“God knows. Do not run ahead of him in this.”
“My search was not fruitful anyway. No harm done.” Antonio stood. He had an ally, but there was no use in mentioning it without knowing who it was. “I thank you very much for your kindness and for including me at your meal with your friends, Reverend. I don’t want to trouble you further.”
“God’s work is never a bother to me, son. I am in his employ.” He pulled himself to his feet. “You come by and see me on Rayburn Street anytime, you hear?”
“Thank you.”
“And you be careful out there, young man. Heed my caution. I deplore you. And stay out of Little Italy. If you do not live there, you don’t want to be wandering about, even with your dog.”
Chapter 10
As she approached Mulberry after exiting the trolley, Sofia thought about what the reverend had said to her before she left Hawkins House. When no one else was around, he asked if she felt safe. She had tried to reassure him. “Things are difficult at home, and I find I must leave in order to give my mother time to rest. But I am not unsafe.”
“Just the same, my dear, I give you my assurances that Hawkins House is at your disposal. Our girls stay here under no obligations.”
“You do not charge rent?”
“That is correct. The girls who live here do some chores, but otherwise there is no charge.”
“Rent…it is very…precious…uh, that is, expensive to find housing in New York. My papà says we must live together and support each other in this new country because we can trust no one else.”
“Your papà is right to caution you, my dear, and that is precisely the reason I’m addressing you in this manner. There are many aid societies that exist to help young, inexperienced immigrants, just until folks get settled in, you understand. It is our charge from God to do so, and we are happy to. If you and your family are doing well, that is wonderful indeed. But I do believe—and I’ve learned over the years to listen to these urgings from the Holy Spirit as they occur—that I must make you aware there are those in this city willing and ready to help others in need. Please remember that, should you ever find yourself in troubling circumstances.”
“You can afford to do this thing?” Papà would never accept help from someone like this reverend and the affable Mrs. Hawkins, but perhaps she could.
“This is not a difficulty for us in the least. We have benefactors at the ready. We are not at liberty to speak specifically about where the money comes from to support our girls, but you can trust me when I say it is gained from legitimate means, mostly inheritances.”
“I see. Truly, I do need a place to stay, Reverend. Just until my mamma is better.”
“Say no more. I will speak to Mrs. Hawkins about it in the morning. You come whenever you want.”
“I will return after my shift at the shoe factory tomorrow. My papà will be pleased because he cannot afford any additional rent.” So long as he didn’t find out she would be staying outside Little Italy. Eventually she’d have to tell him, but by then she’d already be settled in and he would have to agree. “Are you sure this is all right with Mrs. Hawkins?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Is there a church for Italians nearby?”
“Most certainly. St. Anthony’s, where I met Mr. Baggio. I will see you are escorted. And we will be delighted to have you at Hawkins House.”
This conversation had actually happened. God saw her need and provided. Papà would have to understand. Sofia wrapped her shawl tighter and skipped over a break in the sidewalk. She rehearsed in her mind how she would tell Papà. She would make it sound as though it was precisely what he’d hoped for.
***
When Antonio arrived home he found Nicco camped outside his apartment. The sounds of Luigi sniffing and whimpering drifted from inside. “Wake up, Nicco. Did the aid society kick you out?”Nicco stirred and then his eyes bolted open. “Huh?” He scrambled to his feet and struggled to shift the strap of his accordion over his shoulder. The instrument his father had brought over from Italy was smaller than most accordions, but still a burden to keep on one’s person all day long.
“I don’t know why you lug that thing around. If you insist on staying away from my apartment most of the time, so be it, but I could keep that for you here.” Antonio unlocked the door and shooed his dog back inside. Nicco lumbered in behind him.
“Keep it, but not me, in your apartment, figliòlo. That is how it should be.”
“I told you before, Uncle. You can stay here if you stop drinking. My father told you the same thing.”
“My own brother, God rest his soul.”
The man was soused. He would not remember this conversation in the morning.
“I have to keep the…instru…music…th…th…ing…with me. Mi capisci? It is the inheritance of la famiglia and your father trusted me with it.”
