The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  “My son he know how to read and write,” Cetta said proudly, with a fierce look at Fred.

  “I can read, Fred,” said Christmas, taking the envelope.

  “Of course. Forgive me. And you too, madam,” said Fred with a slight bob of his head. “It’s from Miss Ruth. If you’ll read it … Mr. Isaacson said I should make myself available to you.”

  “For what?” asked Christmas.

  “Open it,” said Cetta, eager as a child.

  Christmas opened the letter. Only a few lines, in a graceful handwriting on a sheet of pale green paper.

  “Look how pretty she write,” said Cetta. She gave Fred an embarrassed smile and looked at the letter again. “What she say?”

  Christmas lowered the letter. He was pale and emotional.

  “What she say?” Cetta repeated.

  “She wants to see me, Mamma.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Miss Ruth is not yet entirely well,” Fred explained. “She’s been released from the clinic, but the doctor has warned the family that she mustn’t get tired. She’s in the country now. If Mr. Luminita agrees, and if he has no other appointments, I would accompany him to Villa Isaacson, and then bring him back here in the afternoon. Miss Ruth’s family would be honored to have him as their guest at lunch.”

  “Mamma …?” Christmas didn’t know what to say. His eyes were wide.

  Cetta smiled at him and hugged him. “Don’t be scared, son,” she murmured into his ear. “Go, and eat for me, too.”

  “Okay,” Christmas told Fred, trying to act composed. “I guess I’ll come, then.”

  “I shall wait in the car. Take all the time you need,” said Fred. “And, madam, please do forgive the intrusion …” He bowed slightly in Cetta’s direction.

  “Yes,” said Cetta, then as soon as the driver had left, she turned on the radio. “Oh, it no work any more …” she said, hearing only the buzz.

  “The valves have to warm up, Mamma,” said Christmas.

  “You know so many things, my son,” said Cetta, holding his face between her hands, admiringly. Then music began to fill the room. Cetta took her son’s hands and began to dance, laughing.

  “I’m kind of scared, Mamma,” said Christmas.

  Cetta stopped dancing. She gave him a serious look. “Remember they can have all the money in the world, but they not better than you. When you feel embarrass, imagine they making caca.”

  Christmas laughed.

  “It work,” Cetta insisted gravely. “Nonna Tonia teach me that.”

  “Making caca?”

  “Of course. When they say something you not understand, when they act superior, you imagine they sitting on toilet, pushing out stronzo, red in face.”

  Christmas laughed again.

  “Come on, I fix your hair, come here …” Cetta hurried him into the kitchen and combed his blond hair. Then she dipped a cloth into the basin and wiped his face. With a piece of soap she scrubbed his hands and with the tip of a knife she cleaned the black from under his nails. ”Look how handsome you are, Christmas. The girls they go crazy for a boy like you,” she said proudly.

  “Even Ruth?” he asked shyly.

  Cetta’s face clouded for an instant. “Even Ruth,” she said. “But forget about rich girl, you find nice girl here in neighborhood.”

  “Mamma, how should I behave when we’re eating?”

  “How? Normale, you behave normal.”

  “How, normal?”

  “Do like they do. You look at them, then do what they do. Is easy.”

  “Okay …”

  “You no talk with mouth full and you no belch.”

  “Okay …”

  “You not say bad words.”

  “Okay.” Christmas shifted his weight. “I better go.”

  “Wait …” Cetta rushed into her room and came out with her coin purse. “Buy her flowers,” she said, handing him a dime. “Is very chic, to bring flowers.”

  “Christmas smiled at her and moved towards the door. He opened it, then closed it again. “Listen, Mamma, don’t tell people anything about this. I’ll explain later. Just say I hadda go see an important Jew, all right?”

  “Are they Jews?”

  “Yes, but …”

  Cetta spat on the floor. “Jews,” she muttered.

  “Mamma!”

  “They try to kill Sal, those Jews,” Cetta said darkly.

  “Yes, I know. But …”

  “But Ruth, she American?”

  “Sure she’s American.”

  “Ah, then I thank the blessed Savior,” said Cetta, relaxing. Then she widened her eyes, as if she’d forgotten some important detail. “Wait. Perfume. You put some of my perfume!”

