Madeleine and I would soon have a dire need for a solitary place; we’d find the park nearby useful, offering some meager privacy, enough for us to embrace for a while out of sight of passersby. Actually, with our deepening passion, we lost touch with our boundaries, the inhibitions. After school, we’d wait for each other on the corner, the hordes pouring out around us at 3:15 in the afternoon of another school day. And the nuns would be all around, making certain that no one became wounded – or, God forbid, fall from grace. We would be extremely careful, I thought.

One day, we met right after school, her friends left at the corner, and we thought it unwise to hold hands until off all known radar. Once we’d turn the corner, I’d take her hand, sometimes drawing it to my hungry mouth and kissing the sweetness of her soft hand, then taking her close to me, our eyes dancing, and finding, always attempting to drink in each other.

“Tom,” Madeleine confided ever so meditatively, “sometimes, I don’t know,” she’d nearly laugh – maybe cry – “we want each other … too much.”

I’d pull back, clearly on the defensive now. “What?  What do you mean?”

She’d then cling to me, pressing in to me, trying to tell me what I should know, figure instinctively.  But at times, I would be as intuitive as a telephone pole. We’d suddenly have this Grand Canyon there between us, even though we would be twenty inches apart. I would not have any defense, which is to say ability, to deal with this impasse. I stole a glance over to her, streams of warm tears flowing down her cheeks. I’d reach for her near hand; she’d pull back as though I were some stranger.

“What’s wrong?” I felt helpless.

She stopped cold. “It’s okay. Please, just let me breathe.” I would say nothing, not even trying to console her. We’d walk on in this near contemplative state, saying nothing, but inside I’d be reeling between fear and rampaging desperation.  My thoughts would be that she did not want to keep seeing me; maybe I had outworn my welcome?  But her words … “Want each other too much,” tore through my heart. I had no way of cutting through this fence. In my anxious head I would liken it to when that previous summer, I stood with this tall green cyclone fence between myself and these pretty girls by the pool.

We walked on in throbbing, ever so articulate silence, her knowing deepening, while mine would be reaching the way a kite would on a cloudy, windy day in early December. I’d let time speak up for me, very unsure of myself.

Madeleine and I would arrive at her apartment house without a word – or the suggestion of anything definite between us. I reached for the outer door as always. She went in gently, then turned, her eyes warm, inviting and very attuned to me. “Come on,” she said. Madeleine took my near hand and pressed her hand in mine. The large door slowly closed in a hush that warmed, yet deepened the moment. We’d hold each other’s hand as though waiting to jump on a plane and maybe separate for a very long time.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you, you know, upset like.”

Then she drew very close to me, holding me and wanting to read my eyes, where I really was. “No, don’t feel that way, Tom.”                                                                                           

 “I guess I’m hurt some, that’s all.” I felt my voice take on this sotto voce quality, quite as though I’d somehow trundle into some film noir mystery – romance; my tone now rich, vibrant, harboring some promise, the small hallway providing the necessary dimensions for enhanced audio magic.

“You shouldn’t feel that way.” Then her dark eyes seized me, that ache nearly forming between her eyes. “I want to tell you how much I feel, that’s all.”  Then, Madeleine moved very close, her eyes joined with mine in some dazzling understanding of our world together, telling me that we were fine, everything would be all right – somehow. She moved to kiss me, her body now tight against me, her tongue slowly found mine, then swirling in this languorous brandy warmth that would be intoxicating, full of everything her tears had told me, true as anything that I could ever feel. “This is what I want to tell you – hard for me…”

There would be some door opening, then some scurrying on an upper floor landing, which somehow emboldened me now. “Oh Madeleine, I want you so much. You make…”

Descending footfalls would separate us.

“ Better go.”

I’d kiss her quickly, those nearing steps urging me on. “We’ll have to find a place for just us.” She touched my hand before a small, gray-haired man appeared.  She’d greet him distantly, yet respectfully. I hated leaving her – but now even more than before.

On the way home, I had to piece by piece go over what had actually happened, this new path that now opened for me. At first, I would be relieved that she still wanted me, then, ever so gradually, the seeping realization would occur to me that Madeleine wanted to take things to another level. I only knew what I’d not know – it hit me square in the face, the way stepping on a rake might. I, naturally, had to get over myself, being impressed with what would be there for me, the wonders of pure, physical pleasure with someone you’d absolutely worship. What could be better?  This would be a huge step for me; my first attempt at kissing a girl in the third grade greeted me with a cold slap from Rosemary Flynn, one of a litany of fantasy league girlfriends.