Antonio wanted to laugh as his uncle spit out the ridiculous assertion but held back. It would not be right to ridicule a drunken man who could not help his foolishness. Not only was it amusing to think the family treasure was an accordion with malfunctioning keys, but Nicco trustworthy? Not quite. He assumed his father had urged Nicco to keep the old thing to give him some hope, some encouragement, by placing some responsibility on Nicco’s shoulders. As you would do with a child. You give him something worthless, something you aren’t afraid to lose, until he proves he can handle the trust you put in him. He shrugged as he knelt to stroke Luigi’s neck. Antonio was losing hope that his uncle would ever pull himself out of the gutter.
“What? You do not believe me, Tony? Your father, he says, he said, ‘Do not lose this. Take it to…’uh, that’s right. I forgot. You are supposed to have it.” He shoved it toward Antonio.
“And now I have it.” He placed the case between the wall and his bed. “There, safe and sound. Would you like some supper?”
Chapter 11
If Sofia had thought her father would put up a fuss about her moving across Manhattan, she was wrong. Perhaps he would have, if times were less tumultuous, but Mamma was worse and the healer was required to stay with her all day. He had to pay her, so having Sofia move without paying additional rent helped ease his worry.
“You will visit me at work, Sofia, to tell me you are well, capisci?” He lifted both hands toward the ceiling in a gesture of anguish.
“Sì, Papà. I will. Maybe now you can afford the doctor.”
He flipped his hand to dismiss her statement. “You cannot know. Everything in America…it costs so much.”
“Sì, Papà. But…you just have to make sure Mamma is cared for. If I am not here to cook and check on her—”
“Such foolishness, Sofia. She cannot have you here. I have told you that. Signora Russo will do what needs to be done.”
“But Papà, her husband.”
“What about her husband?”
Sofia was sure the man beat his wife, but Papà wouldn’t listen. He thought every man from Benevento was an upright compagno and he would never believe otherwise.
“I do not know if her husband will like her being away, is all.”
“Sofia, you cannot know these things. My daughter believes she knows more than all the men on Mulberry Street. You should not think so much. Go to work, be a good girl for your papà, that is all.”
It wasn’t all. Not for her. “You have not told me why, Papà. Why does my being here bother Mamma when this happened so long ago?”
He flew into a rage even as his eyes glistened with tears. Waving both arms toward the ceiling, he shouted loud enough for the blessed Virgin Mary to hear from heaven. “You think I say nothing for no reason? You think I am not the Papà who tries to save my eldest daughter from misery?” He slammed his fist against the wall, leaving an impression. Seeming to be as startled by this as she was, he flung himself down on his chair, pulled the handkerchief from his neck and dabbed his eyes.
She sat, too, as they listened to Mamma’s soft sobs coming from behind the bedr
oom door. Such passionate displays were not unusual in the Falcone home, but this time Sofia did not want to dismiss it. She wanted answers.
He drew in a long breath, causing Sofia to do the same and take in the scents of home: dried basil, hot peppers, freshly cut lemons. And then the smell of heartache: Signora Russo’s concoction of olive oil and soap used to make the sign of the cross on a sick one’s forehead to ward off malocchio—the evil eye. Sofia had seen the woman do it before, and not only her. Others back in Italy had their own rituals for expelling the curse. Sofia didn’t believe in the evil eye. Because she might be the only one from her village who did not, she didn’t mention it to anyone. She imagined that if Serena had lived, the two of them might talk about it. She wondered if someday she might discuss matters of the old country with Antonio Baggio. But for now, and with Mamma ill, she had no one to talk to. She rubbed the back of her neck and stared at Papà, who worked his lips as though contemplating what to say next.
Only God heals, although he often does so through the hands of others. Sofia believed Father Lucci could bring God’s healing through his prayers. Perhaps the Reverend Clarke could, as well. She believed doctors at large hospitals could heal people at God’s command. She wasn’t so sure about Carla Russo, who was as worn down and battered a wife as Sofia had ever seen. If she had the power to heal, why didn’t she use it on herself? A nursemaid. That was the best they could hope for from that poor woman.