  “No, Mamma, that’s for girls,” and Christmas escaped down the stairs. Santo was waiting for him in the street, along with a group of other people. The Rolls-Royce was surrounded by small boys. Fred sat impassively in the driver’s seat. When he saw Christmas, he got out of the car and opened the door.

  “Where you goin’?” asked Santo.

  “To see the big guy himself,” Christmas said loudly, so they would all hear him. “He asked me to lunch. We need to talk business.”

  People murmured.

  Christmas gave Santo the ten cents. “Go get me some flowers. Nice ones. But make it snappy.”

  Santo hurried toward the flower shop on the corner. He knew not to ask questions. He had learned the gang’s first rule: If you don’t understand right away, you will later. And even if later you don’t understand, remember there’s always a reason. When he came panting back with the bunch of flowers, he held out two cents’ change to Christmas.

  “Go get yourself a root beer,” said Christmas, tossing the money back to him. He glanced at the people standing nearby and said, “It’s sheiks that bring a lady some flowers.” At last he climbed into the car and let Fred close the door for him.

  Just then music began pouring loudly from the second floor. Christmas peered upwards. His mother’s beautiful and radiant face appeared at the window, holding the radio’s speaker in her hand, trying to show it to the people in the street. It hardly reached the window. When Cetta gave a final tug, the plug pulled out of the socket and the radio fell silent. “Shit!” cried Cetta, and Christmas saw her disappear inside.

  As the music returned, the Silver Ghost departed.

  “You got class, Fred,” said Christmas as they left Monroe Street behind.

  The driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. He took the microphone and said, “You have to speak into the microphone at your left.”

  Christmas picked up the microphone. “You got class, Fred,” he said again.

  “Thank you, sir,” smiled the driver. “Just relax, it’s rather a long drive.”

  “Where are we goin’?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey? Where’s that? Around Brooklyn?”

  “Quite the other direction. A pleasant trip.”

  Christmas felt a knot in his stomach. He took Ruth’s envelope out of his pocket. And he went back to imagining the green eyes of the girl to whom he’d sworn eternal love. He opened the envelope and read the letter again.

  Dear Christmas,

  My grandfather told me what happened in the hospital when you came to see me. I’m sorry, I don’t remember much. You saved my life, and I want to thank you in person, now that I’m better. Grandfather thought you should come here to lunch.

  Ruth Isaacson

  P.S. The radio was my idea.

  Christmas spoke into the microphone again. “Hey, Fred?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The old guy runs the whole show, right?”

  “It might be preferable for you to call him Mr. Isaacson.”

  “Okay. But anyway, he’s the one in charge, right?”

  “He is undoubtedly a man of strong personality.”

  “Yes or no, Fred?”

  “If one were to put it like that … yes.”

&nbs
p; “Right.” And Christmas leaned back in the leather seat, holding the letter, reading it over and over. After a while, he took up the microphone again. “Hey, Fred.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Do you know what ‘P.S.’ means?”

  “It is a formula for adding an afterthought to a letter.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “When one has written and signed a letter, but still wants to add something else, one writes ‘P.S.’ and then whatever it is that you wish to add.”

  “Something like, ‘Oh, I was forgetting’?”

  “Exactly.”

  Christmas looked at the letter again, concentrating on that “P.S.” in Ruth’s pretty calligraphy. He thought it was very elegant. He glanced out the window. The car was on a large elevated highway that Christmas had never seen before. The road signs were going by too quickly for Christmas to read the names of the unknown places they were passing. The speed, along with glimpses of a world so much broader than he had imagined, gave Christmas a sensation of danger. The more the panorama spread out, the more lightheaded he felt and the harder it was for him to breathe. The island of Manhattan was receding. A postcard with faded colors, framed in the rear window of the car. Then after perhaps ten minutes of speed, the car slowed down and turned off the highway. The road after the exit was even more strange. A straight road that ran between meadows and woodlands. And on the left, the sea. Blue with white foam. Different from the dark water he was used to seeing from the dock or the ferry to Coney Island. And a pale beach.

  Christmas spoke into the microphone again. “P.S., Fred.”

