Petey Doyle

I was ten years old when I first fell in love.  Desperately, utterly, totally in love with Petey Doyle.

Petey was my oldest cousin Billy's best friend.  Billy spent a lot of time in our tenement flat on 58th Street and usually Petey was with him.

I would sit at the wooden table and listen to my Dad's conversation with his beloved nephew and his close friend.

Petey was thin, with mounds of black hair and an ethereal countenance reminiscent of the pictures of St. John the Baptist in my Bible History book.  I knew he was just as good as the revered saint, and equally beautiful.

There was just one thing I couldn't understand.  The women, including my Mother, always said Petey had broken his Mother's heart.  I wondered why he wasn't in jail or at least shackled to one of the railings that lined our street so he couldn't do it again.

The Doyle family lived on the first floor of 452, the building next to ours, so I passed Mrs. Doyle often as I walked up the block.  I wanted desperately to stop her and just ask, politely of course, about her heart.  But I didn't think my Mother would like that.  She always insisted I never speak to an elder first, but I knew Mrs. Doyle would never stop to speak to me.  She barely nodded when I said hello.

I knew it really didn't matter if Petey had done the terrible deed.  Maybe that was why he looked sad at times.  Maybe he was sorry.  I wondered though.  Do broken hearts heal and do they bleed when they are broken.

My Mother always said she didn't know where I came from.  I suppose she didn't mean that literally, but thought maybe I was a changeling.  I just know it wasn't good to be like me; it would have been better if she knew where I came from.

I knew, however, that I loved Petey Doyle.  He was beautiful and maybe it was heretical, but I really believed he was more beautiful than St John the Baptist.

I don't think I ever stopped loving Petey even as the years moved on, and I saw him less and less.  I know I spent a great deal of time concentrating on his Mother's chest whenever I saw her standing on the stoop.  I wonder if she ever noticed.  Probably not; most of the neighbors knew I was different.  Maybe my Mother had told them.

I especially liked watching Petey's Mother in the summer when she didn't have her winter coat on.  Usually the women on the block wore starched cotton housedresses during the warm weather.  I thought the blood would certainly seep through that, but I never saw a drop.

My cousin and all of his friends left the neighborhood to serve their country after Pearl Harbor.  I forgot how much I loved Petey, and while I never stopped wondering about his Mother's heart, watched her less and less.  After all she was still walking to the A&P and carrying her own bundles home, so I guess a broken heart didn't hurt that much.

The War ended, and I  began to grow up.  My Mother and I reached an emotional truce.  While I don't believe she ever stopped wondering where I came from, we became more comfortable in each other's presence.

My cousin married, and so did most of his friends including the first love of my life, Petey Doyle.  I had already found another hero and one without the baggage of breaking someone's heart that Petey carried, so I was able to handle the loss.

Many, many years later and after my marriage during a long distance call with my Mom, she mentioned her old neighbor, Katie Doyle, had died.  Without thinking, I said, "From her broken heart?"  My Mother said, "Of course not.  What are you talking about?"

The more I tried to explain, the more annoyed Mom became.  Finally sputtering out, "What's wrong with you?  Katie didn't really have her heart broken.  Of course, I suppose in a way she did when Petey left the Seminary and didn't go on to the Priesthood.  The poor soul died of pneumonia"

And I knew without a doubt that my Mother once again was thinking that she still didn't know where I came from.