Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

“Oh my God! No, Salvatore, you’ll hurt yourself,” Mama shouted hysterically seeing his desperate act. The emotional strain was too much. Clutching her rosary, Mama fainted, falling limply into the arms of her weakened husband.

  Zeoli was able to constrain Salvatore long enough for the ship to exit the harbor. The farther the ship traveled, the weaker he became, until finally, his tired little body gave out. Eventually, Salvatore surrendered: there was no chance of returning. Exhaling deeply, the boy brushed away the remaining tears. “I don’t know where to go, Signore Zeoli. Where will I sleep?”

  Relieved, Zeoli’s lips curled up into a smile. “Well, let me have a look at your ticket, and then we can locate your room.” Studiously, Zeoli scanned all the pertinent documents. “It says here that you’ll be sleeping in cabin number 333. That’s not very far from where my family and I will be staying.”

  Salvatore tried to smile, but he could only manage a yawn. “I’m very tired.”

  “I know. You look worn out. Come with me.” Zeoli turned to his wife. “Helen, take the boys to our cabin. I’ll take Salvatore to his and help him get settled. Then you can come by and say ‘good-night’ to him. Okay?”

  Blonde, shapely, and very attractive, Helen was both kind and patient. “That will be fine,” she replied cheerfully. “Is that okay with you, Salvatore?”

  “Yes!”

  From his many trips to the United States, Zeoli was familiar with the layout of these boats. Taking the boy’s hand, Zeoli led him down a flight of stairs and to the end of a long hallway. They passed numerous cabin doors, checking the numbers on each until they found his designated quarters.

  “Here we are...room number 333.” Zeoli opened the door and the boy rushed in past him. Salvatore wasted little time in inspecting every inch of his cabin.

  “Do you like your room, Salvatore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. It’s a fine cabin.”

  Laying the suitcase on the bed, Zeoli began to unpack the meager contents. Neatly, he placed all of Salvatore’s belongings into a small dresser adjacent to his bed. Climbing up onto the mattress, the boy reached into his suitcase and snatched up the framed picture his grandmother packed for him and promptly placed the photo on a nightstand.

  “What do you have there, Salvatore?”

  “It’s a picture of my mother, my Mama, my Papa, and me. My Mama told me if I keep it near me nothing will ever harm me.”

  “That’s absolutely right. Your family will always watch over you.” Shutting the dresser drawer, Zeoli sat down on the bed. “Sit down, Salvatore. I would like to talk to you for a moment.”

  The boy hopped up onto the bed next to Zeoli.

  “You know, Salvatore. You might not understand this right now, but you are very lucky to be going to America.”

  “Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

  “I guess it’s because you’re getting an opportunity to live in the greatest country in the world. I know you feel sad and you miss your Mama and Papa, and I know they miss you, too. They want the best for you. That’s why they’re sending you to America to live with your father.”

  “I don’t know my father. What if I don’t like him? What if he’s mean? Can I go back home?”

  Fighting back a laugh, Zeoli continued, “You have to give him a chance, Salvatore. It will take some time for you and your father to get to know one another. People in America are just like the people in our village. There are good people and bad people. You must give each person a chance. Believe me, it’s very difficult for someone to pretend for very long to be something they are not. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”

  “Yes. My Papa taught me many things about people when I was little.”

  “Good. Your Papa wanted me to teach you about how things work in America. Since I’ve been there many times, he thought I could help you to better understand the people there. Your Papa felt he didn’t have enough time to adequately prepare you. Would you like that, Salvatore?”

  “Yes.”

  The sound of light tapping on the door drew Zeoli’s attention. “Come in,” he yelled out politely.

  The door opened and Helen peeked in. “May I come in, Salvatore?”

  “Yes!”

  Stepping into the cabin, Helen looked around. “You have a very nice room, Salvatore.” Sitting down on the bed, she pointed out, “Your bed is big and comfortable, and look, you have a lamp right next to your bed. If you want, we can leave the light on all night, not that you need the light on. I know you’re a big boy. I mean so you can find your way around in case you need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Would you like the light on?”

