Chapter 18

XVIII

Critical Mass

Easter Sunday was two days later. Like most Catholic families in Queens, our family began the day in church at ten in the morning. Sitting in the pews as the choir bellowed its festive, joyous songs—Haaaaaallelujah! Haaaaaallelujah!

As the music shook me, I felt a mix of joy and sorrow, of accomplishment and regret.

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 have ever killed me like that one did. 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? 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. 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 make up and clothes and music. Mom, I remember you repeatedly sidling up to Maria. I think you were genuinely interested in getting to know her, and I appreciated that.

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 herself. 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?

***

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,” 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.

He continued: “I’m not a well-liked man, Joel. 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, Joel. 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?”

“My Way,” Maria answered, anticipating his next sentence.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, excitedly, as excitedly as an old Italian man with one lung could. “My Way. Like Sinatra says in that song—Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.” He took a deep breath, and whistled as he exhaled. “Well, I’ve had too few regrets to mention. Like you’re grandfather, I’m sure, I’ve lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Kennedy Assassination, a thousand historical events that you kids couldn’t possibly comprehend.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’ve also lived through some personal tragedies, most of which I regret deeply. A failed marriage, a lifetime of cigarette smoking, a few extra-marital affairs that my son has no knowledge of.” Another deep, wheezing breath. I felt a damp plume of sweet vermouth engulf me as he exhaled. Maria was still smiling, frozen, and beet-red. “None of these things is worth mentioning or even thinking about. And yet I think about them all the time. Hell, I’m an old fart, so why bother, you may ask. But I do think about them, Joel. I ponder them day-in, day-out. I live each day carrying a cross called regret.

“You don’t know what regret is, you’re too damn young. From what Maria tells me you’re the kind of young man that’s never tasted remorse, grief, or sorrow. As a man sixty years your senior, I must warn you, Joel—and please don’t take this as a sign of disrespect: Regret is just around the corner.

“From what my son tells me, you’re a shoe-in for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He’s recommended you highly, I know that. He has faith in you. Maria has faith in you. And, frankly, so do I. But when she comes to me every week, and chats with me and reminds me to take my medicine”—he winked at Maria and reconnected with my eyes without missing a beat—she always says, in so many words, ‘I love Joel, Grandpa. But why does he have to act this way sometimes?’ And I wonder what to say to her. And I wondered this for a long time. But now that I’ve met you—and I like you, Joel, don’t get me wrong—I’ve decided that I don’t have to say anything to her. It’s you I need to speak to.

“Maria is a special girl, Joel. Not special in the workaday sense of the word, but truly special. She’s done the laundry and studied for tests as she listened to her drunken pop bellow incomprehensible commands at her mother. He has his demons, as do I. And he’ll regret allowing those demons to thrive most of his life once he’s my age, if he lives to be that long. But at least he’s trying now to slay his demons while he still has the strength…” Grandpa Della Verita trailed off and lifted a cigar from the crystal ashtray beside him. He placed the cigar between his thin lips and lighted it with a wooden match.

Dry as a the Sahara, my mouth remained motionless and speechless as I attempted repeatedly to swallow. My throat closed up and it seemed as if it would never reopen.

“Listen, Joel. I don’t mean to bore or frighten you. I don’t mean to ramble on. I’m just an old man, like I said. Maria’s told me a lot about you, and, being a contemplative old man, I can’t resist the chance to think about you and try to rescue your potential. You seem to be afraid of my granddaughter, afraid of her past, afraid of her mistakes. Perhaps even afraid of her future. Well, let me give you some advice:” He leaned forward and sat on the edge of the chair.

“Don’t be. Instead, be her hero. Be a man. Don’t be her keeper, but don’t go AWOL. Listen to her every word patiently, sympathetically, because, not too long from now, I won’t be around to do it. Humor me for a moment, and allow me to give you just a snippet of advice: Don’t be afraid of little Maria. Don’t do too much of anything. Relax. Enjoy life. Enjoy Maria, life’s gift to you. Don’t allow petty fears to pollute your love.

“In short, to borrow a phrase you’ll hear many times over the next few years: At ease, L’Enfant.”

Dumfounded, I gently extended my hand toward the old man, and he shook it firmly with his callused paw. “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I knew this morning at mass that this was a unique day, a day of transition, of rekindling. I didn’t know why until just now. This morning I felt guilt, a guilt that, possibly, could have lasted a lifetime. I was unaware of its meaning. You’ve given me the spark I need to slay my demon, sir. To kill the hate. And to give to both myself and Maria what we’re worthy of accepting: a new Joel Joseph L’Enfant.”

