Rapture's Rendezvous

by Cassie Edwards

  Michael pushed her gently away from him. “Undress, Alice,” he said thickly, kicking his shoes off, then slipping his breeches and undergarment down. He watched her hungrily as she removed the combs from her hair, letting her hair cascade in red waves around her shoulders.

  Michael felt the familiar heat rising in his loins. The last time he had experienced these feelings, Maria had been the cause. Oh, Maria. My Maria, he thought sadly to himself, then reached his arms outward as Alice stepped from the last of her garments.

  When Alice was beside him on the bed, he rolled over and climbed atop her, not wasting any time as he thrust his manhood inside her and began working anxiously in and out. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, moaning, and when the spasms began, he whispered the wrong name. …

  Alice kicked and scratched, screaming. “Get off me you bastard,” she shouted. “Do you hear? I hate you, Michael Hopper. I hate you.”

  Michael scooted to sit upright next to her, furrowing his heavy blonde brows. “Damn it,” he growled. “What did I do?”

  Alice began gathering her clothes, stomping angrily around the room. She glared toward him. “You don't know?” she whispered between clenched teeth, stop-ping to study him, not even knowing him any longer. He had changed. The voyage … someone on that voyage … had changed him. Someone named .. . Maria….

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Michael asked, stammering.

  “Who is this . .. Maria .. . Michael.. . ?” Alice asked, stammering.

  He turned, swallowing hard, paling. “What did you say .. . ?” he gasped.

  “Who is this Maria whose name you just whispered when we were … making love … ?”

  “God. Oh, God. Did 1… do .. . that. .. ?” he blurted. He turned his back to her, hanging his head. He began to knead his brow, now knowing that he had to find Maria. He would look for her .. . even until his death, if need be. …

  Chapter Seven

  Placing her nose against the pane of glass next to her, Maria watched the land race by outside the train window. It seemed to her the further they traveled, the flatter the land became.

  Illinois. She had just heard the whispers of those behind her that this land had been given the name of Illinois. The “Prairie State.” And this land was where her Papa had settled. In only a matter of hours she would be able to rush into his arms, feel once again the security that those arms had always represented to her since the day of her birth.

  As she continued to watch, she gazed upon a great sea of grass, an endless expanse that flashed and rippled in the wind in soft wine colors. It was a land where there seemed to be nothing but grass meeting sky, except where small towns would suddenly appear alongside the railroad tracks and in streamside groves.

  “How much further now, Alberto?” she asked, turning her wide, dark eyes to her brother.

  He was absorbed in a deck of cards that he had managed to steal from one of the card sharks aboard the ship. He was placing them on his lap, studying them, then stacking them back together once again to shuffle them.

  Maria's brow furrowed, not liking this new pastime of her brother's. She could see a future of possible trouble for him if he persisted with such a thing. Hadn't it gotten him in enough trouble aboard the ship? Hadn't he yet learned that it was the devil's game?

  “I'm sure it won't be long now,” he murmured, pushing his hat back from his forehead, looking annoyed for having been disturbed.

  Maria's eyes wavered. “Alberto, those cards. What you are doing is nonsense. Why don't you put them away? When we reach Papa's house, you will have more to do than play that silly card game.”

  “Don't start bossing me around, Maria,” he scowled. “Sisters are to be seen, not heard. Didn't you know that? Especially a twin sister.”

  Anger seized Maria. She slapped at Alberto's hands, knocking the cards from them, making them scatter on the floor. “You've changed, Alberto,” she said. “Since leaving Italy, you've changed.”

  “You pick up those cards,” he growled.

  “I will not,” she said stubbornly. “And when wc arrive at Papa's, please don't let him see them. I don't think he would approve. Especially since you always play that game with money. Alberto, what do you think Papa would think of that?”

