“And they named it Freedom.” Mama set a bowl of soup in front of Papa, and the hot liquid sloshed over the rim.
“Be careful!” Papa snatched the letter off the table before it could be soiled. “I need to show this to Enzo so we can decide when to go.”
Mama’s lips curled into a smile, and her eyes twinkled at Sal.
Chapter 12
Scrambled
At breakfast the following morning, Uncle Enzo turned on the radio, and Sal sat down to eat. Mama had stopped complaining about the noise at the table and admitted she enjoyed listening to the music and hearing The Farmer’s Market Report.
A news bulletin interrupted the report.
“Two masked men robbed the Community Savings and Loan of Summerfield at gunpoint yesterday afternoon …”
Sal squeezed the edge of the table and shut his eyes. The gang. Summerfield—just like they’d planned at the shack.
Papa looked up from his newspaper. Uncle Enzo stopped buttering his bread, his knife poised in midair.
“… with a thirty-four-year-old teller being shot and wounded …”
Mama gasped and stopped midway between the stove and table, a black iron skillet of scrambled eggs in one hand.
Sal’s chest ached. This was his fault—because he didn’t tell what he’d heard. His head began to pound. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could flee the room, the farm, everything.
“… He was taken to Summerfield General Hospital. His condition is uncertain …”
The skillet in Mama’s hand wobbled. Sal leapt from his chair and rushed to her, steadying her under the elbows to keep her from dropping the skillet. He loosened the towel-wrapped handle from her hands and placed the skillet back on the stove.
“… will provide further details in a later broadcast …”
Papa pulled out Mama’s chair and she sat, her hands quivering.
She drew air into her lungs as if she’d forgotten to breathe for a few minutes and then raised her face to Papa. “He’s your age, Gianni.” She swallowed hard and inhaled deeply once more. “He’s probably a father like you, with a son or daughter Sal’s age.” Her outstretched fingers pointed toward Sal, who had taken his seat again.
“I know, Rosa.” Papa reached for her hand, but she withdrew it.
“The robbers had to be Angelo and Emilio. I just know it, and you gave them the money for a car to drive there.” Her colorless lips trembled, and a small moan escaped them.
“I understand, Rosa,” Papa said, “but this family is my responsibility.”
She crossed her arms and closed her eyes.
“I’m going to get them.” Uncle Enzo jumped up from his chair and knocked it over.
“No!” Mama pounded her fists on the table so hard the silverware rattled.
Sal jerked the glass of milk in his hand, and it splashed onto the table.
“Enzo, even if you could find them, you can’t take care of this on your own. This family can’t. Look at what they did to you—and to Sal and Antonina.”
Uncle Enzo set his chair upright and sat down again. His jaw clenched, and the vein on the side of his neck bulged.
Mama lowered her voice. “This has to stop. Now.”
Uncle Enzo shifted both of his shoulders. He picked up his knife and slammed it onto the table.
“Let’s stop and think about this calmly for a minute.” Papa extended his hands toward Mama and Uncle Enzo. “The police will catch them this time. They will.”
“I don’t know if we can wait that long.” Mama’s eyes blazed.
Papa sighed and stood up without looking at Mama. He went to the stove and heaped scrambled eggs from the skillet onto his plate.
Uncle Enzo stared out the window, Mama at her empty plate.
All the adults around the table were angry for different reasons. But it didn’t change the fact that Sal’s family was being torn apart, and Sal was sick of it. Sick and tired of it. He had to do something to fix this.
Chapter 13
Ready to Pick
The next morning Sal and Hiram loaded the truck with tomatoes and bell peppers. This was simply a chore for both of them. No pride showed in Hiram’s eyes like with the strawberries.
“Wanna ride to town with me?” Hiram shoved a crate along the length of the truck bed.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Hiram must have read Sal’s mind.
“Well, go ask then.” Hiram tilted his head toward the house and raised one eyebrow.
Sal trotted to the house to get Mama’s permission. When he returned, Hiram was in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel.
“All set?” Hiram didn’t wait for an answer but started the engine, and Sal hopped in.
The truck lumbered down the dusty driveway. A peaceful silence settled between the boys, interrupted only by the squawk of another chicken that had escaped the barnyard and wandered into their path.
Sal smiled and slouched into his seat. He appreciated the easy friendship he had with Hiram in spite of the difference in their ages and color.
“Seems to me something’s been on your mind that’s been eatin’ away at you for a long time.” Hiram spoke in a relaxed tone, never taking his eyes from the road.
Sal, who’d been looking out the window with his arm draped over the door, whipped his head in Hiram’s direction. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I get around this farm.” Hiram grinned. “I know things.” His eyes widened, wrinkling the skin across his forehead in horizontal bands.
Sal stared at Hiram for a second or two before blinking.
“I listen.” Hiram pointed at his own ear with his right hand, his left hand on the steering wheel.
“What did you hear?”
“I heard—and saw—those men the first time they came to the farm.”
Sal gasped. “You did?” Hope crept into his heart.
