Chapter 7

VII

The Family

Looking back on my second date with Maria and describing it without bias is an arduous task. The sum of my time spent with Maria is uniformly positive or negative, depending on my mood. Nevertheless, in my heart, I am confident that the second time Maria and I went to Central Park was flawless, no matter what mood I’m in when I recount it.

It was a beautiful day in May. It was the kind of weather where you can keep your window wide open perpetually, warmed by the sun by day and cooled by the breeze at night. Between the SAT in the morning and my date with Maria in the afternoon, that day could have been a powerful journey from childhood to manhood. Could have been.

I took the test that morning and met Maria precisely at noon in front of the Queens Center Mall. She asked if we could go shopping in the mall for a while first, but I politely refused. I wanted to be with her in the park as soon as possible, and I told her so. She complied, gracefully.

The subway ride to the city was quiet; I think we were both excited that it was our first real date. This’ll sound corny, but that day my big plan was to I ask her to be my girlfriend. This was a big moment. It meant we didn’t have to worry about anyone else. Aching to surprise her and give her a day to remember forever, we ascended the subway stairs and were showered with sunlight.

As usual, we entered the park through Central Park South. The sun was shining brightly on Maria’s dark hair, creating a sparkle in her beautiful nutmeg eyes. Inhaling the scents of the newly budding flowers and Maria’s perfume, I flew high as an F-15 and soared through the stratosphere. The F-15 can fly one hundred thousand feet up in just under four minutes. I think I was flying higher than that in Central Park, and I wanted to take Maria with me. I could have sworn I saw one of those awesome F-15s in the azure sky above. I was gripping it’s tail, feeling a cool breeze of perfume lifting my body.

We walked down the stone staircase on the corner of Central Park South and Fifth Avenue, toward the pond where little children were tossing bits of bread to the ducks and geese. I wanted to feed those ducks, too, but didn’t have any bread. But I had Maria. She was holding my right hand with her left. You know that feeling you get when you first step into a frosty-cold day from within your warm home? Like when suddenly goose bumps chill your entire body? Well that’s what I felt like with Maria. And, on top of that, a million butterflies were flitting through my stomach. It was a crazy, mixed up feeling that can only be described as love.

As we walked along, as the sun beamed its warmth down on my face, I noticed my shadow strewn across the pond’s edge, moving right along with us. But I didn’t see a separate shadow for Maria. I saw only one shadow, our shadow, as whole and united as we were that day.

I remember what she was wearing—dark blue denim shorts that covered just enough to leave the eye wanting; a red, cotton, v-neck T-shirt, tight yet modest; and a pair of ivory white gym shoes. She looked like a tennis player in the U.S. Open—young, energetic, fit, ambitious. Maria had just a dab of makeup on her face—just enough to make her naturally spectacular face glow. But the absolute best part was her smile. No make up could simulate a smile. She looked as though it was the happiest day of her life, as though she was up 40-Love, about to win game, set, and match. It was almost as if she was bursting to tell a joyful secret, waiting for a window of opportunity.

Not until we sat down together on a park bench by the ball field did we begin to converse. Baseball season was in full swing. In the background we heard the crack of aluminum bats and the sound of cheerful crowds. Neither of us was tempted to watch the game, though. We opted to gaze into one another’s eyes, almost as if we were studying one another.

“So tell me your story, kid,” I said. It was an unusual way to begin a conversation, I know. But I was so goddamn excited.

“My story? Well, I don’t know,” she said coyly. “I adore Central Park. I really love it here. I used to come to Central Park with my grandfather when I was a little girl. I think I told you that last time we were here. I suppose that’s why this place—the trees, the pond, the ducks—is so comforting.”

“Well, we’ll come here as often as you want from now on, I promise.”

Maria suddenly seemed to be lost in deep thought. Patiently, I waited for her to turn toward me once again.

Several minutes later, a glossy-eyed Maria continued. “You’ll meet my grandpa someday, Joel. I see him about once each week. He almost died three summers ago of a heart attack. Then he had a stroke several weeks afterward. Obviously, he hasn’t been the same since.

“Tell me more,” I said. “I love listening to you.”

“Grandpa used to be so proud of his daily routine: wake at seven; go to eight o’clock mass; walk two miles to the seniors club; eat lunch at Claudio’s; walk two miles to the donut shop; read the Post over a cup of coffee; walk back to the club; grab dinner at Michael’s Diner; walk back home; watch TV; go to bed at eleven. Same thing, Joel, every day. But he loved every minute of it. Amazing, huh?

“But since his surgeries, grandpa’s daily routine has changed a lot. He used to walk six miles a day and then watch two or three hours of TV each evening, and now he walks very little and watches TV all day long. Non-stop.

