Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  “I suppose so. Such odd phrases Americans have for things.”

  Aileen chuckled. “Indeed they do.”

  “Whatever you call it, Mamma’s condition was caused by something that happened long ago. Usually, for most of the year, she is fine.”

  “Some kind of trauma, so.”

  “Sì. We have to help her get over it and then she will be well. We will be una famiglia again.”

  “The people in Ireland? A great many have poor mental hygiene. We liked to call it Irish crazies. And some, like my da, handle it by finding the bottom of a whiskey glass. I hope the new doctors can do something. I truly do.”

  “Grazie. Thank you.”

  ***

  It was approaching the dinner hour. Antonio had little time to see the Sister. He needed to be at the music hall over on 23rd Street by eight. He didn’t want to be late for the new job Mac found for him if he could help it. Mac had given Antonio some music and that was what he’d been practicing before his worries about Nicco drove him to make the journey uptown.He hummed the notes to himself, hoping he had learned the piece well enough. He’d be playing for something called ragtime opera. It sounded ludicrous, but he actually enjoyed the music composed by a man of color from St. Louis. The song titled Swipsey was quite pleasant.

  His mind wandered between keeping his job and protecting Nicco and himself from some Italian gang thugs. At times it all seemed too much. This was what it meant to be a man, he supposed. He needed to get this settled on his own terms and not because of the kid who visited his apartment or because of some handwritten messages. If he missed his set and lost pay, well…he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Antonio was determined, however, not to be sent to slaughter like his father had been. He would do what he had to do.

  The rain settled into a steady rhythm, no longer sending a pelting assault against Antonio’s back. The Most Precious Blood Church’s outside walls were gray with dampness, but the structure had been built well. He imagined it would long stand proud and invincible. He adjusted the accordion strap over his shoulder and knocked on the kitchen door.

  “Avanti!” The woman he’d met before, Sofia’s aunt, hauled him through the doorway. “And the little dog, too. No beast should be out in this rain.” She apologized for the muddy floors and water stained cabinets. “We were flooded. We only now make things nice again.”

  “I do not mean to intrude.” Workmen pulled off ruined boards and hammered on wainscoting and cabinet doors. The place was anything but the quiet kitchen he’d hoped for.

  “No intrude, signore. There is always welcome in our Father’s house.”

  He pulled off his coat. “I should help.” He grabbed a mop and ordered Luigi to wait by the table.

  After an hour of sponging up floodwater and picking up scraps of leftover wood wainscoting, he was finally able to tell the sister why he’d come. Lu sat licking a soup bone by the door as the sister poured two small cups of deeply dark coffee. Espresso. A treat.

  “Sister, I would like to know about this padrone, the one you say has caused trouble for families.”

  “For yours?”

  “Why, yes, mine it seems, but also for yours, as you told me earlier.”

  “You go to the bank?”

  “No. Well, yes, but he was not there. I was going to go back, however, I felt compelled not to. Not until I know more.”

  A worker returned, bounding down the stairs toward the kitchen, muttering in Italian. Antonio thought he’d said he was returning for a forgotten tool but his Italian was less than proficient.

  “Avanti, Joseph,” the sister called out. “Come meet my friend.”

  She whispered over her coffee cup. “Sofia’s brother. Always looking for work. I send him to the priest. Joseph does very good construction work.”

  Antonio turned toward the stairs as the man descended, at first only his feet and legs visible. When his lean form passed below the overhang, he and Antonio gazed at each other. It was the thug who had accosted him just hours earlier. “You move around neighborhoods very quickly, Joseph,” Antonio said, breaking the stunned silence.

  The sister reached for Antonio’s arm. “You know each other?”

  The man backed up the stairs and hurried off. Antonio ran after him, Luigi barking at his heels. Without his Macintosh, Antonio was soaked in minutes. The kid called Joseph slipped and fell in front of a line of waste barrels, allowing Antonio to catch up. He grabbed the rascal and hauled him upright. “What is this about? You better tell me right now. I am tired of the shenanigans. Decent people have more to do with their lives than go around threatening strangers. You’re the dishwasher, aren’t you?”

