He gobbled down the rest of the biscuit and then rose, holding his hat to his chest. “Grazie, Sister. You are most hospitable.”
Her wrinkled face brightened, as though he could not have offered a better compliment. She stretched out her arm and he bent to receive her blessing. Then he clicked his tongue and Luigi jumped up and followed him outside.
Dismayed that he’d not learned anything save for the fact that the southern Italian penchant for shutting out others still held true, Antonio shoved both hands inside his pockets, allowing Luigi’s leash to trail along the uneven sidewalk back toward the train. This had been a bonehead idea. If the church would tell him nothing, what hope was there anyone else here would talk?
He sighed and stared down an alley at a string of white laundry flapping between two windows. He’d tried. That should fulfill his duty to his father. He clicked his tongue again, knowing Lu would follow. Antonio had trouble convincing himself his obligation had been fulfilled. The mystery would not unchain him so long as the possibility still existed that someone was trailing him.
The sound of children laughing made him turn to look for Luigi. The little brown and white dog was surrounded by giggling girls. A boy from a balcony above shouted down at them. “The Victor dog! Sure looks like him.”
“No he doesn’t,” another said.
“Sure does, because he cocks his head, listening, just like that dog.”
Antonio squeezed his way through the scarfed heads. Many of the children were without shoes and had been playing in puddles. Lu was enjoying their coos and pats on the nose. Antonio had to indulge them.
One of the girls glanced up at him. “Signore, he looks like the dog on that label, sì?”
“I suppose he does. You’ve said hello, Luigi. Come along, now.”
“He is your dog?”
There was no doubt when the pup answered Antonio’s command. The girls skipped down the sidewalk behind him, enjoying their discovery. “Come back tomorrow,” they shouted as Antonio climbed the steps to the el.
Perhaps he should. Maybe it would not be raining and miserable out and the children could introduce him to their families as their friend. He leaned down and picked up his dog. “Good boy, Lu. You did your part.”
When he was several blocks away he stuck his hand in his pocket and discovered a slip of paper that he had not put there. Thinking one of the children who had crowded around him had given him a secret gift, a sketching perhaps, he drew it out. The words scrawled there appeared to have come from a practiced hand, not a child’s at all. He was able to make out the Italian words.
Come back. Mulberry Street holds the secrets you seek.
He spun around, but of course too late. No one seemed to be following him. Someone did not think of him as an outsider. This mysterious ally was enough to merit a return trip.
Before he went home he stopped by the Fourteenth to see if Mac was there. Antonio had no work for tonight, but it would not hurt to inquire. The man had been generous with him.
“Tony, there you are! I was hoping you’d come by.”
Antonio sighed. It was hopeless trying to get Mac to address him by his proper name. “Got some work for me, then?”
“Ah, no. My regular is back. But wait here a minute. I have to go check on the seamstress. Dolly isn’t happy with her hems. Don’t go anywhere, lad. I have news.” He closed the door when he left.
As Antonio waited in the dark office, moisture ran down the collar of his Mackintosh and landed on his shoes. He did not have the energy to wipe it off. The tension he’d worked up going over to the Bend had pilfered the pluck he normally tried to exhibit while at the theater. It would not do to have Mac and others think he was anything other than confident. No one here knew about the grief Antonio had endured. It had been all he could manage to muster up enough courage to tell the nun, and that had exhausted him.
He glanced around the small office. The room was nearly concealed in a hallway painted black, and with the door shut it felt like a dungeon. Such a dim workspace for a man like Mac, whose happy-come-what-may attitude beamed like a lighthouse beacon most days. Mac seemed to like Antonio. Hopefully he’d find at least a partial job for him tonight. While Antonio did have work this Sunday, the church did not pay as much as the theater. If only he could get a steady position.
