The Boy Who Granted Dreams

  Sal’s arms were crossed behind his head as he stared at the low ceiling stained with damp. The summer was pitiless. The air was stifling, there in the room where Tonia and Vito had lived out their last years. Now it was Cetta’s place. The old double bed creaked whenever they shifted. Sal was sweaty. His undershirt was soaking wet.

  Cetta got up, dipped a cloth in the washbasin, and began slowly to pass it over Sal’s skin. Sal closed his eyes. Cetta stroked the cool cloth against the hollow of his throat, under his chin, across his stubbly cheeks, and his forehead. Then down his arms, his armpits. She lifted his undershirt and sponged his stomach and his chest. She dropped the cloth back into the basin and began to undo his trousers. Sal opened his eyes.

  “Let me,” said Cetta.

  She took off his shoes, slid his pants down, unfastened his garters and pulled off his socks. She squeezed the wet cloth and began to wash, and cool his feet. She moved it up his legs to the backs of his knees, along his heavy thighs, first along the outer sides and then, sensually, inside, all the way to his groin. Cetta replaced the washcloth in the basin and delicately began to pull down his underpants.

  Sal reached out his hand to stop her.

  “It so hot,” Cetta murmured. “I make you cool.”

  He let go of her hand.

  Cetta began to ease his underpants off, uncovering Sal’s thick dark penis. She dropped the garment on the floor and took up the wet cloth again. She pressed it gently around his huge round testicles and then smoothed it against his penis, looking at it. At last she bent her head and took it between her lips, kissing it.

  Sal jumped up and yanked her hair violently, lifting her head. Angrily he pushed her away from him. Cetta fell off the bed.

  “I said no!” shouted Sal.

  “Why?” asked Cetta, laying her hand on his foot.

  Sal jerked his leg away, annoyed. “You don’t get it yet, huh, dummy?”

  Cetta watched him silently, then got up from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. Again she reached out her hand and stroked his foot. And again Sal jerked it away. He gave her a baleful stare.

  “You don’t …” Cetta began, searching for the words. “You can’t … do?”

  Sal leaned forward and jabbed his finger in her face. “I can be nice to you or I can treat you rough,” his deep voice was a menacing growl. “So decide which way you want it. Get what I’m sayin’?”

  Cetta didn’t move.

  “If ever I find out you told anybody,” growled Sal, “your corpse is gonna turn up in the East River.”

  Cetta moved her hand slowly, without looking away from Sal. She took hold of his finger and lowered it out of her face. “Is my fault?” she asked.

  “Naw.”

  “You do with other girls?”

  “Naw.”

  “You never … did?”

  “Never.”

  Cetta leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

  Sal pushed her away.

  “Is first time I do that,” said Cetta, eyes cast down, blushing. “I never kiss nobody before.”

  “Fine, now you got that outa the way,” muttered Sal, falling back into the old bed’s squeaky embrace.

  “I’m no kiss nobody else, never,” said Cetta.

  “I never asked you not to.”

  Cetta drew closer to Sal and curled against his shoulder again. “I make promise. I swear.”

  “You don’t gotta swear.”

  Cetta took his hand, caressing it for a while. “I want wash you hands,” she said.

  “No.”

  Cetta went on stroking his strong hand, silently. She brought it to her lips and kissed it. And then she put it against her face, pressing it. “Why?” she asked.

  “Bad luck,” said Sal.

  Cetta tapped her fist against his chest in little blows.

  “And anyway, I like foolin’ around with cars — engines and stuff,” Sal added. “So it ain’t no use washin’ ’em clean, I’d get ’em dirty right away.”

  Cetta smiled slightly and put her arms around his broad chest. “Why, Sal?”

  Sal sighed. He retrieved his dead half-cigar from the nightstand and put it in his mouth. “When I was about the same age as you, they got me,” he began, slowly. “A robbery gone bad. I ain’t no world class robber, not back then leastways,” and Sal laughed softly.

  Cetta felt the deep notes vibrate in his chest, tingling in her ear. And she knew that Sal never laughed.