Maria and I departed Grandpa’s apartment in silence. Old Joel would have been disgusted with Maria for divulging secrets about me to others. New Joel, however, placed his hand on her face and simply said, “Maria, I love you very much.”

I hadn’t said that to Maria for the longest time.

***

I asked Maggie out the next evening. I resolved to meet her in Central Park, confess my love for Maria, and end it with that.

We sat on the very same spot that Maria and I had sat the previous spring. Maggie looked around, up at the trees and at the water. “It’s so beautiful,” she sighed. From where we were, I could see the giant pine in the distance that bore our initials. It had been a long time since I’d been there on my first date with Maria. It had been so long since I’d really been with a girl, really had a plan to impress her.

I reached over and rubbed Maggie’s bare shoulder. She leaned across the blanket and nestled her body into my arms. I was so happy. There was nothing in particular about Maggie that I liked; but the idea of introducing her to something new really made me happy. It had only been a few days since we met, but I felt like I’d known Maggie for a long time. I was all set to break up with her. I swear to God that I was. But in the few hours we were together that afternoon in the park, I really grew to like her. Old Joel would have liked her so much that he’d fuck her. New Joel, however, liked her so much that he had to confess the truth.

I was about to start talking, to start explaining the situation with Maria, when I grew too worried to speak. It wasn’t even about Maria finding out, or Maggie getting angry when I told her the truth. I was worried about having unprotected sex in the back seat of my car. Disease and pregnancy didn’t enter my mind around the corner from Kearney’s, on 46^th Street, where we fucked in a drunken stupor. But now I knew I’d never see Maggie again. Terrified that I’d gotten a disease, or worse, would transact one to Maria unknowingly, nervous jitters overwhelmed my body. It was a warm day and yet I shook. I had to end these worries. I had to probe a bit.

“So, hav-have you have sex with lots of guys?” I asked her, nervously squeaking out ‘guys’ on a high note. I’m not sure which I feared most—getting a disease or Maggie popping me in the chin for even asking.

She giggled like a little school girl. But, then again, that’s what she was, I guess. Running her fingers through her hair, Maggie slid away from me and sat Indian-style, leaned back, and stretched out her neck and arms. She smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. For a moment, it seemed like she’d forgotten I’d even asked her a question. For that moment, I hated her.

Finally, she noticed the stern look on my face and responded: “Does it really matter?” She laughed.

That pissed me off. “Well, do you?” I repeated.

“Sometimes,” she said, grinning, as if she was telling me how often she roller-skated. She was beginning to piss me off. I had to find out more about her.

“Who do you hang out with? Lots of boys?”

“A few,” she said. “But mostly my cousin and her friends. My cousin is older than me. She introduces me to all of her friends.”

Overwhelmed by an urge to know all about her ‘friends,’ I abandoned my plan to break up with Maggie and decided to interrogate her instead. Sure, her friends were probably hoods and losers, each and every one of them. But just how greasy were they? Maybe Maggie was just another piece of shit on Queens Boulevard. Maybe she gave me a fucking disease!

“Like who? Anyone I might know?”

“J. J. , there are like billions of people in New York!” She laughed again. Suddenly, she seemed to be a lot less interested in me. Her eyes wandered up at the trees and lake out of apparent boredom. She didn’t seem to take my questions seriously. It was frightening. And I was outraged. I would’ve walked away right then and there; but first, I had to know what kind of people she hung out with. Sure, I wanted to quell my fears. But I also wanted to discover something bad about her, something that would make me hate her, something that would compel me to kick her goddamn face and walk the fuck away, leaving her alone in the city. Or at least just walk away.

“All right,” I said, trying to hold back a burst of rage, “enough games. Just tell me a few names.”

She out her index finger to her chin. I still remember her stupid response—“Ummmmmmm…... Ummmmmm” as I sat there wiaitng for what felt like a lifetime. “Ummmmmmm, well, there’s this senior I know named Kerry—she goes to Stella Maris, too. She helps me get beer since I don’t have a fake ID. And then there’s this girl Laura. She gets me into lots of clubs. Oh, and my sister introduced me to this other girl a last week. Her name’s Elizabeth. She sometimes goes to Kearney’s, too. We even hooked up with the same guy in the same night once!” She laughed again. Roller-skating is fun! Hardy-fucking-har.