“A nurse comes in every afternoon to cook and help him bathe. He takes a different pill for every color of the rainbow. Basically, he has nothing to live for...”

Maria swallowed hard and peered searchingly into my eyes.

“...Except for my visits. My mother, my father—they’re too busy to see him more than once a month or so. But I visit grandpa at least once a week after school. That’s when he turns off the TV—it’s usually hot as an oven, it’s been on for so long—and talks to me. For two or three hours each week, grandpa tells me the stories of his life—he’s a very reflective old guy—and answers all of my questions about the past. ‘What was it like to see Joe DiMaggio play in Yankee Stadium’; ‘Was Roosevelt a good president?’; ‘What did people do before TV was around?’ Just one of those questions gets him talking for hours.”

Maria smiled proudly. “Joel, you have to see it. To grandpa, these conversations are like, um—what’s that thing at the hospital that keeps you alive?”

“Life support systems,” I said.

“Yeah! That’s right. I think I’m sort of like his life support system. Sometimes I think he could go without the pills, just as long as he gets rejuvenated once a week when we talk.”

“So you’re saying that without you he’d die?”

“Well, I guess so, in a way,” she said. “I think that all people kind of need a life support system. But not a machine, Joel. I mean a real-life human being. People to engage them, question them, listen to them. Nurses and pills can help you to a point. But all people—young and old, sick and well—crave a person to depend on just as they can count on the sun rising each morning.”

I was touched. I didn’t know her grandfather. However, at that moment, for the first and perhaps the only time in my relationship with Maria, I grasped precisely what she craved: a confidant. Maria lacked the life support system that she provided so gracefully for her own blood. Though at that moment I didn’t know if Maria would ever surrender herself to me physically, on that exquisite day in the park she handed me her soul in the palm of her hand, and I gratefully accepted.

The world surrounding us stopped for a moment, silently acknowledging the holy transaction that was taking place. A jet flew into my mind, an EA6B electronic jamming plane, used by the Navy and Marines to stifle enemy aircraft’s radar technology. A hush blanketed us, the world around didn’t exist. The earth’s rotation came to a halt. Maria gazed sleepily into my eyes as if she were about to fall into my waiting arms. A gentle breeze whistled through the trees surrounding us. Abruptly, a loud burst of cheer resonated from the ball field, waking us from the hypnosis.

“You can always count on me,” I responded, finally. “I promise.”

“Always? You mean it? Do you think we’ll be together forever, Joel?” Smiling softly, Maria stroked my fingers, searching for an answer that I had planned on providing well before she raised her question. Although I’d wanted to broach the issue of our future together, Maria slyly beat me to it.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Maria.” Then I placed the palm of my hand against her right cheek, and looked harder at her than I ever had before. I was so happy I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Instead, I continued with my plan.

“Maria,” I said, “I want to be with you forever. I know that sounds crazy—I mean, hell, I’m not even seventeen, and you’re not even sixteen—but it’s true. Let’s begin forever today. Let’s take the first step now.” I breathed in deeply, paused for a second, and exhaled. “Will you please be my girlfriend?”

Even though she knew I’d ask that, she was surprised. So was I. My heart throbbed but before I had a chance to notice it, Maria replied.

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll be your girlfriend.” And she smiled and gave me a hug.

Heaven on Earth. That’s all I can say.

We talked more for a while, probably for an hour or so. As usual, we talked about everything from politics to movies, from travel to religion. Neither of us was very religious. I was happy to hear that she, like me, was an atheist. It’s that like we hated the idea of God, we just despised the notion that some people justified moral superiority with their faith. That’s why neither of us went to Church. I had gone once in the past year or so, but that was for Christmas and with my parents. She said she hadn’t gone in years, and I thought that was cool.

“Tell me about your family. Do they know that you like me?” I asked.

“Well, I tell my mother everything,” she said, “but I don’t think my father knows about you yet.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know. I just don’t think he knows about you yet,” she said.

“Why? Will he be mad or something?”

“Oh no, it’s not that.”

“Well, what do you mean?”

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” she replied. Suddenly, she grew visibly uneasy. How, I wondered, can I be her confidant if she bottles her secrets up?

“Listen, Maria, I care about you and would never judge you. So whatever it is, please tell me.”

“I don’t know. Something tells me it’s not a good idea.”

“Listen, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, but I think it’s best to get things out in the open.” I placed both my hands on her face, parting the hair away from her eyes. She looked up at me and let out a warm, minty breath.

“I don’t think my father knows abut you yet, Joel, because he’s always drunk when I talk about you at home.”