“Papà?”
“Shush.” He held up a hand. He was still thinking.
“I can leave now.”
He turned to her, his eyes red from the strain of holding in his emotions. “Listen to me, figlia mia, my precious daughter, when I tell you I only do what is best. Your mamma and your papà, your brothers and your sister, we love you. That is why this is best. You understand.”
It was not a question. She was expected to accept his authority without argument. She would only do that if he sought the best doctors for Mamma. “I will check on Mamma, discretely, so she doesn’t know I am here, Papà. I will consult with Signora Russo. Will that be acceptable? May I do at least that if you must send me away?”
He dabbed perspiration from his forehead. “So long as you promise me, Sofia. Promise me you will keep your job and you will stay out of Mamma’s sight until I say you may come back.”
“I promise.” The words grated in her throat like sand, but this was the best arrangement she could hope for.
***
On Monday she carried an extra bag to work, filled with personal items. It was small, made of unbleached linen and closed at the top with a drawstring, a typical traveling bag that anyone might recognize. She felt a twinge of embarrassment having the bag at her side. Inside she’d stashed a bone comb, her Sunday dress, an extra skirt and apron, and her Italian Bible given to her by Sister Stefania when she was born, or so Mamma had told her. Inside the Bible was a rosary made of wooden black beads strung together with small bits of chain and adorned with a wooden crucifix. Every good Italian girl had one, and although Sofia’s father wanted her to be good, or at least his interpretation of such, she would do what the mind God gave her told her to. Keeping her prayers thus focused, she was sure she could help Mamma even if Papà would not.
“Are you going somewhere?” Claudia pointed to the bag Sofia had dropped next to her sewing machine.
“I…uh, I am moving out.”
That caught Maria’s attention, a Benevento girl like Sofia. “Away from home? Where. Sofia? Why?”
“My mamma is ill.”
Claudia wrinkled her upturned nose. “Oh, I see. They don’t want you to catch it.”
Maria knew better. Everyone in their neighborhood either heard about Angelina Falcone’s affliction from someone else or witnessed with their own two ears through the paper-thin walls. “Not that kind of ill, Claudia,” Maria said, pointing to her temple. She turned back to Sofia.
“I do hope they don’t send her off to Ward's Island,” Maria said.
She’d mentioned that before. “What is Ward's Island?”
Claudia jiggled her chin as she threaded her machine. “Haven’t you heard about Nellie Bly?”
Sofia shook her head and busied herself with her job, aware that Mr. Richmond must be watching them from some platform or another.
But Claudia was not finished. “Nellie Bly investigated the place. She works for a newspaper. She got herself sent there as a patient, under false pretenses of course, and almost didn’t escape. Her boss had to come vouch for her, and even then they were reluctant to release her. I am sure they didn’t want the whole city to know how cruelly they treat their patients.” She whispered as she spewed information. “Ice baths, starving them, keeping them locked in rooms without any human companionship, and most of them as sane as you and me. Some of the women didn’t speak English. That was the only thing wrong.”
How could such a thing be true? “What do you mean? Aren’t there doctors there?” Doctors have the blessing of healing, Sofia believed.
Claudia withdrew a swatch of leather from her stack. “Aye, doctors, all right, but you could better call them sadists. Ten Days in a Madhouse. It’s a book. I’ve read it.”
Maria sighed loudly. “Your reading tastes are so…pleasant, as the Americans say.”
Maria’s attempt at sarcasm did little to relieve Sofia’s anxiety.
“That’s Blackwell’s Island you are talking about, and it closed several years ago.” The man stationed behind Sofia, one of the few men working in the stitching room, looked over his shoulder. “The island Nellie Bly was at.”
Sofia felt herself relax.
Claudia frowned at the man. “Ward's Island is home to the insane, as well. Everything’s just moved, but it’s all the same.” She leaned over to Sofia and whispered. “He’s probably been a patient.”