  “Yes, I want the light on, please.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll get going then. Good-night, Salvatore. Signora Zeoli will help you get ready for bed, brush your teeth, and tuck you in. I’ll be by in the morning to collect you for breakfast. You’ll be eating all your meals with us, and tomorrow, you can play with my sons all day. That’s the way your Papa wanted it. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes, Signore Zeoli.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.” Zeoli closed the door behind him.

  “Here you are.” Helen handed the boy his sleeping clothes.

  “Thank you.” Softly, the boy treaded into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth then slipped into the pajamas.

  Fetching a hand towel from the bathroom, Helen smartly placed it over the lamp shade so the room wasn’t so bright. “Is this too dark?”

  “No. I like it like this.”

  “Good. Then up you go.”

  Salvatore dove under the covers. Helen tightened them up around his body so he was snugly tucked in. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, she lovingly stroked his hair. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep. I want you to have sweet dreams. We’ll be in New York before you know it. I promise you, everything is going to be fine. Good-night, Salvatore,” Helen whispered as she tenderly kissed his forehead.

  “Good-night,” Salvatore whispered back.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As the ship neared the coastline of New York, the first discernable landmark could be seen, and the sight of it took the passenger’s breath away: the Statue of Liberty. Proudly, she stood perched atop her base on her solitary island gazing serenely out to sea, welcoming all newcomers with her torch held high, illuminating a land of opportunity. The huddled masses stood on deck mesmerized by the icon of American freedom. For many, coming to the United States was the culmination of a lifetime of hope and perseverance realized.

  A wave of sadness washed over Salvatore as he stared at the fabled statue. Wiping away tears, he remembered his mother telling him bedtime stories of how one day they would travel to the United States on a big boat, and that Lady Liberty, as well as his father, would be there to welcome them.

  After tucking Salvatore in at night, Marie would delight her wide-eyed son with tales of how the three of them would live in the country, in a big beautiful house with a white picket fence, noting that Salvatore could tend the chickens, rabbits, ducks, and all the other animals they would keep. Marie even hinted that perhaps someday he might have a little brother or sister to play with.

  The sound of the ship’s horn roused him from his daydream and the reality of arrival in America consumed his thoughts. Although Salvatore was in awe of his first glimpse of New York , his fears slowly subsided, and a curious anticipation crept in. He heard the shouts of longshoremen laboring along the waterfront, and he clearly saw the crane operators deftly unloading cargo from the bellies of tremendous iron freighters. Tugboats assisted arriving ships, while other tugs helped direct enormous ocean liners onto their designated courses as they headed out to sea. The New York skyline combined with the ocean’s familiar scent, and the keening seagulls circling the gigantic fishing boats, made for a very engrossing scene.


  Once the ship was secured and the gangplank was in place, the anxious passengers disembarked, baggage firmly in hand. Excitedly, they dispersed into a sea of overjoyed people. Some held signs welcoming the new arrivals, while others saw their relative’s beaming faces and rushed to greet them. The touching scenes of reunited families and loved ones only made Salvatore more homesick.

  Carrying his own bag as well as Salvatore’s small suitcase, Zeoli led his contingent from the ship and made their way through a myriad of people en route to the predetermined location where they would meet the much ballyhooed Mr. Scalise.

  Impatiently smoking a cigarette near a lamp-post, next to a bench, across from a giant, “WELCOME TO NEW YORK,” sign was Peter Scalise. Checking his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes, he spied an approaching group of five. Seeing the youngest boy’s face made Peter’s lips curl up into a smile.

  Even after all the years, he recognized his son’s face from an old photo enclosed in one of the numerous letters he had received from Marie many years ago. Only three-years-old when the photograph was taken, Salvatore’s big, brown, gorgeous eyes were easily recognizable, even in this massive crowd.

  Though Peter never responded to any of Marie’s correspondence, he curiously kept all of her letters and photographs to remind him of what he had sacrificed to honor his blood oath to Don Bruno and La Cosa Nostra.

