Giuseppe and Me Read online

whether he actually, you know, likes me or anything. And I'm terrified that if I appear needy, it will all end. Whatever "it" is. But whatever it is, I need it.

  There's one really awkward day when some old biddy sees us. You'd think she'd just keep going, mind her own business. But, no, she comes right over to us.

  "What are you boys doing? Stop that this minute. Do you want me to bring a policeman over here?"

  Ron is quicker than I am. He says, "Why? Do you think he'd like to join us?"

  But she just stands there, hands on hips, glaring, until we stand up and put ourselves back together. Then she moves on.

  "Old bitch," Ron says. "Bet she wouldn't have interrupted us if you'd been a girl."

  I almost say, "Or if you had." It's right there. But it won't come out.

  "Shit," he goes on. "Well, the mood's fucked." I'm wondering if my thinking it would be great for us to just spend some time together is in vain when he does something he's never done. He strokes one of my eyebrows with his thumb and gives me a light kiss. "See you next time."

  I watch him walk away, feeling like we've turned some kind of corner. Up to now, our partings have had nothing sweet or tender in them. It's been just tongues, groping, and "See you." He must like me. He must. It must not matter to him that I'm just some foster kid with no family, and no money, and no class.

  When the weather gets warmer we start meeting after dinner; it's dark enough that what we're doing is harder for passers-by to see, and when he leaves-somehow he's always the one who turns away first-he does that eyebrow stroke and the sweet kiss.

  Then one day he says he'll be away for a couple of weeks. His parents are taking him with them on their vacation to Europe.

  "We're going to Florence first, and then over to Cannes to visit some relatives of my mom's."

  "Florence? Italy?" The musical sound of that name pronounced as I've heard it in Italian films-Firenze-echoes in my brain.

  "Duh."

  I'm not sure whether I'm more irritated that he either doesn't remember or doesn't care that I'm Italian, or that I'll probably never get to Italy. It sure sours my mood, either way. We've already been inside each other's pants for the day, and he's let me know not to look for him for a while, so I get up and leave. "Fine. See you." No stroke of the eyebrow, today. And I'm the one leaving first.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  While he's gone, I spend a lot of time with Giuseppe. I sit on a shady bench in the afternoon, watching kids break-dancing under his nose or watching some random group of performers in the open space in front of the statue. Or in the evenings, when the sun's gone down and things are starting to cool off, I sometimes sit right on the stone platform at his feet. I have these imaginary conversations with him. Like, how it feels not to have a home (in my case) and not to be able to go home (which was the case for so much of his life). I ask what it means to him to be Italian, how it feels to have a strong connection to the generations before him (like I don't), how it feels to know what home is even if he couldn't always be there. How it feels to be able to do what you know you have to do, even if you're afraid. Or, maybe, how it feels not even to be afraid. And how it feels, through it all, to have a conviction about who he is and what he's supposed to be doing. Because it looks as though he always did. And I sure as hell don't.

  And I decide that when Ron gets back, as much fun as all this kissing and groping is, I'll tell him that I want more. Up to now, talking with Ron has been not much better than talking with a statue. As purging as these silent conversations with Giuseppe are, I want someone real to talk to. Or, that is, someone alive. Someone who might actually care how I feel, care what my life is like. Someone who'll understand why what had happened to me makes me worry about having sex.

  The idea of pushing in this direction terrifies me. But-why should it? I mean, what am I afraid of, anyway? That he'll stop wanting to meet with me? I can almost hear Giuseppe's voice say, If he doesn't want to meet with you, why would you want to meet with him? But I can't afford to be that proud. That picky. I have to take what I can get.

  So on the first full day I know Ron is back, I hang out in the park from noon until dinner time. I walk around a lot, I sit by the fountain a lot, I lean against the arches gazing up Fifth Avenue a lot. I practice a few conversational openings that have the potential to lead to a meaningful conversation. Ron doesn't show, but I don't let that discourage me. I'm on a mission: no games, no playing it cool, no pretending that I'm not looking for a real connection with someone. And anyway, we hadn't said when we'd hook up again, so it isn't like he's standing me up this time.

