An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  So Sofia was blessed with something incredibly rare: free time.

  But didn’t she deserve it? Though she’d only been working at the sweatshop for four years, before that she’d worked at home, making paper flowers with her mother and aunt, since she was five.

  What little free time she had, she spent reading dime novels, which she either bought in their entirety as soft-covered books or collected from magazines over many issues. Mamma called them an extravagance, but Papa had told Mamma to let her be, that if Sofia could escape in a good story, so be it. Though Papa had been gone for years now, Mamma hadn’t defied his wishes and prohibited the treat. Sofia earned ten cents a sleeve, sometimes seventy cents a day. Surely she deserved to buy a book every week. Up until today, Sunday afternoon was her only time to indulge herself, to escape to the Wild West, or into one of Laura Jean Libbey’s romances.

  She loved how Mrs. Libbey’s stories usually revolved around a poor young girl who fell in love with a man far above her station. And they always—always—married in the end, and knowing that never ruined the stories one whit.

  This morning, Sofia saw an opening for some reading time. So before Mamma ordered her to help pack for the move, she grabbed her latest title, Little Rosebud’s Lovers, and ran down the five flights of stairs to the stoop outside their tenement. There, she sat upon the top step, just to the right of the door, leaned her back against the building, and found the place she’d left off. . . . A handsome stranger, Percy Fielding, was discussing the county fair, where he planned to see Maud, the woman of his affection. Yet the local man he spoke with talked of a stepsister, Rosebud. . . .

  “Who gave her the name of Rosebud?” said Percy.

  “Oh, she’s been called that ever since she was born, and she has the sweetest face, with red cheeks and pretty dimples, that you ever saw; but she is no young lady. Little Rosebud is only a romping, merry-hearted child of sixteen, with a face like an apple-blossom, framed in long, fair, curling flaxen hair, soft and clinging as a baby’s, and great blue roguish eyes, and the sweetest little scarlet mouth you ever saw.”

  Sofia looked up when an argument between Mrs. Roselli and a customer over a loaf of bread got heated. Noise. Mulberry Street was always noisy, whether it be from the pushcart owners calling out their wares, horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, or homeless children trying to sell a stray piece of wood, some matches, or a discarded newspaper.

  She pushed the distractions away and returned to the book’s description of Rosebud. Blond, blue-eyed, and merry. Nothing like Sofia herself, yet she also knew that before the story ended Rosebud would face great peril before finding love and redemption. There was satisfaction in seeing the rich humbled and the poor raised up. Not that Sofia believed such things actually happened. Although the neighborhood was filled with families that had come to America to make a better life, the streets were not paved with gold. They were but worn and dirty cobblestones made slick with the droppings of man and animal alike.

  Within a page Sofia nodded with satisfaction as poor Rosebud began her descent into hell. . . . And pretty Little Rosebud Arden would know the bitterest woe that ever came to a bright, sunny girl’s life, as she drained to the dregs the bitter draught which would be held to her lips by the hand she loved. . . .

  Sofia could hardly wait.

  Just a peek . . .

  Lucy was tempted to peer into the window of Madame Moreau’s, but refrained. Today—dressed in her worst work clothes for the task of cleaning their new apartment—was not the day to make her presence known. Only two days more and she could enter with confidence.

  She set down the basket of cleaning supplies in order to negotiate the key in the door to their apartment, angling it downward as she’d had to do when first meeting Mr. Standish. Her easy success made her smile. She was an expert already. It was meant to be.

  The door at the top of the stairs also succumbed to her key and she entered—and immediately saw a vase of white and yellow flowers on a table.

  There was a small note stuck within its blooms. Miss Scarpelli, I feel bad for the horrible condition of this flat. Hopefully, these flowers will bid you fair welcome. Mr. Standish.

  Lucy allowed herself a moment to enjoy the fragrance. She appreciated Mr. Standish’s gesture, but would have preferred the more practical one of having the place cleaned.

  “Chi fa da sé, fa per tre,” she said with a sigh. If she wanted something done, she would have to do it herself.