  Now a mature man of twenty-eight, Peter Scalise was svelte but muscular, with a head of perfectly styled, thick black hair. Possessing piercing brown eyes and smooth, tanned skin, Peter also had a strong jawline, a regal nose, and a dazzling smile. His well-manicured fingernails complemented the gleam of his diamond rings and the flash of his gold watch. Peter’s dapper ensemble consisted of a custom-made gray cashmere suit, a matching silk shirt, and tie, all sharply drawn together by a pair of grey, Italian leather shoes.

  There was dignity to his manner and Peter carried himself with a quiet confidence befitting a “made man” in the Brooklyn crime family. With his style and good-looks, Peter could have easily been mistaken for a movie star.

  Flicking his cigarette away, Peter made his way toward the group. Aware that no one spoke English, he politely addressed the older gentleman out in front of the procession in Italian.

  “Hello. You must be Signore Zeoli? I am Peter Scalise. Salvatore’s grandparents wired me that you would be bringing my son home to me.” They shook hands like two men forced to: Peter’s too-tight grip was met by a reluctant, limp hand from Zeoli.

  “Hello, Signore Scalise. I am Vincenzo Zeoli. This is my wife, Helen.”

  After ogling Helen for several moments, Peter offered her his hand. “Hello, Signora Zeoli. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, too, Signore Scalise.” Helen smiled as she shook Peter’s hand.

  “I hope you had a good trip?” Peter asked cordially.

  “Yes, the journey was very nice. Thank you.”

  “I hope the boy wasn’t too much trouble?”

  Helen gazed sweetly at Salvatore. “None at all, Salvatore’s a wonderful, polite, handsome young man.”

  “Well, he does take after his father,” Peter boasted, smiling smugly.

  Noting Peter’s appreciation for his wife, Zeoli tactfully stepped between them. “Signore Scalise, I would like you to meet my children. This is my oldest son, Vincenzo Jr., and this is Michael.”

  “Hello.” Peter politely shook their hands. Shifting his focus from the group to the angst-ridden little boy clinging to Zeoli’s pant leg, Peter continued, “And this must be my son.”

  Salvatore slid behind Zeoli’s leg and used it as if it were a shield to ward off the unsettling stranger. Bending over and reaching around Zeoli’s leg, Peter almost had to wrestle his son out from behind it. “Come here, you little monkey!” Peter playfully scooped up his son and kissed his cheek. Salvatore’s body was stiff, and he slowly kicked his feet in protest until Peter set him firmly back on the ground.

  “I want to thank you, Signore Zeoli, for watching after my son.” Reaching into his pocket, Peter pulled out a roll of bills. “I would like to give you something for your trouble.”

  Stepping back and raising his hands palms forward as if insulted, Zeoli insisted, “No! I will not accept any money from you.”

  “Why? This is how we show appreciation in America for someone who does something nice for them.”

  “I did not do this for you, Signore Scalise! I did this for my good friend, Dominick Cogassi.”

  Confirming that the insult had hit its mark, Peter pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “I see.” Returning the money to his pocket he continued, “Well, thanks anyway.” Taking a secure hold of his son’s hand, Peter ordered sternly, “Pick up your suitcase! We need to leave now, Salvatore.”

  Frightened by his father’s tone, the boy immediately grasped the handle of his bag and picked it up. Attempting to make a hasty departure, Peter started to walk away, but Salvatore resisted, pulling away from him. “Let’s go, Salvatore. Now!”

  Seeing fear in the boy’s eyes and wanting to console him, Zeoli moved in to hug him. “Good-bye, Salvatore. We’ll all miss you.”

  “Excuse me!” Peter stated rudely and raised his elbow driving Zeoli away from the boy.

  Understandably offended, Zeoli hollered loudly at the now fleeing pair. “Take care of Salvatore. He’s a good boy. His grandparents miss him very much, you know.”

  Flipping his hand backward over his shoulder in disgust, Peter mocked, “Yeah, yeah, like they’re ever gonna see him again.”

