Her name would be Madeleine, which I think is French for intrigue me. I knew right away that I had to meet her. It’d be an absolute coup whenI’d realize that my new friends from 54th Street would have girlfriends that knew Madeleine and hung out with her. Pure fate, I’d believe. Her dishwater blonde hair, brown eyes, somewhat aloof elegance, would be the most winsome aphrodisiac possible – I’d barely be able to tell anyone. So when I’d tell one of my new buddies, Denny Doyle, of my obsession, he’d offer,in  his understated charm, “Is that right?” He’d puff on one of his beloved Winston’s before saying, “Yeah, we know her. I mean, Denise does.” Then he’d impart a knowing laugh – “done”. 

“You mean you’d introduce me?”  

“Hey, whatever I can do, man…” he offered.  Doyle nodded in his affirmative way. “Just be cool, Tommy. Be cool. Let the boy here make the move.” 

  The idea of sleep that night would be an abstraction, as my new buddy would make the move that would bring me into contact with a real vision.   Madeleine even walked different than American girls. She had a natural allure, one that drew me like a moth to the flame. Naturally, I would need all of the worldly knowledge and carefully gleaned tools necessary to pull this off, which in reality, would be like performing dentistry with my grandfather’s rusty old tools.  

When at school, would be my only opportunity to see Madeleine. I’d have to somehow arrest her attention. The nuns had us in single file, row after row, ready to move, appearing like the British ready to attack the under-armed colonial army, hectoring us. “Single file, single file – I see Mr. Morgan out in the middle of the aisle. Come on now, we don’t move until everyone’s in place.” 

My class would be about three down from Madeleine’s. I couldn’t help myself, standing on my toes there like an aroused whopping crane, scrounging for a better place to test feeding waters. 

“Mr. Conroy, you’re holding up your classmates – you’re not going to grow taller that way, are you now?” Sister De’ Patella squawked. 

And there in the reaching night of all human want, the deepest desires ignite and burn a path of truth and destiny for what is meant to be. There she was – Madeleine with her elegant, soft touch, set her delicate hand to her dishwater blonde hair. And, if this wasn’t enough, our line began to move forward. The John Philip Souza march blaring through the public speakers, for I’d at least nibble a glimpse of her magical elan, often        

 mistaken for cold aloofness, yet I could see her there, this sultry September afternoon, wanting desperately to get closer. Somehow closer. The insanely deliberate marching music was wholly at war with the strains of Ravel ’s Bolero that wheedled in my heart in the direction of Madeleine’s soft, chocolate eyes, there descending the ancient steel stairs that I’d climb about a hundred times faster if let on my own. 

Their line would turn from the landing and draw quickly out of sight to the second floor. The nuns would stand like prison guards at all points to assure that we’d stay in line and no one dare jump ahead or fall behind. At the landing I’d be met with the icy stare of Sr. Mary Joan Tomacita, who’d see me racing ahead on the turn. A slap at my shoulder met me. “Your name?” she demanded. 

I’d make some painful sound, the whooping crane obediently attuned to his mating call in the distance, now coughed out a mound of seaweed. “Conroy, Thomas Conroy.” 

“Mr. Conroy, over here.” She nailed me. I jumped out of line to where Sister Tomacita stood at the corner landing. “What seems to be the rush, Mr. Conroy?” 

“Nothing Sister – I’m sorry. Honest, I won’t do it again – promise.” 

“Well then, after this group, you can follow them. All right?” 

“Yes, Sister. Understood.” I plied my purest former altar boy look of obedience and humility. 

I would not see Madeleine for another three whole days. It was Friday and I had not seen her at lunch. I thought of her all through History and English, hoping to steal a glimpse of her before leaving for the weekend. I’d feel my limbs and middle fire with this turbulent shame, guilt and unspoken desire that had now died right before me the way dreams do. I’d have to wait another two days to get a glance of my heart’s direct object, subjunctive mood clearly in the would area. 

Then, on Monday, at the foot of the stairs, this nice Indian summer day, I’d somehow hear, “Staying late for extra credit, I suppose.”

The voice familiar, would not quite settle; it would be friendly, yet gently challenging. I’d turn around, already having headed left to meet up with Doyle and his  friends. And there, the face now would suddenly attach itself. My cousin Sarah, my uncle Jim’s only daughter stood there, smiling at me in her accusing manner. And there, to her immediate left stood – I swear to God I thought I’d have a heart attack right there – my vision of female perfection. 

“Tommy, this ’s Terry, Michele and…” there’d be this convulsive moment as the continental plates realigned – “Madeleine. She’s here from France. Tommy’s my oldest cousin – go way back, ya see.” 

“Yeah, to the Civil War,” I flared, not even thinking. They’d look at each other, laughing almost politely. I was trying not to look so desperate and thrilled, reality a blur now. 

“We’re going to Pappas’ for shakes – want to come?” 

Inside, I’d be like a broken cash register, as I knew that I had maybe twenty-three cents, yet with all of my highly accomplished math skills acquired at Our Lady of Sorrows for the past eight years, I could not add the spare change to save the moment.                                                                        

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why don’t I meet you there – rush home, drop off my books and be there in ten minutes.”

