Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

After getting off the phone, I played The Long and Winding Road .

Many times I’ve been alone , it went, and many times I’ve cried . Many words you’ve never known, but many ways I’ve tried . But still they lead me back, to the long and winding road … I must have listened to it ten or twelve times as I heard rain begin to fall outside, and stared intuitively at the poster on my wall.

On Columbus Day weekend, Maria went to her uncle’s house Upstate. I was still so in love with her. I thought about her all the time, just like I do now, only back then I was so happy. I remember having a strong desire to write Maria a poem. Actually, it was a song.

What should I write about? I kept asking myself. It was tough to write a song, no matter what it was about. I wanted this song to be special. I wanted it to illustrate my feelings for her. Most of all, I wanted to make her cry tears of joy and love. That was my plan. As I sat down at my desk with my pen and pad, I envisioned Maria, upon hearing the song, weeping like a little girl, embracing me as she’d never embraced anyone before. She’ll love it , I thought. And I knew that after hearing it she would love me more than ever before.

I remember that just as I sat down to write it, I received the Air Force Academy information packet. I read the brochures and discovered that I could probably get into the Academy if I really wanted to go. And I did want to go—badly.

As a matter of fact, I was positive that I could get in. All I needed was a recommendation from someone in the armed services that knew me well, but also wasn’t related to me. It was too bad, because I was sure you, Dad, would’ve written me a great letter. Unfortunately, you weren’t allowed to write the letter.

I was so excited that I forgot about the poem and ran downstairs and told my mother and father all about applying. Dad, you were enthusiastic about it. You really thought I could follow in your footsteps, and that was sort of like every father’s dream—to watch his son make better of himself. I remember Mom’s advice: “You’d better keep those grades up in your last year of high school. And don’t mess up with that girl.” It was just like you to express so little confidence in me like that.

But I should’ve listened to you, Mom. I was really pissed off at you that day, like I always was. I tried not to let it bother me. As usual, I tried to escape from you by thinking about jets. I remember imagining myself flying way up in the clouds, soaring in an F-15 Eagle over the Rocky Mountains. The F-15 is only 63 feet long and 42 feet wide, but it can fight like hell. It’s WEFT: high-mounted wings; two rear-mounted engines; a long, pointed fuselage; and two tail fins. Genuine American artwork.

I’d fly in one of those planes someday. My cadet uniform would command respect from all the goddamn losers in my high school if they saw me. Even you couldn’t ruin the thrill of wearing that uniform, and getting my wings. I kept thinking about how you would visit me in Colorado, and I’d take you up in a jet and I’d fly over the Grand Canyon.

With you guys, I’d be flying in the sky, but with Maria it would be heaven. I was already in heaven with her on the ground; it would be awesome to be in the sky, away from everyone, with Maria by my side. I wasn’t even sure if the Air Force would allow that sort of stuff, but I thought about it anyway.

I called Paul and told him all about it. He was pretty excited for me.

After I told him about the Air Force, I mentioned what had happened in Virginia. I always told Paul about that sort of stuff, and usually he was pretty happy for me.

“Paulie baby, how are ya?”

“Not bad. What’s up, dude?”

“Paul, my good buddy, you’ll never guess what happened in Virginia beach!”

“How many girls did you kiss, L’Enfant?”

“Hey, how’d you know?” I asked. “Did I already tell you this story?”

“No,” he said. “But a leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind, L’Enfant. Just tell me what happened.”

So I told him all about Lee Anne and Vicki and the other girl. He was stiff that day, as if he didn’t care as much as he usually did. I figured he was sort of jealous, maybe, because I knew that I wanted to go into the Air Force, and he really wasn’t sure about where he was going to college. But he listened to my Virginia story, and I was happy telling it. Five minutes into the conversation, as I was describing Lee Anne’s breasts, I realized that I hadn’t told him about the Air Force application yet.

But he interrupted the thought. “Did you tell Maria yet about your little smoking habit?” I’d mentioned that Lee Anne and I first went to the stairwell to have a cigarette.

“No, I didn’t. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Did you tell Maria about Lee Anne, and the two other girls?”

“Dude, what’s your problem? Chill out, man. You remind me of my mother, for Chrissakes!”

“All right, L’Enfant,” he said. “Forget it. I’m only joking.” But he didn’t say he was sorry or anything; he just changed the subject.

“Do you want to go play baseball today?” Paul and I played ball in a park near my house every time the weather was good. It was pretty cool, because I beat him in just more than half of the games we played, and I knew he hated that.

“Sure, dude. Play ball!” And I yelled it out just like an umpire does at the beginning of a ball game.

So we hung up and I met him at the park. He beat me five to one—he hit one grand slam and another solo shot. I got a bases-loaded triple, but I only got one run because I missed the bag on the way around first. It didn’t matter; I was so happy about the Air Force thing that I couldn’t care less about baseball.

I couldn’t wait to tell Maria about what the Air Force had sent me in the mail, and about how I wanted to take her up in a jet over the Rockies. She’d given me her aunt and uncle’s phone number, just in case I wanted to call her. I’d told her that I’d probably be busy with work that week, and that it would be hard to get in touch with her. But I only said that so she’d be all the more surprised when I finally called.

I remember the phone ringing, thinking, Maria’s gonna be home soon and I still haven’t written her song . For some reason, I had a severe case of writer’s block. I was immersed in thoughts of my future in the Air Force, lost in the clouds that I would someday fly through at Mach 1. Seeking inspiration, I gave Maria a call. There was something peculiar about her voice that day, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on what it was. She seemed hesitant and quiet.

“What’s wrong? Why are you so quiet?” I inquired, anxiously.

“I’m holding my little cousin in my arms. He’s only seven months old, and he just fell asleep.”

“Are you sure that’s all? Are you hiding something from me?”

“No,” she said, exasperated, muffling her little yell.

“Who have you been hanging out with all week?”

“Well, mostly my cousins,” she whispered. “That’s really it.”

“Are you sure you’ve been a good little girl? I hate it when you’re so terse and quiet.”

“I told you, my cousin—“

I cut her off. I was too excited about flying to bother pressing the issue. My heart was pounding.

“You’ll never guess what happened?” I said.

“What?”

“I got some information in the mail from the Air Force, and I think I’m qualified for the Academy.”

“Really? That’s great! I’m so proud of you.” That’s what I liked about Maria—she was proud of me even though I really hadn’t done anything yet. She was a lot different than some people reading this letter, or anyone else for that matter.