Sally Boy (7 page)

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 fuck 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?”

“That’s nonea your fucking business! Hey, I
ain’t gotta explain myself to some wet behind the ears little punk
kid like you. Understand?”

“But Pop...”

“Salvatore, don’t go fucking looking for
answers that ain’t there.”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to understand
things.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m confused.”

“Look, you’re a smart, kid. You’re getting
older. Soon you’ll be a man. Things are changing around here, and
not for the better. You gotta be careful, Salvatore. You hear what
I’m saying?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the neighborhood. It’s
fucking changing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you fucking listen to me? When I was
a kid the neighborhood was a place to be respected and protected.
Now you got spics moving in, soon it’ll be the moulanyans. After
that, this neighborhood won’t be worth shit. We gotta hold on to
what’s ours, before we ain’t got nothing left to hold on to.
Capisi?”

Understanding that this was his father’s way
of expressing his concern for him, Sal smiled. Being “old-school,”
Sal knew his father lacked the capacity to say, “I love you.” This
was very understandable considering that when Peter was young he
was disciplined by the sting of the strap whenever his father
drank, or if he stepped out of line.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Pop. I
can take carea myself.”

“What? You think that jacket makes you a
tough guy? Youse guys ain’t tough. Shit, when I was your age, I
coulda kicked all your fucking asses.”

“When you was my age, Pop?” Sal laughed at
the notion.

“You heard me.” Standing quickly, Peter
shadowboxed around the living room, throwing punches like a
seasoned pugilist. “When I was your age, I was the best fighter in
the neighborhood, and I got the most trim. I used to get laid
almost every night. Now I get a piece three or four times a week.
Only now they’re much better looking broads, so it’s a wash.”

“Hey Pop, not for nothing, but I see somea
the skirts you get. They ain’t that great,” Sal countered
glibly.

Peter stopped throwing punches and turned
toward his son. Grabbing two fistfuls of Sal’s jacket, Peter jerked
him up off the couch to his feet. The two stood nose to nose. “Not
that great, huh? Why you little fucking hump? Who do you think
you’re talking to?”

With speed and agility, Peter threw a
headlock on Sal and wrestled him down onto the floor. Lying on top
of his son, Peter squeezed Sal’s head as he futilely tried to break
free.

“C’mon, Pop! You’re gonna mess up my
hair.”

“Stop your crying, you little sissy. You’re
some fucking tough guy, huh? You can’t even get away from an old
man.”

“I could, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Peter laughed. “Ah, shut the fuck up!”

* * * * *

Strolling up to the entrance of Tony’s
Pizzeria, Sal opened the heavy glass door and stepped inside.
Tony’s was a regular haunt for the neighborhood fellas, and they
routinely gathered there after school to grab a slice, shoot the
breeze, meet up with girls, or to just hang out. If any of the guys
were ever looking for something to do, they could usually find a
familiar face there, and if they ever found themselves in a jam,
they could always find back-up.

Booths lined the walls on both sides, and
small four-tops filled the center of the dining area, leaving a
clear path from door to counter. Each table had the usual pizza
condiments in shakers neatly arranged in the center. There was a
pinball machine, a jukebox, and a cigarette machine in the corner.
Stacked pizza boxes rose from behind the counter to the ceiling,
and the four ovens ran continuously, serving up the Bronx’s best
pies. The aromas of the sauces, meats and cheeses made your mouth
water from a block away.

Sal smiled when he saw his friends Mikey
Delia and Anthony DiGregorio sitting in a corner booth, eating
slices and drinking cokes. Like Sal, they wore the colors of the
Golden Guineas. The three were initiated into the club together,
and for the past three years fought side-by-side to protect their
turf.

Regarded as the neighborhood wise-ass, Mikey
was never at a loss for words or a contrary opinion about any
subject. Irritating people was something he truly enjoyed. A young,
tough, brawler, Mikey had a chip on his shoulder the size of the
EmpireStateBuilding.

Like all the other members of the Golden
Guineas, he was the son of Italian immigrants and a product of an
unforgiving upbringing. A belligerent attitude kept Mike in
constant conflict with the people around him, and for some bizarre
reason, made him very popular with the girls. They were drawn to
his “bad-boy” demeanor. Exceptionally handsome, Mike had dark,
black hair, stunning baby blue eyes, and a muscular body.

When Mikey was ten, his mother ran off with
another man, leaving him to be raised by his abusive, alcoholic
father. With no one else to blame for his failed marriage, Mike’s
father directed his anger toward his only son. Whenever Mike’s
father tied one on, he would take out his frustrations by beating
Mikey with his belt. Even though the leather strap stung, Mikey
never cried because he was a tough little kid and he didn’t want to
give his father the satisfaction of knowing he was hurt.