“Come on – we’ll catch up,” Sarah easily assured. “Never get a chance to talk with you.” 

“Okay, am kind of thirsty.” Here, I’d panic, not wanting to appear financially distressed, wanting to exhibit the worldliness of a man fully prepared for high school, capable of impressive feats. 

We’d walk very purposely toward Halsted. What would happen on this truly brilliant afternoon, where a year or two before I would be already home, changed, and out playing ball with the guys on our block, thrust me forward.  And, now suddenly, I’m in a high risk saga, requiring unknown talents that I could not even dream of possessing. Whether I knew it consciously or not, I’d be marshaled into another world – unlike in baseball or football, certain rules, understood and generally accepted by all parties. And now there in this ancient wooden booth, its green marble table top smooth and cool as youth itself, I’d be privy to another paradigm of meaning. They improvised everything, felt deeply about each other’s personal wars and private agonies. 

“So, Sister Assunciata said that we needed to know all of this algebra, these equations,” Michelle avidly explained to us, “or we’d have to take remedial courses. Could you imagine?” 

“Tom’s all ready, aren’t you going to Rita?” Sarah said, trying to include me in the conversation. 

“That’s one plan,  I guess. Looking forward to it.” I had no concept of what I meant, throwing out terms, trying to appear in their moment. “But I have to get serious very soon, get my grades up,” I said. “Need to work real hard.” The mood swung serious, I felt. 

Then, our drinks came, four small glasses, three large, metal tumblers of malted milkshakes. I now realized that I’d only be able to afford a cherry Coke, which was fifteen cents. It made me stand out, which felt fair, honest. 

Sarah and I sat right next to each other, Michelle across from me, and seemingly blocks away, would be Madeleine, there thoughtfully sipping her heavy malt. She met my eyes and I could not pull away from her. We’d embrace in the dark shadows of the crisp, cool moment, for Pappas’ was always the very chilliest place – they’d make their own candy and ice cream as well. Your nose would tickle some from the cool, serene air. And the heavy syrup – invested cherry Coke coursed through my veins, bringing an awakened energy. It felt right. Sarah asked me if I’d “want some of this?” holding the metal tumbler of thick, chocolate malt. 

“I’m okay. Try some of this, if you’d like,” I moved my glass to Sarah, who politely sipped some and smiled, nodding. “Either of you like some?” 

Michelle pleaded that she was full, touching her stomach, then to her left she’d slide it over to Madeleine. She’d apply her perfect, full mouth to the paper straw and drew some, a slight crackle of air making her laugh some. 

“Oh, it is sweet,” she slid it over to me, a delicious smile, now urging me into complete imbecility. “Thank you."                                                                                     

“Sure, just a little.” I’d drink in her warm, brown eyes. And her smooth, still tanned right hand moved her glass toward me. I thought that I’d drop the small, half full glass. “Very rich,” I said, urging the glass back to her along the cool marble. It felt as though there would be no time at all, I now would be in this wondrous capsule, removed from reality. Damn, my father was right, ‘You’re just a dreamer ‘  

I think the check amounted to a dollar and thirty-six cents. I somewhat sheepishly reached for my meager twenty-three cents, which embarrassed me some – having a dime less made me uneasy, thinking that maybe I’d be expected to pick up the check. 

“What’re you doing, Tom?” Sarah chided. “You only had a small Coke, all right?” 

Madeleine placed a dollar from her red change purse. “We are all good social democrats.” She made a face that said, who cares?  Her attitude seemed much different than what I’d known before. 

Walking home took much longer than I could imagine – girls do things much differently, I’d soon discover. And, at Morgan, Michelle and Sarah headed north, leaving me and Madeleine on our own. 

“Where do you live?” I’d ask her, catching her pushing her hair to the side. 

“Another few blocks, 54th and May.” 

“Really? I’m on 56th and May.” 

Then, a furtive bolt of anxiety kicked me in the head. There on the boulevard, my buddies would be in the middle of a pickup football game. I knew that Jim Claire and John Cavanaugh would be there, ready to make some stupid remarks. The guys I had usually played football with would all be there, yelling and harassing each other into action. “Pick him up, Cavs. No, no. G’ on ‘em,” now coming at me, as though they’d be very far off, yet much too close. I’d wait for that play to end, the inevitable barbs and string of inevitable criticisms thrown at me. But, in that moment I now realized that I moved in some other dimension, where these things could not matter. 

“What do you think of the election?” Madeleine asked, “Who would you vote for?” 

“I sure hope Kennedy wins.” I’d see her smile some, almost fearing that I may have had the wrong answer. 

“My father ran as a deputy – like for Congress, here – so, he believes what Kennedy stands for. We hope he wins.” 

“Yeah, me too.” I could see that this would be very important for her. 

“He sees things for everyone. That is good.” 