Dead silence. I had no idea what to say. “My father’s an alcoholic, Joel.”

And with that her little eyes began to tear. She wasn’t crying so much as she was whimpering. Quickly, however, she wiped away her tears and stopped, as if she had never begun. She was such a proud girl.

I can’t describe how surprised I was to hear about her father. An alcoholic! My God! I wasn’t surprised, but appalled. I’d never tasted alcohol before. I’d despised alcohol from the moment I realized what you were, mom.

One time in freshman year I was at a school dance, and Kyle snuck in a few of those little bottles of vodka, the same kind that you get on commercial airliners and hotel room bars. He said he stole them from his grandmother’s liquor cabinet. I was pissed. My opinion of liquor was patently different than my friends’. All hallucinogens were evil. Liquor was no different than religion—they both made you believe something that wasn’t true. Kyle was swigging vodka while I still had stuffed animals in my room.

What a fight we had! He wanted to drink the vodka right in the middle of the dance. “Over my dead body,” I exclaimed, as I grabbed the bottle from him and flung it to the gym floor. Unfortunately, it was plastic, so it just bounced around for a while, and remained intact. Kyle reacted with a goofy smile—he had won—and he picked the bottle off the floor, unscrewed the little red cap, and drank away.

I didn’t know what the hell to say when Maria told me her father was an alcoholic. I was about to tell her about the drinking problems in my family but decided against it. It was too soon to tell her so much about my life.

I stood there for a while, practically making a fool out of both of us. I don’t know, I guess I was even a little angry at her. I was too young to drink, and too young to be burdened with this news. In my heart, I wanted to bear my soul to Maria, to narrate my personal experiences with an alcoholic parent. At the same time, I figured that it would ruin the date if I didn’t say something nice, and we didn’t get off the topic. What the hell should I do?

Thankfully, she spoke. “I just wanted you to know this, Joel,” she said, “because that’s why my father doesn’t know about you yet, because he was drunk when I told my mother, like he always is.”

“It’s okay, baby,” I said. “Really, it’s okay. He doesn’t hurt you, does he? He doesn’t hit you?” I felt like such a gentleman saying that.

“No, he doesn’t. He just drinks, and never really goes to work. Well, he used to. He used to be a sanitation worker. But he retired like ten years before he was supposed to, so he didn’t really get a pension or anything like that. And now he just sits at home and drinks, and yells at my mom. Sometimes he has a part-time job, sometimes he doesn’t. Regardless, he blames her for everything. But she works and cooks and cleans, and he has no right to do it. It’s just that he’s drunk, and he never even knows what he’s saying. I try to understand what he’s going through, but I don’t know my right from my left sometimes. How can I understand him when I don’t even understand myself? I just wish that someone would understand me for once. But I remain silent. Nobody can sense my confusion. Even if I did choose to tell people, they wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, if your dad drinks, that’s no excuse for his behavior!” I said. I felt as if I should say something more to Maria, something that would prove that I really understood, something about my mother. But I didn’t. All I said was: “But you don’t drink…do you?”

“No!” she paused, shaking her head. Her hair flopped from side to side. “Never. Never. I never drink, and I don’t want to. I just want him to stop blaming my mother for everything, and stop yelling at her.”

“Well, as long as you don’t drink, you’ll be okay, I guess.”

“That’s not true, Joel.” She said it as if I really wasn’t getting her point at all. “That’s why I don’t trust anyone. And that’s why I’ve never had a boyfriend. And that’s why I hesitate telling you stuff about me. Because I don’t trust anybody. Don’t you remember what I told you last time we were here? I said that when I was a little kid my dad told me that I could always trust my family. But that’s not true. I can’t trust him, or rely on him for anything. So if he doesn’t keep his word, then who will? I just wish…” She trailed off.

“I will,” I said.

“Well, that’s why I said you were hopeful. Remember that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I think that maybe you are hopeful. You see, that’s the word, hopeful, that I use to describe you to myself when I’m alone at night, or when my dad is yelling, or when I’m depressed. I say to myself, ‘Don’t worry, Maria, Joel is hopeful.’ I talk to myself a lot.” She giggled silently, but sadly.

“I want you to talk to me a lot. I want you to have faith in me, and hope, because I’ll never let you down, as long as you don’t let me down, either.”

“I won’t let you down, Joel. But please, let’s not go too fast. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying? Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno. It’ll be hard for us to be confidants, because I’m so afraid.”

“There will be time,” I said. “There will be time.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she replied. And then she gave me a hug.