  “Sir?”

  “P.S.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Luminita?”

  “I mean I forgot to tell you something, Fred. So P.S., right?”

  “Ah, yes, of course. What is it, sir?”

  “Can I come up?”

  “In what sense, sir?”

  “I’d like to sit up there with you. Back here it’s like bein’ in a coffin, and I hate this microphone.”

  Fred smiled and pulled to the side of the road. Christmas jumped down and got in beside Fred. The driver looked at him. Christmas took Fred’s cap and set it on his own head. He laughed and put his feet on the dashboard. Fred overcame his first protective instinct towards the car, then smiled and started off again.

  “Hey, this is the way to travel,” Christmas exclaimed. He glanced over at the stiffly erect chauffeur. “Do ya smoke, Fred?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So why aren’t you smokin’?”

  “I am not permitted to smoke in the car.”

  “But the old guy, he smokes, right?”

  “He is my employer. And I believe I told you that it would be preferable …”

  “Sure, Fred: Mr. Isaacson. But the old guy’s not around right now. Go on, have a cigarette. Hey, you haven’t understood a thing about me, if you think what I think you’re thinkin’. I ain’t no canary.”

  “Canary, sir?”

  “Ha!” cried Christmas, slapping his thigh. “So you don’t know everything after all, Fred!” he laughed. “A canary, that’s a spy.”

  “I can’t smoke.”

  “What about me?”

  “You are Mr. Isaacson’s guest, and you may do as you please.”

  “Okay, Fred, then gimme a cigarette.”

  “They are in the glove compartment that you are soiling with your shoes.”

  Christmas dropped his feet, opened the glove compartment, took out a cigarette, and lit it. “That’s awful!” he said, between coughing fits. He closed the compartment, cleaned it with his jacket elbow, and put his feet back up. Finally he stuck the cigarette in Fred’s mouth. “Just for the record, I’m the one smokin’ it,” he said.

  Fred seemed to have turned to stone for a few seconds. “Oh, what the hell,” he said, accelerating, launching the car down a wide road that wound through a deep green countryside.

  “This is what you call travelin’!” Christmas shouted out the window.

  After about twenty minutes, the car turned down a dirt road and stopped at an iron gate. A uniformed man came out of a guardhouse and opened the gate. As the car came down the tree-lined path, Christmas’ mouth hung open.

  “How many people live here?” he gasped in front of the huge white villa.

  “Mr. Isaacson, his son, his daughter-in-law, and Miss Ruth. And the staff, of course.”

  Christmas got out of the car. He had never seen such a beautiful place. He looked at Fred in dismay.

  “So you accepted the invitation. That’s good. I’m glad to see you, boy,” said a voice behind him.

  Christmas turned at met Saul Isaacson’s bright eyes. The old man was wearing corduroy trousers and a hunting jacket. He came up to Christmas and shook his hand, smiling.

  “My Ruth has been home for a week now,” he said. “She’s strong, like her grandpa.”

  Christmas didn’t know what to say. A foolish smile seemed imprinted on his face. Again he looked at Fred.

  “I imagine you would like to see her,” the old man said.

  Christmas reached his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded scrap of newspaper. “That’s him,” he said, pointing to the name in the headline. “William Hofflund.”

  The old man scowled. “Put that away,” he said in a harsh tone.

  “That’s the bastard,” said Christmas.

  “Put it away,” the old gentleman repeated. “And don’t say a word to Ruth about it. She’s still upset. I don’t want you talking about it,” and he poked the cane against Christmas’ chest. “Do you understand that, boy?”

  Christmas shifted the cane with his arm, meeting the old man’s gaze. Suddenly he wasn’t afraid or worried any more. ”If you don’t care about getting him, I’m gonna do it.”

  The old man frowned at him for a moment, eyebrows knitted over fiery eyes. Then he laughed. “I like you, boy. You’ve got balls,” he said. But immediately he was serious again, and once more he poked the cane into Christmas’ chest. “You are not to mention it to Ruth. Not a word, understand?”

  “I understand. But quit doin’ that with the cane.”