I’d agree with her, realizing that there really would be no reasonable alternative. We discussed going to high school, our entrance exams and how difficult the course work would be. She’d have a way of struggling for the exact word, her English would be very carefully chosen. Madeleine explained how her native language had far fewer words,  thereby making use of the same word, in a different manner, quite the ordinary. She would try very hard to improve her English, her understanding of our life here.  

And when we’d arrive at her apartment building, I knew only that I would not want her to leave me. 

“Thank you for walking with me. Maybe we can go to the movies, if you like?” 

I’d smile at her, absolutely dumbfounded. “Yeah, we could. Sure.” 

Somehow I roused myself out of this state, reaching for the heavy brass handle of her apartment door, opening this seemingly weighty wooden mass enough for Madeleine to ease through, her door keys in hand. I thought that this would be the worst injustice in my life, leaving her felt awful. Then, I’d see her turn to me, her face showing this searching ache in her eyes. She moved toward me, placing her full mouth on my right cheek. 

“I don’t want you to go,” I pled, finding her eyes. 

She’d warmly laugh some. We’ll see a movie sometime.” 

Somehow, I’d release a “Goodbye,” watching her go inside the gray, glazed door, releasing cooking smells, fragrances of carefully crafted food, spiced by worlds far removed from my imperfect reach. 

I had to make my body move again, desperate to see her, not wanting to ever be away from her. My mind could not focus on the two books under my arm, awkwardly reminding me of that night’s homework. 

On the short walk home, I thought of ways to please Madeleine, let her know that I’d want her so bad that I would see myself holding her, kissing her so hard that we’d melt together, consumed by the sun itself. The physical aspect of wanting her would have no conscious state at all – I would be captivated with not only her body, smile, grace, the natural sweetness and all of its pure wonder, but the feeling of another person being part of me, in all of my incompetent movements, my immense shortcomings. The idea of having her value something in me felt as though I somehow mattered. 

“Why aren’t you eating ?”, my father demanded. 

I sat to his immediate right, trying to separate the fatty parts of beef from what I would want. It’d look as though I’d be panning for gold somehow. 

My parents would learn of the state that I would be in within layered revelations, as it would appear that some dangerous drug use had taken hold of my life. The look of my father drew this out for all at our dinner table. “What’s wrong?” he drilled. 

“Sorry, just not that hungry, I guess.” I scooped some gravy with a lone carrot slice on it, to my mouth. 

“Your mother worked damn hard to make your dinner. A little appreciation’s all,” he said, in his wholesale accusing way. 

“I’m just taking my time.” I began to eat the hearty beef, stealing a glance at my poor mother. 

“You’re in a trance today. Snap out of it.” 

“Jack, he’s just had a tough day at school’s all.” She had to be a saint of some kind. 

“Don’t be defending this guy,” my father advised, eating the beef bone’s marrow, which I felt he’d be well suited for – just as he’d try suctioning my enthusiasm for life. 

I’d only want to run away with Madeleine, live in parks and beaches, where we’d be free and happy without harassing parents. 

“Better get your grades. They’ll put you in shop classes unless you get a B average,” my father reminded me.                                                                    

“That will not be a problem, Dad.” 

He shot his cold stare. “And no backtalk. The brothers will bend you over the desk, throttle you good.” 

“Now, Jack,” my mother pled for civility. 

Through the fall, I’d work very hard to improve my math and understanding of science, which we’d be instructed in only the rudimentary basics. I knew kids from public schools had a far broader education. We would spend endless hours on catechism, memorizing faith-based doctrine. I would not mind so much; it would be much easier than memorizing the prayers in Latin, a requirement of each altar boy. 

My relationship with Madeleine grew, deepened and brought me to another level of understanding. Her parents had this huge party when Kennedy won in November; our very ward in Chicago providing Herculean support, this to the point of some to call for a recount in key Cook County areas, which were eighty percent Democratic. It brought a wave of enthusiasm from her parents, as they had thought Kennedy understood the European community. 

Mr. Poissant, especially, felt that the new president brought the ‘vision, sense of rapport’ with other countries. He’d be involved with international trade through his company, which lent much support to the Kennedy campaign. 

Her parents invited me often for lunch and dinner; they would be happy for us. As for my parents, they’d know only that I was seeing a French girl who everyone adored. My father would offer his strident criticism. “Better not let your grades – or anything else slip, there buddy.” He had so much anxiety to carry that I’d pretty much ignore his remarks. Of course, my mother defended him, offering, “His parents were that way with him – always with the tearing down – always.” 

And to this apology, I’d tell my mother very emphatically, “Not me. I’ll never be like that. I’ll never say all of the things that he has – no, never,” I affirmed. 

“Now, Tommy, don’t be thinking the worst of your father. He has a difficult job. You’ll do better now, I’m sure. The war took a lot from them – some of them were never the same. Your father did what he had to do.” 

I’d go on to the point of arguing that excuses are not good reasons to be abusive and have to live with. But she’d give no ground, loyal to a fault. Or, quite possibly, afraid to admit what would be real. I know my life, what I’d bring to others would not be built on excuses or other reasons for being unreasonable. I’d vow to make a better world, for not only myself, but those I would share my time, my life with. What could be more important?  

                             ( To be continued )