***

It was getting late. Maria and I had been talking by the bench for maybe four or five hours. Actually, during much of that time, we were in one another’s arms, loving that feeling you get when you lay close next to someone you love. Beneath the quieting trees, shaded from the sunlight but warm from the air and each other, we slept for hours, only shifting occasionally to get closer. When we awoke around 5 p.m., Maria had to go home.

As we walked to the R train, I kept thinking that within a few weeks, my seventeenth birthday would arrive, and then I could drive her around instead of taking the subway all the time. I could drive to her house, and have dinner with her family, and watch a movie or in her living room. I’d go to school each day anticipating one thing: the next time I saw Maria. And I’d drive to her house every weekend and weeknight that I could.

She knew I was getting my license soon. But the great thing about Maria was that she didn’t really care. What I mean is, it didn’t take a car to impress her. She would’ve been just as happy riding the subways with me. I respected her so much for that. More significantly, I respected myself for attracting such a noble person. The Central Park sun, coupled with Maria’s radiant spirit, assured me that the future was mine to shape. There was so much to look forward to.

I hadn’t even been inside her house at that point, but I knew that I’d be going there a lot in the future. At that moment in the park I could see it all—our wedding, our children, growing old together. The future was reflected in Maria’s eyes. I knew she felt it, too. And I hadn’t even kissed her yet.

But that was the next step in my plan. I always planned little things to happen on dates, and I was proud of my plan for Maria. And I had no regrets about it, no ulterior motive. I planned on kissing her that day. I knew it would be a little difficult, because of Lynn. But I also knew that she wanted me to kiss her.

As we descended the stairs, a guy walked by us smoking a cigarette. So I asked her if she had ever smoked.

“I recently quit,” she said.

“What?” I was shocked. First there was the thing about her father, and now this.

“Well, I hung around with a lot of people in my neighborhood who smoked, so sometimes I’d smoke too.”

“How often did you smoke?”

“What difference does it make? I don’t do it anymore. It was a stupid thing to get into, so I stopped.”

“How much did you smoke? I asked.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’ve been so open with me, I just want to know everything about you.” But I was more than interested. I was really pissed off. Only losers smoked.

“About a pack a day,” she said.

“A pack a day? God, that’s so much! What’s wrong with you?”

Maria became visibly pissed off at me for pressing the issue.

“People make mistakes, Joel. And people learn from them. That’s what happened with me. I hung out with the wrong crowd; but now I’m with you, and I won’t do it anymore. I promised myself right after I met you that I’d quit smoking. Because you gave me so much hope that I didn’t think I needed to do it anymore. Instead of having a cigarette when my father frightens me, I’ll call you, and I know you’ll make me feel better.”

I was touched, but still angry. I kept thinking: What else don’t I know about her?

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. Well, as long as you quit, it’s all right.”

“Thanks for your permission,” she said. Her abrupt sarcasm surprised me.

“No, really,” I said, “I’m sorry. As long as you tell me everything about yourself, it doesn’t matter what you say”—she glared at me—“I mean, you don’t have to tell me everything, only what you want to tell me. Uh, anyway, I just want you to be my friend, and I want to be yours.”

I didn’t tell her was that I smoked, too. And I wasn’t planning to quit any time soon, either. But I wasn’t like all those losers in my school. And I probably wasn’t like Maria, standing on a street corner with a bunch of hoods and losers smoking cigarettes. I don’t know, it was just different.

I didn’t want to let the revelation ruin the day—I still wanted things to go as planned—so I figured I’d just forgive and forget. It was no big deal, really.

Standing on the corner of her block, 69^th Street and Fresh Pond Road, I leaned toward Maria like I was going to kiss her. She drew closer, but I quickly pulled away. It was a little trick I’d pull before. Just a way to see her reaction. I think she was a little embarrassed by that.

Again, we looked at each other, happily anticipating what was about to happen. I kept waiting for the right time to make a real move. First I thought that I should give her a peck on the cheek, and then make out. Then I thought it would be best to kiss her forehead first. And then I thought that maybe I should just go right in and kiss her on the lips.

But Maria threw me for a loop—she kissed me first, smack on the lips!

“You don’t know how to kiss!” I interrupted.

“What?” she said. She was surprised that I was so goddamn blunt. But I was telling the truth. She didn’t know how to kiss. She did it like all those jerks at the school dances I went to—like Lynn, like Rachel—like she was trying to inhale my face. All tongue, no lips. I hated to kiss that way.

“What I mean,” I said, “is that I prefer to do it this way.” And with that I placed each hand on either side of her tender face. I pulled Maria toward me and leaned against her. I kissed her just as I’d dreamed. At first, just the lips—no tongue. Just a few gentle pecks on her soft lips, my mouth hardly open. Then I let my tongue slip in a little. But it wasn’t disgusting; it was passionate. It was beautiful. Just like in the movies.

