Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “Yeah, youse two. Come here. I wanna talk to youse.”

  Cautiously the two boys approached. Peering down at the two filthy street urchins, each wearing soiled, dingy white t-shirts and ripped blue jeans, Peter asked indifferently, “What’s your names?”

  “I’m Mikey Delia and this guy here is Anthony DiGregorio,” the first boy replied anxiously.

  “Yeah, I recognize youse guys. Youse live around here, right?”

  “Yeah, we live a block over,” Mikey said coyly.

  “How old are youse?”

  “We’re both nine,” Anthony stammered.

  “Good. Youse are about the same age as him. This is my son, Salvatore. He just moved here.”

  “How you doing, kid?” Mikey asked coolly.

  Salvatore just stared at the strange boy.

  “Is he retarded or something, Mr. Scalise?” Mikey bluntly asked.

  “Nah, you little jerk-off. He don’t speak no English. Youse guys speak Italian, right?”

  The boys both nodded.

  “Good. I want youse to keep an eye on him till he gets to know how things work around here. Show him how to play stickball and teach him how to speak good English, like us. Understand?”

  Again, the boys nodded.

  “Bring him upstairs to my apartment in a couplea hours. I got something important to take carea. Do a good job and youse can come out to eat with him and me later. Awright?”

  “Okay, Mr. Scalise,” Mikey answered enthusiastically.

  “Hi Salvatore, I’m Anthony. Come with us. We’re going to teach you how to play stickball,” Anthony explained in Italian.

  Unsure of what to do, Salvatore looked helplessly to his father.

  “It’s okay,” Peter insisted, shooing him away. “Go ahead and play with these boys. They’ll take care of you for a few hours.”

  Still Salvatore didn’t move, prompting Peter to shout decisively, “You have nothing to be afraid of. Now go ahead!”

  Reluctantly, Salvatore strolled away with the strange boys.

  Opening the trunk, Peter snatched up Salvatore’s small bag and carried it upstairs to his apartment where he would tend to his pressing matter of a nap.

  After several hours of standing around watching the other boys play, Salvatore started to creep toward the building his father had entered. When it was Anthony’s turn to hit, he picked up the cut-off broomstick, taped up about twelve inches on one end for a good grip, and took a few practice swings. Just as he was preparing to step into the batter’s box, his eyes caught a glimpse of Salvatore walking away. Anthony called out to him, “Hey, Salvatore. Where are you going? Come back and try to hit the ball!”

  Salvatore shook his head.

  “Come on, give it a try. It’s better than just standing around watching.”

  Finally, a look of acquiescence overcame Salvatore’s face and he yelled back, “Okay.”

  Hurrying back over to the game, Anthony handed Salvatore the stick. Outraged by this most unusual breech of stickball etiquette, one of the boys on the opposing team hollered, “Hey, what the hell are you doing, fucko? This is an important game, Anthony. We’re all tied up. I don’t want some kid just off the boat fucking up our game.”

  “Hey, asshole, do you wanna get Mr. Scalise mad at us ’cause you won’t let him hit?” Mikey gladly pointed out.

  “Yeah, okay! Let’s go! Get him up there, Anthony,” the boy nervously responded understanding the implied threat.

  Leading Salvatore over to a manhole cover in the middle of the street, Anthony explained, “This is home plate.” Pointing to a box drawn out in chalk he continued, “This is the batter’s box. You stand in it until that guy...” Anthony singled him out, “...the pitcher throws the ball and it crosses the plate. When it does, you swing as hard as you can, and try to hit the ball. Understand?”

  Sal nodded.

  “After you hit the ball, you run to first, second, third, and then home.” Anthony identified each of the bases as he spoke. “Okay?”

  “I know,” Salvatore answered confidently. “I’ve been watching.”

  Settling into the batter’s box, Salvatore brought the stick back over his shoulder as he’d seen the others do and waited for the pitch. He swung and missed. The rival team laughed and cheered Sal’s failure. Unsettled, Salvatore readied himself again. Once more he swung and missed the ball. Again, the other team laughed and cheered, only this time much louder, prompting Salvatore to drop his head and walk away.

