Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  As they made their way to the church, Sofia considered how she should pray. Prayer might bring clarity to her thoughts. There had to be something she could do. God would hear her, but would he answer? Her mother was gone. Gone. People rarely come back from places like Ward's Island. As desperately as she’d tried to hold on to her mother, she hadn’t been able to.

  When they knelt together at the altar, all Sofia could do, even while clutching her rosary, was to reel at God. You’ve taken my twin. You have the half of me that I will never get back. Must you take Mamma, too?

  She sensed a presence at her side, opposite of where Carla Russo knelt beside her. Another parishioner had joined them. Sofia felt comforted when people were around her. A complete circle always felt the most secure. Prayers said around her made her feel as though God would be more disposed to answer.

  A sense of peace, the feeling she usually had when she came to the chapel, radiated from her and even the fingertips of her usually cold right hand warmed. She ended her prayer and crossed herself. Not wanting to disturb the person next to her, she waited a moment to allow whomever it was to leave the altar before her.

  Carla Russo touched her arm. “Are you ready? Shall we go?”

  Sofia opened her eyes and nodded to her. She turned to her right. No one was there. She glanced behind her and saw no one leaving the railing.

  Sofia and the healer parted ways outside the church. “Just remember,” Signora Russo told her, “you cannot help what has happened. God will provide.”

  Sofia said she understood, but she didn’t. There might have been something she could have done when her sister died, something to prevent her from running after the wagons. And now there might be something she could do. For Mamma.

  Sofia rode the Third Avenue el to Bellevue, hoping either Mamma was still there or they could tell her where she was taken. When she at last was directed to the ward where Mamma was being seen, she spotted her father sitting in a metal chair in an area designated for waiting family members. She rushed to him. “Papà, what has happened to Mamma?”

  He lifted his head, smiled briefly, and then resumed staring at the tiles on the floor. “There is not enough room for her here, Sofia. There is too much consumption, too many insane patients. They say they are building more hospitals, but how does that help us? Those with consumption stay. The others, like your mamma, must leave.”

  “Do not let them send her to Ward’s Island, Papà. We will take care of her at home. The healer and me.”

  “No.” He stood and straightened his coat. “What must be, must be. She will be sent to the state hospital ward. I have been waiting for the papers to be prepared.”

  “Papà, no. You do not know what it will be like there for her.”

  His face reddened, his posture stiffened. “You are the one who does not understand, Sofia. Your mamma, she is not as she was. We must accept this. The doctors will help her. In America, they have arrangements for people who cannot pay. We cannot care for her any longer at home.”

  Sofia’s chest ached. Her head swam with worry. “Accept this? I will not. I can’t, Papà. They will not help her!”

  He put a hand on her back and they walked to the stairs. “Go home now. Our home. You do not need the boarding house anymore.”

  “I won’t go there.” She forced the words through clenched teeth. “I will not so long as Mamma is not there. Where is she now? I want to see her.”

  “They have taken her to a ferry to go to the asylum. It is on an island in the river. I am waiting for the clerk, but your mother is on her way there.”

  Sofia pulled on his arm. “Papà, no. Please don’t send her there. Nellie Bly put it in the newspapers. It is a terrible place. Everyone says so.”

  He whispered into her hair the way he had done when she was a small girl and upset over losing a coin or having a friend move away from the village. “Your mamma is in a terrible state. So terrible. God will send an angel to watch over her, mi figlia. Go on, now.”

  ***

  As they left the saloon, Antonio and Nicco strolled down the street in good humor. Men do not need alcohol to enjoy themselves. He hoped he had proven this to his uncle. When Antonio noticed a directional sign across the street illuminated by a street lamp, he realized they were not too far from the address the writer had given him, near Washington Square. Thinking he might as well stroll by just to see if someone wealthy enough to be a possible benefactor might live there, he steered his uncle down 5th Avenue. As they approached some red brick houses, music floated on the air, piano music worthy of Carnegie Hall.“What’s that?” Nicco looked around, not understanding what had halted Antonio in his steps.