  And so she did.

  As usual.

  Lucy pushed hair away from her face with the back of a hand. She got up from her knees, arching her back to counter the ache.

  Was she finished?

  She scanned the main room. The windows were washed, the floors swept and scrubbed, the facilities in the kitchen and bath as spotless as she could make them.

  Her hands begged for attention. They were red-raw from the hot water and soap, yet she didn’t really mind. At least there was hot water in their apartment. Back home they’d had to go into the hallway to gather water from a shared spigot, and then heat it on the stove. Baths had been taken in the main room, in a hip bath, and the more intimate needs were attended to in communal outhouses.

  Now to arrange the furniture. What was left behind was rickety—Lucy had thrown away one precarious chair—but the rest was usable.

  She remembered that the mattress to the bed was sticking out the back window to air. She hauled it back in and placed it on the frame, choosing the best side up. The room held a small table she placed beside the bed, and a three-drawer dresser—one drawer for each of them. And there was even an armoire for hanging clothes. Lucy shivered at the memory of cleaning out the mouse nest she’d found inside.

  The living room contained a small table for eating at and two chairs. In addition, there was an upholstered chair. Even through the seat cushion, Lucy could feel the springs, but if you sat just right, it was the softest chair she’d ever sat in. Mamma would like it.

  Mamma and Sofia would like all of it.

  “I did well,” she said aloud, breaking the silence.

  The silence. What was silence?

  Lucy sat in the chair and rested her arms upon its arms. It was odd to consider the lack of silence in her life. In a tenement full of families there was always noise. Even in the middle of the night they could hear people moving about. The walls were thin, and privacy didn’t exist. Not to mention Uncle Aldo’s snoring.

  She closed her eyes and held her breath to allow the silence to fully wrap around her—and didn’t like it.

  Lucy breathed heavier to break through the nothingness, and after a few moments of that effort, opened her eyes and stood. Silence and solitude were foreign conditions that would take getting used to.

  A familiar sound broke into the moment, drawing her to the window. Horses pulled a lovely carriage to a stop in front of the dress shop. The driver got down from his perch and opened the carriage door. A fine lady emerged wearing a navy suit adorned with red piping. She said something to the driver and went inside.

  This was the sort of woman Lucy would be sewing for. She faced the room, raised her chin, and placed her hands primly, one upon the other. “How may I help you this morning, ma’am? I just happen to have the most exquisite ensemble, designed especially for you.” She cocked her head, hearing the woman’s response. Then Lucy said, “My name? Lucy Scarpelli.” A pause. “You’ve not heard of me? Let me assure you, you will.”

  With a laugh, Lucy dropped her hands and did a pirouette in the middle of the room.

  Why not dream?

  Her life was just beginning.

  Sofia’s free time didn’t last long before her mother and aunt found her and demanded she come help with the packing. A lifetime of accumulation and not enough crates made the chore difficult. And added to the chaos were Uncle Aldo and Aunt Francesca packing for their trip west.

  Lucy came home late in the day. Sofia tossed her a roll of twine. “It’s about time. Tie
up that stack of bedding.”

  Lucy stood inside the door, scanning the room. She looked as though she could cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Sofia asked.

  “When I left this morning I didn’t realize it would be the last time I’d see the place as it’s always been.”

  Mamma took the twine from her. “Consider it a blessing, Lucia. Sometimes it’s best not to have time to wallow in the ‘last’ of things.”

  “But it’s not home anymore.”

  Sofia hadn’t taken time to think of it that way, yet what Lucy said was right. In the length of a single day, the apartment had been stripped of the items that made it home. Now it was simply two rooms with peeling wallpaper, a single cracked window that overlooked a narrow alley, and a stove that barely provided heat and made cooking a challenge. Would the kitchen in their new place be better? Would they see sunshine? Would the bedroom have natural light and air?

  “Do you want this pan?” Mamma asked Aunt Francesca.

  Uncle Aldo shook his head. “She does not. There isn’t room and I’m certain our son has plenty of pans.”