  “I don’t like this game. I don’t want to play anymore,” Salvatore complained as he tried to hand the stick back to Anthony.

  “No, Salvatore, you have to try. Get back in the box.” Taking hold of his shoulders, Anthony forcefully guided Salvatore back into the batter’s box. “Nobody in the Bronx likes a quitter. Just keep your eye on the ball and hit it.”

  Once more Salvatore stood at the ready with a very determined look. The pitcher glared directly into his eyes, taunting him. Smiling, the boy mumbled just loud enough for Salvatore to hear. “Now I’m gonna strike your ass out, kid. I don’t give a shit who your father is.”

  Although he didn’t understand a word of English, Salvatore instinctively knew that the boy’s words were unkind. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the stick, and brought it back behind his shoulder. This time, Salvatore swung as hard as possible, and the pink rubber Spalding rocketed off the stick and flew an entire city block. Jumping up-and-down, cheering and hollering, his teammates yelled, “Run, Sal! Run!”

  Shocked by the feat, Salvatore sprinted around the bases as quickly as his new slick shoes allowed and made it home before the other team could retrieve the ball and throw it home.

  Elated to be ahead in the game for the first time, Mikey strutted toward Salvatore proud as a peacock and grinning from ear-to-ear. Throwing his arm around him like they had been buddies for years, Mike proclaimed loudly in Italian, “Anybody who can hit like that can be my friend any day! But from now on, your new nickname is going to be ‘Sally Boy.’ Understand?”

  “Nice hit, Sally Boy.” Anthony commended his new friend as he shook his hand fast.

  Feeling immensely proud, Salvatore glanced up at Peter’s building. The boy could see his father watching them from a third floor window, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. Peter’s usually perfectly coiffed hair was slightly messed and his face revealed pillow creases from his nap.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first five years of the turbulent decade of the sixties had seen some of the most violent and radical changes in American history. A young president had been assassinated; the civil rights and counterculture movements were born; the Gemini 3 space program had launched; the Beatles led a new British invasion; and a bloody war in Indochina had broken out. The Beach Boys swept the nation, The Sound of Music was a hit at the box office, and the return of National League Baseball to New York saw the Metropolitans playing their hearts out in a new ballpark in Flushing.

  Despite the changes, the “old neighborhood” fought tooth-and-nail to maintain its cherished way of life. Arthur Avenue was still a predominantly Italian neighborhood where you didn’t have to lock your doors at night to feel safe. The egg creams were the best, kids played in the johnny-pump in the summer, and everyone instinctively understood that the sacred code of the streets governed this concrete jungle.

  The Scalise’s apartment was a rather nice two-bedroom walk-up, freshly painted a light cream with all new furniture and appliances to match, courtesy of a warehouse heist in Brooklyn. Two beige side chairs surrounded a mahogany coffee table in the living room, while mahogany end tables on both sides of the couch displayed identical lamps. The beige carpets and drapes were a nice accent and complemented the furniture. The kitchen, bedrooms, and bathroom were also decorated with the same attention to detail and appealing decor. Excellent taste was not limited to just Peter’s clothing, or his women.

  The passing years had been kind to Peter, now thirty-eight,
though his appetite for young women and late-night carousing had taken their toll. Once dark black, Peter’s hair was graying slightly at the temples and his face revealed some worry lines. A poor diet and slowing metabolism led to a tiny “beer belly,” which he sucked in whenever he saw a beautiful woman.

  Eight summers had come and gone since Salvatore’s teary-eyed departure from his grandparents’ home in Sicily. His two best friends, Mikey Delia and Anthony DiGregorio, whom he met the day he arrived from Sicily, helped ease his assimilation into New York life. The three boys were inseparable, acting more like brothers than friends, and they even managed to garner the nickname “The Three Musketeers,” from many of their neighbors. They had developed a special bond, and helped one another to celebrate or rise above the minor victories and disappointments associated with growing up on the Bronx’s mean streets.