  “Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”

  A crowd began to form around them. Antonio closed his eyes to listen to the master.

  “You can play like that,” Nicco said, shoving him with his elbow.

  “I do not think so, Uncle.”

  “Sure. I’ve heard you play that exact thing.”

  “But not like that. Do you not hear the beauty?”

  Nicco grumbled and shuffled his feet.

  “Will you stop that?” Antonio held on to his arm. “Close your eyes. Concentrate only on the music.” Antonio did just that. The artistry he heard was breathtaking. The sound made him feel weightless. It stirred him. Then the music stopped suddenly before morphing into Chopin. This was a practice rather than a performance but the only clue had been the change of pieces. The playing was flawless, smooth, and mesmerizing.

  “Move along,” someone shouted from behind. A policeman came marching up to the crowd from the direction of Washington Park, blowing his whistle and shattering the magic, the dream, into shards of words and shouts. There should be a law against that.

  Antonio glanced up at the windows. Most were shuttered so he was able to spot the musician easily. A man with a mad mop of red hair leaned out the window and shouted to the bystanders below. “Thank you for attending my practice. Do come again!” Then he disappeared back into the room.

  Paderewski seemed amiable enough, but Antonio would not bother him simply because a writer who had had too much to drink had told him to.

  As they walked home, Antonio encasing Nicco’s arm in his, he felt his uncle tremble from withdrawal. Staying off the sauce would not be easy. He almost pitied him. “You are doing fine, Uncle.”

  The man’s words slurred just a bit even though he’d had nothing to drink. “I…Tony, you hear the master…you hear that fellow’s playing in your mind when you perform and all will work out fine.”

  If only that were possible.

  As they neared the mission, Nicco broke free. “I will stay here.”

  “But, Nicco, you are fine with me. You do not need to. I can make up a bed for you.”

  Nicco shook his head and plodded up the cement steps, leaving Antonio alone on the sidewalk. Nicco turned before he opened the door to the mission. “Hurry along and take care of that mutt of yours.”

  Chapter 22

  Sofia could barely concentrate on her work. Even though she was once again cocooned within the nest of sole makers in the center of the large workroom, her heart ached for her mamma. She counted the hours until her shift was finished, planning to head directly for Ward's Island. They would have to let Mamma leave with her. Where they would go, she didn’t know. Sofia was not used to going against Papà’s wishes, but this time she had no choice. He was not listening to Sofia or even trying to consider her opinion. So she would have to do the things she knew to be right. Sofia could not be sure Mamma would submit to leaving with her but she had to try.

  Flinging a finished sole down on the top of her pile, she strengthened her resolve.

  “Daydreaming again?”

  Sofia turned to find Mr. Richmond hovering over her. “No, sir. I am working.”

  He leaned down and whispered into her hair. “In my office as soon as the whistle blows.”

  “But—”

  He spun on his heels,
ignoring her protest. How would she explain to him that there were matters of critical urgency that overruled his worries about a strike, something that was not going to happen in the first place?

  She jabbed a needle into the end of her thumb. “Ai!”

  “What is the trouble?” Maria called out from behind her machine.

  “Nothing.” Sofia squeezed her thumb inside her apron and prayed it would not bleed so much as to cause her to have to change. It was too late in the shift.

  “You have hardly said a word,” Claudia complained, wiggling a bit in her chair next to Sofia.

  “I, uh. I have been focusing.”

  “I hear that you have become Mr. Richmond’s favorite. That for some reason he has decided to prefer you.” She examined Sofia’s pile of soles. “Very nice work.” She inclined her head toward Mr. Richmond’s office. “Be warned, he doesn’t care about his workers.”

  Impatient, Sofia resuming her sewing. “Do not worry, Claudia. Everyone knows your stitching is superior.”