  Alberto laughed self-assuredly. “What would he think?” he boasted. “He'd probably be proud to see that I've learned another way of making lire, dollars as they call them here in America. And it's so simple. No hard manual labor. Maria, don't you know how long it took us to make just a few coins while we worked so hard cleaning chimneys in Pordenone each day? Why, this is easy and fun. One would be foolish to not do it, especially one who knows the tricks of the trade.”

  Maria crossed her arms. “And you do, Alberto?” she sulked.

  “Very much so.”

  “And you forget the blow to your head that one time because you had let yourself get mixed up with such characters who play this game?”

  Shadows crossed Alberto's face. He reached down and picked up the cards and thrust them inside his front right jacket pocket. “Must you always be reminding me of that?” he growled, knowing that she would most truly be shocked if she knew the truth of those nights with Sam and Grace. He closed his eyes, not even himself wanting to be reminded of it.

  “As often as needed,” she said, setting herjaw firmly.

  Alberto reached over and took one of Maria's hands. He squeezed it fondly, watching her, pleading with the darkness of his eyes. “I really would rather you didn't speak to Papa of this card game I have grown so fond of,” he said. “I guess he probably wouldn't like it that I have found such a way to play with money.”

  “Maybe Papa has found a pleasant job making good enough money so that we won't ever have to worry about such things again,” Maria murmured. “Wouldn't that just be too grand, Alberto?”

  “Don't count on it,” he answered, looking around him at all the other immigrants who were now a part of America and its working force. And he had to remember all those who had come before them. How could the Americans have so many job opportunities and fulfill their own population's needs for jobs as well?

  No. Something inside him told him that hardships could possibly be ahead. He sensed it. He had even read this between the lines that his Papa had written when he had sent the tickets and money for passage to America. If Papa had been well off. . . happy .. . secure… it would have shown in the words of his letter.

  A conductor, thin and tall, dressed in all black, began to saunter down the aisle of the train, rambling, “Hawkinsville next stop. Please make sure you get all your belongings and step carefully from the train when it comes to a full halt. Nathan Hawkins will have a representative at the depot to direct you all to your assigned quarters.”

  Alberto and Maria glanced at one another quickly, eyes wide. “Did I hear right, Maria?” Alberto blurted, eyeing the conductor as he moved on away from him repeating the same speech over and over again. Alberto turned and eyed Maria once again. “Did he . .. really say . . . Nathan Hawkins?”

  “Yes. I'm sure of it,” she whispered, watching all around her as the crowded car became a hubbub of activity as people pulled baggage down from above them and children were made to calm down and sit on trunks that had been placed in the aisles next to the seats.

  “Why would all these people . .. ?” Alberto said.

  “Yes. Why would they all have association with this Nathan Hawkins who Papa wrote briefly about? What could be the connection with these Italians .. . and Nathan Hawkins? And the name of the town? It is the name … the same as. .. .”

  “Yes. As Nathan Hawkins,” Alberto grumbled. “Damned if I know what it's all about.” He grew silent as the train's brakes began to screech loudly.

  When the train depot came into view, Maria's heart began to pound. Was she truly only moments away from seeing her dear Papa? Would he have changed? She knew that she had. Would he be able to see the change in her? On this journey, she had become a wo
man. She felt no different, but she knew that it possibly showed in her eyes and the way in which she held herself. She had come of age .. . and she was proud of it. The only drawback was the fact that she had lost Michael in the process . . . when she had said her goodbyes to him. Oh, Michael, she thought to herself. Wherever you are, I shall always love you.

  “I guess maybe this car is the only one to unload at this town,” Alberto said, watching the people rushing toward the door when the conductor opened it, motioning with his hand for them to come ahead.

  Maria remembered having seen the more fancily attired women and men at the New York train depot entering other cars all along the line. She was anxious to know where they were going. She lifted her violin case and listened to Alberto groan when he lifted the trunk to his shoulder, then moved on behind him toward the door. When she moved next to the conductor, she stopped and said, “Sir? Where might the people on the rest of the train be going?”