  “Only a hired hand.”

  “Well, you better look for more respectable work, fella.”

  Someone pulled Antonio off the thug, and shoved a fist into his jaw. He went down to the pavement hard and a pain shot through his arm. Then another blow to his stomach. He looked up and in the gray light he thought he saw two, maybe three men. A strike to his ribs. Another to his thigh and then blackness.

  He woke up back in the sister’s kitchen, lying on a cot next to the coal stove wearing just his shirt and trousers. His wet suit coat had been hung over a chair next to him and his Macintosh dripped from a wooden hanger on the wall. He clicked his tongue. His jaw hurt.

  “Where’s my dog?”

  Movement from the far corner made him try to look that way, but his head pounded and shards of pain rose up his leg from knee to hip.

  He heard the sister’s voice. “Joseph helped get you inside. I am very sorry for this trouble, Signor Baggio.”

  “Joseph needs another line of work. My dog, Sister?”

  “I call for him, but he not come. Those foolish boys. Will they ever learn that a stranger to the neighborhood is good and welcome? Not to be feared.” She moved into his line of vision, shouting in Italian so rapidly that he could only snatch the meaning from a portion of what she said. She was miffed but only as much as she’d be if young boys had tracked mud onto the kitchen floor tiles.

  “My dog, he’s not here?”

  “I believe he has run off, signore. He will come back, sì? He knows his master’s voice, not mine. So he did not return to me. You rest, and then you go look for him. He will come back. You will see.”

  Antonio moved slowly to a sitting position. “Your nephew, Joseph?”

  “He was not the one who hit you.”

  “No, he was not. He ran from me, though. I saw him earlier, at my home. He came to warn me.” Antonio did not want to speak badly about this woman’s family. He needed information from her.

  “The other ones, they cause trouble. Those boys need something to do so they are not loitering around. I tell Father Lucci, but there is only so much he can do. They should get work, like Joey tries to do, just not from the padrone.”

  A cough came from a shadowed corner.

  The nun held out her hand. “Luisa, come here, child.” She turned to Antonio. “A neighborhood girl, so helpful. She shook out your coat.”

  The girl slowly emerged. Her large dark eyes showed fear.

  “Grazie,” Antonio said, nodding.

  The girl, a teenager he estimated, did not reply. She tiptoed up the stairs and out the door.

  Antonio turned to Sister Stefania. “The Padrone. Yes, that is why I came.” He noticed the woman staring at something near the ceiling. He looked up too. A Victrola sat on top of the icebox, not where one would expect to find a music machine.

  “To save it from the rains,” she said.

  He glanced around for the accordion and spotted it next to the table where he’d been drinking coffee. If someone wanted what his father had—this instrument, as though it was a Stradivarius or something of true value—Joseph could have forced his way into Antonio’s apartment. Just now he could have barged in and stolen it from the nuns’ kitchen. The men following Nicco could have taken it from him long ago. They wanted money, they’d said. If this instrument held the
secret to what they wanted, they obviously didn’t know.

  “Sister, if you know why someone is after me, if you know anything about my father, I beg you to tell me.”

  “All I know comes from following my Master’s voice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I cannot help you, signor.”

  She cannot help.

  Antonio had to find Luigi. As he prepared to leave, he stared at the case, thought about the way the instrument was a moveable box of sorts. He wondered.

  Chapter 29

  Sofia was astounded when Minnie escorted Father Lucci into the parlor.

  “I was at Ellis Island meeting a new immigrant. When we arrived in Battery Park, her family surprised us. Her parents had not been able to get away from work to claim her at the immigration station, but they managed to get to the Battery so I released her into their capable arms. Since I found myself down here with a bit of leisure time, I decided to call upon you, Sofia, to see how you are getting along.”

  She wanted to embrace him, a bit of home here in the English woman’s boarding house, but that would not be proper. “I am so happy to see you, Father. Please sit down. I will get coffee.”

  Minnie cleared her throat. “Hold the train! That’s my job, Miss Sofia. And I don’t want to miss a chance to make coffee instead of tea around here.” She chuckled at her own humor as she shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen.

