Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

Nobody else was around, which was strange, because usually there was a long line for the bus. Sitting alone in the bus in the bus shelter, protected from the elements within that strange glass box, we sat silently, me dying to hear what she had to say and her apparently too nervous to tell me.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she turned to me and said, “Okay, I’m ready.” And then she dropped to her knees, right there onto the cold, wet concrete, and looked up at me. “A.J.,” she said, “I don’t have enough money to buy you a ring. But I can offer you an embrace, a hug that will last forever. I offer you this because I have nothing else to give but myself. But I am not insecure. I value myself a lot, and I just want to give myself to you.” She hugged me and placed the right side of her face on my coat. She clutched me even tighter and finally said, “A.J., will you marry me?”

I didn’t know what to say. Of course, I wanted to say yes. Of course, I did say yes. “Yes, yes, yes!” I screamed, although it was only a whisper. “Yes.”

I cried. Maria cried. But there was more.

“I’m coming with you to Colorado Springs next year. I can marry you—I’ll be seventeen and I already looked it up, we can get married in Colorado. I can live with you, right there on the base, and I’ll cook and clean for you, and maybe go to college and become an English teacher or something.”

Words can’t describe how exhilarated I was to hear those words. I mean, now that I think about it, Maria was propositioning me, as an adult, and it was real. She believed her words and so did I. Had I been a man rather than a boy, I know I wouldn’t’ve broken the contract we established that day.

At that moment it all seemed so clear, as clear as the blue sky as you soar 20,000 feet above the earth: our future together, just Maria and me, away from Queens and our parents and all the losers in high school. It was all there, right before me. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

“How much did you enjoy getting drunk?” I asked that question over and over again when I called Maria the next night. She didn’t seem to understand that with forgiveness came consequences. Like new-found distrust, for example. She didn’t seem to realize that I was addicted to terrorizing her, because I was afraid, just like our parents were addicted to alcohol and gambling, because they were afraid.

“Have you had anything to drink since we last spoke?” I blared.

She said no, demurely. But occasionally she’d leap at me like an angry cat. “Why the hell did you get drunk?” she asked.

I thought about this for a while. I didn’t really know how to respond. I couldn’t very well say that it was because I’d never tried it, and wanted to see what it was like.

“I knew you’d gotten drunk Upstate, Maria. I was depressed about it at Rick’s party.”

“I thought that—” she cut herself off. “I thought that when I told you I didn’t do it that you believed me.”

“No, I didn’t. I was just waiting for you to find the right time to tell the truth. I—I really knew you had done it.”

“But”—she attempted to interrupt, but I wouldn’t let her.

“Please, Maria, just listen. You broke my heart with that news, you really did. I mean, to think that a girl with an alcoholic father would herself get drunk. And you know my mom drinks, too. You know the affect that’s had on me. It’s just—your decision to drink was just ridiculous. Your judgment is now in question.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, as if she was a three year old kid apologizing for spilled milk.

“It’s okay,” I said, surprised at my ability to forgive her. But Maria thought I had forgiven her completely. In fact, I’d accepted her to be my girlfriend again under false pretenses, because in my heart I knew that I had only forgiven her to the extent that she would show how sorry she was for lying.

The next few weeks were good, but not as marvelous as the spring. Maria and I resumed going to Central Park as often as we could. We wrapped ourselves in blankets under the pine trees near the pond to protect us from the chilly fall gusts. The sweet scent of decaying foliage filled our noses as we hunkered amidst the piles of leaves by the pond, and kissed and hugged. We wrestled and skipped and pranced through those leaves almost as if we’d just fallen in love.

On many evenings we’d go back to Queens and drive all the way back to Fresh Meadows to eat at Angelo and Al’s on Fresh Meadow Lane.

Angelo, the owner, has known me since I was a kid. I remember going there even before elementary school. Mom, you never let me wander far, you were so goddamn paranoid. But I have to admit you always allowed me to walk across Utopia Parkway to Fresh Meadow Lane, to get a slice and a Coke from Angelo and Al’s, or play a video game at the candy store.

Like always, Angelo was generous with the toppings. I’d pile it all on: mushrooms, peppers, black olives, extra cheese, the works. We loved it so much that Maria and I ate at Angelo and Al’s for dinner almost every time we traveled to or from Central Park. The warm waft of their pizza crust and tomato sauce baking in the giant steel oven thawed us each time we stepped from the cold into his shop each weekend.

Sometimes we parked in Astoria and walked down Steinway Street before we went to Central Park. We never bought anything because we had no money. That was the wonderful thing about Maria. She didn’t need a four-course meal or a diamond ring to be happy. She was happy just being with me.

Whenever we were in Astoria, I’d see Cronin and Phelan’s, at the intersection of Broadway and Steinway, and crave a beer on tap. By that point, I’d tasted beer, whiskey, rum, white wine, malt liquor, and vodka, some with Kyle and Rick, but most within the lonely confines of my bedroom after dark. Beer was my favorite. I wasn’t an alcoholic, though, and wasn’t worried about becoming one, either. I tasted these drinks because I wanted to check them out, nothing more. And, the more I thought about it, the more I desired for Maria to sample them with me. I didn’t want to get wasted with her; I simply wanted us to experience something we’d both done separately but now could enjoy together. I remember thinking, A few beers and I’ll open up to her about Mom’s drinking problem, and the stress about getting into the Academy, and all my strange dreams and fears. I longed to tell her so much. What were best friend for, after all?

But I couldn’t bear to watch Maria sit at a bar and drink. The idea alone killed me. So I continued to drink alone in my room, while talking to myself, and wishing I had someone to share the conversation with.

Though tempted to cheat again, I remained steadfastly faithful to Maria. I started to mature. I was a better boyfriend to her than I’d been before. Rather than demand that she compliment me each time we spoke on the phone, I’d praise her, regardless. Her happiness was slowly becoming more important than mine once again.

Maria was also maturing. She’d unilaterally turned down two invitations to two Halloween parties, even though her friends begged her to go. “They’ll be drinking there,” she said. And that was all I needed to know. For a while, it was as if Maria had never gotten drunk and lied.

At the lunch table each day in school there was nothing but laughter. As the passing days brought us closer to graduation, we treated each conversation as a waning treasure. Each member of The Family was confident about his future, as well as mine. Paul, Rick, and Mike talked about the Air Force Academy almost as much as I did. Kyle, always one step ahead of them, began calling me “Captain A.J., ” rather than Godfather or Boss.