  “To Saint Louis, Missouri,” he said, then added, “But never you mind about them. You just move on out of this train and step aside so the train can get on its way. Like I said, Nathan Hawkins will have a representative to take care of your needs.”

  Maria lifted her chin into the air, fluttering her lashes nervously. “My Papa will be here to meet me and my brother,” she said proudly. “We won't need the likes of a Mr. Nathan Hawkins.” Then she stopped and put her hand to her throat when she suddenly realized what this conductor had said … about. .. Saint Louis. . ..

  Saint Louis was Michael's destination. She now remembered his having said this. She reached out and touched the conductor on the arm. “Did you say. .. Saint Louis .. . ? That this train was going to Saint Louis .. . ?”

  “Your ears work pretty good, young lady,” he answered. “Saint Louis is indeed the destination.”

  Maria felt a desperation seize her. Had Michael been on this train? Had he been there the whole time she had, and she hadn't been aware of it? She wanted to rush back through this car and to the next and the next, looking for him, to get a glimpse of him just one more time. But a familiar voice made her heart leap. She looked ahead and standing outside the train with arms outstretched was her Papa. Tears filled her eyes as she raced down the steps of the train, almost tripping, and fell into her Papa's arms. She placed her violin on the cobblestone street and then hugged him strongly. “Oh, Papa,” she murmured, over and over again, sobbing with delight.

  Then as he pushed her away from him to hold her at arm's length, he said, “Maria. My Maria. Let me take a look at you.” His eyes raked over her, then he said, “My, oh, my. You've grown into a lady for sure.”

  Through the blur of tears, Maria saw that he had changed. Giacomo Lazzaro had aged. He appeared much older now than his forty-nine years. He was no longer a strong-looking man. He even had a slight curve to his back. Maria wiped at her eyes, absorbing his presence even more, seeing that he looked more squatty and short than she remembered.

  “Papa,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

  His face was slightly distorted by the large dose of chewing tobacco he had tucked inside his cheek, and his hair had thinned to only thin wisps blowing in the gentle breeze.

  Giacomo spat onto the street beside him and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He appeared to be quiet with worry and it showed in the depth of his dark brown eyes. “I have us a place to stay and a job for Alberto and me,” he said, forcing a smile. “What more could a body ask of the Americans?”

  He turned to Alberto and reached his arms toward him. “And, son,” he said proudly. “I see you got Maria and yourself safely across that large body of water. This makes you a man. I'm proud of you.”

  Alberto could contain himself no longer. He flung himself into his Papa's arms and hugged him tightly. “Papa. Oh, Papa, how glad I am to be with you.”

  “Such a show of affection for your old Papa?” Giacomo chuckled, patting Alberto fondly on the back. “Does this old heart good, it does. I'm glad to have you . . . home . .. with me . . . son.” His gaze searched Alberto's face. “And whiskers? It makes you look even more to be a man.”

  The train whistle blew shrilly, making Maria turn with a start. She had forgotten about Michael.. . about Saint Louis . .. but now she was keenly aware of the train cars that were moving slowly on by her. Craning her neck, she peered searchingly into each of the windows, wondering if Michael might at any moment be at one of those windows and see her. If so, what would she do? Run after the train and demand that it be stopped? Or stand and watch her heart being carried away from her once again?

  But the faces that looked back at her were those of strangers . .. finely dressed ladies and gentlemen … but.. . strangers. Her heart ached when she saw the last car come into view. She looked even more closely into its windows, seeing that this car was quite different from any of the others. There were fewer windows and there were no people sitting beside them. These windows displayed the finest of green velveteen curtains, fringed on the edges, and behind these she could see only a slight movement of a person … a woman … with the reddest hair that Maria had ever seen … and attired … very … scantily….

  Maria's face reddened, and she looked suddenly away, knowing that car had to be a special car to have so few passengers. Remembering how she had traveled, in the heat and smelly surroundings of the crowded car, made her cast her eyes downward, feeling even a bit humble. She had to wonder how it might feel to have wealth … beautiful clothes….