  The next day, Saturday, just before noon, I'm sitting on a bench near Giuseppe, thinking about getting up to look around, when Ron sits down beside me. He says nothing, doesn't even look at me, and I realize in a wave of frustration that none of my rehearsed openings will work. He's just too? defended, maybe? Has too much anti-emotional armor. And I'm too much of a coward to try to break through. I could tell him about the statue, about what it means to me, but would he care? Or would revealing this yearning make me seem vulnerable and soft and somehow even less desirable that I already am?

  I decide not to wait for him to take the lead, even if my opening is meaningless. I shift on the bench so I'm turned toward him. "Fun trip?"

  He shrugs. "Italy was a waste of time."

  It almost gets to me. Chill, Alex; no surprise, no pain. Don't react. But I can't let that go completely unchallenged. "Why?"

  "Oh, you know. Museums, architecture, concerts. Boring stuff." Then his voice, his posture, everything changes. "But France, on the other hand? There was this guy on the beach in Cannes. I got far enough away from the parental units, and he and I disappeared for a while. More than once. More than twice. More than-you get the picture."

  I'm dying to ask how far they'd gone together, if they'd done more than he and I had, but evidently he's dying even more to tell me. "We, uh, well?" His face takes on a look I think he means to be knowing or worldly or something. "Let's just say I've grown up a lot." He drapes an arm behind me along the back of the bench, crosses an ankle on the opposite knee, and stares toward the trees.

  There's a bit of silence after that, while I imagine him and his beau going at it. Then he adds, "And," and it's his turn to shift on the bench, to face me, "I have a few things I'd like to show you. But it would have to be today. Right now, in fact."

  A few things to show me. At his home? He's inviting me to his home? Really? But- "Why right now?"

  "My parents went out to Long Island to visit my grandmother. She's in a home. I don't have to go, because she never knows who I am anymore, and I've put up enough of a stink about it that they leave me at home. So we have until?" he looks at his watch, a gorgeous gold thing I can't identify for lack of experience, "probably around five or so. Come with?"

  I stand and gesture with an arm for him to rise and lead the way. He walks casually toward and then around the fountain, heading for Fifth Avenue. I pretend to look around at all the craziness that is WSP on a hot summer day, but really I see nothing.

  Not only is the entrance to his apartment building presided over by a doorman who knows his name and holds the door, but also there's a guard desk inside with another uniformed man behind it, who also greets Ron by name. The apartment itself isn't the penthouse, but it's high enough to have great views of the park and beyond, to the south of Manhattan.

  Ron doesn't give me any time to stand and gawk; he heads straight for his bedroom. On the way, though, through the front hall, through the enormous living room with the massive picture windows, and even down the hall to the bedrooms, there are vases and vases of fresh flowers. Each arrangement is different, and each one picks up colors from the area it's in. Something about this pulls at my heart. Pulls at my soul. There's beauty, but also sadness, much more powerful than anything I'd felt walking up and down streets with flower boxes at the windows.

  This good/bad feeling is still with me when Ron shuts the door to his
room behind me. The room is about twice the size of the one I share with Derek. The bed is twice the size of mine, at least. As for Ron? it's hard to tell whether he's putting extra effort into trying to appear casual about all this luxury, or if I'm so overwhelmed by it that my take on him is skewed, but there's definitely something different about him.

  He puts on a pair of sunglasses. "From Florence. You like?"

  "Looks great." He goes to Firenze, and he buys sunglasses? I don't dare say more.

  He throws them onto an overstuffed chair and goes to a bureau. Opening a drawer, he pulls out a piece of bright red cloth that turns out to be a pair of swimming trunks. He tosses them onto the bed. "Try it on. I want to see you in it."

  My whole body tingles. It's just short of a tremble, really, and I can't quite tell of it's a good feeling or a bad one. He watches as I lift my T-shirt over my head and start to work on my jeans. "Shoes first," he says. So I do that, and then undo my waistband. "Slower. And look at me." There's a tone of command in his voice. I slow down and hold his eyes.

  It's hard to describe the conflict I'm feeling. Undressing slowly for someone who's obviously admiring me is a huge, huge, huge-did I say huge? turn-on. On the other hand, though, there's this fear gnawing at the edges of the fun. This fear grows until it's nearly overwhelming. And then