  The priest sat on the sofa. Sofia took the chair between the piano and the fireplace. The space seemed somehow foreign with the presence of her neighborhood priest. Father Lucci was a man who embodied the essence of Little Italy—American in speech, but Benevento in appearance. The two of them sitting in Mrs. Hawkins’s parlor made her think of two mountain goats climbing the steps of the Waldolf-Astoria—a scene not at all believable. Seeing Father Lucci now reminded her of where she did belong—with Mamma and la famiglia.

  He glanced around, taking in the room. “You are well here?”

  “I am. Thank you for coming.”

  He lifted a hand. “And at work? It is going well, Sofia?”

  “Sì. I thank God for my employment. I could not go to work the last few days because of the weather—the factory was closed—but I did visit my mother.”

  “She is at Ward’s Island, then?”

  “She is.” Sofia drew in a breath to keep the tears away.

  “And…how is she?”

  “As anyone would expect, Father.” Sofia rubbed the heel of her hand at the corner of one eye.

  “I am so sorry, Sofia. If only I knew of a way to commission those doctors over on Long Island.”

  Mrs. Hawkins shuffled into the room, her scurrying footsteps quieting as she reached the flowered rug.

  “Mrs. Hawkins, may I present our priest from my neighborhood, Father Lucci.”

  Father Lucci stood and shook the woman’s hand. They were cordial, not adversarial. Most anyone from Mulberry Street would be surprised to see it. Sofia was pleased.

  Minnie brought coffee, tea, and round, white biscuits topped with sparkling sugar. She refused Sofia’s offers of help. “You just relax and enjoy, honey. You have had it rough, what with your mamma and all.”

  A few minutes later, Annie Adams and her husband Stephen joined them. Mr. Adams still wore his postal uniform. Sofia was a bit embarrassed for the Father because they had come in to gawk at the Italian priest. But then, how different were Italian families when outsiders came to call? They would have done the same.

  The postman addressed Father Lucci. “You say the new medical attitudes toward the infirmities of the mind are quite progressive, Father?”

  Father Lucci nodded. “I have been to the hospital myself and witnessed the relative calm, the assurance that the doctors understand the patients as men and women still in possession of their right minds. Underneath it all, of course.”

  Sofia noticed Annie and Mrs. Hawkins exchanging knowing glances, but for all the lemon trees in Benevento she could not understand what was happening. She twisted her fists in her skirts as she tried to ignore her rushing pulse. Father Lucci, despite being the most friendly and open person in Little Italy you could ever hope to meet, would not talk so freely about his parishioners here despite the questions. It was not done. These Americans did not understand.

  “Father?” This time Annie addressed him. “If a charitable group of Christians wanted to assist these doctors, what should they do?”

  Father Lucci cocked his head to one side. “I do not understand, Mrs. Adams.”

  “Well.” She straightened in her chair. “I run a library here, to encourage newcomers to read and learn. And to tell stories.” She laughed nervously. “I imagine you have libraries in your community.”

  “We do.” His coffee cup rested in his hand. He had not taken a sip.

  Annie continued, although Sofia thought she really should have given up. “I am sure you will agree that Jesus himself was the quintessential storyteller.”

  The Father’s expression gave away nothing. “Indeed, you could say so.”

  “Aye. Well, we try to follow his example, as I know you do as well. We are very charitable here, and there are so many who need assistance these days. What if we wanted to help?”

  Father Lucci placed his china cup on the tea table and crossed his long legs. “We have charitable groups, as well, Mrs. Adams. The Catholic church tends to her flock.”

  Mrs. Hawkins cleared her throat. “Of course, Father. We did not mean to imply otherwise. I am afraid we are not making ourselves clear. What we are proposing is to retain the services of a doctor to tend to Mrs. Falcone.”

  Sofia gasped. Humiliated by her outburst, she covered her mouth, sucked her lips tight, and then plopped her hands into her lap.

