Never to be

My mother dragged me everywhere when I was 12. I just wanted to stay home and be depressed as my age required but she always had various forms of misery waiting for me. This venture was to visit the Sandino’s home. Their daughter Marisa had entered the convent during Christmas and we missed the entrance mass. Mom had gotten some fresh cookies from my uncle’s bakery and we were making the required house call as though someone had died. That’s what you do when you’re Italian. We have our own set of rules to not create mala fama: bad show.

I went kicking and screaming. I plopped in front of their TV and ate some stale popcorn. I found American Bandstand.

After about twenty minutes I heard Mrs. Sandino yell out, “Oh and you have a guest.” And in walked this dreamboat. He looked a good fourteen. He had heard his mother and seen me at the same time. He did not look happy! “Oh Hi.” He said. I smiled. “Hi back, I’m Sugar.” He gave me the most cynical look. “You’re kidding right?” “It’s a long story.” I answered. “Be nice to your guest.” Shouted his mother from the kitchen. Resigned, he sat on the chair on the opposite side of the room where he could not see the TV. I had to admit it was nice of him to stay.

He was fourteen and a half! Unbelievably we hit it off. His name was Roscoe and just before I left he said. “Why don’t you call me sometime?” Yea, well that was the kiss of death. A lady, a girl, never, never, never called a boy in the 1950’s.

Spring came and my mother told me that we were going to visit the Sandino’s because this time Roscoe’s grandfather had died. I begged like I have never begged in my life to be allowed to stay home. I felt that death was the natural result of me seeing him again because he had never called me. My mother tried to reason with me. “You’re being very immature.” She said. But I was allowed to stay home and measured the time for my mother’s bus ride and knew when she would arrive and possibly see him. I was sick to my stomach. Jeanie Montodenegro had called a boy once and it had worked out ok. I couldn’t even think about it because if my parents found out, oh god, if grandma found out she would put me through the meat grinder.

Relieved and grateful for my mother’s compassion I made a BLT and sat in front of the boob tube.

When he called the food fell out of my mouth. Would I take a bus over? The house was filled with adults and he was sad looking at his grandpa in the coffin. “I thought it would be nice to talk.” I wasn’t exactly calm but I think I held it together. “Sure.” I said I had enough time to spare. Change my clothes? No I thought that that would look suspicious. I brushed my teeth and pinched my cheeks and ran to the bus stop.

My mother’s face wanted to kill me. I should have changed my cloths. Everyone was dressed in black. I should have thought about it. Black! Not jeans and a white blouse with cherries on it.

It was nice even though he was very sad. Three weeks later he called me and asked me to the movies. I had never been on a date, I had never been kissed. My sister was making my life miserable and my mother was in frenzy about what I should wear.

I can’t forget the work my mother did on my behalf trying to convince my father that had I graduated elementary school and I had known this boy over a year. “ It’s time.” I heard her say. I was spying on them while they talked in the war zone: the kitchen table. My sister caught me and gave me one of her raised right lips in which her upper lip displaced her entire face therefore almost allowing her to look vaguely human.

It was decided that I would wear my white graduation dress with my white stockings, shoes and gloves: a lady always wore gloves. However to not create too much formality my mother convinced my father to allow me to meet him on the corner. Of where else? My uncles’ bakery.

It was July. Wearing gloves in July is the pits it is second only to wearing thick white stockings.

We both knew it was mistake as soon as we saw each other. My friends told me to wear jeans and a blouse but my father said that I had to dress like a lady or else I couldn’t go.

It was a total bust. I never got kissed and never saw Roscoe again because in the middle of the movie he got up and said that he forgot to study for a test on Monday and would I mind if we went home or I could stay and he would call my father to come and pick me up.

It was hard to contain the hysteria when I walked into the house. I tried to be cool but ran right into my mother’s arms who simultaneously had to restrain my father from attempting to go cross town and ring the life out of Roscoe Sandino. When I told my mother that I wanted to die she told me not to be silly, that we would meet again someday and everything would be alright. I told her the next time we met one of us would be in a coffin!

It was 1968 and I was appropriately dressed. It was time to visit the Sandino’s whose son’s coffin lay where his grandpa’s laid 11 years before. Roscoe had lost his life in Vietnam at the Tet Offensive. His family would be forever grateful that his body was returned intact.

Copyright © 2011 m.m.sugar