  As he was being dragged through the crowd, Salvatore looked back over his shoulder several times trying to keep the last friendly faces he recognized in view. Once at the car, Peter unlocked the trunk and snatched the suitcase from his son’s hand. Tossing the bag in, Peter slammed the trunk shut. “Well, don’t you have anything to say to me?”

  Peering up at the virtual stranger Salvatore asked timidly,

  “What should I call you? I don’t know what to call you.”

  “What do you mean, what should you call me? Call me, ‘Dad,’ or ‘Pop.’ That’s what I am, you know.”

  Annoyed, Peter picked Salvatore up and tossed him into the front seat, and then slammed the car door shut. Walking around to the driver’s side, Peter got in and cranked the ignition key of his shiny, new black Cadillac. The engine roared and they screeched away, stirring up a cloud of dust.

  Peter fumbled with the car radio until he found a popular station playing a Frank Sinatra song. He sang along to the catchy tune while recklessly speeding around any cars in front of him and cutting off other drivers in the heavy New York traffic.

  Sitting up in his seat, Salvatore craned his neck to see through the window, as he struggled to catch an eye-full of anything new or exciting. The boy was astonished by all the automobiles, the massive skyscrapers, and the colorful throngs of people, but he was especially impressed by the city’s speed and pace.

  Turning onto Arthur Avenue, a well-known street in the heart of the Bronx’s “Little Italy,” Peter announced, “We’re home.”

  Salvatore squirmed in his seat and shifted his feet nervously.

  “Look at this fucking spot,” Peter muttered happily in English.

  Almost driving over several children playing in the street, Peter made an illegal U-turn and squeezed into a parking space right in front of a five-story brick apartment building. Turning off the motor, he rolled up his window and stepped out onto the street. Peter walked around to the passenger door and opened it. “Let’s go, Salvatore. We’re home. Get out.”

  The frightened boy sat motionless, staring straight ahead as if paralyzed by the whole ordeal.

  “Come on! There’s nothing to be afraid of. Get out of the car!” Peter insisted again, but still Salvatore didn’t budge.

  Reaching his arm into the car, Peter secured a handful of Salvatore’s shirt and yanked him out of the front seat. The boy flew out of the car but managed to
land on his feet. Standing on the pavement, tucking his shirt back into his pants, Salvatore scanned the entire neighborhood from top to bottom.

  Keenly, he observed dozens of strange and unsightly television antennae rising from every rooftop as if to impale the horizon. Rusty iron fire escapes zigzagged down the face of each apartment building. Weighed down by the day’s wash, clotheslines extended from one building to another. Some structures were so close to one another, Salvatore noted, that if a kid had a running start, he could leap from one rooftop to the other. One building across the street had a full pigeon coup, constructed of wood and chicken wire, standing on its roof.

  The familiar voice of the Italian crooner reverberating from the second story window across the street made him smile. On Sundays, Salvatore’s Papa enjoyed the soothing sounds of Enrico Caruso on their beat-up Victrolla. Merchants lined the sidewalks on both sides of the street selling fruits, vegetables, and other sundries. Parked cars extended as far as one could see in either direction. Young boys, not much older than Salvatore, played stickball in the middle of the street. Little girls jumped rope and played hop-scotch along the busy sidewalks. The neighborhood overflowed with Italian restaurants and bakeries. The mouth-watering aromas of fine Italian cuisine wafted down the block exciting one’s olfactory senses.

  Completely dumbfounded by his surroundings, Salvatore looked up at his father and proclaimed, “There are sure are a lot of people in this village.”

  “Village? Didn’t your grandparents teach you anything? Salvatore, you need to learn English. You live in America now. Understand?” Shaking his head, Peter remarked curtly in English, “This kid’s got no idea how lucky he is that I pulled his ass outta that one-horse fucking town.”

  Noting the time on his watch, Peter whistled loudly to get the attention of the boys playing in the street. As anticipated, every boy turned in his direction. Peter pointed out two specific boys. “You and you, come here.”

  Identifying himself, then his friend standing next to him, the first boy asked, “You mean us two, Mr. Scalise?”