A Matter of Love in da Bronx (38 page)

--Whew!

--Hey! We all do our thing.

--Is that why you turned down Lou? Why you won't marry him?

The mask dropped from her face. What was left was pale, one-dimensional, inanimate. What screamed were her eyes, therein directing unfettered scourging lashes to her heart. She turned away. The slow recovery. A cigarette. A swig. A headshake. A toss of the burnt match to the uncapped jar. Steep moments.

--Weezy, what is it? It's not so bad, you don't love him! Sharp seconds. Mary snapped her hand to her mouth, eyes hangardoor wide. Lord! You love him!

Weezy nodded her head, and said it all.

THE CHOIR LOFT of St. Polycarp's Roman Catholic Church on Port Union Street off of Morris Park Avenue was in the North Tower, faced the altar, held the organ, gloried in the light of the rose window, and at the ten o'clock High Mass the next morning, Sunday, as they had arranged through Louisa, was where Sam and Mary rendezvoused.

As lasers searching out a target, their eyes found each others the moment she took the stairs, and walked through the doorway. Look falling deep into welcoming depth of look. Locked on, they drew closer: she, chin up, lips parted, subtle smile. He, expansive break to his face, hands warmly reaching out. They touched. Barely. Strikingly sensual. Fingertips to fingertips. Sliding over the others'. Up. Further. Hand to hand. Clasping. Tight.

Pulling the other closer.

Each view to benthos a view to benthos.

Lord, isn't she beautiful! How do I deserve this? Isn't it a wonder? Isn't it a dream? Yes. It matters not that it's so. Take it in. If this be where I am then this be me, no matter what the price I pay when I awake. How is it then that I can feel so deeply? My hands, prickling so with the touch of her, tremble. My palms--how embarrassing--grow wet. My movements seem so leaden. I do believe my heart has stopped beating. I do believe I've stopped breathing. My! She is so pretty.

If he wasn't here to meet me, I would've died. How he makes my heart beat so strangely, and my hands shake so even as I barely touch him. How embarrassing, my palms are so wet. I've never had that reaction before. And how sweet a face he has, how expressive, how kind. Truly I'm so lucky to have him such a gentle soul. I'm so happy to be with him. Is it wrong to meet like this in church?

No. It would be wrong to not meet at all.

--Mary...you're so beautiful. We haven't much time...

--I know. It's only until eternity, and it's so short.

--I have so much I wish to say to you...

--...and I...

--You.

--No, you.

--Hurry.

--Sam...To forethwart the Fates, no matter whatever may occur, you must--absolutely--must to me again a letter write. Already my heart's scraped searching in each word has devoured its engravement. Already I fear I have been interpreting some moronic jumble through my heart's wish which another such from you shall dispel. Already I need to read more of what our hearts already know. ...

--I promise.

--No! An irrevocable promise! A vow!

--I so vow.

--And I to you do, too.

--Know what?

--What?

--You talk funny.

They froze.

A chorister appeared--without a glance in their direction in the short, narrow passageway--took the stairs that cut up between the high walls that made the steepangled seats.

So alerted to possible intrusion, to assure their sanctity in the sanctum sanctotum, they whispered.

...Sam, I wish I could hold you and kiss you. I want to say thank you for the gold heart and chain. It's so beautiful! You shouldn't have...but I love it! Weezy thinks it's the most beautiful gift she's ever seen a girl receive. Look... She pulled it out of her blouse. I'm wearing it, but I must be careful. If they saw it... Sam, my dearest, please know I'll cherish it always. And! The inscription!

...What else?

Sam Loves Mary.

God! Mary! Love me! Love me, I pray!

...You've made me very happy. Are you...are you okay? the question stemming from her newfound sexual knowledge from her talk the previous night with Weezy, the question bathing her in warmth, the question making her feel so intimate. He seemed a little surprised. He must've understood what I was talking about, so? Is it the subject or the place?

So she understands about such things. No surprise, she's not a ten-year-old-kid. How nice to inquire. ...Fine. He mouthed the word even though they were alone, out of everyone's view with the organ grunging away. He smiled, and mouthed the words of what happened feeling very comfortable, very familiar, very intimate with her.

