Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

“Just don’t say that you’ve never thought about making love to me. Please, don’t say that.”

“No, no. I mean, of course I have. I mean, I’ve considered it a lot.” She smiled, and touched her hair. “I really have. But…”

“Can we do it today?” I asked. “Can we make love right now? Please. I promise I’m serious.”

“Well, A.J., my parents won’t be home ’til seven, so I guess, technically, we could.”

Ahhhhhhhhhh! I thought. She’s okay with it!

“Where did they go? Are they at work that late?”

She paused and looked down. “No, they’re at an AA meeting.”

“Really? Wow. That means I can stay for a while, huh?”

“Don’t you care that my father is finally getting some help? Why are you only thinking about sex?”

She was right. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I really am. When did your father decide to get help?”

“Just a few nights ago. I’m glad you dropped me off from that party early, because when I walked in my house, my mom and dad were sitting on the living room sofa in tears. That’s when they told me that my father had slipped outside while drunk, and fallen down the stairs, and almost killed himself. The stairs were slick from the drizzle and he fell down all eight steps, from the very top to the very bottom.

“He said he didn’t even realize he was drunk. He looked like a hobo,” she said, sniffling. “He was wearing his old brown leather Vietnam bomber jacket, one that looks like the jacket that you have. As he fell, the sleeve caught the railing, slowed his fall, and probably saved his life. The Air Force emblem was torn off and buttons scattered everywhere. Some neighbors heard his scream and came to help him get up. It was an awful scene. He was so embarrassed.”

I placed my face on her shoulder and sniffed her neck. Momentarily. I did this out of shame.

“I don’t know,” she continued, “I guess that’s what made him realize he needed help. Actually, he really wanted to go to AA for the longest time, but never had the guts to do it. Sometimes it takes a near tragedy to get the guts to do something scary.”

“So they go, what, every night?”

“No, twice a week. They could go every night if they wanted to, though.”

“I’m frightened,” Maria said. I was about to speak, but she interjected: “It’s dangerous when someone has a problem and can’t admit it. You wind up hurting more than yourself.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but he’s finally getting help. Thank God.”

I felt bad for her. But honestly, I wasn’t thinking about her father. And since I was too afraid to bring it up, not another word was spoken about making love. We were thigh by thigh on the bed, staring at one another’s eyes. It was destined to happen within moments—just as soon as I examined and inspected the contour of the body I was about to shroud with mine. I would see her, all of her. And so much more. I couldn’t wait.

I touched her cheek with the back of my hand, as if I was checking a milk for a baby. So few sensations are as gentle and spine-tingling as the touch of a loved one’s skin.

I had all sorts of strange feelings. I wanted to violate Maria—kindly. I wanted her to do the same to me. Soon, I knew, her beige shorts would be off, and her silky panties would slide down her white hips, down her legs, to the floor. And then I would open her like an envelope, and embrace the smells and sights before me. The vagina, my friend Kyle once told me, is a holy place.

I sniffed Maria’s ear, and thought of flowers and grass and sunlight. I almost cried at that moment, as I stopped myself from planting the first kiss on her lips.

“Maria,” I said, hesitating, “there’s something I have to tell you first. Before we…” I trailed off; mere words couldn’t characterize what was about to happen.

“What is it?” She was calm.

“I—I dr—rank… at Rick’s party. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.” I let the air out of the bag inflated within my chest and stomach. I felt so relieved. I couldn’t touch her until she’d forgiven me.

She looked down at the floor, pondering something. Then her eyes returned to mine, and she smiled a tight, wrinkly smile, her eyes squinting, as if she was trying to decide whether to weep or laugh. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she was going to say, if anything at all. I was so happy that I’d told her the truth; I was so happy that we were about to make love that nothing could kill my bliss.

Maria smiled. “A.J., do you believe in fate?”

“Yes,” I said, “of course, I do. That’s what brought us together.”

“Well, I this is something we can share, because of fate. I was telling you the truth last week, about the drinking. And then I got so scared when you yelled at me. And I lied to you. I drank with my cousin when I went Upstate. I got drunk, too. It’s okay if you did. We both won’t do it again. I love you.”

She smiled again, titled her head, and leaned in to kiss me. She seemed proud of her revelation.

Everything stopped, right then and there.

Days went by before I spoke with Maria again. I’d call her, demand that she tell me why she drank, and hang up. I didn’t cry. I was just angry. Okay, I cried a little. But mostly, I just lay around my room, listening to The Beatles, simmering, hurt, and about to cry.

Soon, I just stopped calling her altogether. In my mind, we were broken up, and would never speak again. There are still a lot more pages in my story, so you know we must’ve gotten back together. But I swear, if you had asked me during that time if I’d ever speak to Maria again, I’d’ve said no way.

It wasn’t that she had lied. In fact, I’m sure she told me some little white lies here and there, just like I did. It was the fact that she lied about drinking. It was something you, Mom, had done so many times. “I’ll never drink again,” I remember you telling Daddy, when I was ten years old, then eleven, and every year until you finally did it. I just couldn’t bear Maria lying to me about drinking, and actually doing it. When I thought of her during those days after her break-up, I didn’t see her sweet Italian face. I saw yours, Mom.

A week or so after the breakup, I received a call from a Major in the Air Force; he had received my request for more information, and was wondering if I wanted to visit the Academy in Colorado Springs.

I remember begging both of you to let me go, but you wouldn’t allow it at first. But, I begged and begged. Remember, Mom? Even you smiled when I came home one day and showed you that 110 I got on my history paper. I remember.

I lobbied you, Dad, to let me go. And you said I could, as long you came with me. No problem!

We flew out there that weekend that the Indian Summer elapsed, and a bitter cold November blew in.

I loved saying it to people, Dad: “My father was a lieutenant-colonel in the Air Force during the Vietnam War.” I was so fucking proud of you. And I wanted to do all the same stuff you did. But you never let me get too starry-eyed. The whole plane ride to Colorado, as I asked about your career, you always redirected the conversation away from yourself, from your past.

“Listen, A.J., you keep asking about my career. You keep telling me about what you’re gonna do. But I want you to focus, A.J. Focus on doing whatever it takes to make you and your family happy at this very moment. Remember, A.J., there’s only one thing that matters in this world: Here and Now.”

Back then, I was in awe of you, but not smart enough to listen to your advice. We were like best friends. And sometimes you don’t listen to your best friends, and you pay for it.

I remember you even let me have a beer on the plane. You seldom drank, but you toasted a Heineken to me that afternoon.