  “Okay, so now I’m in da klink,” Sal went on. “They put ink on my fingers with some kinda roller, and printed me, see? And while they was doin’ it, they kept on laughin’ at me. Laughin’ at my dirty hands. And when my mother come to visit, first thing she saw was them dirty hands, and she started to cry. At night I scraped my fingers on the wall of the cell, but I couldn’t never get ’em clean. That ink had went all up under my skin.”

  Cetta went on stroking the blackened hand. She kissed it silently, and then placed it under her left breast, there where her heart was beating.

  “In stir, that’s where I learned to be a grease monkey,” Sal smiled. “Back then I didn’t give a fuck about cars. But one day, out in the yard, I seen a guy wit’ hands so black it’d make you sick. He was a mechanic, see. I got ’em to put me in the repair shop, too. And every night when I got in my bunk, I’d look at my hands, and I figured if they ever caught me again, they couldn’t make ’em no dirtier than I already was. And if my mother got used to seein’ me with black hands, maybe she’d quit breakin’ my balls when she come to visit …” Sal paused, held his hand up in front of his eyes and looked at it. “Ever since I let ’em stay dirty, the cops ain’t never got hold o’ me.” He laughed. “So that’s why I gotta think washin’ em is bad luck.”

  Cetta rose up on one elbow, then leaned towards Sal’s mouth, removed the cigar and kissed him.

  “Yeah, well, try not t’get too clingy, kiddo,” said Sal.

  Cetta laughed, replaced the cigar, and lay against his chest again.

  “When do they bring the ballbreakin’ snottynose pisser back?” asked Sal.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Now,” sighed Cetta, with an embarrassed smile, getting up from the bed. She pulled on a bathrobe and went to the door. With her hand on the doorknob she turned back towards Sal, who was calmly getting dressed, “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Sal shrugged his shoulders, not looking at her, and lit his cigar.

  Cetta looked down, mortified. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Okay, you already said it,” grumbled Sal, pulling his pants on.

  The knocking came again. Cetta opened the door. A fat woman was holding Christmas in her arms. Two other children were attached to her skirt, one of them five, one of them six; both of them fat like their mother.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sciacca,” said Cetta, taking Christmas into her own arms.

  The woman tried to peep around them into the room. “The bambino he’s much work for me,” she said, “and you work all the time, bad hours …”

  Cetta looked at her. Since Tonia and Vito had died, Cetta had been entrusting Christmas to Mrs. Sciacca, who lived with her husband and four children on the floor above, in an apartment with a window. Cetta paid her a dollar every week. “You can’t keep him any more?” she asked.

  “I no say I can’t, is only your hours, they bad …” whined Mrs. Sciacca.

  “She can’t do nothin’ about the hours she gotta work. Them’s the hours she works,” Sal interrupted, appearing at the door in undershirt and trousers. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled off a five-dollar bill and handed it to the woman. “Take it,” he said, giving her a hard look. “And tell your husband I said hello. He’s a good guy.”

  The fat woman blanched, took the money and nodded.

  “Take good care of the snotnose,” Sal said. “You know how kids is, that age, they can get hurt real easy. I wouldn’t want to worry about that happenin’.”
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  Mrs. Sciacca, ever more pallid, tried to smile. “No no, you no worry, I take good care, Mr. Tropea,” she said. “My family, me, we love this bambino.” She aimed a vague slap at her nearest child. “Tell Mr. Tropea, eh? Tell him you love Christmas! Say it!” The children scuttled behind her ample skirts, whimpering.

  Sal closed the door. He went over to the chair where he’d left his white shirt with short sleeves and put it on. He pulled up his suspenders and fastened his holster.

  Cetta hugged Christmas. He smiled happily. She kissed his cheek. But she kept her eyes on Sal, so big and ugly. And she remembered when she had seen him for the first time, when she had hardly set foot in America, in the office of the lawyer who had plucked her from Ellis Island and had wanted to take her baby away from her. “They no want you,” she murmured into Christmas’ ear. She felt a surge of emotion.

