“My own good?”
“He thinks you deserve to be with someone who isn’t . . . who isn’t . . .”
“Isn’t what?”
Harry looked at the ground and said in a very soft voice, “deformed.” Like I told you, Harry sees his scars as way worse than other people do. He kind of thinks he’s the Elephant Man. I didn’t know what to say.
Harry told me not to expect miracles. “I’ve been where Johnny is,” he said. “He has a long, slow road to recovery, and there are going to be lots of ups and downs.”
That phrase lots of ups and downs was echoing in my head when I rang Johnny’s doorbell the next day. It was a Saturday, so I braced myself for his mother to answer. She hated me, thought I was a bad influence on her little angel. She loved to make little comments about how wrong I was for her son. “We’re so proud Johnny got into Syracuse, aren’t you? It will give him a chance to carve out a whole new life for himself, don’t you think?” Only the last laugh was on her. Johnny’s accident stopped him from ever going to Syracuse. I was ringing his doorbell in early August, and there he was—no way he would be leaving Yonkers.
I guess that sounds shitty. I don’t mean it like that. I wish he had gotten to go to college. It’s just that perfect little families are never perfect and sometimes when they get reminded of that, maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world.
I guess that sounds shitty, too, so I should just shut up.
Anyway, I was ready for his mother. I was going to hold my tongue, grit my teeth, and smile. And if she didn’t let me in to see him, I would just shove her out of the way.
Only, when the door opened it wasn’t Mrs. McKenna, it was Johnny. He was showered, dressed in blue jeans and a Ramones T-shirt that he knew was my favorite, and he was standing with crutches. His right pant leg was tied up to just below his knee, but I hardly noticed that. It had been nearly a month since we’d been together and I was just so happy to see him.
I threw myself at Johnny and had him in a hug so fierce that I almost knocked him over.
“It’s good to see you, too, Pick,” he laughed.
Pick was the nickname Johnny gave me when I first joined the band. He only ever used it in private, one of our secrets. He loved that I played bass with a pick. I guess Dave, the bass player in the band before me, used his fingers. I never really got bass players who use their fingers. A pick makes such a badass sound, you know?
Anyway, Johnny and I went through his kitchen and down into the cathedral. It made me want to cry, watching him work his way down the stairs with his crutches and his missing leg.
Once we were sitting on the couch, he held my hand. The windows were open and there was a hot breeze; I was all clammy, but I think it was mostly from nerves.
“Why wouldn’t you see me?” I was barking at him like one of the Dobermans from my neighborhood before he had a chance to say a word. He’d kept me away for so long that I’d convinced myself he hated me.
“It’s tough to explain,” he said, and he hung his head. Johnny’s body language was all wrong. It was the first sign of how much everything had changed. “Harry really got on my case about it,” he added.
“Harry? Got on your case?”
“I know, right? Him coming here was like a giant wake-up call, a giant alarm clock getting me out of bed.”
I smiled, but all I could think was Didn’t you miss me?
“We played music for hours. I didn’t want it to end. It’s the first time since this”—he motioned to his leg—“that I’ve really been happy.”
“It’s so good to see you, Johnny.” I nuzzled my face into his neck, trying to turn the conversation back to us. Then I took his other hand, looked into his eyes, and kissed him. He seemed almost surprised. Not surprised that I kissed him, but surprised that he would be kissed at all, you know? But only for a minute. Then he kissed me back, and we were right where we left off.
Except . . . well, there was something different. I could feel it. It’s like we were the same people, the same couple, but we were no longer we, if that makes sense. We were him and her, him and me.
Plus, there was something else. Something I needed to tell him. The other reason I was getting so desperate to see him.
I thought I was . . . well, I wasn’t sure. Anyway, even if I had been sure, I couldn’t lay that on Johnny. He was broken. I don’t mean his leg; I mean Johnny the person. He was the most confident guy I’d ever known, and now he was broken. How could I tell him I thought I was pregnant?
PART TWO,
AUGUST TO OCTOBER 1986
I put Catholic guilt to work pretty good for a rich rock star.
—Bono
Are you religious?
HARBINGER JONES