  “Let's go home, children,” Giacomo said, fingers snapping his suspenders, turning, waddling away in a walk that was only his own, his head bobbing nervously on his shoulders.

  “Do you mind calling America and this house you are now living in home, Papa?” Alberto said, looking at the way his Papa was dressed in loose-fitted, dark breeches and matching shirt. They were so wrinkled, Alberto knew that no iron had been set to them. His earlier worries were now crowding in on him—that his Papa hadn't found an easy life here after all; in fact, it appeared that whatever work he did each day had begun to make him into an old man much too soon.

  “A home is what you make it, Alberto,” Giacomo answered, spitting into the wind.

  “How much further until we reach it, Papa?” Maria asked breathlessly.

  “Just down the road a piece,” Giacomo said. “Just a short piece and we'll be there.”

  Maria glanced backwards just as the caboose of the train made a turn on the tracks in the far distance and disappeared from sight. A longing shot through her, and she wished to be on that train, just knowing that Michael possibly was. Hadn't he left the ship at nearly the same time she and Alberto had? Wouldn't he have probably been as anxious to get to his American home as she had been to get to hers? Wouldn't he have boarded the nearest train that left the earliest? Just the same as she and Alberto had done.

  She lowered her eyes, blinking back a tear. “All those people at the depot,” she said, glancing backwards once again. “On the train, the conductor said some-thing about them having to be met by a representative of Nathan Hawkins. You know. The man you made brief mention of in your letter to Alberto and me. What does it mean, Papa? Why would all these people who have come from Italy like Alberto and myself even be wanting to see this Nathan Hawkins?”

  Giacomo's shoulders slumped even more and his brow furrowed. He chewed angrily for a moment, then answered in a deep, thick tone of voice. “This man . . . Nathan Hawkins . .. pretty much owns us all,” he grumbled.

  Alberto stepped in front of his Papa, glowering, reaching out to stop his father's pace. “What do you mean, Papa?” he stormed. “How could anyone own anyone? I do not understand.”

  “Take a look at most of the people who stand waitin',” Giacomo said, turning, seeing the dark, drab clothes of those who waited still at the depot, and the desperation on their faces. “Most of these Italians— whom I know none of by name since they have come from all parts of our beloved country—have come to America to live in this town of Hawk
insville, which Nathan Hawkins settled and named after himself many years ago.”

  “What's that got to do with it?” Maria asked, looking into the distance, seeing what was probably the town that her papa was speaking of. It looked bleak . . . cold….

  “Nathan Hawkins bought and now owns all the houses in Hawkinsville,” Giacomo continued. “He even owns all the stores, which are few, and the coal mine where I and all the rest of the Italians work.”

  The color drained from Alberto's face. “What's this you say . . . about… a coal . . . mine . . . Papa?” he blurted. “Did you . .. say. .. ?”

  “Yes. I said I work in a coal mine. And that's where you will also be workin', Alberto.”

  Alberto placed his trunk on the ground and then his fingers before his eyes, still seeing the blackness beneath his nails and in the pores of his skin, from his years of working as a chimney sweep. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He had thought his life in America would be one of cleanliness… with a job of honor… not degradation … as he knew the coal mines must make one feel, since one had to work in dark caverns many miles below the surface of the earth. “No, Papa,” he mumbled. “You must be joking. Tell me . .. you … are . . . joking.”

  “It is a truth I hate to admit to,” Giacomo said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Alberto and Maria glanced quickly at their Papa's fingers . . . and then at his face, seeing the traces of coal dust that they hadn't noticed before. They had been too anxious to see their Papa to notice these things that had meant nothing to them . . . until now.

  “Why, Papa?” Maria said, taking one of his hands in hers, feeling the veins, so taut, like the veining of a dried up leaf.

  “I was among one of the immigrants bought and paid for by that Nathan Hawkins.” he grumbled, reaching inside his shirt pocket, to get another plug of chewing tobacco to stick into the corner of his mouth.