He had known it was wicked, but he had so desired to explore her body … see . .. feel… the secret parts of her body that he had known were so different from his own. But he had never approached her, had only let his mind enjoy the pleasure of dreaming.
“Come here, wench,” he said, tired of waiting. He laughed to himself. He could tell by her eyes and the flush of her face that she was enjoying this just as much as he was. He positioned her beneath him, holding on to her wrists, then stretched his body over hers, sighing, enjoying the feel of her breasts against his chest and the softness of her skin against the full length of his.
“Now, wench, I'm going to explore your body,” he said thickly. “But that doesn't mean I can't beat you to that gun if you try anything. Do you understand?”
Grace lifted her hips and ground herself into him. “Honey, all I want from you is your body,” she purred. “To hell with the gun.” She turned her gaze to Sam, who still lay unconscious. “And to hell with Sam. Com-pared to the likes of you, he's just a weasel.”
“Then show me the best that you know, Gracie baby,” Alberto said, surprised at his own boldness. He was acting as though he was experienced, when in truth, this was the first woman he had ever seduced.
Grace reached up and pulled his head down, crushing his lips to hers. When her tongue probed inside his mouth, he felt the throbbing of his heart and a melting sensation flowing through him, to end inside his manhood. Her fingers pressed into his back, then lowering, positioning him, ready for him to begin his thrusts inside her. “Now,” she groaned. “What the hell are ya waitin’ for?”
“Huh . .. ?” Alberto stammered, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.
“Put it in me. Now. Don’ you know nothin'?”
She opened herself to him, still waiting. He fumbled with himself, but suddenly felt a coldness surging through him. He was deflated. Nothing was there. The throbbing was gone and the sensations of floating had been replaced by a trembling fear. He pulled away from her, crimson-faced. He looked down at himself, unbelieving. Only moments ago, he had been ready. He had been so sure. But now? Nothing.
Grace crept from the bed, frowning. “Well, I'll be damned,” she purred. “I've run into a few like you.
Poor bastard. What a life you've got ahead of you. No woman will want the likes of you. First you're as virile as they come, even better, then the next thing I knows, you're a nothin'.”
She flew into a fit of laughter, filling Alberto with dread. He pulled his breeches and shirt on, then his shoes, grabbed Grace's gun, and fled from the room, panting.
He was ashamed, humiliated all over again. And again in front of the same lady. He stopped in the passageway and hung his head in his hands, sobbing. “I'm not even a man,” he cried. “What the hell's wrong with me? What can I do?”
He stumbled onward, grabbing at the wall, then went out onto top deck, eyeing the men who still played their card game, then at Maria. Had she been innocently asleep all the while he was . .. ?
“Oh, Maria,” he thought to himself. “Oh, sweet Maria. So innocent. So very much my own. Your brother isn't even a man.”
He stumbled further until he fell on his own bunk, wanting to die. His dreams of having the fulfillment of a man had just been shattered. Disillusionment swept over him. Would it always be this way for him? Tears wet his cheeks as he pulled his knees up to his chest, shivering in the chill of the night.
He placed the gun he had taken from Grace next to his cheek, feeling its utter coldness. Maybe .. . maybe he should just go and shoot himself just like he was a horse that was no longer of any use to anyone. Maybe in time … that's just what… he would have to do … to himself….
Chapter Six
Those of the immigrants who were healthy and strong enough crowded against the ship's railing, watching . .. waiting. They had been told that in only a matter of minutes they would get their first view of “America's golden door.” All were quiet. Even the children were no longer crying. The air held a spirit of cautious hope. The water now splashed in only mild sprays of bubbly effervescence against the ship's bow, as the ship's boilers ceased to be fed coal by the work-weary crewmen, who had mainly seen only the dark dungeon of the mechanical works of the ship since leaving the Italian shore.