“You kiss like all those people in the movies,” she said, with a huge puppy dog look on her face. “It’s not like all the other guys.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, I really did. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.” She was so happy.

“Then that’s all that matters,” I said. “You’ll find that I do a lot of things different than all the other guys.” Maria and I embraced. God, her body was so warm and accepting, a blanket in the cool spring evening air.

“I’ve done a lot of talking today, Joel. But you’ve been pretty quiet. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to say to me, nothing you want to get out in the open? I can’t imagine that you’re as perfect as you seem, but that’s okay. I don’t want perfection. I just want a confidant.”

Wincing at the thought of unveiling my dirty little secrets, I placed my arm around her shoulder and goaded her to continue walking. “No, don’t worry. It’s not that I’m perfect. I’m just not very interesting.” We chuckled in unison.

“You’re the most interesting person I know, Hopeful. But if you say you don’t have any secrets to share, then I believe you. I care about you either way.”

At that moment I realized that Maria was perfect despite her faults, perfect for having the courage to be honest. It was a bravery that I’m only now beginning to truly appreciate.

***

It’s amazing that sometimes one part of my life flourishes, while the other part founders like the Titanic. Case in point: the summer before my last year of high school, right around my first real date with Maria. At that point in my life, I had almost everything a guy could want—almost. My beautiful girlfriend went hand-in-hand with my bright future.

But things were different at home. It almost seemed as if the East River, which divided Manhattan from Queens, also separated personal happiness from anguish. Central Park was my paradise, a special place impervious to Satan’s work. Just a few miles away, however, sat you, mom, in the den, where I played with blocks and puzzles as a child, seething because I was an hour late for dinner. You were waiting for me like a cat about to pounce on a canary. Do you remember? You’d just quit drinking and smoking, and I thought that would inspire a new relationship between us. It didn’t.

Apparently, I was supposed to be home by six. Instead, I arrived at my front door around seven. I was instructed to call home if I was going to be late but I didn’t.

I guess I should have known what was coming. I should have realized that you would have to be a goddamn bitch after I had such a great day. The moment I walked into the family room, you started up.

“Where were you?” you screamed. “Why are you an hour late? Dinner was ready an hour ago! Where the hell were you?” And Dad, you just sat there, watching TV.

I felt as if I were about to choke on my own tongue—and then throw it up in your face. All at once, the two halves of my brain were arguing with one another. Two halves of my heart, too. The softer piece—the piece that still loved you, I guess—the piece that experienced lust and joy and wanted to tell the whole world about Maria—was aching to release the chirping, happy little bird fluttering around beneath my ribcage. That part desired nothing more than to be a momma’s boy, to tell both you guys about how beautiful and special and perfect Maria was.

Should I just answer her question, politely, and leave? Or should I explode? Had you stood up—had you even lunged slowly toward me—I would’ve exited—no, fled—and hid in my room, infuriated, contemplating a revenge that I was too childlike to carry out. Instead, you sat there. All 230 pounds of this forty-eight year old blob I loved so much…you punished me by sitting still and silent. You hated her as much as I did, didn’t you? But why didn’t he say anything? You saw what I saw: a paradox of a woman—horns and fangs on a body designed to bear children, to create life, but chose instead to snuff it out.

Why, mommy, did you seethe? I was only an hour late. Had you simply asked about my day I wouldn’t have thought what I thought those few moments in the family room: that I didn’t need you any longer; that I had found someone to replace you; that I had discovered an oasis in the desert of life whose hands were, for some mystical reason, de-clawed. I know, for I had felt Maria grip my hand more lovingly than you have ever held mine.

More vividly than the date itself, I still remember that night I came home from my first real date with Maria. My two halves battled for a few seconds—for what seemed like a few hours. Dad, however cool you were on the outside, orange flames licked your insides. I could tell. I remember thinking: How can I satisfy my own hatred, and calm my father’s ulcerous stomach, while halting the stampede of wild horses that was my mother? That’s the last thought which pulsated through each half of my brain as I gave up on pondering it just as quickly as I’d conjured it.

My fists were clenched but stapled to my side. “Fuck you…” I declared, only I was so nervous that it sounded more like a question than a command. It was the first time I’d ever used the F-word to you, mom. “I’m never speaking to you again,” I said.

I stepped backwards out into the hall and slammed the door behind me just as the first tear made its way to my cheekbone.

I didn’t need you anymore.

Aside from “excuse me,” or “get out of my way,” that was the last time I spoke to you. Until tonight.

I didn’t need you anymore.