizabeth’s, I mean.”
“Della Verita,” she said. “Why?”
I ran.
Through the park I dashed, huffing and puffing my way to the R train, hoping to catch Maria before more damage could be done.
The subway ride home lasted five years. I plopped into the hard plastic seat, and tightly gripped the slimy, shiny metallic pole. Somewhere in the tunnel between Lex and Queens Plaza, my body atrophied, all except for my head. My skull shook—trembled, actually—from side to side, preparing to deny everything that Maria would accuse me of. No, no, no! I didn’t do it! I practiced, silently within. The movement was non-existent to those around me, but I felt it.
I’d left Maggie alone by the pond in Central Park. Thinking about it now, she must have thought I was crazy for jumping up and sprinting away like that. At the time, however, had someone asked me, I wouldn’t have recognized the name Maggie, or the park. Who’s Maggie? I’d forgotten all that before I darted away from her. Perhaps that’s why I neglected to ask her to promise not to tell Elizabeth about me.
But, to be honest, I never even considered that. Within the recesses of my heart I knew that my doomsday had arrived. The long and winding road had led me to the gates of Hell. But I was going to fight it all, fight the inescapable, try to avoid my fateful journey through those gates. I couldn’t live without Maria. There was no getting around that fact. But that reality didn’t strike me until it was too late.
Precisely what happened next has been erased from my mind. All I know is that somehow I ended up standing in front of Maria’s house, shivering more than the spring air called for. Her doorbell sounded like fire alarm to my ears. Impatiently, I waited for her to answer.
A plane thundered overhead. It resonated like a B-1 bomber; however, glancing toward the sky, I noticed that it was a simple Boeing 747, perhaps en route to Paris or Rome, or some other place I’d never visit. How I longed to be sitting in its cockpit, traveling to a faraway place.
As Maria opened the door I was still staring at the sky. I’d completely forgotten about my tar-stained teeth and smoky breath, a result of the cigarettes I’d sucked down on the subway platform, and on the walk to the subway, and on the walk to her house. Had it not been for the terrible look in my eyes when she first saw me, perhaps Maria would’ve noticed the odor of tobacco. Instead, she stood before, quiet and still. I didn’t ask if her parents were home; I didn’t know what day it was, or what time of the year it was. Trying to hold back a torrent of sad tears and vomit, I just stood there, waiting for her to make the first move. Maybe she doesn’t know anything, I thought, despairingly. Maybe it’s not too late to save our relationship. Maria’s cutting stare filled me with more uncertainty than ever before. I didn’t know whether or not Maria knew about my encounter with Maggie. I didn’t know whether her silence was a result of my unexpected visit, or a sign of the news she’d just learned of from her sister, Elizabeth, or, God forbid, from Maggie herself.
She made an about-face and began walking down the staircase toward her room. I remained in the doorway ready to cry and throw-up at any moment. Then she motioned for me to follow her. I snapped out of my trance and plodded behind her.
I don’t recall pondering my first statement to Maria that day. I suppose my assumption was that—God, I don’t know—if I could control what was told to her first, she would disbelieve other versions of the story. It was the very first time in our entire relationship that I can’t recall even attempting to devise a plan of action. The only specific thing I do remember was wondering what she would tell her father and mother. If she remained my girlfriend, was her love strong enough to keep my disloyalty a secret? Despite what Grandpa Della Verita had said, I didn’t know for sure if her father had sent in the recommendation. Academy acceptances and rejections would be delivered within a few weeks.
Maria was staring at me. She had an uneasy look, one I’d never seen before. When someone who’s trusted you has caught you in a lie, they have this look—you know what I’m talking about, because it’s a look you only see in that situation.
That look melted me as we stood in the center of her room, a room that had witnessed an unimaginable number of fights and kisses over the past year. That special bed, Maria’s bed, sat silently in the corner, the covers tucked in tightly. I looked down at my sneakers, then up at the light. There was nothing to say, except: “Maria, I—I cheated on you.”
Maria was a cool character ordinarily. She’d installed those mirrors in her living room as her father sat in the den, downing his ninth beer of the night. She’d quit smoking and turned to Shakespeare of all things for solace. She’d accepted my questions about her past, groaning only occasionally.
But that day Maria was not cool. Her icy stare melted away and within seconds she broke down crying. She bawled for several minutes. It seemed like hours. She was so upset, in fact, that I honestly thought she was going to attack me. But Maria never lost control, so she didn’t do any such thing. Instead, she turned toward her dresser and opened a drawer, softly, meticulously. Equally cautiously, she picked up several poems I’d given her over the past year. They were still in the original off-white envelopes, as fresh and crisp as the day I wrote them. Violently, she stripped her neck of the date-plate I’d given her for Christmas, breaking it at the clasp. I heard it ping against the wooden floor.
Remaining silent, Maria handed me the letters, and started to cry. I accepted them, not knowing what else to do. I heard a garbage truck rumble down the pothole-ridden street. Its thunder shook my insides and smooshed them into mashed potatoes. Maria grabbed my shoulder, attempting to force me to turn around, and said, flatly: “Get out.”
That’s when she stopped crying. That’s when I broke down in tears.
“Please, Maria,” I began to beg, “Please don’t do this. It was only one kiss. I’m sorry!”
“Get out.”
I screamed, “Pleeeeeaaaase!” and dropped down to my knees like an animal. And I am not saying that figuratively. I was literally an animal, writing in pain on the floor, like a rhino that’s just been shot by a hunter. I smothered Maria’s boots with my wet face. I licked them, slurring out an occasional “I’m so sorry” amidst an avalanche of tears and a wall of wails.
After a minute or so, I heard someone on the floor above us, walking solidly toward the door which led to the staircase downstairs. Her mother yelled downstairs, asking if everything was all right. Maria told her Mom not to worry, to go back inside, that she had the situation under control.
“Get out.”
Speaking to her ankles: “Please, Maria. I—I was joking. I made the whole thing up. God, I—I was testing you. I didn’t kiss another girl. I didn’t do anything. It was all a set-up I did with me and some girls I met at a bar. I swear. I love you.” I spoke through a gush of tears which flowed so hard and fast that I heard them splashed onto the floor, joining the jumbled golden links.