Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

The subway ride to the city was quiet; I think we were both excited that it was our first real date. This’ll sound corny, but that day my big plan was to I ask her to be my girlfriend. This was a big moment. It meant we didn’t have to worry about anyone else. Aching to surprise her and give her a day to remember forever, we ascended the subway stairs and were bathed in sunlight.

As usual, we entered the park through Central Park South. The sun was shining brightly on Maria’s dark hair, creating a sparkle in her beautiful nutmeg eyes. Inhaling the scents of the newly budding flowers and Maria’s perfume, I flew high as an F-15 and soared through the stratosphere. The F-15 can fly one hundred thousand feet up in just under four minutes. I think I was flying higher than that in Central Park, and I wanted to take Maria with me. I could have sworn I saw one of those awesome F-15s in the azure sky above. I was gripping it’s tail, feeling a cool breeze of perfume lifting my body.

We walked down the stone staircase on the corner of Central Park South and Fifth Avenue, toward the pond where little children were tossing bits of bread to the ducks and geese. I wanted to feed those ducks, too, but didn’t have any bread. But I had Maria. She was holding my right hand with her left. You know that feeling you get when you first step into a frosty-cold day from within your warm home? Like when suddenly goose bumps chill your entire body? Well that’s what I felt like with Maria. And, on top of that, a million butterflies were flitting through my stomach. It was a crazy, mixed up feeling that can only be described as love.

As we walked along, as the sun beamed its warmth down on my face, I noticed my shadow strewn across the pond’s edge, moving right along with us. But I didn’t see a separate shadow for Maria. I saw only one shadow, our shadow, as whole and united as we were that day.

I remember what she was wearing—dark blue denim shorts that covered just enough to leave the eye wanting; a red, cotton, v-neck T-shirt, tight yet modest; and a pair of ivory white gym shoes. She looked like a tennis player in the U.S. Open—young, energetic, fit, ambitious. Maria had just a dab of makeup on her face—just enough to make her naturally spectacular face glow. But the absolute best part was her smile. No make up could simulate a smile. She looked as though it was the happiest day of her life, as though she was up 40-Love, about to win game, set, and match. It was almost as if she was bursting to tell a joyful secret, waiting for a window of opportunity.

Not until we sat down together on a park bench by the ball field did we begin to converse. Baseball season was in full swing. In the background we heard the crack of aluminum bats and the sound of cheerful crowds. Neither of us was tempted to watch the game, though. We opted to gaze into one another’s eyes, almost as if we were studying one another.

“So tell me your story, kid,” I said. It was an unusual way to begin a conversation, I know. But I was so goddamn excited.

“My story? Well, I don’t know,” she said coyly. “I adore Central Park. I really love it here. I used to come to Central Park with my grandfather when I was a little girl. I think I told you that last time we were here. I suppose that’s why this place—the trees, the pond, the ducks—is so comforting.”

“Well, we’ll come here as often as you want from now on, I promise.”

Maria suddenly seemed to be lost in deep thought. Patiently, I waited for her to turn toward me once again.

Several minutes later, a glossy-eyed Maria continued. “You’ll meet my grandpa someday, A.J. I see him about once each week. He almost died three summers ago of a heart attack. Then he had a stroke several weeks afterward. Obviously, he hasn’t been the same since.

“Tell me more,” I said. “I love listening to you.”

“Grandpa used to be so proud of his daily routine: wake at seven; go to eight o’clock mass; walk two miles to the seniors club; eat lunch at Claudio’s; walk two miles to the donut shop; read the Post over a cup of coffee; walk back to the club; grab dinner at Michael’s Diner; walk back home; watch TV; go to bed at ten. Same thing, A.J., every day. But he loved every minute of it. Amazing, huh?

“But since his surgeries, grandpa’s daily routine has changed a lot. He used to walk six miles a day and then watch two or three hours of TV each evening, and now he walks very little and watches TV all day long. Non-stop.

“A nurse comes in every afternoon to cook and help him bathe. He takes a different pill for every color of the rainbow. Basically, he has nothing to live for…”

Maria swallowed hard and peered searchingly into my eyes.

“…except for my visits. My mother, my father—they’re too busy to see him more than once a month or so. But I visit grandpa at least once a week after school. That’s when he turns off the TV—it’s usually hot as an oven, it’s been on for so long—and talks to me. For two or three hours each week, grandpa tells me the stories of his life—he’s a very reflective old guy—and answers all of my questions about the past. ‘What was it like to see Joe DiMaggio play in Yankee Stadium’; ‘Was Roosevelt a good president?’; ‘What did people do before TV was around?’ Just one of those questions gets him talking for hours.”

Maria smiled proudly. “A.J., you have to see it. To grandpa, these conversations are like, um—what’s that thing at the hospital that keeps you alive?”

“Life support systems,” I said.

“Yeah! That’s right. I think I’m sort of like his life support system. Sometimes I think he could go without the pills, just as long as he gets rejuvenated once a week when we talk.”

“So you’re saying that without you he’d die?”

“Well, I guess so, in a way,” she said. “I think that all people kind of need a life support system. But not a machine, A.J. I mean a real-life human being. People to engage them, question them, listen to them. Nurses and pills can help you to a point. But all people—young and old, sick and well—crave a person to depend on just as they can count on the sun rising each morning.”

I was touched. I didn’t know her grandfather. However, at that moment, for the first and perhaps the only time in my relationship with Maria, I grasped precisely what she craved: a confidant. Maria lacked the life support system that she provided so gracefully for her own blood. Though during the moment I didn’t know if Maria would ever surrender herself to me physically, on that exquisite day in the park she handed me her soul in the palm of her hand, and I gratefully accepted.

The world surrounding us stopped for a moment, silently acknowledging the holy transaction that was taking place. A jet flew into my mind, an EA6B electronic jamming plane, used by the Navy and Marines to stifle enemy aircraft’s radar technology. A hush blanketed us, the world around didn’t exist. The earth’s rotation came to a halt. Maria gazed sleepily into my eyes as if she were about to fall into my waiting arms. A gentle breeze whistled through the trees surrounding us. Abruptly, a loud burst of cheer resonated from the ball field, waking us from the hypnosis.

“You can always count on me,” I responded, finally. “I promise.”

“Always? You mean it? Do you think we’ll be together forever, A.J.?” Smiling softly, Maria stroked my fingers, searching for an answer that I had planned on providing well before she raised her question. Although I’d wanted to broach the issue of our future together, Maria slyly beat me to it.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Maria.” Then I placed the palm of my hand against her right cheek, and looked harder at her than I ever had before. I was so happy I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Instead, I continued with my plan.