  Sofia was less certain. She couldn’t imagine Cousin Vittorio caring about pans or pots or anything domestic. She hoped he lived in a respectable place in Oklahoma, but she also knew he had a penchant for exaggeration. She did not trust his letters, bragging about his new life. What would her aunt and uncle find when they met their son?

  Suddenly Mamma pressed a shirt to her face. Was she crying?

  Sofia put an arm around her shoulders. Without a word Mamma offered her the shirt. Sofia inhaled the scent of her father.

  “We came here together. We made this home together.”

  Sofia felt her throat tighten but refused to give in to tears.

  Lucy smelled the shirt too, then handed it back to Mamma. “It would sadden Papa to be here and see our building demolished, to see the old neighborhood change so drastically.”

  Mamma’s eyes lost a bit of their sorrow. “Would he like our new place?”

  Lucy nodded. “He would.”

  “Then I will like it too.”

  Mamma amazed her. She never let anything bother her. What life handed her she embraced—or at least set aside without complaining. Sofia wasn’t keen on change, any change. Even though their life was hard, would this new life Lucy concocted be any better?

  It had better be.

  Chapter Three

  Lucy braced herself to see him again.

  Angelo Romano, her ex-fiancé, was helping them move. He possessed two key essentials: a two-wheeled cart and a strong back.

  Lucy hated having to call on him, but all their other requests for help had been answered with good excuses. People couldn’t risk their jobs to take off work and help the Scarpellis move. Because Angelo worked for his father, he had some leeway in such things. But would he associate her need for his services with her need for him? Four years had passed. Surely he wouldn’t still want to marry her.

  There was a knock on their door and Lucy felt her stomach flutter. She opened it. “Ciao, Angelo.”

  With cap in hand he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Ciao, my dear Lucy.”

  My dear Lucy?

  He looked past her. “Signora Scarpelli. You’re looking well.”

  Lea smiled at him and handed him a crate of dishes. “You are very kind to help us, Angelo.”

  With a wink to Lucy he said, “Didn’t your husband always say, ‘Mal comune, mezzo gaudio’? Trouble shared is trouble halved. I’m glad to do it.”

  Lucy immediately gathered a load of belongings. Perhaps if she kept him busy Angelo wouldn’t have time to court her or ask questions she couldn’t answer.

  For she didn’t love him anymore. He was far too frivolous and flighty, and in hindsight she realized their marriage would have caused more anguish than joy. If she ever found a man—if—she wanted someone with a practical nature who could ease her burdens, not add to them.

  Sofia came out of the bedroom. “Angelo!” She ran to him, hugging him awkwardly around the crate.

  He set it down and gave her a proper embrace. “Ah, my piccolina, it is nice to see you again.”

  Sofia stepped away, taking offense. “I’m not your piccolina anymore, Angelo. See? I am a grown woman.” She drew herself to her full height with her hands on her hips.

  “Sofia!” her mother said.

  “Well, I am.”

  It wasn’t proper for Sofia to draw attention to her figure. Lucy interceded. “Come now. Let’s carry a load to the cart.”

  Angelo returned to the crate of dishes, then held the door open for Lucy with his shoulder. “Ladies first,” he said.

  She’d made a horrible mistake asking him to help.

  Angelo and Aldo pulled the cart, heavy-laden with the belongings of the Scarpelli women. Such a sight was not uncommon in their old neighborhood, as people often moved from here to there in hope of better accommodations—or to escape paying overdue rent. But as the group made their way to the north, to the newer sections of the city, Lucy felt conspicuous. The ethnic boundaries became blurred and she saw judgment in the eyes of many who did not appreciate the influx of Italians into their neighborhood. Some people walking on the sidewalks looked aghast at the haphazard mountain of crates, mattresses, and chairs, and hurried on their way as if they feared being tainted by the sight of it. Lucy wanted to boldly step in their path and demand they tell her just how else a person was supposed to move to a new home.

  With this image still in mind, Lucy had the men stop the cart on the street before they reached the windows of the Fashion Emporium. She hated to care so much what the ladies inside thought of her, but also knew her instinct regarding their reaction was correct.

