Sally Boy (3 page)

An old postman, whose uniform was as ancient
and fatigued as he, trudged up a dirt path to the home of the
Cogassi family. With his heavy bag shouldered, he made his way up
the rickety steps onto the porch. Mustering the strength to rap on
the front door, he knocked three times. The creaking door slowly
opened. Appearing from behind the weathered door and stepping out
onto the porch was Dominick Cogassi.

Despite his advanced age, Cogassi was quite
a distinguished looking gentleman. His thinning gray hair was
parted on the side and neatly combed. Though furrowed and wrinkled,
Cogassi’s face still suggested the vibrant good looks of his youth.
His once strong body was now ravaged by age, and riddled with
arthritis, causing him to walk slightly hunched. Although his
clothes were frayed and shoes were worn, they were neat and clean.
Antoinette, his adored wife of fifty-plus years, kept his garments
in as fine a condition as possible.

The Cogassi’s home was a simple two-bedroom
cottage in desperate need of a coat of paint, and the repair of a
leaky roof. A well in the overgrown front yard yielded clean
drinking water, and an antiquated outhouse provided relief from
nature’s callings. All the family’s meals were prepared by Signora
Cogassi on a wood-burning stove in the kitchen that also served as
their sole source of heat during the winter months. The furniture,
like everything else they owned, required constant mending.
Stuffing was coming out of the sofa, old broken kitchen chairs were
bound together with rope, cabinet doors hung open due to missing
screws, and the warped wooden flooring was lifting throughout the
house.

A short hefty fellow, the postman, had a
round face, bloodshot eyes, and a red bulbous nose, evidence of a
passion for wine. “Good morning, Signore Cogassi.”

“Good morning to you, Signore Pesci.”

“I have an interesting piece of
correspondence for you this morning.”

“What might that be?”

“It’s a certified letter from America. I
need you to sign for it before I can give it to you,” the postman
stated enthusiastically.

“A certified letter from America,” Cogassi
muttered, scratching his head.

“That’s right.”

After scrutinizing the return address
written in English, Cogassi signed the postman’s receipt and took
the letter. “Thank you.”

Tucking the receipt securely into his
pocket, the postman stared at the letter still clutched in
Cogassi’s hand. “Well, aren’t you going to open it? It’s a
certified letter from America.”

“I know. You’ve told me that already.”

“I didn’t know that you knew anyone in
America, Signore Cogassi.”

“I don’t, Signore Pesci.”

“Then that’s all the more reason why you
should open it. I know if I received a certified letter from
America I wouldn’t be able to open it fast enough. Even though I
can’t read English, like you or your lovely wife. Aren’t you even
the least bit curious about the letter?”

“Not really. I have many pressing chores to
attend to. Perhaps, I’ll open it tomorrow.”

“You don’t want to at least take a peek at
it?”

Well aware of the postman’s appetite for
gossip, Cogassi shrewdly concocted a plot to distract the busybody
from his interrogation. “Signore Pesci, how have you been feeling
lately? Are you well?”

“I feel fine. Why do you ask?” the postman
replied defensively.

“I can see in your tired eyes the strain of
your demanding job. Your bag certainly does look much heavier today
than most days. You must have many more stops to make today than
usual.”

“I do have a lot of deliveries today. And
come to think of it, I am feeling a little tired. You know, without
me, everyone in our village would be cut off from the rest of the
world. People don’t realize how much they depend on me,” the
postman declared emphatically.

“I understand, and I most definitely agree.
You certainly do have a great deal of responsibility and I know
that many people are waiting for their correspondence. As much as I
enjoy talking with you, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your
important duties. So I’ll say good day to you, Signore Pesci, and
let you finish your work.”

“Thank you, Signore Cogassi. You are a very
kind man. Good day to you.”

Stepping off the porch, the postman
confidently waddled back down the beaten trail to complete his
appointed rounds. Easing down onto a wooden chair, Cogassi drew his
glasses from his coat pocket, and carefully placed them on his
nose. Though weary from his morning chores, he could hardly contain
his excitement. “Who could be writing me from America?” Cogassi
asked himself aloud.