  Though Peter wasn’t around as much as he should have been when Salvatore was growing up, he did the best he could, and more than made up for his shortcomings as a father in many other ways. At the start of each school year, Sal always had new clothes to wear. Unlike his friends, Sal was seldom without spending money. To help keep an eye on his son, Peter arranged for the kindly Italian grandmothers in the neighborhood to look after the boy. Salvatore seldom got out of line, but when he did, his misdeeds were quickly reported to his father. Peter wasted little time in disciplining him, ensuring that the behavior was rarely repeated.

  To show his appreciation, Peter handsomely rewarded the elderly women for their efforts, and they delighted in taking turns delivering trays of lasagna, veal cutlet parmagiana, meatballs, sausage, and a slew of other home-cooked Italian dishes to the Scalise’s apartment. It made the women happy to know that Sal and Peter always had wholesome, healthy food in the icebox.

  As Salvatore got older, he learned to read and write English, the value of a trusted friend, and how to fight his own battles. Peter refused to intercede on his son’s behalf, believing it would make him stronger. Sometimes Sal won, sometimes he lost, but he always faced his problems head-on, and he quickly acquired the skills and determination necessary to thrive in his new environment. Moreover, Salvatore grew from a naive, frightened boy newly off the boat to become a strapping, confident young man.

  When Sal was old enough, Peter schooled him on street etiquette, drumming into his son’s head the most important rules of all: never turn your back on a friend, never rat on a buddy, and always know when to keep your mouth shut. The culmination of Sal’s education came when Peter bestowed upon him the most valuable knowledge he possessed, right out of Peter’s own playbook from thirty years of negotiating the streets of New York: how to use your wits rather than your fists. The birds and the bees and other unimportant stuff like that, Peter just assumed Sal would figure that out on his own, like Peter had to do, when he was coming up.

  Now seventeen, Salvatore had grown and developed into a tall, handsome, well-built, young man with a powerful punch and a wealth of street smarts. One look at him could easily explain why he was so popular with the girls: thick, black, neatly combed hair, his cleft chin, soulful brown eyes, a sexy smile, and a well-defined body.

  Striding confidently into the living room, Sal wore his prized club jacket. It was black leather with a big Italian flag centered on the back. Above the flag, arranged in an arch, was the word “GOLDEN” written in gold-colored capital letters. Below the flag in a rocking-shape, also written in gold capital letters, was the word “GUINEAS.” Sal had been an active member since he was fourteen, and he was proud of his membership in one of the toughest and most feared street gangs in the Bronx.

  Lying stretched out on a comfortable beige sofa, Peter had several brown throw pillows tucked under his head as he intently watched his beloved “Bronx Bombers” trounce their arch rivals, the Boston Red Sox, on a brand new color television.

  Peering down at his father, Sal asked with a heavy Bronx accent, “Hey Pop, I’m gonna go get something to eat over at Tony’s. You want me to bring you back something or what?”

  “Nah, I wanna get some rest. I gotta keep my strength up. This young piece of ass I’m seeing is wearing me out.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Sal knocked on the wall. “I can hear everything through these walls. So which broad is it gonna be tonight, Pop? The blonde or the redhead?”

  Peter’s eyes darted up from the television onto his son. “Hey, why are you so concerned with what I’m doing, huh? Worry about yourself, wise guy.”

  “Sorry Pop. I was just trying to make conversation.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t. I like my privacy. Understand? I don’t wanna be bothered. You know, that’s the reason me and your mother never had no chance. Her pain-in-the-ass parents, may they rest in peace, was always asking me stupid fucking questions: ‘Where are you going?’ ‘What are you doing?’ If it wasn’t for the fact your mother was so beautiful, we never woulda lasted as long as we did.”

  Wincing internally at the callous remark about his beloved grandparents, Sal recalled the day he received the Western Union telegram from Signore Zeoli informing him that they had died. His Papa died less than six months after Salvatore’s emotional departure on the ship to New York, and his Mama passed away one week later, to the day. Lost forever was the innocence of his youth, and Sal remembered being angered by his father’s indifference to the tragic news.