Maria snuggled more closely to Alberto. “I'm so excited,” she whispered, reaching up, checking to see if her hair was completely hidden beneath her billed hat. She once again would be playing the role of a boy until she reached her Papa's home. Alberto had warned her of the many strange men that they might have to encounter, and knowing only one American, this Michael whom Maria had taken a quick fancy to, and the way he had so reacted to Maria's beauty, Alberto had thought to expect the same from all American men. Alberto wanted no man to take advantage of his sister's sweet innocence. No man.
Alberto leaned down into Maria's face. “The gun, Maria,” he whispered, glancing quickly around him, making sure no one saw or heard. “Is it well hidden?”
Sighing, Maria fluttered her thick lashes nervously. “Yes. It is still well hidden,” she whispered. “But I still don't understand why you want to keep it. Surely whoever lost it would have much more need of it than you or I. Why didn't you leave it just where you found it? Guns are ugly, dangerous things.”
Alberto was glad that Maria had believed his story when she had discovered the gun hidden beneath the blankets of his bunk. At that moment, the only thing he could have said was that he had found it. He couldn't have revealed to her that in truth he had taken it from a ship's whore and had even used the butt of it to bust the skull of a rapist-thief partially open.
He looked all around him, studying the faces of the crowd. He hadn't seen Sam or Grace since that night, the night that Alberto had discovered that he was lacking in the knowledge of how to act as a true man … sexually. He didn't understand it. For even now he could feel his manhood come to life with just the remembrance of how soft Grace's body had been. But when the time would come actually to be with a woman, would Alberto's body fail him again? His heart ached, thinking of that possibility.
He flinched when Maria's elbow nudged into his -side. His face reddened as he saw the questioning in her eyes.
“Alberto, did you hear me?” she whined, still worrying about his state of mind. He was still behaving strangely. Even more so after his night of playing that card game once again. She at first had worried that he might have lost all their money. But when he had shown her that he had even won a few lire, she had been a bit proud of him. So she knew that it hadn't been the money that had caused his loss of spirit. Would she ever find out? Were she and Alberto truly drifting apart? She had never thought that possible. They had always seemed as one. Ever since birth.
“Oh, the gun,” he stammered, thrusting his hands inside his front breeches pockets. “I felt that it became mine the minute I found it. I felt that we might need it once we arrive in America.”
“But America is a land of opportunity. Not a land to fear,” she argued.
“Remember what Papa has said about that Nathan Hawkins,” Alberto grumbled. “He's an American, and it sounds as though he's one to not trust.”
“Yes, I guess you're right,” Maria murmured. “But, Alberto, why must I carry the gun? It's so cold and hard against my belly. And that rope you have tied the gun to my belly with is itching my skin so.”
Alberto hung his head. “In case we have to be checked to enter America and they discover you are a woman, they won't go so far as to have you remove your breeches and shirt,” he mumbled. “With a man, they may have no qualms about it. Please understand.”
Maria twisted her body, trying to stand so that the gun wouldn't irritate her so severely. “Oh, all right,” she said, then stood on her tiptoes and let out a loud gasp. “Alberto. Look. See,” she said, suddenly panting.
Through a low-hanging haze, the New York harbor slowly began to take shape. Alberto removed his hat from his head and squeezed it between his hands, eyes wide, first not
icing the 152-foot-high Statue of Liberty.
“My God,” he shouted, now aware of all the other cries and shouts of glee surfacing from all the rest of the immigrants who crowded around him and Maria.
Maria's heart seemed to lunge, now remembering how Michael had so carefully described it to her that second time during their last moments together, after they had made love to one another, over and over again. “And did you know that a person can stand in the torch at the very end of the arm of the Lady of Liberty?” she blurted.
Alberto eyed her darkly. “And how do you know that, Maria?”
She cast her eyes downward, feeling a blush rising. “I read about it in a book, Alberto,” she said quietly. “That's how I know.”
Alberto seemed to have not heard. Something else had caught his quick attention. “Maria! Would you look at those mountains!” he exclaimed, pointing, as the ship moved on past the Statue of Liberty, closer to the piers.