“I knew they were up to no good.”
“But they spoke Italian.” Sal pulled his arm inside the truck cabin and sat upright. “How could you tell?”
“Well, for one thing, I didn’t help my mama take care of your grandma when she was sick without learnin’ a little.”
Sal smiled at Hiram, who continued to look straight ahead.
“Besides, I saw their faces—up close—and those men were up to doing the devil’s work.” Hiram scowled, and his body shook like he had the shivers. “And angry at your papa for not wantin’ to help.”
Sal took a deep breath. His prayers had been answered. Someone outside the family knew that Papa was innocent.
“Weren’t you afraid?”
Hiram snorted. “Oh, they didn’t see me—not until those two took your papa’s money.”
Sal relaxed again. Hiram had seen the men pressure his family not once, but twice. Wouldn’t Hiram’s firsthand knowledge make him a witness? Couldn’t that information clear Papa’s name? Sal’s shame and worry began to fade.
The strike of a match and the smell of sulfur snapped Sal to attention again.
The tip of Hiram’s cigarette glowed with an orange light.
Sal and Hiram drove into Freedom, but the town didn’t look the same to Sal.
Each person on the street, in front of the shops, and in their cars or trucks made Sal wonder. What sacrifices had they made? Whose lives were lost, whose bodies were worn down by labor, how much money had to be saved for that person to live in Freedom? How many of its citizens had witnessed a crime—even murder—in their lives? How many of their babies, mothers, fathers, sisters, or brothers had died in the old country or on the ships that brought their families to America?
The Scaviano family had suffered hardship in Sicily and had a difficult beginning in America, but so did most of the families who lived in Freedom. Sal was fairly certain.
Sal’s gaze traveled from Hiram’s serene profile to his threadbare shirt and patched trousers. Hiram and his mother shared a tiny house on the edge of the farm. Sal had been there many times. Hiram’s bed cover la
st winter was a patchwork made from pieces of old wool blankets Mama had collected from neighbors and Marie had sewn together. If Sal had ever bothered to ask, he was sure Marie had her own story of the struggles she’d experienced. She and her husband had accompanied Grandpa Scaviano to Freedom from the sugarcane fields of South Louisiana, where the two men had worked side by side.
At the train depot, Hiram slowed the truck to a stop and then backed it up close. Sal jumped out and walked around to the rear of the truck.
“What are you doin’?” Hiram asked when Sal reached for a crate of tomatoes.
Sal dropped his hands and blinked, puzzled by the question. “I’m helping you unload. Don’t you want me to?”
“Naw. You go do whatever you gotta do.” Hiram nodded toward the railroad tracks.
Problem was, Sal still wasn’t sure what he should do. Across Main Street sat Antonina’s house, that familiar place where a little bit of the old Sal could still be found in the fun and laughter shared with his best friend. He wanted to leap across the tracks and dart across the street to her, like he’d done hundreds of times before, and forget about everything else for a while. But an unseen power forced his attention further down Main Street to the corner of the next block, where the police station stood. His feet were lead. He began to chew his lower lip.
“Well?” Hiram’s question demanded an answer.
God was giving him this chance. Maybe his only one, before it was too late—for Papa and for all of them. Sal set his mouth in a firm line and walked away.
The cacophony of radio noise, whistling, coughing, and conversation tapered and died in a few seconds when Sal entered the police station. All eyes fell upon him as he sought Officer Tommy’s face in the smoke-filled room. An Italian man dressed in ragged clothes and wearing handcuffs sat against the wall to Sal’s right. He sneered as Sal passed. The scraping of chair legs across the floor gave Sal a start. Was the prisoner coming after him?
“Can I help you, son?” Officer Hammond towered over him.
Sal tried to read the old man’s soul behind the eyes in his wrinkled face.
“I’d like to talk to Tommy.” He cleared his throat to disguise the tremor in his voice. “If you don’t mind.”
“This way.” Hammond directed Sal with an outreached palm.
Sal entered a tiny room with gray walls, furnished with a gray painted table and two chairs. Across the room was another door, through which Tommy appeared.
“Did you want to talk to me, Sal?”
“Yes, sir.” Sal glanced at Hammond.
“Is it all right if Officer Hammond stays and listens?” Tommy asked.
Sal hesitated. What if it were true that one of the policemen was on the gang’s side?
“He just wants to help,” Tommy added.
“Okay.”
“Please, have a seat.” Tommy nodded at the chair nearest Sal.
Sal sat and began jiggling his foot.
Tommy sat opposite him across the table and pulled a note pad and pen from his pocket. Hammond stood in a corner behind him.
“I know who tried to rob the bank,” Sal blurted. There. He’d finally said it. Now whatever happened would happen.
“How do you know that, Sal?” Tommy’s face bore no expression as he began to write.
“Because I was there with them, in the car with my papa.”
“What can you tell us about them?”
“They’re the five Italian men who came to our house a few days before that.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“I think so.”
“Describe them to me.”
Sal started out describing how they were dressed the first night, and then how they looked the night of the attempted robbery, including details about their hats, jewelry, and guns.