  Keeping his promise to his grandparents, Sal treasured the picture of his mother, his Mama and Papa, and himself in front of the village church, and he never took off the crucifix they had given to him. The photograph sat on the nightstand by the head of his bed. Sometimes he would lie awake and stare at the picture, feeling sorry for the little boy in the photo, and the loss he had endured. Whenever he felt sad or alone, Sal would quietly talk to the photo of his family sharing the events of his day with them. Every evening, without fail, before he went to sleep, he would bid them a good-night.

  Without missing a beat in the conversation, Sal continued, “Hey Pop, I’ve been thinking about a lotta stuff lately.”

  “Like what?” Peter asked indifferently.

  “Mostly about you and mom, and stuff like that. You know, she never really told me that much about you and her. Can I ask you a question?”

  Annoyed, Peter responded in kind, “What?”

  “How old were you when you and mom met?”

  “I was nineteen when I met your mother. Jesus, that was back in ‘45. We got married three months later, on December 7th. Pretty smart, huh? That way I would never forget our anniversary. Marie was only seventeen when we met. God, she was the most beautiful girl I ever seen.”

  “How long was you and mom together before you left Sicily, Pop?”

  “Lemme see, I came back to the states about six months after you was born. You was a cute little guy. Madonn! You had these big fucking ears. Thank God you eventually grew into ’em. You was always smiling and you had these big brown eyes. I knew you was gonna be handsome. Just like your Pop.”

  “So what happened, Pop?”

  “What do you mean ‘what happened’?”

  “How come you didn’t, you know, take me and mom with you? Why didn’t you send for us later?”

  Peter sat up fast. “Hey, you got an awful lotta fucking questions considering I ain’t had my supper yet. What the hell are you doing home, anyways? Why ain’t you hanging out with those punk friends of yours?”

  “I’m gonna meet up with the fellas later at Frankie ‘Knuckle’s’ house.” Drawing a comb from his back pocket, Sal turned to a mirror on the wall and ran the comb through his hair. “We’re having a going away party for ‘Louie Rags.’”

  “‘Louie Rags!’” Peter laughed. “Where the fuck is that mamaluke going? The can?”

  “Nah Pop, he got drafted. He’s going to Vietnam.”

  “Vietnam, hum? Too bad.” Leaning back on the sofa, Peter scratched his head. “That fucking cidrule can barely make it home at night in this neighborhood without shittin’ his pants. How the fuc
k is he gonna survive over there?”

  Taking a seat beside his father, Sal placed his hand on his Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t know, Pop. But when they tell you, ‘you gotta go,’ you gotta go.”

  Peter firmly removed his son’s hand. “I know all about it jerk-off. How do you think I got to Sicily and met your mother, as a fucking piecea luggage?”

  “‘Piecea luggage’? That’s funny. Hey Pop, did you and mom really love each other or what?”

  “What do you mean ‘or what’?”

  “Well, did youse?”

  “Yeah, we loved each other,” Peter said softly.

  “So what happened, Pop?”

  “Why do you keep fucking asking me ‘what happened’?”

  “’Cause I wanna know.”

  “Salvatore, ain’t you got nothing better to do than break my fucking balls?”

  “C’mon Pop, I’ve been living here for nine years, and I don’t know nothing about you and mom. I just wanna know what happened.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. We got married, and things didn’t work out. What’s the big fucking mystery?”

  “Can’t you tell me nothing? Pop, please.”

  “You don’t understand, Salvatore. Sometimes things got a way of getting screwed up, even if you don’t want ’em to. Sometimes women get in the way. No matter how much you love ’em. That’s the hard truth. Some men ain’t meant to be tied down.”

  “Yeah, but Pop, mom cried all the time. I mean, she really loved you. I just don’t get it.”

  “There’s nothing to get. Someday you’ll see how things are. Every man has to figure out his own place in this world. My place was here. I had to honor my commitments! Someday you’ll understand that it’s better to be the shepherd than a sheep.”

  “What about the letters? My Mama and Papa told me about all these letters my mother sent you. Did you get ’em?”

  “I guess. I don’t remember, Salvatore. It was a long fucking time ago.”

  “How come you never answered ’em?”