Maria stood on tiptoe again, craning her neck. “What mountains?” she asked. “I see no mountains.”
Alberto's voice grew impatient. “Those tall ones. Over there. Coming closer. Look at them. They're so strange. And why don't they have snow on them?”
The haze suddenly lifted, revealing the immenseness of New York's buildings. A smile erupted on Maria's face, which grew into a laugh of mirth. She had realized that her brother had been lax about reading and studying, even though their Papa had so eagerly urged them to do this, but she just hadn't realized Alberto was this slow in the ways of the mind. Her smile and laugh faded away. Perhaps this wasn't the result of a lack of book learning, but from that blow to Alberto's head. She reached for his hand and held it in hers. “Alberto, those aren't mountains,” she said. “Those are buildings.”
He jerked his hand free, scowling. “Damn it, Maria,” he argued. “Don't you think I can see that? It was the fog. It had hidden the truth from my eyes. I'm no damn idiot. Please don't treat me like one.”
It was Maria's turn to scold. “And you, Alberto,” she demanded. “Do not spoil this, my first arrival to America, by throwing filthy words into my face. You know how long you and I have waited for this day. Please be a bit more pleasant.”
Alberto placed his arm around Maria's waist and pulled her to him. “I'm sorry,” he said, replacing his hat on his head with his free hand.
“Oh, and look at the bridge,” Maria squealed, quickly forgetting her anger. “It's named the Brooklyn Bridge.” She glanced furtively toward Alberto, expecting him to question her further knowledge of these landmarks of America, but he stood, with mouth agape, also taking in all these wonders of the New World. So Maria turned her gaze to see the rest herself, continuing to rattle on. “And we are now in the harbor of Manhattan. Isn't it just too magnificent, Alberto?”
The ship inched its way to the dock. Maria drew in a deep sigh of relief, listening this final time to the noises of the ship . . . all its timbers creaking, the low drone of the rumble of the boiler that was becoming less and less noisy by the second, and that endless splashing of the water that had sometimes almost driven her to screaming.
The aromas of the ship's deck around her were what she was happiest to leave behind, the aromas of human waste, vomit, steaming fish and potatoes, and the ever present stench from the animals that had shared the far end of the top deck with the massive group of immigrants.
Feeling smug, so soon to become an American, to stand and walk atop American soil, Maria bent and reached for her violin case, ready to make her departure alongside her brother.
When she straightened her back, she let her gaze travel around the crowd, feeling an ache circling her heart. She was remembering the more pleasant side of her journey. That which had been shared with the man who she would always love. Michael. She so longed to get a glimpse of his golden locks of hair and the blue of his eyes. She so longed to search him out. . . run to him . .. fall into his arms … to confess her love for him … let him lift her into his arms and whisk her away.
But she knew this to be an impossibility. She had been the one to decline his proposal of marriage. She had been the one to walk away from possibly the only man who could turn her insides into a mass of rippling warmth. She had been the one to say no to what was to have possibly been a life shared with a man and the riches he possessed. Would he have showered her with jewels? Satin dresses? Furs?
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes when she found no trace of him on top deck. He most assuredly had stayed in the privacy of his cabin and would continue to do so until the ship had emptied of the poor and unfortunate, and the smells that seemed to cling to their skins and clothes.
Maria looked downward at her own attire and cringed. Soon she would cast these filthy, ugly clothes aside. And once she was attired in a beautiful, lacy dress, breeches would never be slipped upon her legs again.
“Come. It's time to leave the ship,” Alberto said, lifting their one trunk to rest on his right shoulder.
Maria moved along with the crowd, hearing the eagerness of all the Italian chatter around her. She smiled to herself, so glad her Papa had prepared her and Alberto so well by having taught them the American language. He had even sent American dollars to them, explaining that many Italians would get tricked out of their lire when exchanging them for American dollars upon their first arrival to America.
