Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

Hallelujah! I exploded into Maggie, just as I had in the back seat of my Skylark on Good Friday. In my head I heard her screaming with ecstasy as my body tingled in nervous delight. Echoes of two naked strangers sharing a guilty pleasure in the middle of the night danced in my head. You’d think having sex with a girl like Maggie would feel lewd—but no. She was as sweet and innocent and fresh-smelling as Maria on New Year’s Eve. That night, she was the sweetest girl in the world.

Hallelujah! As awesome as it was, I couldn’t help but feel dirty. In retrospect, no other night has ever killed me like that one did. In that church, the one I’d been going to all my life, grief enveloped me with each passing moment. It smacked me in the face at the peak of the ceremony, as the last rows of parishioners stood up to receive their communion. Although I seldom attended mass, when I did go, I received communion. Not that day. I was so caught up in my thoughts—the scent of Maggie’s body, the grip of her hands, and an choking guilt—that I neglected to rise as communion was handed out.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Halleeehhhhhh-lujaaaahhhh!

And then, during the moment of silence between the end of communion and the beginning of the closure of the ceremony, I reached critical mass. As I knelt before the altar staring into a crucified Jesus, I sensed something that I hadn’t experienced throughout the duration of my relationship with Maria: GUILT.

Perplexed by that emotion, I raced out the church door and lit a cigarette. When you guys approached me amidst the crowd that had just been let out, I was lost in a state of confusion, ensconced by haze of smoke. “You have to go pick up Maria soon,” Dad said. “We’d better get going.” I smashed the cigarette butt underneath my heel and followed my family back to the car.

A few hours later Maria and I were driving along the Interboro Parkway, en route to Fresh Meadows. We were silent but happy. I tried not to think about Magdalena. Again, I was conflicted by thoughts of her soft lips and the look on Maria’s face if she only knew. But I tried not to think about that stuff.

We spent the day sitting in the living room, surrounded by the vertical mirrors and the sweet smell of cranberry juice. That was your substitute for Rum and Coke at the time, wasn’t it Mom? See, I remember. I still wasn’t speaking to you much. We’d progressed from cold stares to icy silence to obligatory idol chatter in the company of others. I also remember you repeatedly sidling up to Maria. I think you were genuinely interested in getting to know her, and I appreciated that. Dad, you were a saint, helping Maria feel comfortable by talking to her throughout the afternoon. Tracy, Daddy’s Little Girl, you followed his lead and chatted with Maria about makeup and clothes and music.

Not surprisingly, Maria was respectful and polite. She nodded and smiled, said please and thank you, and laughed politely at your jokes, and even helped with the dishes. The afternoon sped by. It went surprisingly well. Maria liked everyone, and everyone liked Maria. And Mom, when you settled the obligatory Easter Sunday banquet bottle of white wine on the ornamented dinner table, you steadily poured each of her guests a full glass. You then poured yourself a glass of sparkling water for yourself. I was still so lost in thought back then that I couldn’t even feel proud of you.

We toasted. Raising my glass above my lamb chops and mashed potatoes, superficially honoring a God I didn’t believe in, I uttered a brief but eloquent remark: I said: “To the resurrection of our souls in times of hardship.” I thought: What the fuck am I doing with my life?

Soon after dessert, I drove Maria back to Ridgewood. On the way we had a spirited discussion about the movie Rocky. Maria insisted that Rocky Balboa won the first Rocky. But he didn’t. He lost to Apollo Creed. I told her, “He didn’t win until the end of Rocky II.” But she didn’t believe me. “I’m gonna prove it to you someday,” I said, smiling.

Parked in front of her house, holding hands, Maria and I shared a peaceful love. Perhaps encouraged by the moment, Maria suggested that we visit her grandfather, a man she’d mentioned but I’d never met. “He’s home alone today, you know,” she said. “I’d love to go and see him, just for a little while. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks.” For the first time in months, I was compelled to do what Maria requested.

Grandpa Della Verita . That’s what she called him. What a mouthful, huh? It took her almost a half hour to say it, but it was worth it. I thought it was cute that she called her grandparents by their last names just like I did. We still had so much in common, Maria and I.

I placed my arm around her and smiled proudly as the door creaked open. “Grandpa Della Verita!” Maria beamed, arms open wide, eagerly hugging him. He was hunched over at first, but the elation of the moment seemed to raise his spirits and his posture. After hearing his name, his ears perked. Maria reintroduced me—proudly—and Grandpa Della Verita reach over and firmly shook my hand. And then, he began to talk, and talk, and talk. It was just as Maria had described the previous spring. As Grandpa Della Verita spoke, he was rejuvenated. Seventy-seven years old, he had one lung, one kidney, and was deaf in one ear. He had just quit smoking cigarettes about a month before I met him. But you’d never have known all this by the way he acted and spoke.

I listened to him as a loyal caporegime would his Godfather. I was awe-struck by his presence. Grandpa Della Verita had a soft face dressed with only two wrinkles, each extending from his ear to his nose, straight across his cheek bone, and two crystal blue eyes. He had about nine strings of hair, each slicked backward, and two giant ears, each with an earlobe that looked like a steak. Donning an oversized black suit and floppy bow tie, you’d think he was a Mob wiseguy—come to think of it, he probably was—who had just joined the Mafia circus. His hands and neck were elongated and veiny. You could see his bones through his thin waxy skin.

The more he spoke, the more comfortable I felt. He walked us into his living room and invited us to sit down. The plastic-covered couch sang a wheezy tune as I sank into it. Maria sat beside me, and politely introduced me to her Grandpa, who sat before us on a black, velvety stuffed chair.

“Maria’s told me a lot about you,” he said, with an Italian accent as thick as my mother’s tomato sauce. I was startled. Prior to that evening, Maria hadn’t mentioned that she spoke to him about me. That’s okay , I thought, Maria doesn’t have to tell me everything . That thought is painful for me to recollect now. But back then, at the precise moment I had it, I felt a sense of relief that had eluded me for almost a year. I truly loved Maria at that moment. I know for a fact that had things not wound up happening soon after, I would have never cheated on Maria, or yelled at her, or questioned her again.

Imbued by this new-found spiritual flow, I smiled at Grandpa Della Verita as he continued: “I’m not a well-liked man, A.J. That surprises you, huh? You think everybody’s gotta love a sweet old man? Not so.” His chin sank and he waved his finger before my face, shamefully, as if I’d just peed on his carpet. Where the fuck was he going with this? “Well, not everyone likes me, A.J. I’m a bitter old man, and people see it in my eyes. I’m so bitter that it’s often difficult speak to others without recalling distasteful memories. I have reason to be this way. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, just like Sinatra says—Maria, what’s that song by Sinatra, the one where he mentions his mistakes and so forth?”