Being made the way I had been raised, I already began feeling guilty – and I’d done absolutely nothing yet. My head would be growing at the rate of a pound a minute. Thoughts of consulting David Looney, the surest source for advice on such matters, would make me feel even more uneasy. His legendary knowledge of the female world would be the closest guide available. I actually heard of David delivering very street-wise consultations, only to be the benefactor of the fallen fruit of eager students. He chased women of any kind. “All made the same way – why make such an ordeal of these details?” he’d assert to the faithful, there on 57^th Street.

I dwelt on being with Madeleine all alone, no one to stop us from doing what we both wanted so very much.  I’d be excited, my heart nearly jumping from my chest. And now, I found myself in this foreign country, my body raging from every pent up feeling, squelched desire, parsed out in confession in all of its painful, agonizing detail.

Somewhere, there walking in the cold, windy afternoon, I would realize that I had missed basketball practice. I worked hard on my outside shot there in the alley behind our house.  And now – suddenly, it would seem – that person did not have any resemblance to what I had known myself to be. I came to our backward gate, hearing the O’Shea brothers call out to me. It’d be as though I had found myself partially deaf and dumb, for I surely would be somewhere else.

“Hey, Tom, want to shoot? Cavanaugh and Kilmartin are on their way over.”

I turned to the two brothers I had known for some eleven years. “Yeah, thanks for asking. Got to take care of some things. Be down later.”

“Missed you at practice. Ought ’a talk to Coach,” Matt said to me in his willful, though friendly manner.

“Yeah, I got caught up after school,” I said, thinking that this would suffice.

Matt made some discerning nod that said, sure you do. Then, he’d dribble his over-inflated Sears basketball. “How’s the French girl, Tom?”

I’d be taken aback some, now fully aware that I’d left the very planet I had shared with all who’d known me. “Yeah, she’s real nice. Learning a lot from her.” I saw that hungry doubt rush through Matt O’Shea’s flushed face.

“Learning?” he’d try smothering his repressed laugh.

“Yeah, she’s real smart. Knows all kinds of things.” I was now revealing more than concealing.

Matt just grinned, exhibiting palpable envy, which my father should see. ‘ They can buy you and sell you, son,’ he would often remind me, letting me know that the O’Shea boys would be the benchmark for me.  But on this day, no one on our block, in this neighborhood, could kill the feeling I had, this warm wine that coursed from my heart on through my undeniably pagan veins, the sweet taste of Madeleine’s lovely mouth on mine yet strong.  I may as well have drunk a bottle of wine, as I had no sense of feeling in my known body, no neural activity much above my neck.  And, somewhere within the past hour, my soul flew in this anxious, cold breeze, much the way a kite would be taken from the trembling hand of one who could not be sure how the string pulled so taut that it would be ripped from otherwise sure hands; its vibrant Chinese red now far up, in its spiraling, to the point of it appearing like a precious drop of blood in the gray looming sky above.

I would take out the garbage after telling my mother that I had, in fact, a good day at school, that I had learned much.

“Left a Twinkie for Jacky and yourself. You be back at 5:15.”

“No, Mom – not hungry much.”

“C ’ mere, let me feel your head.” She actually walked across the kitchen, touching my forehead. “Your mouth, eyes, look all funny. You’re coming down with something, Tommy. Here, I’ll make some tea. You’re chilled, I can tell.”

“Mom, I’m okay. Going to shoot awhile, okay? Be back for dinner.” I purposely refused the snack with my usual glass of milk, as I’d not want to lose the taste of Madeleine’s kiss, which I savored the way I would my favorite dinner – turkey, sweet potatoes, dressing and mince pie. I have this ability to push myself, even when I actually would be sick. And, on this day, I had to really push. There’d be things that I needed to prove myself worthy.                                                               

 “Put on a warm sweater under that, Tom. You’ve no sense at all sometimes.” My mother could be upset with me for no apparent reason. Or sometimes, for the altogether wrong reason.

I had this whole new, steely resolve, even as I’d lace up my Keds, pulling them real tight, I’d feel another energy, this source for me to draw from.  My steps would be truly with some measured purpose. I would hear the guys downstairs, out in our alley warming up.

“Here he is,” Callaghan shouted, his flat mocking tone at the ready.

I greeted my friends, quite as though I’d had a long nap.

“Ah, zhoot z’ ball , Francoise, sil vous plais.” Callaghan had his insolence.

