A Matter of Love in da Bronx (30 page)

He hurled the broom at her as a spear. It shattered the vanity mirror. He picked up a small chair, prepared to splinter it on her body.

--Papa, don't come closer. I don't want you to hurt me anymore...

--Hurt you! I'm going to beat you right to your last breath!

It would be so, she knew. The choices were to try to run past him, but the chair was much too formidable; to take the beating, but she doubted she would survive; and to elude him at whatever cost. So, she opened the window. --Papa, if you come one inch closer, I will jump out! Please believe me.

--That will save me a lot of trouble! And he started the roll to charge her.

Mary screamed, and watched as Lily brought the wine bottle down on his head.

Sam, I told you, we should've gone upstairs to the room.

Friday evening

 

MY DEAREST HEART, MARY: Your name alone conjures a

distillation of such purity its exquisite essence blossoms to envelop my mind, my heart, my soul, and fills my very being with such passions of the earth, the sky, the winds, and universe that I actually envision you before me so consuming is my desire to be with you. I liken it to seeing a freshcut morning-dewed rose, which, long before its quintessence slips deliciously inward, its scent has already bestirred a memory's niche to transport one's esthetics to ecstasy's nimiety.

Dare I challenge the ineffable to say what I find inside when I feel the touch is you? Your hand in mine, I do so much tenderly recall, so small, so soft, so warm it chills my flesh disexpansively. How did I find the courage to release that hand, to let you glide out of my sight knowing full well the agony I would find in the hours empty filled with anguish; knowing, too, that memory makes poor a balm for the lightest heartfelt hurt. And I do ache for you. Do know how I ache for you. Not with vanity and ardor, nor arrogance and determination, but with humbleness that befits your inward loveliness, your beauty, your grace. I ask not to crush you in my arms, to put the burn of my lips on yours, to find your spirit deep inside; no, not that; nor to have your hand to just caress my face; no, not even that; nor, to throw a kiss then watch you touch your heart; no, not even that; but, yes, to have me hear you whisper my name, and allow me to reply --I love you, Mary: that be all and all and always. Can we do that? Can we challenge all the wonderfuls and greats with such sublimely illuminating simplicity? Just: I love you, Mary: that be all and all and always. There is no concatenation of magnificent symphonies that can fill the world of sound more beautifully: I love you, Mary: that be all and all and always.

Then, would you care to see my ectoplasm re-etherealize to comingle with the vaporous heavens? Would you care to hear a sigh that would cause a whippoorwill to listen? Would you care to feel a heart give a thousand beats as one? Then, my dearest, say to me: I love you, Sam: that be all and all and always. Just that.

I wonder how many more of your wonders shall be mine. I kissed you twice. The first, so delicious, so sweet, so soft but so short did it lie on my lips, I thought a breeze did practice its caress for teasing a dreamer into waking. So exquisite was it I wondered if it was. Brief, yes, but how to the depths of my soul it still plumbs. The second kiss will be mine forever, an accomplishment ensearing my walls within, an affirmation of the rapture waiting, waiting for release to us. I wonder if my senses can sustain such contemplation. But most I wonder: Shall there be another kiss?

Ah! Beware before you make such promise mine! The winning of that treasure will cause the harmonics of the world to add one vibration per hemidemisecond more to its quintessibillions. And! Dare we harvest Olympian envy? What would be our penalty? That we must show them how? How to beseech such royal endurement? How to beg their dissatisfaction so that in their view we do strive again and again for perfection, they unaware from the start that we have found it to be so from our very first. Then, know, too, such anticipation will inundate my senses, covering all causes well and bad that would sheet my world in thoughts of you. Remove the hope. It would be the same! From what source could derive an otherwise thought? As it is, I think only of you; I dream only of you; I consume the vision of you; hear nothing if it is not your sound; enjoin no smell that brings you not to me; and what is there else to touch in this entire world that would cause embarrassment past pale to everything when compared to our scintillation?

How much have you captivated me? I can show you. Give me the magic to accomplish anything on earth. Fill the air with music, laughter, poetry, perhaps? Invent an invention? Produce a production? To level the steppes? To wall the equator? To capture the clouds? To seize the universe? Pssshawww! What trivialities! I would toss them all aside as mere immortalities. Instead, let me have just one complete moment with you. Let it be a whisper. Let it be a look. Let it be a touch. Let it be anything, but let it be you, purely you.