Had I stuck to my new plan, I would’ve bitch-slapped Maggie and walked the fuck away. I would’ve said “Catch ya later, whore,” and split. I would’ve laughed at her for laughing at me. Not a giggle laugh, but a vindictive one, a hearty chuckle that would’ve bellowed across the Central Park bridges and let Maggie know that she was a piece of shit and I knew it; that there were hoods in my school that had too much self-respect to come on her face; that no guy in Kearney’s could replace her long-lost daddy; that even her sexy body could not lure me away from The One.

Instead, like God had just snapped a picture, I was frozen in a cold flash of light. Then I felt something funny in my gut: butterflies. For the first time since I’d sat in that spot with Maria last spring, I had butterflies in my stomach. Only these butterflies didn’t tickle. They had stingers. And they danced and pricked my insides with glee. Unable to escape, plastered to the cotton blanket below, I forgot for the moment that Maggie was beside me. She simply disappeared. All that was left were the words that had just shot out of her mouth like a round of bullets. It was just butterflies…butterflies...butterflies…and then bullets. A moment later, I understood why.

“What’s her last name?” I asked. “Elizabeth’s, I mean.”

“Della Verita,” she said. “Why?”

***

I ran.

Through the park I dashed, huffing and puffing my way to the R train, hoping to catch Maria before more damage could be done.

The subway ride home lasted five years. I plopped into the hard plastic seat, and tightly gripped the slimy, shiny metallic pole. Somewhere in the tunnel between Lex and Queens Plaza, my body atrophied, all except for my head. My skull shook—trembled, actually—from side to side, preparing to deny everything that Maria would accuse me of. No, no, no! I didn’t do it! I practiced, silently within. The movement was non-existent to those around me, but I felt it.

I’d left Maggie alone by the pond in Central Park. Thinking about it now, she must have thought I was crazy for jumping up and sprinting away like that. At the time, however, had someone asked me, I wouldn’t have recognized the name Maggie, or the park. Who’s Maggie? I’d forgotten all that before I darted away from her. Perhaps that’s why I neglected to ask her to promise not to tell Elizabeth about me.

But, to be honest, I never even considered that. Within the recesses of my heart I knew that my doomsday had arrived. The long and winding road had lead me to the gates of Hell. But I was going to fight it all, fight the inescapable, try to avoid my fateful journey through those gates. I couldn’t live without Maria. There was no getting around that fact. But that reality didn’t strike me until it was too late.

Precisely what happened next has been erased from my mind. All I know is that somehow I ended up standing in front of Maria’s house, shivering more than the spring air called for. Her doorbell sounded like fire alarm to my ears. Impatiently, I waited for her to answer.

A plane thundered overhead. It resonated like a B-1 bomber; however, glancing toward the sky, I noticed that it was a simple Boeing 747, perhaps en route to Paris or Rome, or some other place I’d never visit. How I longed to be sitting in its cockpit, traveling to a faraway place.

As Maria opened the door I was still staring at the sky. I’d completely forgotten about my tar-stained teeth and smoky breath, a result of the cigarettes I’d sucked down on the subway platform, and on the walk to the subway, and on the walk to her house. Had it not been for the terrible look in my eyes when she first saw me, perhaps Maria would’ve noticed the scent of tobacco. Instead, she stood before, quiet and still. I didn’t ask if her parents were home; I didn’t know what day it was, or what time of the year it was. Trying to hold back a torrent of sad tears and vomit, I just stood there, waiting for her to make the first move. Maybe she doesn’t know anything, I thought, despairingly. Maybe it’s not too late to save our relationship. Maria’s cutting stare filled me with more uncertainty than ever before. I didn’t know whether or not Maria knew about my encounter with Maggie. I didn’t know whether her silence was a result of my unexpected visit, or a sign of the news she’d just learned of from her sister, Elizabeth, or, God forbid, from Maggie herself.

She made an about-face and began walking down the staircase toward her room. I remained in the doorway ready to cry and throw-up at any moment. Then she motioned for me to follow her. I snapped out of my trance and plodded behind her.

I don’t recall pondering my first statement to Maria that day. I suppose my assumption was that—God, I don’t know—if I could control what was told to her first, she would disbelieve other versions of the story. It was the very first time in our entire relationship that I can’t recall even attempting to devise a plan of action. The only specific thing I do remember was wondering what she would tell her father and mother. If she remained my girlfriend, was her love strong enough to keep my disloyalty a secret? Despite what Grandpa Della Verita had said, I didn’t know for sure if her father had sent in the recommendation. Academy acceptances and rejections would be delivered within a few weeks.

