Читать книгу One Hit Wonder - Charlie Carillo - Страница 12

Lynn Mahoney. My love. My life. My obsession.

I was fifteen years old and as shy as a boy could be without actually disappearing. I had an after-school job that seemed just right for a kid with my temperament—delivering the New York Daily News to families all around Little Neck.

I shouldered a big canvas bag filled with rolled-up papers and went from house to house, leaving the papers in front of doors. I was conscientious about it. I never threw them from the sidewalk, because that could tear the front page. I had more than fifty regulars on my route and every one of them got their newspapers in good condition Monday through Saturday, rain or shine.

I was quick on my feet and it didn’t take more than an hour to run the route each afternoon. It would have been the perfect job for me, except for one thing—collecting day.

Every Friday I had to bang on the doors and ask to be paid for the week’s papers. Nobody was ever happy to see me.

“Collecting,” I’d murmur. That was my whole speech. Bob Piellusch, the kid who’d turned over his newspaper route to me (in January, right after he’d collected Christmas tips from his customers), said it would help to smile when I said it, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Often I’d wake people from naps, or interrupt them while they were preparing dinner. They acted as if I were being rude and unreasonable for expecting to be paid.

I wasn’t. This was the deal. I had to lay out my own money each week to buy the newspapers. The profit margin wasn’t huge, so I couldn’t afford to carry any deadbeats.

And one family on my route had become the worst deadbeats of all.

I was nervous as I walked up the path to the Mahoney house that chilly Friday in April. Funny thing was that for a long time, this had been one of the best stops on my route, because Mrs. Mahoney had always taken good care of me. She answered the door promptly, had the money in hand, tipped me half a buck, and even offered me cookies.

But one Friday, she didn’t answer the door. Nobody answered it. I made a red check mark next to the Mahoney name in my record book and moved on.

The next week, no answer again. Another red check mark, to be followed by two more. The Mahoneys were a month behind. You were allowed to phone your customers if they were real deadbeats, but I didn’t dare do that. I was actually willing to take the loss, if it came to that.

The following Friday I almost didn’t bother knocking on the Mahoney door. The only reason I did was because the newspapers weren’t piling up on their porch. Somebody was taking them inside, so somebody had to be home. Maybe my luck would turn this time….

And it did. The Mahoneys had a very creaky door, and it was opened that Friday afternoon by the most terrifying man I’d ever seen. His shoulders seemed as wide as the door and his angry blue eyes stared out of a massive skull with a gaze that seemed determined to melt me into a puddle.

I’d obviously awakened him from a nap. His steel-gray hair was flat on one side, his socks were halfway down his feet, and loose red suspenders dangled from his hips.

“What the hell do you want?” he growled.

I swallowed. “Collecting.”

“Collecting for what?”

Instead of answering I handed him a folded newspaper. He took it from me and rubbed his face with his other hand.

“Paperboy…what do I owe you?”

I steeled myself for the outburst to come. “Fifteen dollars, sir.”

“Fifteen bucks! Are you kiddin’ me?”

“It’s for five weeks, sir.”

He cocked his huge head at me, narrowed one eye. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, sir. It’s three dollars a week. Nobody was home for the last four weeks. See?”

I showed him my notebook with the red check marks beside his name. That didn’t seem to appease him. He clearly didn’t trust me.

“Wife’s been sick,” he murmured.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Did you say fifteen?”

“Uh-huh.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. “You got change, kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

So much for a tip. I took the twenty and handed back a five. He took it and slammed the door without another word.

I got out my blue pen and conscientiously made a line through the red check marks, clearing the Mahoney account. Those few moments I lingered there for that bit of bookkeeping changed my life forever.

Because while I was doing it the door opened again, and there she stood in cut-off blue jeans and a red T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, staring out at me with the biggest, greenest eyes I’d ever seen.

Maybe it’s not possible to love a stranger at first sight, but it is possible to be hit so hard by a girl’s beauty that you feel as if your heart might explode, and that’s pretty much what happened to me that day on the Mahoneys’ front stoop.

“Hold on,” she said, “this is for you.”

She held out three dollar bills, but I was so blown away by the second thing, the sound of her voice, that all I could do was stare at her. If a brook could speak, it would sound like that, soothing and cool and tranquil.

The sight and the sound would have been enough, but then I caught a whiff of whatever perfume she was wearing. As it turned out, she wasn’t wearing perfume at all. It was the smell of the girl herself, like a summer flower carried on an ocean breeze, sweet and salty at the same time.

Somehow I managed to clear my throat to say, “I already got paid.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t get a tip.” She looked left, looked right, lowered her voice. “My father’s too cheap to tip. Come on, take it.”

She didn’t want her father to catch her giving me more money. She kept peeking over her shoulder as she held out the bills.

“Will you take it, already?”

“What’s your name?”

“Huh?”

“I said, what’s your name?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m Lynn.”

“I’m Mickey.”

“Take this money, Mickey.”

“Listen,” I said, “you wanna get a slice tonight?”