Did you hear my constant breath with your name upon it as you walked down the street away from me and into my dreams this night? Did you feel my heated breath pursue you to your dreams? Did you know I dreamt I found yours--those angelic huffs so captivatingly sweet and warm--in mine? Did you sense those tiny inhalations as I searched every atom for a trace of you? If you know, tell me how to endure the exquisite pain that comes abounding with the thoughts that you as a goddess shall be denied to me by some malefic, envious god's petulance. I would challenge whate'er would come between us preferring the occlusion of life completely than to be incomplete missing the smallest particle of you. How unworthy of a single thought of yours concerning my smallest anxiety, I say on one hand. But on the other! How my heart sings that you should think of me at all! The recognition would be overwhelming! Imagine when I wonder if you ever think you could love me! Could you? Could you? I want to know! No! I don't! Wait! Perhaps I do, perhaps a cowardly I do. Fair heart ne'er won... Oh! No! A stalwart heart I have for winning! How I could sustain the transports to the aisles of enrapturous bliss. But, if you're not to be mine! What a fracturous calamity! One could pick through every bit by tiny bit and recognize each particle of my heart: They will quiver through eternity. And that may be as that may be; and I satisfied, at least, that you answered me.

Now, how does this come about that I have you to love? For instance, dare you think of all the billions of days before, and all the days to come, that there was just one day--this one--that you and I should be here in this verysame exact one? That in the winking-blink of an eyelash--as long as a life's lasting--that you and I should share this similar moment? That of all the world's crannies and continents that you and I should share a hairsbreadth proximity? It happens because even if it were made not to be so, it would be arranged to be so. Forgive my bold assumption, my concern then, is not if you shall love me; not when you shall love me; not how long you shall love me; but what shall I do to be worthy of your love? I could become faultless, impeccable as a God. Yes. I could do that. But, what shall we do to assail such delicious ramparts that derive uniquely from sweet kisses of forgiveness? I could be perfect. I could. And if I was, what need have I of you, who completes my otherwise imperfect perfection? I could become immortal, but how cheap and miniscule it makes our tenderest moment. I could go on and on, but, no, only in one way can you and I be one: If I could become as you are. I could. I could do that. What God dares let his shadow befall my path?

Can you see, even at this moment, I can't let you go? I decree these words go on forever! No! I take that back! If they go on, how do I again find you flooding every bit of me? Perhaps, if I stop this instant, the sooner you will appear? No. The only truly magic is what we have found in each other. Thought, body, soul, we belong together as one. Though the world may try to hold us apart, there is a moment waiting that will be just ours, I promise you, I promise you. My fervent wish is that I forever remain aware of the treasure I have in you; that I shall always have the capacity to adore you as you should be adored; that I can share the happiness I want you to have; and that in loving me you find the magnificence I have found in loving you. And, it's true, for me to just suggest I could do otherwise indicates nothing calamitous, merely that I am in my more lucid moments of my catatonia.

How shall I sleep the night with such enthralling passions that come from thoughts of you bestirring my o'erflooded heart? Ah! Show me how! Heartsinging ecstasy! Let me do it now. Is this the way? To put my arms about you, but with a feeling tenderness that sets afire your soul; then, hold you close, to have the full and fall of your body; Oh! Lord! Can I go on without losing my senses! and, now, to bring your lips toward mine, then, close in till two are one...my God!...so! This is Paradise...

With all that is mine, this heart is yours, Sam

BUOYANT. HIS WORLD was of a lightness that made him feel his head was apar the moon. It came from the chestbursting wonderment of Mary--her reaction in the restaurant to his unwarranted subjection, to the tenderness in the kitchen, her acceptation of him over Vito as her companion; and the offering of herself completely by the candle in the booth, the physical acceptance of him with the simple handholding ceremony, and then--Lord! The night's ending kiss. All, tiny parts of the whole: She was his. Ah! Love.

It was with this feeling of disjointedness from barbpricking, cruel, demanding realities that he walked into the kitchen.

