Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

But things were different at home. It almost seemed as if the East River, which divided Manhattan from Queens, also separated personal happiness from anguish. Central Park was my paradise, a special place impervious to Satan’s work. Just a few miles away, however, sat you, Mom, in the den, where I played with blocks and puzzles as a child , seething because I was an hour late for dinner. You were waiting for me like a cat about to pounce on a canary. Do you remember? You’d just quit drinking and smoking, and I thought that would inspire a new relationship between us. It didn’t.

Apparently, I was supposed to be home by six. Instead, I arrived at my front door around seven. I was instructed to call home if I was going to be late but I didn’t.

I guess I should have known what was coming. I should have realized that you would have to be a goddamn bitch after I had such a great day. The moment I walked into the family room, you started up.

“Where were you?” you screamed. “Why are you an hour late? Dinner was ready an hour ago! Where the hell were you?” And Dad, you just sat there, watching TV.

I felt as if I were about to choke on my own tongue—and then throw it up in your face. All at once, the two halves of my brain were arguing with one another. Two halves of my heart, too. The softer piece—the piece that still loved you, I guess—the piece that experienced lust and joy and wanted to tell the whole world about Maria—was aching to release the chirping, happy little bird fluttering around beneath my ribcage. That part desired nothing more than to be a momma’s boy, to tell both you guys about how beautiful and special and perfect Maria was.

Should I just answer her question, politely, and leave? Or should I explode? Had you, Dad, stood up—had you even lunged slowly toward me—I would’ve exited—no, fled —and hid in my room, infuriated, contemplating a revenge that I was too childlike to carry out. Instead, you sat there. All 230 pounds of this forty-eight year old blob I loved so much… you punished me by sitting still and silent. You hated her as much as I did, didn’t you? But why didn’t he say anything? You saw what I saw: a paradox of a woman—horns and fangs on a body designed to bear children, to create life, but chose instead to snuff it out.

Why, mommy, did you seethe ? I was only an hour late. Had you simply asked about my day I wouldn’t have thought what I thought those few moments in the family room: that I didn’t need you any longer; that I had found someone to replace you; that I had discovered an oasis in the desert of life whose hands were, for some mystical reason, de-clawed. I know, for I had felt Maria grip my hand more lovingly than you have ever held mine.

More vividly than the date itself, I still remember that night I came home from my first real date with Maria. My two halves battled for a few seconds—for what seemed like a few hours. Dad, however cool you were on the outside, orange flames licked your insides. I could tell. I remember thinking: How can I satisfy my own hatred, and calm my father’s ulcerous stomach, while halting the stampede of wild horses that was my mother? That’s the last thought which pulsated through each half of my brain as I gave up on pondering it just as quickly as I’d conjured it.

My fists were clenched but stapled to my side. “Fuck you…” I declared, only I was so nervous that it sounded more like a question than a command. It was the first time I’d ever used the F-word to you, Mom. “I’m never speaking to you again,” I said.

I stepped backwards out into the hall and slammed the door behind me just as the first tear made its way to my cheekbone.

I didn’t need you anymore.

Aside from “excuse me,” or “get out of my way,” that was the last time I spoke to you. Until tonight.

I didn’t need you anymore.

That Monday in school, right after my date with Maria, was terrific.

The Family usually didn’t meet up each day until lunch, because we all got to school at different times. Kyle and I sat at the very end of the lunch table opposite of one another, so technically, each of us could claim that he was at the head of the table. To my left was Rick, and to Rick’s left was Paul. To Kyle’s right were Mike and then usually Chris, who wasn’t really part of our Family, but hung out with us at lunch anyway. We always sat in same places. Sometimes, maybe Paul or Rick would get to the table first, and one of them would sit where Kyle or I usually sat. If that happened to me, I’d just push him the hell out of the way, unless Kyle sat in a different place, because then I’d sit across from him.

Occasionally Kyle would get to the table late only to find that Rick or Paul had slyly sat across from me at the end of the lunch table. Rather than make a seen, Kyle would zip by the table, almost as if he didn’t notice, and sit with another group of people. This infuriated The Family, but I always thought it was so cool.

Lunch time was a load of laughs for all of us. Except for Paul—he didn’t really have a good sense of humor. I don’t know why, but he didn’t click with the rest of us too well. Paul’s sole reason for being there was me. Generally, however, I ignored him and focused instead on Kyle. Kyle and I always led the discussions. Always. And why not? We had better stories to tell, mine usually about girls, Kyle’s about masturbation or alcohol or some other off-the-wall topic.

As usual, Kyle was the first one to ask about everyone’s weekend. It’s not that he really gave a shit; he just wanted to hear everything first so he could prepare to make fun of us. Not in a mean way, though; Kyle wasn’t like that. He just liked to joke around.

“I spent the weekend cleaning our apartment,” Paul said.

“Sounds like fun,” said Kyle. “Hope you didn’t forget the cheese between your toes.” Everyone laughed.

“No, really,” Paul said. “We cleaned the whole apartment. It’s springtime, you know.”

“Oh, so it was Spring Cleaning Day at the Hannon residence!” I yelled. Everyone laughed again.

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, L’Enfant.” Everyone in high school called me A.J., except for Paul, who always said ‘L’Enfant.’ Nobody ever called me A.J., except for Maria and my parents and sister.

Rick told everyone about a date he’d had with some girl I introduced him to. She was a real ugly chick, but Rick didn’t go out with many girls, so just having a date was a big deal. He met her at a party I had at my house a few months before, when I was dating Lynn. Actually, she was one of my sister’s friends. And this girl’s father owned a restaurant that we all went to called Jackson Hole, Wyoming. This place had tremendous seven-ounce hamburgers. I haven’t had one of them in so long, but god they were so good.

Apparently, Rick and this girl went out to—guess where?—Jackson Hole, Wyoming for dinner over the weekend. He got his license before any of us, so it was real easy for him to go out at night.

“You have a license, and a car, and all you did was go to her father’s fucking restaurant?” I asked.

“What did you eat there?” Kyle said. “Did you eat… her?” We all had a good laugh. Rick told us a few more details about the evening, but there was nothing much left to make fun of. Despite the dissing, we were all proud of Rick for having the balls to take a chick out when he had so little experience.

Mike’s weekend was as unexciting as usual. His parents had a cabin in Upstate New York, and they went up there every weekend during the spring and summer.

“Did you do anything exciting this weekend?” I asked Mike.

Before he had a chance to answer, Kyle interrupted: “I masturbated with my guitar this weekend!”