  “So, today’s you birthday, pisser,” said Sal, clumsily setting a rag doll on the table. It was dressed in a Yankees baseball uniform with a large number “3” on the shirt and a little wooden bat in its hand.

  Cetta felt as though she’d been hit in the stomach. For an instant she was afraid she might drop Christmas. She gritted her teeth, her face contracted in something like pain. Then an unexpected sob, like an explosion, made her tremble at first, then quake violently, as tears flooded her eyes. Christmas’ little hands were resting on her wet cheeks. The child put his fingers in his mouth, grimaced as he tasted the salt and began to cry.

  Sal looked at them, shook his head, and finished dressing.

  Cetta picked up the doll and, still weeping, waved it in front of Christmas. She set it on the bed and traced the number with her finger. “Three,” she said. “See? Three, like how old you are.”

  “A couple of real complainers,” said Sal, opening the door.

  Cetta looked at him and burst out laughing, her cheeks still streaked with tears, as Christmas whacked the doll on the bed.

  “Don’t get no funny ideas in your head,” said Sal. “There ain’t nothin’ between us.”

  “I know that, Sal,” laughed Cetta, watching the closing door. “I know.”

  15

  Manhattan-New Jersey, 1922

  When, at mid-morning, the gleaming gray Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost pulled up a second time in front of 320 Monroe Street, it was clear to everybody that Christmas Luminita, despite his youth, was really a big shot.

  A crowd of the curious followed the chauffeur up the stairs of the building. There were some who wanted to know if the car belonged to Rothstein; some who wondered what was in the large package the chauffeur was carrying; and still others who tried to snatch the letter addressed to Christmas out of the driver’s pocket. He, however, remained professionally mute and composed. He set down the package at the door of the apartment where Cetta and Christmas Luminita lived and knocked discreetly. He waited a few seconds and knocked again. Nothing.

  Santo shoved his way to the door. “Christmas! Christmas!” he shouted, knocking exuberantly. ”Open up, Christmas!”

  “What’s got into you, Santo?” Christmas stood in the open doorway, in an undershirt and underpants, his fair hair rumpled from sleep.

  “Christmas! You make too much noise!” Cetta cried out in protest from the bedroom. A door slammed.

  Christmas stared in stupefaction at the driver, who had picked up the package again.

  “It’s Fred, Mr. Luminita,” said the chauffeur.

  “Sure, sure …” said Christmas, still dazed. “Hi, Fred.”

  “I have been sent by Mister …”

  “Okay, okay, hold it. No names. No need, right? We both know who sent ya. Come on inside, too many ears out here,” and he pulled him into the apartment, quickly shutting the door.

  Santo who had taken a step forward, expecting to come inside, found himself with his nose a few inches from the closed door. He blushed with shame. The door re-opened immediately. Christmas’ hand grasped his arm and drew him inside. Then the door opened a third time, and Christmas leaned out. “Get lost!” he shouted to the onlookers.

  “Do you have electrical current?” asked Fred, standing in the kitchen , which was also Christmas’ bedroom, looking around uneasily.

  “Sure, we got electricity, what do you think?” Christmas spoke proudly, planting his fists on his hips.

  “Christmas, for mercy’s sake, keep quiet!” Cetta shouted from her room.

  “My mother,” said Christmas, indicating the closed door with a thrust of his chin. “She works in a nightclub.”

  Fred gazed at him impassibly and then said, “Would you prefer to have some time to get dressed, Mr. Luminita?”

  “What?” Christmas glanced down at his underpants, embarrassed.

  Santo guffawed.

  “Christmas!” shouted Cetta again.

  Christmas ducked his head, like any scolded child. “Yeah, I guess I better,” he murmured. “Santo, take him in the parlor.” He dressed quickly, dipped his fingers into the basin of icy water, shivered, and rejoined the other two in the little room that Cetta pompously called the parlor. “We got a window, too,” he said, proudly indicating the apartment’s best feature.

  “So I see, sir,” said Fred.

  “Okay, let’s get down to business. What’s goin’ on, Fred?”

  “May I use names?” asked the driver with a glance at Santo.

  “Better not.”

