Sally Boy (6 page)

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?”

“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.

* * * * *

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.