We stood in the center of her room, a room that had witnessed an unimaginable number of fights and kisses over the past year. That special bed, Maria’s bed, sat silently in the corner, the covers tucked in tightly. I looked down at my sneakers, then up at the light. There was nothing to say, except: “Maria, I—I cheated on you.”

Maria was a cool character ordinarily. She’d installed those mirrors in her living room as her father sat in the den, downing his ninth beer of the night. She’d quit smoking and turned to Shakespeare of all things for solace. She’d accepted my questions about her past, groaning only occasionally.

But that day Maria was not cool. Her icy stare melted away and within seconds she broke down crying. She bawled for several minutes. It seemed like hours. She was so upset, in fact, that I honestly thought she was going to attack me. But Maria never lost control, so she didn’t do any such thing. Instead, she turned toward her dresser and opened a drawer, softly, meticulously. Equally cautiously, she picked up several poems I’d given her over the past year. They were still in the original off-white envelopes, as fresh and crisp as the day I wrote them. Violently, she stripped her neck of the date-plate I’d given her for Christmas, breaking it at the clasp. I heard it ping against the wooden floor.

Remaining silent, Maria handed me the letters. I accepted them, not knowing what else to do. I heard a garbage truck rumble down the pothole-ridden street. Its thunder shook my insides and smooshed them into mashed potatoes. Maria grabbed my shoulder, attempting to force me to turn around, and said, flatly: “Get out.”

That’s when she stopped crying. That’s when I broke down in tears.

“Please, Maria,” I began to beg, “Please don’t do this. It was only one kiss. I’m sorry!”

“Get out.”

I screamed, “Pleeeeeaaaase!” and dropped down to my knees like an animal. I heard someone on the floor above us, walking solidly toward the door which led to the staircase downstairs. Her mother yelled downstairs, asking if everything was all right. Maria told her mom not to worry, to go back inside, that she had the situation under control.

“Get out.”

“Please, Maria. I—I was joking. I made the whole thing up. God, I—I was testing you. I didn’t kiss another girl. I didn’t do anything. I love you.” I spoke through a gush of tears which flowed so hard and fast that I heard them splashed onto the floor, joining the jumbled golden links.

“Nice try,” she said. “You’re full of shit. It’s taken me a long time to realize that, Joel. But you’re full of shit. And you’re full of yourself. But I guess that’s redundant, huh?” And then she laughed.

I was flabbergasted. She continued:

“Do you think I haven’t told my parents and sister all about you? Well, kiddo, I have. I didn’t at first, though, because I thought everything was my fault. I thought I was wrong for having friends that you didn’t know, a past you weren’t part of. I hated—hated—myself for drinking Upstate with my cousin. I hated myself for having a life before you. You made me feel that way. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been drinking every weekend since August. You can’t fool me.

“I wasn’t sure about it at first. Like I said, at first I really thought it was my fault. I really thought I was a bad person. Oh, sure, you were great—wonderful, in fact—for the first few dates. But then, the more I told you about myself, the more you resented me.

“You should have loved me, Joel! You should have loved me for baring my soul to you. Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno. Remember that, Joel? Remember that? I thought you were my confidant. I trusted you more than my own father. I thought I could confide in you, and that we could grow old together, just like we used to talk about.

“But, no, you had to fuck it up, didn’t you? It wasn’t until Christmas—remember the opera?—when I first told my mother about you. The real you. She brushed it aside; she defended you. She said I was overreacting, and I believed her. But more and more I became convinced that I wasn’t overreacting. You were. If I didn’t say ‘I love you’ first-thing each time we spoke on the phone, it was a crime. If I was friendly with somebody else, it was a sin.

“Last summer, I was depressed about my father and mother, because I thought they might be getting divorced, so I drank. You sentenced me to death for that crime, didn’t you? You couldn’t just forgive me for it, like any decent person would’ve done. I begged for you to forgive me. I even begged God to forgive me, because I thought your anger at me was equivalent to God’s.