  With their destination reached, everyone looked to Lucy for direction. “So,” Uncle Aldo said, arching his back, “where is this wonderful new apartment?”

  “Up there.” Lucy pointed to the row of windows above the shop. “Behind those windows is the main room.”

  Her mother’s eyes grew wide. “So much light.”

  Lucy nodded with satisfaction. “And air. There’s a window in the bedroom too, so this awful heat will be conquered.”

  “I get the bedroom!” Sofia said.

  “Mamma gets the bedroom.” Lucy looked to Mamma to see if she smiled—but Mamma was busy untying the rope that held everything to the cart. The idea that suddenly everyone would beset the apartment en masse reminded Lucy of her plan to show her mother and sister the place in private.

  “If you all could just wait here a moment while I take Mamma and Sofia upstairs alone . . .”

  “So what are we?” Aunt Francesca said. “Aren’t we relatives too?”

  Uncle Aldo nipped her arm with his hand. “Leave them alone, wife.” He winked at Lucy. “This is Lucia’s special moment.”

  Lucy winked back at him. He was a good man and she might actually miss him.

  She retrieved the key, opened the street door, and struck a match to light the lamp. “See here? Our own private stairway.”

  Mamma looked upward. “Only one flight?”

  “Only one.”

  Sofia raced up the stairs to the landing. “There’s just the one door. This is ours?”

  Lucy followed after her. “This is ours.” She waited to open the door until Mamma had also reached the landing. Then she used the key and swung the door wide. “This is ours. Our new home.”

  Just as the light from the windows had first drawn Lucy into the room, so it did for her mother and sister. “Look at the view!” Sofia exclaimed. “We don’t have to look into someone else’s window across the alley! We can see the street and watch people come and go.” She opened the sash, leaned out, and called to the family below. “Look here!”

  Angelo called up to her. “Ciao, piccolina!”

  Mamma bypassed the windows when she spotted the kitchen. She ran a hand along the edge of the sink as if it were made of solid gold. Lucy turned on the water. “Look, Mamma. Not j
ust running water, but hot water.” She backed up to show more. “And a real stove and oven. We can bake our own bread now.”

  Mamma’s eyes were rimmed with tears as she took Lucy’s face in her hands and kissed her. “Cara ragazza mia. Bella. It is beautiful.”

  Lucy wasn’t certain beautiful was the right word for the apartment, but—

  Sofia interrupted. “Look, Mamma! A bathroom!” Mamma and Lucy found Sofia climbing into the bathtub, just as Lucy had done at her first sight of it. “I’m going to take a bath every day, two times a day, and sit and soak and read and fall asleep. You’ll have to serve me my meals in here.”

  “You’ll be making your share of the meals, sister. With all three of us working at the shop . . .”

  “You spoil everything, Lucy. I doubt you even know how to pretend to be a grand lady.”

  Mamma ignored both of them and went into the bedroom. She turned to Lucy. “A real bed?”

  “It’s for you, Mamma. This whole room is yours. No more sleeping on the floor in the living room.”

  Mamma sat on the bed but shook her head no. “I can’t take this room. You and Sofia—”

  “No,” Lucy said. “You deserve this room, and it’s yours.”

  Sofia looked around. “So where are you and I going to sleep?”

  “On the mattress we brought from the other place, right here, in the main room.”

  Sofia put on her pouty face, but before she could give the mood full reign, Lucy tugged on her arm. “There will be none of that; there will be no complaining in this house. Not for one second.”

  Sofia yanked her arm loose. “You don’t get if you don’t ask.”

  Sofia did enough of that. Her sister’s selfishness was like a pebble in Lucy’s shoe. She couldn’t understand how Mamma was always so forgiving. If she were Sofia’s mother she’d . . . she’d . . .

  God help her if she ever had a child like Sofia. Which she wouldn’t, because she was never going to marry. What did she need with children, anyway? Her experience with Sofia had stifled all maternal longings.