  “Very generous, Mrs. Hawkins.” The priest tapped his fingertips together as he spoke. “But you may not realize how much in fees it would take to bring one of the doctors out to Manhattan. I am afraid that is the reason it has not been done already. Signor Falcone would have sacrificed much to do it if he could have. The church, with her limited resources, would have donated toward the treatment if it were within reach. But alas, it is not.” He glanced at Sofia. “I am sorry for the dismay this brings you, Sofia.”

  She nodded, not taking her hands from her skirt less her trembling hands reveal how very much she was troubled. She wanted help, needed it for Mamma, but the price was too dear. No one could afford it.

  “Oh, Father, please have some more tea or uh, coffee, won’t you?” Mrs. Hawkins rose to serve him herself. When she saw that his cup was still full she smacked her lips and placed a confection on his saucer. Then she returned to her chair.

  Father Lucci smiled. “I can see you are taking quite good care of Sofia. I shall give her father an excellent report.”

  The older woman blushed. “It is our privilege to help her, Father. In fact, we consider it our mission from the Lord.” She waved her fleshy arm around the room. “There are several of us combining resources so that we may help whomever God sends to us. Sofia is not our only girl here, and she won’t be the last. There is plenty of money to fund our efforts.”

  Sofia caught the Father’s puzzled look. Hawkins House was nice, but in no way opulent. He obviously was not convinced. She wasn’t either. She believed that Father Lucci understood the situation better than Mrs. Hawkins did. After all, he actually knew these doctors and had visited their hospital.

  “Despite our humble dwelling, indeed perhaps because of it, I assure you we have deep pockets, Father.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Adams agreed. Why were they so insistent? They lived well at Hawkins House, but this home could not compare to the mansions uptown that Claudia and others were always fawning over while reading the society pages in the newspapers. Claudia’s cousin worked as a lady’s maid in one of the colossal homes. She had told Claudia the curtains were sewn with gold thread, and diamonds glittered across her mistress’s evening dresses. Hawkins House was nothing like that, but they were act
ing as if it was. Those rich uptown people, they were the ones who could afford these doctors. She had heard the names of the wealthy: Astor, Du Pont, Forbes, Roosevelt. Definitely not Adams or even Hawkins.

  The Hawk made a chopping gesture with her hand. “Now, if you will give us a name of a doctor to contact, we will make arrangements and get poor Mrs. Falcone out of that terrible place at once.” She said it as though it were a simple matter.

  Father Lucci finally sipped deeply from his cup. “Excellent coffee, madam.”

  “Thank you, but the doctor?” Mrs. Hawkins could be embarrassingly direct.

  Sofia spoke up. “Mrs. Hawkins, I thank you very much for trying to help. And Father, I thank you for coming out here and for your prayers in Mamma’s behalf.” She stood. “I am sure the Father must be going.”

  Mrs. Hawkins appeared flustered. “But—”

  “It would be an intrusion to keep him past the evening confessional time.” Sofia took his coffee cup and he stood as well.

  “Minnie? His coat?” Sofia did not wish to direct the housekeeper, but she had to step in to help the Father save face. These were not his people, despite their kind intentions.

  Sofia thought the priest looked relieved. “If something can be worked out, I will send word, Mrs. Hawkins.” He bowed his head toward her. “Thank you for your kindness.” He was being most gracious indeed.

  “Uh, thank you for coming, Father. Come back anytime you wish.” The woman’s face was white and her cheeks puffed. Clearly, Mrs. Hawkins had never encountered the Italian proclivity toward privacy and did not know how to respond. She peered through the front door that Minnie had opened. “Thank the good Lord it seems the rain has slowed considerably.”

  “Yes, I will need to attend to the mopping out of my church. Good evening, ladies, Mr. Adams.” He turned up his coat collar against the autumn wind.

  After he had left, Annie Adams sighed heavily. “He did not believe us. No one considers the possibility that an Irish lass like me could have money.”

  “Now, dear,” Stephen said, patting his wife’s hand. “It is the nature of your benevolence that has contributed to this. You did not wish people to know of your wealth, remember? Despite the popularity of your father’s stories, you chose to follow Mrs. Hawkins’s example and keep your generosity a secret for the most part. If your name appeared regularly in the society pages, then people would believe.”