Mother having tea at table, dropping the cup, sounding the gong, looking as distressed as a savaged sheet in a gale crashing Sam out of his ecstasis.

Her eyes, blazing lighthouse beacons, signaling the shoals rushing up to meet him.

Papa sending combers of air before him pounding out of the tv room, spittle foaming to his chin, he, broaching past table and chair ending like surf to sand into Sam's eyeballs. There was no greeting, no sound save the smack of the slap to Sam's face. It awakened memories of the Vitoian-received blow though not as hard the pain was nonetheless compounded as was the indignity and embarrassment. Then, came another, unannounced again, on the other side. Sam instinctively threw his hands up to either side of his eyes, as if shielding them from hard driven wind-whipped water. Nothing, he knew well at that moment, could protect him from the fierceness of his father's eyes. Germano pulled back to unleash another, this time perhaps to fly by the guards and send knuckles to the nose. --Stop! Sam screamed. The sharpness of the word was enough to give his father cause to think for a mere split second before his rocketing hand crushed into Sam's upraised fingers which dug into his own face. Coldly in control, Sam dropped his hands, pulled himself up tall. He let the words fly as sharp as the crack of a walnut shell: --I said that was enough. ...and what the hell is going on? Have you gone mad?

--How can you talk to your father like that?

--Pazzo! Huh? You think I'm pazzo! You the one! You should be in the crazy house! Not in this house where you have everything you want. Your food, your clean clothes, your room! Maybe you should be in a dump where you belong! Puzzolento, schifoso che sei!

--I might just as well be there for the consideration I get here! I'm no kid, Pa! Leave me alone. For whatever reason, you don't smack me around any more...

--Oh! Big shot! You want to show me how big you are? You would like to try? You're going to tell me in my own home what's right and what's wrong?

--I'll tell you what's wrong! Because I'm not your favorite son you have no reason to remember when I was born! But, not a month goes by my mother doesn't go to the church to light a candle for your firstborn who killed himself with drugs! Perhaps you'd think more of me if I followed in his footsteps. Instead, you give me this grief!

--Ah! Your birthday! We didn't come kiss your feet on your birthday! Is that what's burning your ass! That's good! That will give you a taste of your own medicine!

--Is that so? So what's burning your ass? I'd like to know.

--Ladrone! You're a stinking thief! You steal out of your mother's and father's mouth and you demand respect! How do you like that?

What are you talking about? My God! Is this all life offers? Nothing but misery from one end of the day to the other for always? Is there no altar that doesn't demand a blood sacrifice for a moment of joy? And look at this! My own mother and father punishing me for some stupid thing or other by denying I even had a birthday! Like I was some strange kind of irascible asspain five-year-old brat! I know at least one reason we had to find each other, Mary: Without you in my life I'd be ready to kill myself!

--I'm talking about you lying about getting paid! I'm talking about you getting four-weeks pay and lying about it so you can keep it all for yourself instead of bringing it home like you're supposed to!

--How do you know?

--Don't try to deny! Don't lie! I know!

--How do you know? ...You went through my room! You went fishing through all my things! Sol's note! You had no right! That room is private!

--Hey! That room is in my home! Fingerthumping breast beating. That room--finger pointing--is in my--chest hitting--house! And your rights come only after my rights! And my right is to know everything that's going on, your room, my room, every room! When you have a house of your own, you can run it any damn way you please. In this house, you do as I say!
Capisce? Si? O no?

--Sure. I understand.

--Good! Now give me the paycheck... The paychecks! He gave you four weeks pay! I want them! You lied! You said the son-of-a-bitch Jew bastard didn't pay you! And I want your pay from the restaurant, and all of it! I need all of it!

--No. There's no pay from the restaurant.

--No pay? What are you talking? I'll break your head! The menacement.

--I have no pay. As if his body was frozen in ice, Sam remained stolid, only his hand reaching up to snatch his father's wrist mid-way to delivering another slap. That's the last time you do that. Capisce? He released the hand. There is no pay. I was fired tonight. He could see the frustration on the man's face, keeping caution and control by not following through with what he yearned to do: To crunch his kid's face.