“And you convinced me that it was. But slowly, Joel, very slowly I figured it all out. I figured out that you didn’t love me, you only loved being my God. You wanted nothing more than to control me. Control, Joel. Do you understand what the hell that means? You controlled me through your questions—no, your interrogations. You had to know each and every detail of my life, didn’t you? Oh, sure, I wanted to open up to you, I wanted you to be my confidant. But you just had to take it too far. You wouldn’t quit until both you and I had relived each and every dreadful moment of my life. Never the good times; only the bad ones.

“You know, I just realized that there’s only one thing about me that you never found out—you never found out why I’m a year behind in school. I was surprised that you never pressed me on that one. Well, now I’ll tell you: I was left back because of a custody fight between my parents when I was in the second grade. They were legally separated for a year, and my mother took my father to court to try and keep me. I was so upset that I failed all my classes and got left back.

“So there you go, Joel—Whew!—” she chuckled defiantly—“now you know every little detail. Now I am truly free. Now there’s nothing more you could possibly ask me. I won’t allow you to make me relive that one. I’m one-up on you, Joel, for the first time ever.

“I want you to leave my house and never come back. Got that?” She poked my sternum so hard that I almost fell over. “And it’s not just because of what you told me today. In fact, I thank you for cheating on me, really, because it’s given me the chance to break up with you—to never see your fucking face again—sooner than I thought.

“I can’t wait to call Lynn and tell her. Remember Lynn? She was my best friend until we both met you. Oh, but you wouldn’t allow me to be her friend. It was against Joel’s Rules. So guess how many friends I have now? Zero. None. I haven’t had a friend other than you in almost a year. I remember that Kelvin and I used to hang out before class; nothing really, just talk and that’s it. But you said Kelvin couldn’t be my friend, so I haven’t spoken to him in months. I used to tell Cindy all about you in history class every day. But I stopped speaking to her after you went ballistic in the mall. And you said lots of other people couldn’t be my friends—even when you didn’t say it, you implied it—and I was afraid to have a friend besides you. I never trusted people much, but that was always my choice, based on my experience. It was never forced upon me, through fear and jealousy, by a person that made love to me, a person I gave myself to.

“But we never made love, Joel. You fucked me. No, it wasn’t rape, and I’ll never call it that. But I made love to you and, in turn, you fucked me. I made love to you because I felt guilty. Guilty! When I first made love to you that’s why I did it, that’s what was going through my mind: All I kept thinking was maybe now he’ll forgive me for drinking, for…for…for living! That’s how wrong I thought I was. I never cheated on you. I never, ever intentionally hurt you. And that’s all anyone can ever ask of a friend or lover. We are only human, Joel. But you treated me like a dog. Like your property.

“Well, it’s time to disown me, Joel. Time to free your little slave. So I’ll tell you one last time before I get my father to come down here: Get the fuck out of my house, you maniac, and never come back.”

I was still on my knees, crying. It wasn’t her words that wounded me, but her tone. Maria spoke to me as one might speak to a little child: angry and condescending and firm. She was practically taunting me with her words. I tried begging again. I tried apologizing. I tried. But she responded with a grin of all things, almost as if every word that left my mouth buttressed her opinion of me. She didn’t even ask me who I had kissed, and that angered me most of all.

Helpless, I stood up and turned toward the door to leave. But something overpowered me—a feeling that for a long time afterward I didn’t even regret. I wanted to hurt Maria. Because she was right, I’d lost all control.

I thought about thrusting my clenched fist toward that beautiful, angelic face, and punching her, hard, with not a slap, but a smash. I wanted to see blood pouring from her nose. She’d cover her face with her hands, and they’d become bloody, too. She’d sniffle and pant heavily, as the blood obstructed her breathing. She wouldn’t cry. She’d just moan and wheeze.

That was my final plan for Maria, but I refused to carry it out. I couldn’t do it. I loved her too much. So instead, my fist loosened slowly, and my arm dropped to my side as a leaf falls from a tree limb. Without speaking another word, I got up and turned toward the door and left. Casually, I strolled to Fresh Pond Road and waited for the Q58 to come. Quietly, I peered through the window as the bus rumbled along. It went by many places that Maria and I had been together—Stern’s, the European-American Bank, Queens Center Mall—and each became frozen in the distance, at the end of a long and winding road. I hummed that song all the way home. I thought about the Academy. I thought of what Kyle had told me so many times before: “I always win, J. J. I always win.” Finally, I thought about fucking Maggie in the back seat of my car just a few days before.

I concluded: Neither Maria nor I had won the war. It was a tie. And that was just fine by me.