  “That way, if they put the screws to me, I can’t spill the beans,” said Santo proudly, leaning back with his hands in his pockets.

  “Quite so,” said Fred, as always impassive, with a grave nod. “Very well. You know who … has sent you a gift,” he told Christmas, holding out the package.

  “The old guy?”

  “Ah … indeed. The old guy,” Fred agreed, with a certain reluctance to utter that appellation.

  Christmas tore off the wrappings. Inside was a radio. With a shiny black funnel-shaped speaker made of Bakelite. A metal plaque, fastened by two screws to the sides of the radio from which six valves protruded, said in gray letters, “Radiola,” and right underneath that, “Long Distance Radio Concert Amplifier — Model AA485,” and lower yet, “RCA — Radio Corporation of America.”

  “Wow,” said Christmas.

  “It’s a radio!” exclaimed Santo.

  “I know it’s a radio,” said Christmas. He began turning the knobs at random, “Does it work?” he asked Fred.

  “It’s supposed to,” said the driver. “May I?” He looked around, found the electrical outlet and inserted the plug. Then he turned one of the knobs. The two boys strained to listen as the radio emitted a low buzzing. “The valves have to warm up,” Fred explained.

  “It’s even got valves,” Christmas told Santo.

  Santo gave an admiring grin.

  Then, after a few minutes, the buzzing died down and they began to hear a croaking voice.

  “Last February President Harding installed a radio at the White House,” said Fred. “You turn this knob to choose the station,” and he set the dial to a musical program.

  Christmas and Santo stared at it, open-mouthed.

  “This other knob is the volume,” Fred continued his explanation. “But I imagine that for the moment you prefer to keep it low. For your mother, I mean …”

  Christmas ran to the room where Cetta was sleeping. He burst through the door without knocking, into the windowless dark. “Mamma! Mamma! Come quick!” Then he ran back into the parlor, more excited than before. “Mamma!” he called again. “Turn up the volume as loud as it’ll go,” he told Fred.

  “That hardly seems approp-”

  “Like this?” Christmas grabbed the knob and turned it as far as possible, precisely when Cetta — mindful of the other morning when he had awakened her to help the wounded girl — hurried into the room with a worried expression. “Look, Mamma, a radio!” Christmas shouted above the music.

  Cetta looked bewildered now. When she saw the liveried chauffeur she wrapped her dressing gown more
closely around herself, then whirled past him like a Fury, lunged for the radio and turned it off. “Where this come from?” she asked. “So — is true what they say in the neighborhood. You steal this? You get in trouble?”

  “No, Mamma, no. It’s a present.”

  “Who give you present?” Cetta’s eyes gleamed darkly. She turned to the driver. “Who are you?” she asked aggressively.

  “I regret the intrusion, madam. Had I known that you worked in a nightclub, I would have come later …” Fred began.

  “Who are you?” Cetta advanced on him.

  “Wait, wait, Mamma. Be quiet, Fred,” he said, pointing a finger at the driver. He took Santo by the arm and hurried him to the door. “This is family stuff,” he said easing him outside and closing the door again.

  “My son, he’s in some kind of trouble?” Cetta persisted, with a dark look at Fred.

  “No, madam, not at all, I can assure you of that,” said Fred. He turned to Christmas. “Perhaps you should tell your mother everything.”

  “What you need to tell me?”

  “I haven’t done anything bad, Mamma. You tell her, Fred.”

  “Mr. Saul Isaacson,” the driver began, imperturbable, “wishes to thank Mr. Luminita for having rescued his granddaughter …”

  “He means Ruth, Mamma. You remember …”

  “That poor little girl! How is she?” Cetta asked gently.

  “Much better, madam, thank you.”

  “I’m not in trouble, Mamma, don’t worry.”

  “I know,” and Cetta hugged him, stroking his blond hair. She took his face between her hands and smiled at him. “A radio!” she exclaimed. “The only one in whole neighborhood, nobody have one!” And she laughed like a girl.

  “I was to give you this, too” Fred interrupted, hesitating an instant before handing Christmas the letter from his pocket. “If you like, I can–”