“What happened when they were at your house the first time, Sal?”
“They talked with Papa and Uncle Enzo for a while. I hid behind the packing shed because I could tell something was wrong.”
“Did you hear the conversation?”
“Yes, but it was mostly in Italian. Do you understand Italian?”
“Enough to get by.” Tommy smiled. “We have to in this line of work.”
Sal nodded and continued. “They seemed to be asking if Papa and Uncle Enzo would help them.”
“How, exactly?”
“By driving them to the bank to get some money. And one of them said to bring me along.”
“Did you hear them say whose money?”
Sal shook his head.
“What did your father and uncle say?”
“Papa said he couldn’t help them. He told them to leave. And Uncle Enzo almost got into a fight with one of them—the big one named Angelo.”
“Do you know any of the others’ names?”
“One is named Emilio. And the older fat man is the boss. That’s all they call him—Boss.”
“What happened after that?”
“When my mama came to the door, they left. I went in to supper, and Mama wouldn’t let Papa talk about anything in front of me. All Papa said was that the men had wanted to spend the night at our house.” Sal ran the back of his hand across his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes.
“Sal, do you need a glass of water or anything?” Hammond asked.
“No, thanks. I’m okay.”
“So did you see the men again before the night of the attempted robbery?” Tommy flipped a page of his notebook.
“Yes, the next morning I saw three of them talking to Papa and Uncle Enzo at the train depot. One of them was the boss, one was Angelo, but I’m not sure about the other one. I was across the street and couldn’t hear anything they said.”
Tommy scribbled more notes while Hammond leaned over and read them. “All right, Sal, tell me about the night you went to the bank.”
“Around sunset, Papa told me we were going into town. After we started driving, he told me that we were going to pick up some men. We picked up the boss and two of the other men from the side of the road. One of those men was Emilio.”
“What happened when you got to the bank?”
“As soon as we pulled up and stopped, they took Papa’s tools out of the trunk. The rest of the men were already there.” Sal scooted forward on his seat and looked into Tommy’s eyes. “Papa didn’t do anything to help them. We both stayed in the car. I wanted to run for help, but Angelo threatened Papa and me.”
“I understand, Sal. Keep going.”
Sal sat back in his chair and hung his head. “I saw the boss shoot Mr. Costa.”
“Thank you for telling us, Sal,” Tommy said. “You’ve done a very brave thing.”
Sal lifted his head and spoke in a pleading voice. “When you saw us on the road, Papa had fixed the car to run out of gas on purpose. So, you see, he never wanted to help those criminals. My papa is innocent.”
“We’ll find the guilty parties.”
“They’ve been threatening to hurt us.” Sal searched Tommy’s face for a sign of sympathy but found none.
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“Three days ago when they came and forced money out of Papa to buy a car.” Sal’s shoulders drooped. “Right after that, we heard about the robbery in Summerfield.” Something gnawed at his soul, but he couldn’t admit to Tommy that he knew in advance about the gang’s plans to go there.
Sal returned to the depot just as Hiram completed his business.
“One more stop—the restaurant.” Hiram wiped his face with a red handkerchief.
Thank goodness, Hiram didn’t ask him any questions. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Sal was the only one of them who could enter Labato’s through the front door with deliveries. If Hiram went alone, he’d have to go around back and ring the bell. Someone would come and take the produce from him.
They pulled up in front of the restaurant, and Sal took a crate containing a mix of bell peppers and tomato
es to the door.
Antonina opened it wide to let him in. “Sal, I need to show you something,” she whispered.
Mr. Labato didn’t look up from the table where he sat counting receipts. Sal dropped off the crate in the kitchen and followed Antonina upstairs and to the rear balcony.
“Look behind Costa’s Grocery.” She faced Sal with her back to the balcony railing and tilted her head behind her.
Where the rectangular hole in the ground had been, there was now a pair of padlocked wooden doors. Shrubs surrounded them, cutting off their view except from above and from the rear of the grocery store.
Sal raised his eyebrows. “I saw a hole there the other day when Mama went to see Mrs. Costa.”
“I saw it too, from up here. Then, the next day, Carlo built cement walls around the inside of it.”
“And now it has doors. Padlocked.” Sal stared, trying to make sense of it. At least it didn’t appear to be for burying a body.
“Looks like it might be for storing something pretty important.” Antonina’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Or hiding it.” Well, now he was thinking just as crazy as before. There wasn’t any law against digging a hole in your own backyard, was there? He shook his head. Seemed lately that everything was suspicious.
Something moved behind the window on the rear door of the grocery. Sal’s body jerked like a deer fly had bit him. He grabbed Antonina’s hand and stepped back, pulling her with him.
Antonina’s eyes widened, their pupils growing large.
Sal’s face warmed, and he dropped her hand. “I thought somebody was watching us.”
Antonina turned away from him and cleared her throat. “If Carlo is hiding something, what could he hide better by keeping it outside instead of in the store?”
The Other Side of Freedom Page 6