Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Read Free Page A

the walk with goodies from one of the neighbors. They knew all fifty families that lived in the building, and were always doing errands for one family or another.
    Donna, who was now eight years of age, had a standing order to deliver a loaf of Italian bread to an older couple that lived on the same floor as my parents. Mr. and Mrs. Crescenti lived in a very small one-bedroom apartment at the back of the building. They had emigrated from Italy after their only daughter died at the tender age of five. Mr. Crescenti had always been my favorite neighbor during my childhood. A short stocky man, he lived life with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye—and had the longest mustache that I had ever seen on a man. When he laughed the ends moved up and down.
    I would bring the morning paper to the couple before I went to school. I always received a homemade cookie for my effort, which I devoured on my walk to school. I liked to visit with the couple and hear their stories about the “old country.” Their apartment was filled with photos of their daughter, Angelina. She was a bright-eyed youngster with dark curls, a sweet smile, and chubby cheeks. Sadly, she died after coming down with a high fever of no apparent origin. The Crescentis’ small seaside village provided no doctor, and by the time one did arrive from the city, it was too late. Mrs. Crescenti went into a deep depression from which she really never recovered. Mr. Crescenti dealt with the loss by moving them to the United States. He was a shoemaker by trade, and he opened a small store on the street below my apartment building. I called him “Boom-Boom” when I was a child and it stuck. He did not talk about his daughter during my childhood, but appeared to have no problem discussing her with my daughter Donna.
    Donna had taken over my job, delivering the couple’s loaf of daily bread. Mrs. Crescenti had become an invalid and never left the apartment. Mr. Crescenti sold the store and spent his days caring for his wife, keeping their small apartment spotless, and cooking—always cooking. As you exited the elevator the wonderful aroma of some simmering dish would fill your nostrils. The apartment door was always open, and one could hear Mr. Crescenti singing in Italian as he prepared dinner. Donna would deliver their bread and then walk the family dog with her sister, Tracey.
    One afternoon she did not return from the Crescentis’, and I guessed that a batch of cookies had lured her away. After an hour it was time for us to start for home so I knocked on the Crescentis’ open door.
    â€œCome-a in,” Mr. Crescenti shouted. I found the three of them in the living room. Donna was perched on Mrs. Crescenti’s lap gazing at an old leather-bound photo album. She stroked Donna’s hair as she pointed out the pictures to her. “This was my Angelina when she was two-a years old—she look just-a like you, Donna.” I held my breath. It was the first time I had seen Mrs. Crescenti smile in years. I let Donna stay with the Crescentis’ that night. She slept on their sofa and spent the weekend listening to all the stories about Angelina. Donna continued her visits for about a year, until Mrs. Crescenti passed away peacefully in her sleep.
    That summer my parents invited Mr. Crescenti to stay with us at the beach. He was elated. He spent hours walking the beach, telling the girls stories about his village in Italy. His childhood fascinated my Donna; she couldn’t get enough of his stories. He played in the sand with her, helped her build sand castles, and walked the beach with her constantly. They walked hand in hand, digging their toes in the sand, watching the gulls overhead, and laughing— always laughing. Staying with us that summer allowed him to embrace his grief and find some peace for the future. He returned to the city and started to work part-time for the young man who had bought his store. All went