Long Lost

Anthony Boscorelli, the man who Bosco had believed to be his father for his entire life, the man who Rose had admitted was not his biological father, the man who had hurt and beaten my husband as a child, stood on our front doorstep, looking strangely disturbed.

And if he was disturbed, it was nothing compared to the disbelief that surely was written across Bosco's face, and although I could only see him from behind, I saw from the way he tightened his posture that he was affected. His whole body stiffened and he clenched his fists at the sight of the man who was responsible for so much. Even after all of those years, Bosco still thought about him as his father and he still got angry the minute he laid eyes on the man.

This man, this piece of human waste, had hurt my husband in ways that he had never recovered from. As a child, Bosco was subjected to slaps and kicks and punches and curse words that were too terrible to repeat, used and abused, thrown around like he was a piece of trash. I hated the man who had made Bosco question his own identity, his own sense of self worth. He was the reason that my husband made it his personal mission in life to help victims of domestic abuse, the reason that he still blamed himself for allowing Anthony to beat his mother. The reason why he still woke up, drenched in sweat, with nightmares at night, even at fifty-seven years old.

And if I hated him, I could only imagine the disgust and anger that my beloved must have felt when he opened the door. I dropped my beach bag to the hardwood floor and walked up beside Bosco and put my arm around his waste protectively. He put his free arm around my shoulders and I could feel him trembling.

He didn't say a word, but I could tell that he was gritting his teeth. His eyes were wide and hurt looking, as they always got when he saw Anthony or talked about him, which wasn't often. He kept his face tight and looked with no emotion whatsoever at the man he once called 'dad'.

' What do you want?' He said coldly.

The man who stood before us was only a shell of what he used to be. The Anthony I remembered was over six feet tall, bulky and surly looking. A hulk of a man, who had no more sympathy for his own family than he had for a total stranger. In fact, I'm sure a stranger would have been treated better. But time had not been kind to this man.

He was at least in his late seventies, no longer tall and strong. He still wore his characteristic seventies style brown leather jacket that reached below his waist and wore a gray turtleneck sweater and black pants. His once full head of hair had thinned considerably and was now a shock of white. His skin, however, was tanned and leathery, with deep lines across his forehead and under his eyes. He must have been spending a lot of time outside. With that jacket on, he must have been sweltering under there. It was July and hot as hell outside...but what did I care?

He leaned on a black walking cane and reached up to wipe some sweat from his brow. He swallowed, as if to fortify himself. I looked over his shoulder and saw a yellow cab parked in our driveway. It was still running, it's grouchy looking driver, waiting.

' Maurice...can I speak with you?' He asked sincerely, his eyes darting over to me to see what my reaction to him would be. ' Hello Faith.' He added. I didn't answer. I was too busy getting over the fact that after twenty years he was standing on our steps.

' I have nothin to say to you.' Bosco said sharply, tightening his grip on me, digging his fingers into my flesh.

Anthony winced, but said nothing.

' No.' Bosco said, as an after thought. ' I do have some things to say to you, but none of them are nice. I have so much to say to you it would take a book to fill it up, but I won't waste my time.'

Anthony looked down for a second, anticipating such a reaction from his 'son' and then held up his hand. He looked so sad and forlorn, his eyes pleading. ' I understand, but if you'd be so kind as to listen to me for a few minutes I'd greatly appreciate it.'

Bosco snorted in disgust. ' You'd appreciate it? Since when have you ever taken anyone else's feelings into consideration? Why should I be kind? You made your bed. Lie in it.' He spat, taking his arm off of me and reaching back to close the door in Anthony's face.

' Please, Maurice. I've come to right the past.' He cried, leaning in and grabbing the door to keep Bosco from shutting it on him. ' I have to tell you something.'

Bosco's mouth dropped open and he glared at Anthony. ' Did you just say you've come to 'right the past'? Do you think that I'll ever forgive you for what you did? Do you think that I've forgotten what you did to ma and to Mikey?' He demanded hotly, clutching the door frame so hard his knuckles turned white.

' No. I don't expect anything from you and I can't undo the wrong things that I've done...but I need to talk to you and you'll be glad that I did.' Anthony said miserably, again wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead with a kleenex he had dug out of his pocket.

' Why don't you let him come in for a minute, Bos'. I said softly, feeling a tiny bit guilty for letting the old man stand out in the heat. No matter what he had done, we could at least let him in for a minute and listen to what he had to say. I mean, after twenty some years he must have had something pretty important to say if he came to our house, knowing how much he was hated.