“Hey. What's going on here?” Alberto exclaimed as he and Maria stepped from the ship to the pier. They were being roughly shoved toward a small boat along with several other of the Italians. Many other small boats were lined up next to this one, also being boarded.
A man with dark hair, a large, thick moustache and pale gray eyes, attired in a dark uniform, grabbed Alberto by the arm. “Get aboard, lad,” he ordered sharply.
“Why?” Alberto shouted. “We're in America now. We're Americans. You can't shove us around. We have the same rights as you.”
The man laughed raucously. “You've got to be Americanized first, lad,” he said. “Then maybe you'll be able to call yourself an American.”
Alberto jerked away from the man, fists doubled, swinging them near the face of the man. “My father is here in America. So I will also stay. No one can tell me I can't stay.” He continued to dare the man, though his heart was pounding so hard, he was fast becoming breathless.
Maria stepped to his side, shadowing her eyes with the back of her left hand. “Please, Alberto,” she whispered. “You're creating a scene.”
“I must. Don't you see?”
“This Americanization the man speaks of,” she whispered further. “It is quite necessary. AH immigrants have it to do.”
Alberto's eyes wavered. “Really?” he murmured. Then his gaze lowered, his dark eyes burning a hole through Maria. “And how do you know?”
“I just know,” she answered. “Now please do as the man says.”
“Oh, all right,” Alberto sulked, having become a bit frightened anyway when he had seen the man lift a long, dark club from a loop at the waist of his breeches.
Maria studied the name printed in bold red print on the side of the small boat as she stepped over the side, into it. “The General Putnam,” she whispered to her-self, then stood in silence next to Alberto, clutching tightly onto the handle of her violin case, once again hearing the dreaded noises of water splashing, and the drone of a boiler's engine as the boat began to make its way from the pier.
“I didn't expect anything like this,” Alberto grumbled.
“What did you expect?” Maria whispered, sidling closer to him.
“I expected our ship to be met by a cheering crowd of welcome. Maybe even gifts given to each one of us. But not this. I fee! like an animal. It this is what America is, we should've stayed in Italy.”
“It will soon be better, Alberto,” Maria encouraged. “You'll see. And when we reach Papa's home, just think of what must await us. Can't you just envision a house so beautiful that has several separate rooms among which to choose from to be in any time of the day,
instead of one large drab room as we've just left behind at Gran-mama's house?” Her eyes grew wide in wonder. “And there will be beds, bathing facilities….”
Alberto interrupted her. “Maria, will you just be quiet,” he stormed. “Look ahead. Does that look like a place that welcomes Italians with open arms? Is that even the place we are actually being taken to? Damn. What have we gotten ourselves into? And did Papa have to go through all of this when he first arrived in America? Why didn't he warn us if he did?”
Maria's gaze followed Alberto's. Suddenly she was afraid. They seemed to have left the grandest section of America behind and were being taken to an ugly island. She eyed it closely, seeing that it was just a ragged rock jutting out of the harbor, covered with gray, drab buildings. Her attention was then drawn to the same dark-clothed man who had been so rough to Alberto. He now stood at the stern of the ship, beginning to speak to all who were standing as quietly as Maria and Alberto with fear etched on their faces and in their eyes. Maria clutched her violin case to her bosom, listening.
“I am an immigration officer,” the man's voice boomed, seeming to echo all around him as the damp ocean breeze blew in icy shreds. “This boat is taking you people to Ellis Island. This is where you will have what you will get to know is called ‘Americanization.'
It is nothing to fear, but is quite necessary before being set free on the streets of New York. It may take some time to get completed, so please try and be patient. And if it makes you feel any better to know this, all other immigrants before you had this to do also. It will go much faster for you if you will just cooperate.” He spat into the wind, wiping his thick moustache with the back of his left hand, then quickly added, “And I'd like to take this opportunity to be the first to welcome you to our shores. We Americans welcome into our midst anyone who is not criminal or deranged. It is a land of opportunity. I hope you will be able to be as happy here among us as you were among your own people in Italy.”
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