She cocked her head in puzzlement. “A slice?”

She didn’t know what I meant. It might have sounded like a sexual offer to her. I had to clarify myself, and fast.

“A slice of pizza,” I explained.

Those impossibly big green eyes widened even more. She shook her head, as if to clear it of confusing thoughts.

“You’re asking me out?”

“I…yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You don’t seem too sure.”

“Did I do it wrong? I’ve never asked a girl out before. I’m not sure how it’s done.”

She giggled, not at me but at the comedy of the situation. At last she lowered the hand holding those three bucks.

“Sure, why not. When?”

“Eight o’clock?”

She nodded. “Okay. But please, take this tip.”

She held out the money again. I shook my head.

“Keep it,” I said. “You can buy the sodas.”

She smiled, went back inside and shut the door. I was practically flying as I finished the rest of my paper route. Collecting from the rest of my customers was a breeze that day. Everybody paid up, nobody gave me a hard time.

For the first time in my life I felt at ease in the world, like I belonged, like I fit in, but it wasn’t just that. It was a lot more than that.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

She was waiting for me in front of her house at eight o’clock. It was a short walk to Ponti’s Pizza, an old-time joint that had containers of stale oregano and dusty Parmesan cheese on red Formica tables. We settled down at a booth with slices and sodas, and I was delighted to see that Lynn knew how to fold a slice so it wouldn’t flop over when she lifted it for a bite. It was the first time I noticed something that would always impress me—Lynn never, ever did anything awkwardly. I was always tripping over things and knocking over drinks but she glided through life like a swan, a pizza-nibbling swan who seemed to be enjoying our first date.

We’d hit a silent patch. I felt I had to say something, and what I said couldn’t have been more stupid, considering where we were.

“Do you like pizza?”

Lynn nodded. “Who doesn’t like pizza?”

Panic. “I don’t know. Maybe some people are allergic to it.”

“Allergic to pizza? Who?”

“I don’t know…people who are allergic to tomatoes, maybe.”

“There are people who are allergic to tomatoes?”

“Well, there must be….”

My voice trailed off. I was drowning in my own foolish words, and just then in walked three Italian kids with slicked-back hair. Cigarettes dangled from their lips. I knew one of them from grade school, an indifferent student named Enrico Boccabella. Our ways had parted a few years earlier, when his parents chose not to waste money on a Catholic high school education for Rico. He acknowledged me with a solemn, wordless nod.

Rico was the alpha male of the pack, ordering three slices and three Cokes. Jimmy Ponti seemed relieved when Rico paid up front. The other two carried the food to a round table, where the three of them sat and ate with their sleek heads tilted toward the middle of the table. Gold crosses dangled under their chins as they spoke in soft, urgent voices.

There were rumors that Rico was the leader of a burglary ring that hit rich people’s houses in Great Neck, the ritzy town right on the Nassau County/Queens border. They might have been planning their next heist. Now and then they stared at Lynn, but she looked back without fear, the way a truly calm person can stare down a menacing dog.

I was impressed, and glad to have something to talk about besides pizza allergies.

“My fellow Italians,” I said, almost in apology.

“Oh, I think Italians are wonderful.”

“They are? I’m not so sure about that.”

As if to reinforce my point, Rico let out a long, resonant belch, to the delight of his companions. Lynn rolled her eyes.

“I don’t mean those guys,” she continued. “I mean the Italians in Italy. The world would be a lot less beautiful without the Italians.”

“It would?”

“Oh, sure! The paintings, the sculptures…it’s an unbelievably rich history. I can’t wait to see it.”

“See what?”

“Italy. I’m saving up for my trip.”

I was stunned to hear this. She was fifteen years old, and planning a trip to the other side of the world. The farthest I’d ever been on my own was Yankee Stadium, and I got lost on the way home.

“I want to see Florence, Venice, and Milan,” Lynn continued, ticking the cities off on her fingers. “And Rome, of course. The Sistine Chapel.”

“When are you going?”

“When I have enough money. I work a cash register at Pathmark on the weekends. I’ve got a pretty good fund going…. Don’t you want to see Italy?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Aren’t you curious? You’re Italian, aren’t you?”

“Half.”

“Well, then, Italy is your heritage! Don’t you care about your heritage?”

“What are you gettin’ so excited about?”

“Ever heard of Venice? It’s this city the Italians built on water! People ride in boats called gondolas to get around! Wouldn’t you like to do that?”

“I guess.”

She giggled. “You guess? We’re talking about the most unique city in the world, here! Think you’re ever going to ride a gondola in Little Neck?”

“Maybe if we had a flood.”

She sat back in her booth and stared at me. “You’re smart,” she said softly, “but you don’t have to be a wise guy, Mickey. It doesn’t help anything.”

I was burning with humiliation. “How come you know so much about Italy?”

“Books.”

“But you’re not Italian.”

“That’s right. I’m Irish on both sides.”

“Well, don’t you want to go to Ireland?”

“No.”