  The girl grinned and turned the wheel on her machine. “I am happy you think so, but I am trying to help you. Don’t be blinded by the promise of more pay.”

  “What are you talking about?” How on earth could word about their arrangement have gotten out already? “I did not accept more money from him.”

  “So, he offered, didn’t he?” Claudia blew out a breath. “That humbug.”

  “Stop it,” Maria cut in. “She is more worthy of respect than most.”

  “I didn’t say she wasn’t.” The crimson-haired girl, smug as though she was privy to information—and of course she could not be—shrugged her shoulders and counted her own day’s pile of soles. Sofia thought the girl’s estimation of her own value as an employee was inflated. No one’s job was completely secure. That was the nature of business. Sofia had come from a hardworking family that understood there were no guarantees in life.

  Sofia darted into Mr. Richmond’s office seconds after the dismissal bell rang. “Should I punch my card first?” she asked as he began to close the door.

  “No. This won’t take long. What did you find out?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Don’t play games, Miss Falcone.”

  “I…uh, I am most serious. No one is talking about a strike.”

  “I don’t believe you.” His face turned tomato red.

  “Truly. Please, I have to leave promptly. My mamma…she is not well. I have to go to her.”

  He stood with his back against the door. “It’s that Claudia, isn’t it?”

  “Who?”

  “Come now, Miss Falcone. The little redhead beside you. She is firing everyone up, isn’t she?” He grunted and swore under his breath. “A hardheaded carrot top. If she wasn’t such a good worker…well, don’t think I am completely bamboozled.”

  “Completely what? I am sorry. I do not understand this word. And carrot? What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  She tried to push past him but he held on to her wrist.

  “You should learn English, Miss Falcone, if you’re going to stay in America.”

  “I…uh, I will. I do…” He held her too tightly for her to get away.

  “I know what they say about me out there. But I am much nicer than I look.”

  She could smell licorice on his breath. She’d often seen him eating the candy but had never before been so close she could smell it. “I must leave, please.”

  He cupped her cheek with his palm. “I am quite the pleasant fellow once you get to know me.”

  “Yes, sir. May I go now?”

  He flung the door open. “All right go. But know that I am watching. The girls need to make me happy if they are to stay employed.”

  Happy? He wanted something more than information. Sofia would keep sidestepping as long as she could.

  She rushed out of his office, hurried to the clock, and got in line behind the last two girls to leave. Brushing away the strands of hair that had tumbled loose from her bun, she considered the feasibility of quitting. She could find another job. Papà wouldn’t force her to stay, not if he knew what her boss was like. But she would never tell him. God only knew what he’d do if he knew how Mr. Richmond treated her. She didn’t want her father sent to Sing-Sing while her mother wasted away on Ward's Island.

  Before she left the sewing floor, she glanced back to her station. She was now nearly in the very center, a position of esteem. She turned toward the corner where Mr. Richmond had placed her earlier, a lonely location where her fingers had grown numb along with her mind. There had to be another choice besides staying safe or becoming an outcast.

  She headed north on the el, wishing she had time to petition Father Lucci to join her. She didn’t know how late hospitals allowed visitors so she wanted to go straight there. Anxiety built with each squealing rotation of the train’s wheels on the metal track. She would much prefer a companion on this journey. If her twin had lived, she would have come. But, if Serena had not died, none of this would be necessary. Oh, God. Did I cause this?

  Her urgency would not be satisfied on the el. The ride was exceedingly slow. At irregular intervals, and not at the scheduled stops, the train halted and the passengers had little choice, if they didn’t care to walk, but to wait. The attendant had told her where to get off, as close to 116th Street as they would go, near the north end of Central Park. Dusk was not far off and she still had a long way to go. She gazed out the window the best she could. A fine film of dirt and soot cast the city in a dull light. She bit her lip and focused on the announced stops. Tears began to sting the corners of her eyes and when she willed them away her eyes overflowed all the more.