Bosco turned on me as if I had said the most absurd thing in the world. ' Come in? What the hell are you talking about? Come in?'

' It's too hot for him to be standing out there. He looks like he's going to faint. Just let him in for a minute so he can tell you whatever it is and then you never have to see him again.' I added pointedly.

' Please, it will only take a minute.' Anthony implored. His face was turning red and he was breathing pretty heavy.

' Fine.' Bosco said, crossing his arms over his chest. 'But don't expect me to give a shit. We were on our way out but I guess we can spare a few minutes. We're taking our granddaughter to the beach...you ever take your kids to the beach? No...wait...you were too busy beating us up to take us anywhere.' He said acidly, backing up a few feet to let Anthony enter.

I looked down at the floor and concentrated on my pink polished toenails. I didn't know what else to say to ease the tension. There wasn't anything to say that would make this less uncomfortable for any of us.

Anthony didn't respond, only made his way inside and stood a moment, wheezing for air and looking around.

' This is a real nice place you have here. Ya done it up real good.' He commented, more out of uncomfortableness than anything else.

' Ya. I redid it for my wife and kids. You ever do anything nice for your wife or kids?' Bosco asked sarcastically, but I could hear the hurt in his voice and see the pain in his eyes.

Ignoring him, Anthony looked at the beautiful cherry wood hall tree that held our coats and hats. 'This is beautiful.' He complimented lightly.

'I made it for my family...but I bet you wouldn't understand that, would you? Why any man would do anything nice for his family.' Bosco continued, trying to hurt his 'father'.

Before he could answer, I turned to Anthony. ' Would you like to take off your coat?'

' No thank you, Faith. I won't be staying long.' He said sadly.

Bosco snorted, as he stood back and watched Anthony. ' Best news I've heard all day.'

' Bosco..' I began wearily, not wanting this to turn into a screaming match.

'It's alright Faith. I deserve whatever he has to say.' He said softly, looking at his 'son', not at me. ' I did a lot of terrible things and I deserve every word.'

Unaffected by Anthony's words, Bosco turned away from us and walked back to the kitchen, leaving me to walk the elder Boscorelli down the hall.

It was slow going, as he shuffled along beside me, stopping every few seconds to look at all of my pictures that were hung. He looked at his grandchildren with interest, even though we both knew there was no blood connection. He saw pictures of Rose and Mikey and graduation and birthday photos, sometimes reaching up with his gnarled old hand to touch one of their faces.

I got the impression that he almost wished things had been different and he had had the pleasure of seeing his grandchildren grow up and been a real part of the family. What would it have been like if he had been Bosco's real father and they had gotten along, as any father and son should? I sighed for all that should have been, but could never be.

'What are their names?' He asked, looking over at me.

' Our kids?'

' Ya.'

I pointed to a picture that had been taken over Christmas of the three of them. 'Well, that one, the tallest one, is Mikey. He's twenty-six. Then, the blond guy is Brett, and he's twenty-four...and the girl is Emma. She's twenty-two and she's the mother of our granddaughter...we call her Little Faith...' I said softly.

' They're good looking kids.' He commented.

I lead him into the kitchen and over to the table. I pulled out a seat for him and he plopped down, seemingly tired. Bosco was already sitting, his faced all puckered into a smirk, and his legs were moving up and down a mile a minute. He couldn't sit still.

I got some lemonade and some glasses and joined them.

' What do you have to tell me? I don't have all day.' Bosco said impatiently, grabbing his glass and downing quickly.

Anthony took a sip of his cool drink and then set it down on the table. ' I got a name of a guy that you need to go talk to.'

'What?'

' There's someone that you need to meet. I got his name.' He said evasively.

' Whose name? What are you talking about?'

' There's a guy in lower Manhattan that you need to go and see. I have his name on a piece of paper. It's important.'

' What the hell are you talking about da...Anthony?' Bosco asked again, leaning on the table and holding out his hands.

' I don't want to get into it with you, Maurice, but can't you take my word for it when I tell you that you need to see this guy?'

' Look, I don't got time for this. Why do I need to talk to someone I've never met?' Bosco asked snappily.

Anthony shifted himself uncomfortably in his seat and tugged at the collar of his sweater.

'Because he's your real father.'