  Slowly the old man lowered the cane. His proud head moved almost imperceptibly up and down, in a reiterated sign of agreement. “We’ll get him,” he said softly, coming nearer. “I’ve got many friends in the police department, influential friends. And I’ve offered a thousand dollar reward for that son of a bitch.”

  “William Hofflund,” said Christmas.

  “Yes. William Hofflund. Bill.”

  The two lingered together, gazing into one another’s eyes, as if they had known each other forever, as if they weren’t separated by sixty years and several million dollars.

  “Get rid of that newspaper, please,” the old man said again.

  Christmas folded it and put it deep in his pocket. “Where’s Ruth?” he asked.

  The old man smiled and beckoned Christmas along a gravel path with carefully trimmed boxwood hedges on either side. They reached a huge oak tree, and the old man pointed his cane towards the back of a white lounge chair and a low bamboo table.

  “Ruth,” he called. “Look who came to see us!”

  The first thing Christmas saw was a bandaged hand resting on the arm of the chair. And then a torrent of dark curls surging over the back of the chair.

  And then Ruth’s green eyes, sparkling as she swept back her hair.

  16

  New Jersey, 1922

  “Hi,” said Christmas.

  “Hi,” said Ruth.

  Then they fell silent, looking at one another, Christmas standing, not knowing what to do with his hands until at last he jammed them into his pockets. Ruth sitting, with a dark cashmere throw over her legs and two fashion magazines in her lap, “Vogue” and “Vanity Fair.”

  “Well,” said Saul Isaacson, “you children will want to talk among yourselves.” He gazed lovingly at Ruth, probing her reaction. “All right?” he ad
ded softly, smiling at her.

  Ruth nodded.

  The old man stroked his granddaughter’s hair and turned back down the path, giving rhythmic whacks of his cane to the box hedges as he passed. “Soon we’ll have lunch,” he announced without looking back.

  “He must keep that cane for a weapon, ‘cause he almost never leans on it,” said Christmas.

  Ruth gave a faint smile, involving nothing but her lips. She looked down.

  “It’s nice here,” said Christmas, balancing first on one foot, then the other.

  “Sit down,” said Ruth.

  Christmas glanced around and saw a wood and wrought iron bench about ten steps away. He strolled over to it and sat down. There was a copy of the New York Post on the bench. Ruth turned her head to look at Christmas. She gave an embarrassed smile. Then she slipped her bandaged hand under the cashmere throw.

  “How are you?” Christmas asked, keeping his voice deliberately low.

  “What?” asked Ruth.

  Christmas rolled the Post into a tube and spoke into it, like a megaphone. “How are you?”

  Ruth smiled. “Fine,” she said.

  “I can’t hear you,” said Christmas, still speaking through the tube of newspaper. “You need a megaphone.”

  Ruth laughed and rolled up Vanity Fair. “Fine,” she said again.

  Christmas stood up and came closer to Ruth. He placed the newspaper on the grass and sat on it, next to her chair. Ruth’s eyes were more intensely green than he’d remembered. Her face was still marked. Two violet bruises next to her nose. A pale scar on her upper lip. She was much more beautiful than he had imagined under the blood.

  “The radio — it’s just the best,” said Christmas.

  Ruth smiled and dropped her gaze again.

  “Where I live, nobody’s got one,” Christmas went on.

  Ruth fiddled with the cover of Vanity Fair.

  “It’s even got tubes,” said Christmas. “Did you know they have to warm up before you can hear anything?”

  Ruth nodded, without looking at him.

  “Thanks,” said Christmas.

  Ruth pressed her lips together, eyes lowered. She could hardly remember anything about this boy. Only his name, that funny name. And his arms, cradling her all the way to the hospital. His voice that had shouted her name as they lifted her onto the stretcher. But she hadn’t remembered what he looked like. She hadn’t known he had such blond hair, with a lock that fell over his pitch-black eyes. She hadn’t remembered his clear and open look, almost a bold look. Nor his expressive smile. Ruth blushed. She remembered almost nothing, but she knew that this boy knew: He knew what had happened to her. And she was sure that even now he didn’t see her as what she was, but for what she’d been, how she’d been when he found her. And so he knew … he also knew that she …