  She had not been aware of the man next to her until he spoke. “Miss?” He held out a handkerchief and bobbed his head, indicating that she should accept it.

  “Grazie.” She did not even bother to speak English.

  “You may keep it.” He stood at the next stop and exited.

  Sniffing, she tried to summon an image in her mind, a map of where she was.

  “St. Mark’s. Tompkins Square,” the conductor bellowed.

  She leaned forward to get the attention of a woman seated in front of her. “What number street?”

  The woman turned. She was dark complected, like Sofia. She would understand her difficulty with English. The woman pinched her lips together as though trying to remember. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and blurted, “Ah. Eight. Maybe nine.”

  Sofia moaned and leaned back in her seat to rest her eyes. Much later she heard the conductor shout, “Central Park.” She had nearly missed getting off. At some point she knew the train would end but how far that was and at what distance from her destination, she couldn’t guess, so she was pleased she hadn’t dozed for the entire trip.

  She exited and rushed down the iron stairs behind others whom she assumed had only been visiting or shopping in the lower part of the city and were now on their way to their colossal dwellings. Here, everyone was dressed in fine clothing and spoke smooth English with no hesitations. She had never felt so foreign in America, not since stepping off the Ellis Island ferry in Battery Park.

  After some searching, she finally found a street sign. “Sixty-fourth Street?” She hadn’t missed her stop. She had gotten off too soon! She stepped in front of an elderly couple about to cross the street. “Central Park?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from warbling.

  “Just a few blocks west,” the man replied, curling his wife’s fingers over his right arm.

  “Please, wait. I am…looking for…” She swallowed hard. “One Hundred Sixteenth. Is that not close to Central Park?”

  The man chuckled. “Indeed, but Central Park is vast, my dear.” He exchanged looks with his wife. “Perhaps you would care to share a carriage with us. We are headed that direction.”

  Sofia nodded, fully aware that the change in her pocket needed to get her back to Hawkins House. She had to get to her mother, though. That came fi
rst.

  She sat across from the couple, nervously jingling the coins in her pocket. She knew that sixty-four was less than one hundred sixteen, and with paper and pencil she might be able to calculate how far they had to go, but what a carriage ride cost, she didn’t know.

  The elderly woman cleared her throat. When Sofia looked up the woman asked her name.

  “Sofia Falcone.”

  “Well, I am Amelia Whitfield and this is my friend, Mr. William Price.”

  “Please to meet you,” Sofia said, the echoes of her night school teacher’s instruction meeting her ears. So the couple was not married. They were acquaintances, like she and Signor Baggio. Another person who might have helped her had she taken the time to ask.

  The woman, face pale with chalky powder, smiled like a kind Italian nonna might, calming Sofia’s anxiety just a bit. “Might I ask where you are headed out here alone, Sofia?”

  “The ferry to Ward’s Island.”

  “Ward’s Island?” The woman began waving an ornate paper fan about although the evening was cool.

  “Are you perhaps an employee at the hospital there, my dear?” Mr. Price asked.

  The woman sighed as though that would explain everything and she no longer had to worry that they had given a lift to a crazy immigrant girl.

  “No. They have taken my mother there, but she is not mad.”

  “Oh, dear. I have heard of such things.” Amelia Whitfield quickened her fanning. “I do hope you get her home soon, dear.”

  “Grazie. Uh, thank you, Signora…uh, Mrs…” Was she married? Sofia’s stomach turned with the realization that her poor English inhibited her ability to be polite to these people who were quite sympathetic toward her.

  “Just call me Miss Amelia. That’s how all the young people refer to me.”

  The man interrupted. “I am afraid you won’t be going over to Ward’s Island this evening, Miss Falcone. The ferry doesn’t run this time of day.”

  A tear ran down Sofia’s face as frustration gripped her like a vice. “I see. I will take the train back. How much do I owe…for the carriage, signore?”

  “Nothing at all, my dear. Are you sure you can find your way?”