During the war, it was imperative for
Cogassi and his wife to acquire a better than rudimentary
understanding of the English language. With all the chaos and
disorder in Sicily after the Allied invasion, anyone who could
communicate and barter with the occupying forces for food and other
necessities would be better able to provide for their family.

The return address read: “Law Offices of
Gutstein & Gutstein, 429 Park Ave., New York, New York.”
Cogassi thought, This letter must be very important if lawyers are
writing to me from America. But why would lawyers from America
write me?

With the eagerness of a child on his
birthday, Cogassi tore open the letter. Something fell out of the
envelope and dropped down onto his lap. “What is this?” Cogassi
asked as he snatched up the official looking stub, and examined it
closely. “A ticket to New York!”

Intrigued, he now removed the letter from
the envelope and read. All at once, the answers to Cogassi’s
questions were revealed, and a nightmare from his past that he
believed had long since ended began anew. The correspondence in his
trembling hands was from the man whom he despised more than
Mussolini: the American soldier who had married Cogassi’s only
daughter nine years earlier. The man the Cogassi Family believed
was deceased, because after returning to America alone eight years
ago, he hadn’t sent for his wife and son though he had vowed to do
so once he got settled in the states. Moreover, the G.I.’s failure
to respond to any of the dozens of letters Marie had sent to him
over the next several years only confirmed their assumption of his
death.

Although the official cause of Marie’s
demise was influenza, Cogassi blamed this wretched individual for
his daughter’s untimely passing two years ago at the age of
twenty-five. Convinced that his beloved daughter had died of a
broken heart, Cogassi believed that it was brought on by an
unfulfilled promise and unrequited love.

Though he had forbidden anyone to speak this
man’s name aloud, Cogassi broke his own decree: “Peter Scalise,” he
grumbled hatefully, then turned his head and spat on the
ground.

Cogassi could manage only to call out
faintly for his wife. “Mama, he wants to take our grandson!” Using
all of the strength left in his tired body, Cogassi rose from the
chair. Urgently he made his way in the front door, through the
living room, and into the kitchen where his wife was preparing
breakfast.

In a hurried and excited voice he announced,
“Mama...” he wheezed, “...that son-of-a-bitch wants to take...”
Cogassi clutched his chest with one hand and steadied himself by
grasping the counter with the other as he tried to catch his
breath. The shock of the letter and a failing heart were almost too
much for him.

In her younger days, Antoinette Cogassi was
the embodiment of classic Italian beauty with long, lustrous black
hair, enchanting dark eyes, and smooth, supple skin. Now she showed
decline from years of hardship, oppression, and war. Shocked by her
husband’s use of profanity, Mama insisted sharply, “What’s wrong,
Papa! What is happening that has you so out of sorts this
early?”

With an unsteady hand, Cogassi dropped the
letter down onto the counter. “Read, Mama.”

Mama’s face drew ghostly pale. “What’s
wrong, Papa? You’re frightening me.”

“Read, please,” Cogassi muttered softly and
then fell despondently into a kitchen chair.

“Wait a moment,” Mama replied nervously as
she fumbled for her glasses. “I have to put on my reading glasses
first.” Unfolding the letter, she quickly looked it over. “This
letter is written in English. Where did it come from, Papa?”

“Please, just read the letter.”

“All right, Papa!” Mama silently read the
letter.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cogassi:

“This letter is to inform you that our
client, Mr. Peter A. Scalise, is filing a petition seeking sole
custody of his son, Salvatore Scalise. Due to the fact that
Salvatore’s mother, Marie Scalise, has passed away. Mr. Scalise
wants his son to live with him in America. It is Mr. Scalise’s
contention that Salvatore would have a better life and more
opportunities in America than he would in his current place of
residence.

“You may feel compelled to contest this
request in court. However, Mr. Scalise wants us to inform you that
he feels such action would be an egregious error. Mr. Scalise has
sent along a ticket for Salvatore’s passage on a ship to New York
that is scheduled to depart from the Palermo harbor on May 30th. He
feels that three days is adequate time for you to make the
necessary preparations. Mr. Scalise has also contacted several of
his business associates in Palermo and enlisted their services to
observe this situation.