What? She mouthed back, the surprise beaming from her face, the blush confirming the question was unnecessary.

He said it again.

She covered her mouth with her hand as she broke out in a broad grin. She repeated his message, not quite sure of the attitude she should adopt, but smiling, nevertheless: You hada wet dream! Should they be discussing such things in church? He nodded proudly. ...Oh? What is that exactly...I mean, what happens?

...A combined psycho-physical erotic stimulation that results in an orgasm while asleep; the sexual dream fulfilling a prevalent wish; and the expulsing inevitable with the physical flooding. Nature's safety value. It's like watching two people make love on television, but you come! Dare I tell her, too, the unbridled pounding fury of my assault as I made love to her in the screen of my mind? No, not here, please.

She shrugged helplessly. ...I'm sorry.

He tossed his head. ...I'm not. Why does such talk make me feel so close to her?

Why does such talk make me feel so close to him?

...Maybe we can make up for it? Ear to ear grin.

...No.

...No?

...No. We
will
make up for it! Lord! What am I doing? Good heavens! Have I become a heathen? Sam, I don't feel right talking like this, not in church.

...Sure. We have to see each other this afternoon. I have so much to tell you. It would be too difficult to say here. Something I just learned. Came as quite a surprise. Arrange it.

...It won't be easy.

...Because of your father?

...No, because of me. I would have to be deceptive, to lie to my folks.

...They have no right to control your life so.

...No, they have no right would it not that I allow it.

...Then don't allow it! Stand up to them!

...As you do to yours?

...I know. It's not so easy. But I'm getting used to the idea, more so this second than ever before.

...I'm ready whenever you are.

...I know. Perhaps just to take the plunge would be best, but I can't leave anything unfinished: not in my work, reading a book, reaching a goal...meeting my obligations real or imagined for family or friend. I would discard them all to do what my heart says except I want no untied thread that may become a noose. I envy you that you have no such.

...I didn't say that, and you don't really know that. It's precisely because of such things that I'm prepared to cut the chord. I know my weaknesses, and I know how tenuous can be my resolve in the face of emotional arguments and rebuttals. A simple response allows no hold for argument; but give a reason--however valid--and it will be met with an avalanche of counter-rationales. Don't ask me to explain at home. If we fly, we fly.

...I understand because it's the same for me, but I think it can be done another way. That's not as important right now as this afternoon.

...Let me think...

An usher carrying the collection basket which looked like an old-fashioned bedwarmer without a top trudged up to the landing. Sam didn't turn, but Mary saw him stare at them for several moments. Young couples who met here no longer caused in him a dilemma, he merely ignored them, and went about his business, the pot would be lighter but so would his heart...and theirs.

...I must go...

...Mary...

...I want to kiss you, too. There can be trouble this afternoon should we meet.

...What kind?

...Vito. He usually comes Sunday afternoon. He does not go away so easily. He may insist on walking me to Weezy's home. Once there, I can get rid of him. He mustn't see you. Ciao. She turned, anxious. Stopped. Turned back to him. You look quite dashing--in fact, dashingly handsome--in your fine clothes.

And you look so achingly beautiful, and you would be so without any clothes at all.

They both smiled and laughed quietly.

He reached for her hand. He held it in both of his, bringing it up to his lips, pressing it hard there. He looked up into her eyes. ...Ciao.

His eyes lost the sight of her as she moved away occupied now with the reverie of anticipating all possibles at their next touch. Until...he found himself staring at the usher who was looking at him quite strangely. Sam held up both hands, palms outward: ...I'm fine! I'm fine! But I can't perform my solo. Terrible sore throat! Terrible! He said striding past the blankfaced man, then found himself five blocks away walking in the wrong direction.

SUN, PERTINACIOUSY procacious sun, defied Sam's beshaded greycast air as he sat crookbacked on the park bench: hands docked deep in his pockets, legs straight out, cap hard to his eyes which were staring oscitantly at the tips of his high-shined shoes; waiting for Mary, ariding a swing as a rhythmic and calm metronome before him, to react to his words which he was repeating in his mind: Mary, I don't know if what I must tell you will make it possible for us to see each other ever again.

