Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

“I’m going to take you flying,” I said, whispering, even though the baby was in her arms and not mine, “just like I told you a few weeks ago at the beach.” I was so happy just saying that. “The only thing is that I have to get a recommendation from a military person or something, and I don’t know who to ask.”

Maria was quiet for a moment. I felt so nervous. “A.J.,” she finally said, “I think I know someone who was in the Air Force. But he doesn’t know you that well.”

I was busting at the thought. “Who?” I asked.

“My father.”

Maria had never told me that her father was in the Air Force. She wasn’t very proud of anything that he did. He’d let her down so often, I’m sure she was afraid to mention anything positive about the guy at all.

“But I barely know your father!” I’d only met him once or twice. Just hello and goodbye.

“I know, but it’s funny you should mention this, A.J., because this week I’ve been thinking about introducing you to him formally, maybe over a nice dinner. I don’t know when it’ll happen, but it’ll happen.”

“Holy shit!” I said. “That’s great! Do you think he’ll like me?”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “He will.”

I was shocked at the thought of having her father write me a recommendation. From the way she described him, I don’t know. He didn’t sound like a good guy. I didn’t get ahead of myself, though. I didn’t want to expect the recommendation. After all, I hadn’t really met the guy. But I have to admit, the thought of having a pilot write me the letter made me smile. I was so confident that day. Maria always seemed to make me feel that way.

“I have to go—I have to change little Anthony,” she said.

“Who’s Anthony? New boyfriend?”

She paused. “It’s my little baby cousin. He’s so cute, you should see him. He looks just like you—cute as a button.”

Shivers tickled my body when she said that; she knew just how to compliment me, and I knew that she meant it, too. I wanted to jump through the phone and hug her right then and there, and sprinkle her with kisses.

“And just like you, even when he’s cranky, I love him.”

I laughed. No, I guffawed. (That’s the first time in this letter I used an SAT word—guffaw: to laugh loudly and boisterously. “Maria, I love you so much. Thank you for—for being you.”

Maria blushed. “I really do have to go,” she said. Her heart was racing, and filled with joy. “But I’ll call you when I get home in a few days.”

“Okay, baby, I love you.”

“I love you, too, A.J.” I loved hearing her say my name. She said it like I was the coolest guy in the world.

And I was.

Thing is, despite her love for me, I still worried about Maria’s past every minute of every hour of every day. It was the weirdest thing. All weekend long while Maria was away Upstate, I envisioned her cheating on me. I’d sit in my dimly-lit hazy room, swallowing cigarette smoke, getting angry over something I knew wouldn’t happen. Even though I hooked up with those chicks in Virginia, I still wasn’t—I still don’t know the word—

— satisfied? Yes, that’s it. I remember being plagued with doubts that, despite Maria, I’d never be satisfied. Whether sitting in class or walking to the store or eating dinner or working in the deli, all I heard was this endless echo of hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I felt like a cave—solid on the outside, but dark and shallow within. I used to wonder if I was truly going crazy. I was so sad about the imaginary events swirling throughout my head.

I remember you and Tracy worrying about me. I’d get home from school, looking depressed and angry, and Mom would ask “What’s your problem?” Committed to my vow of silence, I refused to respond. Dad, you were more subtle. “Is something wrong? Is there anything you want to talk about?” you’d ask each day. “Oh, no, nothing,” I’d respond. “I’m just worried about getting into the Air Force Academy.” But that really wasn’t true. I should have been worried about that. I should have been worried about college. But I wasn’t. All that worried me was Maria.

When she returned home from her trip Upstate she called me immediately. We talked for a while, but she seemed diffident. Just to give you an idea of how paranoid I was, I remember thinking: She’s always this way—as if she’s hiding something from me . But that night it was painfully obvious. I thought about attacking it from the beginning, asking her what the hell was the matter real quick. But, for some reason, my plan was to wait. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t push Maria to reveal her secret.

As she told me about her cousin, Anthony, and her uncle’s barbecue, and a bunch of other stuff, I just sat back, smoking a butt, waiting for her to blurt out the bad news. She was speaking casually, but I didn’t hear a word she said. I was just waiting, waiting, waiting. Just when I started to think that maybe I was inventing it all, when I began contemplating the possibility that maybe I was crazy, that maybe Maria wasn’t hiding a thing from me… just when I began blaming myself for my worries and not her, just when a guilt began to set in as it never had before… Maria gave me every reason in the world to never trust her again.

“A.J.,” she said, “I have something to tell you.” I didn’t say a word. I had predicted this moment long ago; I had no desire to interrupt fate as it unraveled itself before my eyes.

“A.J., I got drunk while I was Upstate with my cousin. Not the baby, but with my older cousin. I got drunk with him because I was depressed. My parents have been discussing divorce lately, and I made a stupid mistake. I thought that drinking would solve the problem, but it was still there the next morning, when I woke with a hangover. I’ll never drink again. I’m really, truly sorry.” As she said the word sorry, she started to cry.

Squinting my eyes, I saw beneath my lids every loser and scumbag that walked the halls of my school, every hood that danced the night away in the gym, every girl I’d ever dated, and, to top it all off, you, Mom, drinking like you used to, oblivious to the pain it caused others. Each lie ever told to me—each lie I ever told—became personified in one person: Maria. Even the word lie had a face, and two arms, and two dark little eyes. No, not arms. Tentacles. And as I extinguished my cigarette in a mug of water beside my bed, not just my body, but my entire soul, was engulfed by the lie. I didn’t know whether to cry or to throw up. Instead, I responded:

“You fucking bitch. You mother fucking bitch. Goddamn you, Maria. I’m never fucking going out with you again. I despise you. I despise everything you just said. You are a piece of shit.” And then I hung up on her, and vowed never to call her again.

I called her back immediately. And before she had a chance to say another word, I began the string of invectives once again. Unlike the first round of anger, I yelled. I didn’t even yell; I hollered. Cunt . Bitch . Asshole . Fuck . Slut . All of these words were part of my colorful repertoire. And she deserved each and every one. She’s just like everybody else , I thought. I knew it . She was going to destroy me.

My mouth contorted itself into a frightening upside-down U; it felt weighted down, and there would never be anything else I could do to change it. My heart stomped. I nearly choked on my tongue. Finally, after I completed my mantra of profanity, Maria spoke up for the first time in at least ten minutes or so.

“Please don’t break up with me!” she pleaded. “Please…” She broke down, wailing, like a mother at her little boy’s funeral.