Sofia didn’t think that was funny. Neither was scaring someone whose mother had been in a melancholy state.
***
After work, Sofia prepared to go straight to Hawkins House, hoping and praying they could take her in that very day. She tied her bag to the waistband of her skirt, trying to give the impression that she had a simple but large handbag, rather than a traveling satchel. Looking like a newly arrived immigrant was humiliating. On the trolley a girl asked her where she was headed. She didn’t usually talk to strangers, but her heart was full of hope so she loosened her tongue.
“Don’t go there,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose.
“Why not?”
“Listen, those boarding houses for new immigrants? They make you work every hour you are there, scrubbing floors, cleaning chimneys, sometimes worse.”
“I will be happy to help out. These are very kind people.”
“They want you to think that. Come with me instead. I know a wonderful place with featherbeds. You’re Italian? They feed you pasta and fresh fish, not mushy American food.”
“Oh, no. I cannot pay.”
“Don’t you worry about that. You can earn your keep, and without working that hard.” She winked at her.
Sofia thought perhaps she had been too hasty in agreeing to go to Hawkins House. She stared out at the darkening street. There wasn’t time to investigate boarding houses, as she should have. “I will try this one out. They are expecting me.”
The girl urged her up when the trolley stopped. “Before you make up your mind, come see. Try this one first and then compare it to the other. No harm in visiting, just to be sure, you know? I promise it won’t take long. You can spare half an hour, can’t you?”
The girl was persuasive. She was well dressed in a satin suit and fashionable hat.
When they arrived at the boarding house Sofia was surprised to find not a tidy brick building with a hanging flowerpot near the door, but a wooden clapboard structure with a sagging front porch. Music and laughter spilled out onto the street like an oil spill she didn’t care to walk in. “No, thank you, I must go.”
Before she could get away, a b
urly man hurried out the door and took her arm. “A new one, Margie. Good work.”
“No, there is some mistake!” Bile rose up in Sofia’s throat as she tried to fight the brute off.
He managed to get her inside and close the door. The smell of whiskey and stale cigar smoke made her eyes water. Several people lounged on a filthy sofa. One of them, a tall woman dressed smartly like Margie, the girl who had lured Sofia there, approached. Her fine clothes were as out of place in that house as dungarees would be at Carnegie Hall. “Come now, honey, this ain’t so bad. Hungry? I can get you a sandwich.”
“No.” She stomped her foot, sending a cloud of dust high enough to reach her nose. She resisted the urge to cough.
The brute grabbed her again, this time pushing his body against hers. She was helpless against his strength until she remembered what her brothers had once taught her. She managed to stomp on the man’s toe. He wore thin shoes and hers were well made. When he winced, he loosened his grip on her just enough that she was able to thrust her knee between his legs, sending him howling in pain. The crowd laughed and this time no one tried to keep her from leaving.
She pressed a hand against her heaving chest as she ran down the street. By the grace of God she found the trolley stop and made her way to Hawkins House.
Minnie the housekeeper met her at the door. “Why, come in, darlin’. These folks don’t never turn girls away, certainly not ones they’ve met before. Here now, let me take your bag. You go on in the parlor. I’ll send Mrs. Hawkins in shortly. She’s upstairs ironing.”
Sofia smoothed her hair with her hand, hoping that she bore no evidence of her encounter in a bawdy boarding house.
Minnie kept blabbering. “Don’t you know I told her I’d do that but she likes to keep busy, she says. Reckon’ she’ll like having another girl here. Let me see. Kirsten’s moved on now. She was from Germany, you know. She and her brother saved up and bought some land out west. She met him out there. Kansas or Oklahoma or some such place. Now we’ve got two new girls just in from Ellis Island.” She popped her fingers once over her mouth. “Can’t keep my gob shut, that’s what Mrs. Hawkins says. You will meet them soon enough, darlin'. Don’t need my blathering on. You just sit down and I’ll get you some tea. Or would you rather have coffee, you being Italian and all?”
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