“Yeah, yeah, never mind.” I wouldn’t want to be too defensive. Then, torrents of comments flooded the now much colder air.

“Ball?” I asked Kevin O’Shea, the only one without some barb or remark. I dribbled three, four times. Kilmartin came up, a wry knowing smirk fresh on his face, full of himself, as he’d just been given a ‘ride’ to Mt. Carmel and had a few other schools inviting him for a visit.

The cold, smooth ball felt tight in my hands.  I’d fake a shoulder into his long arms, then pull back and released the ball, falling back some. He’d jump, trying to block my shot. It sweetly sailed through the heavy, darkening sky – all net.

“Eewww,” Callaghan went.

“Lover boy’s feeling it,” another chimed.

They knew that I’d be on the temperamental side, not to rile one that walked to his own beat. I worked my turn to get the ball again. Two guys tried scissoring me, so I’d work out of the trap, moving left, pulled up to miss an  eighteen footer. Suddenly, I had some game, some sense of what I wanted to do.  … There at the top of the stairs, the hearty cooking smells permeating the hallway – oregano, lemon pesto and some garlic, conspiring to sway my now sharpened senses to work in the confines of the pure moment. I’d await her presence, knowing this near suffocation, anticipating her wanting me. In a pink negligee, her parted mouth almost smiling, I would begin, Madeleine melting into our shared embrace, her body firm yet soft as a perfect peach; we’d await each other’s mouth…. Then, I’d feel the dull smack right between my eyes, above the bridge of my nose. My eyes welling up, this now cold pain waging through my head, blurring all senses at once.

            “Ready for it, all right, Conroy?” Atkins fumed at me; the ball had been deftly passed in our four on four game. It would already be getting dark, my forehead feeling as though I’d been whacked with a two by four, my nose feeling smashed out of shape.

            The cold had settled in, making the ball harder to handle. We, that is, Kevin, Atkins, Schultz and myself were down six points and we would have about, maybe ten minutes of daylight. The rim grew darker, the torn net nearing invisibility.

            I would play pretty sound defense, in the setting gray suede cold that weighed in on us, our faces red as our hands. We’d be creeping back in, down by only two.  Kevin and I’d hardly touch the ball – but we needed a clear, open shot, which I could make with no one on me; Atkins and Schultz had everyone hanging on them. Our set play would be for Atkins to draw everyone down low, pass out to Kevin or me.        

             “Hey, what’s this – snow? Can’t be,” Callaghan complained.

            “C’mon, let’s play. Dark soon,” Matt reminded us.

            Far down our alley I’d see the familiar lumbering form moving toward us, carrying quarts of Meister Brau; it had to be my father who would never be able to come to our games. Atkins went right in, pulled up, his shot ready as his long arm, he’d release the ball with the precision touch of a jeweler. Out of the murmur of setting evening, soft flakes finding us, the ball even, Kilmartin flies up into Atkins, blocks the shot, which Kevin rescues just over his head, playing back about fourteen feet of the basket. They’d converge on him as though they would tackle him right there on the concrete. I’d move off this pile of humanity, positioning for the missed shot.

            “Tom!”

            The ball snapped into my hands about sixteen feet off to his right; I’d be open, and pulling up, my arms coiled for the best possible release. I’d let go of the moist ball in my usual too high arc, thinking that Schultz, even Atkins, could get the rebound. But, to my astonished eyes, the ball jangles in off the friendliest rim on the Southside.

            “Way to go, Tommy,” Kevin shouted.

            “There, all the time,” Atkins said.

            Then, out of the corner of my eye, I’d see my father walking across our court there in the alley. “Lucky shot.” He looked at me, a near smile somewhere.

            “Hi Dad.”

            “Hi, Mr. Conroy,” Marty said.

            “You’ve no idea of how lucky, Sir,” Callaghan ribbed.

            “Come on guys. Let’s play,” Matt said.

            We’d play on until I’d hear my mother calling me from the back porch. It was, in fact, 5:15, dinner time.

            Before I would reach the top of our back porch stairs, I saw the light of our neighbors’ kitchens, the clean white flakes gently falling around my world, a little out of breath, touched with the cold dampness coming down more now. I drew my mouth tight, feeling, tasting Madeleine, yet there, right beneath the dull pain above.

             My father would look at me there at dinner, on his right, his eyes telling me that I was somewhere he could not touch. He would be right.

             It would be the greatest day of my life.