Now he knew he said it. Now he knew why he had to repeat it to himself. He had a moment yet to deny the whole and entire matter: No! An impossible consideration. He knew she was waiting for him to continue. He knew, too, as a consequence, he would have to face, possibly, the devastation of his world.

Scurrying delinquently through fragmented thoughts, he fought for time, glancing up disinterestedly to eyeblock Lou and Louisa who were at a discreet distance from one another as they hung in-on the jungle gym. The park was in sight of Louisa's apartment house, collusion with mother to ward off father's suspicions making it possible for the four of them to meet there. A benign setting with half dozen preoccuppied children, a gaggle of waddling women, just one stroller. And, the long, cold-slanted rays of the sun creating a world-class day which was, in the main, taken for granted except for the minor complaints for the normal spring nip in the air. He looked back at her, resolution darkening his eyes. --All these years, the Scopias have been giving the Dolorossos money.

Silence a poultice to the stung soundlessness.

--What do you mean? Soles scuff earth to end the beating.

--Every week we've been sending money to your family, to your father and mother.

--Why? What for? I don't understand?

--So you don't know.

--No. I swear.

--I believe you. I didn't know until the other night. I swear.

--No need.

--Look, I'll say it as it comes. Regardless of which version of your father's accident you wish to believe, the fact is there was an accident, and he was incapacitated at the time he and my father were in partnership. Even if there are two versions of why they discontinued--or never carried insurance--the fact is that at the time of the accident, they didn't have any--not personal, or Workmen's Compensation, or anything. And, again, regardless of whether or not there are several versions concerning any agreement to be responsible for each other, my father felt it had befallen him to do whatever he could for your family. So, from the first week of the accident, every Saturday night for the last twenty-five years or more, my mother or father has been meeting your mother to exchange an envelope containing a sum of money. That, and whatever your mother brought in is what carried along your family, until you went to work and were chained, too, to the immane Sisyphean coffer which weight was scrudged along with dry and desperate sweat, surd grunts, dungeoned thoughts that canaliculated every hope, every dream, every single normalcy. I never understood before they told me about this whole matter just the other night as to exactly why I felt I were a leaf turning brown in June, flagging the suncold, lightcold, cold-cold desert of my life. If I knew why from the beginning, I believe I could've sustained a rationale sanctifying the yoke. As it was, they, my parents, took the decision away from me. How I resent that fact. It sits like putrid meat in my maw. First, they make me a party to their burden. Then, they don't trust me to make the 'right' decision, and in not trusting me, they convert me to a capon. As each moment passes to decades they justify their iniquitous code by scorning me...

--No!

--No, it should be. The day I met you? He shook his head and looked away to cast the pain from his eyes. They never said a word. He looked hard directly into the sun to feel less the heartquake inside. He shrugged. My birthday.

Sam snapped his legs up, jerked his hands from the pockets, cracked them together loudly, and rubbed them hard and fast together. A subterfuge to hide the embarrassment he felt at the thought he had conceded to weakness with a baldfaced plea for sympathy. --I'm sorry if I caused you any discomfit. I really believe I was trying to make a point, more to myself, about what has been going on in my world. I find I can't explain it away without condemning myself. It's as if I was talking to my own heart, but I was talking out loud, and you happened to hear. It has brought understanding. Understanding can sometimes bring tolerance. It can sometimes also bring vengeance.

--So how do you feel now?

--I don't know. ...I don't know. You'll have to ask me again when my feelings level out.

--I won't forget. I want to know.

--So do I. In the meantime, my folks are worried stiff about whether or not I'll abandon them. When I go out the door I feel my mother's eyes boring into my back, the question flashing in her mind: Will he return? Since my father told me of this, he's sheathed the stiletto of a tongue, and speaks a decibel or two lower. The attempt is to replace the cavity of my once ignorance with a filling of cower caramel.