“But that’s your heritage.”

Lynn waved me off. “Irish people drink and they sing sad songs. Who wants to go all the way across the ocean for that?”

Our voices had risen to almost argument levels. It was as if we were booking a trip abroad together and couldn’t agree on where to go, two fifteen-year-olds on their first date in Ponti’s Pizza Parlor.

Lynn was staring at me. “Listen,” she said, “are you busy tomorrow? I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Are you busy, yes or no?”

“I…no. No, I’m not busy. Except for my paper route. I can do that pretty early.”

“Well then, is it a date?”

The sparkle in her eyes was dazzling, almost dizzying.

“Yeah, okay, it’s a date,” I said at last. “What should I wear?”

“Wear your clothes.” Lynn Mahoney giggled. “Be good if you wore your clothes.”

The next day Lynn took me to Manhattan, via bus and subway, and through tunnels and transfers she still wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I just had to stay at her side until at last we stopped walking at Eighty-second Street and Fifth Avenue.

“We’re here,” Lynn announced, and then we were climbing the steps to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, my first time there.

I was in Lynn’s hands, all the way. There was a Renaissance exhibition, with statues and paintings by the ancestors of me and Enrico Boccabella, long-dead Italians with the kind of talents that apparently did not survive the journey to the New World.

Lynn came all alive as she spoke about the artists, as if they were friends she’d grown up with.

“Are you an artist?” I asked.

She laughed. “God, no! My brother Brendan is the artist in the family. Eight years old, and you should see his watercolors! But I love art. I want to major in art history. I’d like to teach it some day.”

She cocked her head at me. “What do you want to do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Ever painted?”

“Not since finger paints in kindergarten. I was never much good at it.”

“Well, you might be a word person.”

A word person. What the hell was a word person?

Lynn continued the tour through the museum, with me following like a loyal puppy.

“There are Little Neckers who’ve never even been here,” she marveled. “Fifteen miles from home, and they never make the trip. I think that’s so sad.”

“Hang on a second, Lynn.”

A painting had literally stopped me in my tracks. We were in the American wing, and I was looking at a nineteenth-century work by Winslow Homer. It showed a bunch of barefooted boys in a country field playing a game called Snap the Whip, running and tumbling with joy. A perfect portrait of an idyllic childhood, the kind nobody really has. You looked at it, and you just wanted to be there.

“Incredible,” I breathed.

“Yeah,” Lynn agreed, “Winslow Homer was a good painter.”

“Is,” I gently corrected her.

She laughed. “Mickey, look at the brass plate. He’s been dead since 1910.”

“No, he hasn’t. Not really. See, this painting’s in our heads, now, so we keep the artist alive, you and me and everybody else who sees it. Know what I mean? So this Winslow Homer guy…he’ll never really die.”

I couldn’t believe what I’d just said. It was a wild thought that had become verbal without my consent.

Lynn was quiet for a long moment. Tears shone in her eyes. “I knew you’d get it,” she said. “And I think maybe I was right about you being a word person.”

We left the museum and walked downtown through Central Park. The backs of our hands bumped and suddenly, we were holding hands, just like that. We were approaching the zoo when suddenly, Lynn came to a stop.

“This would be a good spot,” she announced, as if we’d just reached a desirable campsite and were about to start banging tent pegs into the ground.

I was confused. “A good spot for what?”

“Our first kiss.”

My blood tingled. I had never kissed a girl before. Lynn pointed straight overhead at the Delacorte clock, with its menagerie of musical animals frozen in place. It was one minute to three o’clock. I stepped closer to Lynn, but she stopped me.

“Hang on, Mickey, not just yet. The clock’s about to strike the hour.”

And sure enough it did, and as the animals rotated in a circle around the clock and a carnivalesque tune filled the air, Lynn Mahoney and I shared our first kiss, and nothing would ever be the same.

A current ran through me, a true circuit, from my lips down to my toes and up my back, over the top of my head and back to my lips. My whole being hummed with the sheer joy of it, this thing I was certain nobody else in the history of the world had ever experienced quite the way I was feeling it.

The kiss lasted as long as the music, and upon the sudden silence we at last broke apart and looked at each other, eyes and hearts wide open.

“Wow,” I breathed.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “I wanted our first kiss to be special, so we’d both remember it. I didn’t want it to happen on Northern Boulevard, outside Ponti’s Pizza. Aren’t you glad we waited?”

I was. I was even gladder that she’d referred to it as our “first” kiss.

We held hands again as we resumed our downtown walk. What Lynn and I ignited under that clock was the real deal, the only thing in the universe without a price tag, a definition, or a substitute. I was afraid to talk about it, so I talked around it.

“I gotta say, Lynn, I’m really glad…”

“Glad about what?”

“Glad your father didn’t tip me. Because I wouldn’t have met you if he had.”

A brief shadow crossed her face at the mention of her father. I wondered if maybe I’d imagined it, because it was gone so fast. It would be years before I realized I hadn’t imagined anything.