“In closing, Mr. Scalise wanted us to
strongly remind you of the dire consequences you would face if you
refused to adhere to his wishes. In fact, Mr. Scalise is prepared
to come to Sicily and retrieve his son if he isn’t on the ship. An
inconvenience that Mr. Scalise believes the two of you should
avoid.

“Cordially yours,

“David Gutstein Esq.”

As she finished the letter, Mama’s stressed
face slowly wilted like a rose on a bitter winter day. “Oh my God!
This can’t be true!” she shrieked like a frightened little girl.
“How can he still be alive after all this time? How can this
abandoner want to take our only reason for living, after all the
grief he has brought to our family?”

Cogassi sat slumped over with his head
hanging down by his knees. “Mama, you must tell him. I cannot do
it. How can I find the words to tell him when I do not understand
myself how this can be happening?” he requested in a low,
beseeching tone.

“Papa, why do we have to tell him now? Why
upset him before he’s had his breakfast. Can’t we just tell him
later?”

“No! Tell him now. He deserves to know now,
and we don’t have much time to get things in order.”

“But Papa...”

“Please! Let’s just get this over with
now.”

Taking several deep breaths to collect her
thoughts, Mama called out sheepishly to her grandson playing in the
other room, “Salvatore, please come here. We need to talk to
you.”

“Coming, Mama,” A sweet adolescent voice
respectfully responded from the bedroom.

Gliding into the kitchen came Salvatore, a
handsome nine-year-old boy with big brown, shining eyes, neatly
combed black hair, and a thin, athletic body. He wore clean
hand-me-down clothes and worn but well-maintained shoes. “Is
breakfast ready yet? I’m very hungry,” he inquired politely.

“Sit down, my love. I need to talk to you.”
Mama pulled out her grandson’s usual chair at the table.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” the boy asked as he
hopped up into his seat.

“Nothing’s wrong, my love.” Forcing a smile,
Mama explained, “Salvatore, we have good news for you. What we have
to tell you may come as a bit of a shock, so I want you to listen
carefully to what I have to say. All right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Papa and I really don’t know the best way
to tell you this, so we’ll just tell you the best we can. We know
that you are a big boy now and you will understand.” Sharing a look
of anguish with her husband Mama continued. “Your father...” She
cleared her throat. “...your father wrote us and he wants you to go
to America to live with him.”

“My father?” Salvatore cried out in
disbelief.

“Yes, I know we told you that your father
was dead. I’m so sorry, my prince. We told you that because we
believed it was so. He was supposed to send for you and your mother
many years ago, but he never did. Your mother sent him many
letters, but he never answered any of them. What else could we
believe? But now, we know he is alive, and he wants you to live
with him in America. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“No! I won’t go! I want to stay here with
you and Papa. My father is dead.”

“Your father isn’t dead,” Mama repeated
sternly. “He sent you a ticket to America. You will be traveling on
a big boat to New York in three days to live with him. You’ve
always wanted to go on a big boat. Doesn’t that sound like
fun?”

“No! You can’t make me go.” In protest,
Salvatore slapped his plate off the table.

Picking up the plate, Mama gently placed it
back on the table. “I’m so sorry, my prince. But we have no
choice.”

“Why? Why do I have to go, Mama?”

“Because he is your father, he is alive, and
a boy should be with his father. Salvatore, you will understand
everything when you are older. There will be many children your age
to play with, the schools will teach you English, and you’ll have
many opportunities. Many more than you would have here with us.
Trust your Mama and Papa? You’ll see.”

Salvatore’s lower lip quivered and he
labored to speak. “You don’t love me anymore? What did I do? I’m
sorry, Mama! I’ll be good! I promise.”

Mama gasped loudly. “Oh no, my love! Of
course, we love you, with all of our hearts. We’ll always love you.
You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why are you sending me away? Why do
you want me to go?”

One tear, then another, gently fell from
Mama’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. “We don’t want you to go. We
never want you to leave us. We want you to stay here and live with
us forever.”