He drew in a breath to calm himself and noted the smells of oil face paints and paper-mâché props, which nearly turned his stomach. He longed to be wearing tails and a white tie while sitting behind a gleaming piano in a concert hall. He pictured a place decked out with red velvet seats. Gold gilded chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like cake frosting. The longer he stayed in vaudeville, the less likely he would find himself in such a place. He needed to save as much as possible to move on to what he was truly called to do.
Mac’s voice boomed from the hall. “Tony, you say? He’s not our regular. I don’t know where he’s working now.”
Antonio jumped up and gripped the doorknob. The door was stuck. He jiggled it while Luigi looked at him, tilting his head left and right. “Come on,” he muttered. The door would not budge. Mac was loud, but Antonio couldn’t tell what was happening. Putting his ear against the door, he could make out other, lower voices, but not what they were saying.
A few moments later the knob rattled. “Who’s been mucking aboot with this door? Tony?”
“I can’t get it open either.”
“Stand back!”
Antonio pulled Luigi toward the shelves on the far wall just as Mac burst in.
“I tell ya, I’m gonna sack the superintendent. Are you all right?”
“We’re fine, but who was that out there?”
“I don’t know, son, but something tells me you don’t want to meet them.”
“You told them I wasn’t here.”
“You can thank me for that.”
Luigi sniffed at the scent they’d left under an exit door.
“Did they say anything else? Did they say what they wanted?”
“Yeah. ‘We’ll find him, old man. Tell him the next time you see him that his Papà had our money and now his son must pay.’”
Antonio held up his palms. “Listen, Mac, I don’t know what they were talking about. My father owed no one. They probably have the wrong man. Did they hurt you?”
“I am not hurt, but I think it’s best you go along home, Tony. For your own sake, and for ours.”
“I…uh, I will. Of course. Tell me, were they Italian?”
“They were. Glad they didn’t see you. If you’d come charging out here, well, who knows what they would have done to you. Panned you in, I expect.”
“They seemed…violent?”
“Might be just talk. You know how those type of thugs can be. I mean no offense.”
“It’s all right.”
“Why take chances, Tony?”
“I’ll be going.”
“Wait. Before you go, sit down for a moment, you and your dog.”
Mac and Antonio each took a wooden folding chair. Antonio ordered Luigi to sit outside the office, just in case, and they left the door open. Antonio leaned back on his chair, nearly bumping his head on a shelf of scripts and prompt cards on the wall behind him.
Mac’s brows shot up as though a thought sparked in his mind. “Say, my news for you is even better now, in light of those fellas coming here.”
“News?”
Mac dabbed at his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. “That’s right. You did a pure dead brilliant job improvising last night, Tony. You surely did.” He poured himself a drink from a flask he’d stored in his desk drawer before offering it to Antonio.
“No thanks. I don’t drink.” And he never would, after seeing what the stuff had done to his uncle. “But thanks for the compliment, Mac. What news are you talking about? I should get home to practice and leave you to your work.” And maybe he could get a glimpse of those men on the street.
“And you will. I won’t keep you long. P
ractice, you say? Still waiting for Oberlin to come calling, then?”
He shrugged. “What if I am?”
“Keep the heid, Tony.” The man liked to use Scottish colloquialisms. This one meant he was to stay calm.
“I’ve been a bit jittery, Mac. People asking after me and all.”
He took a swallow from his flask. “I don’t blame you. I’m just saying…you’re a smart musician, lad. One of the best in vaudeville, whether you want to be or not.”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. You’ve been very kind to me. Please, Mac. Have your say and send me on my way.”
Instead, the man took another long pull on his flask. When he finally put it away, he smiled. “That’s better. Now the news. Good news, if you’ll have it.”
“I could use some. Spill it.”
“Well, I was not the only one who noticed your talent. Those boys, the quartet?”
“I appreciate that.” Antonio stood and whistled for his dog. “Tell them I’m pleased they liked it, won’t you?”
“Sit down, lad. There’s more.”
Antonio waited but did not sit.
“Those boys told the manager at the Roman Athenaeum. Apparently they’ve lost their piano player. Terrible case of consumption, it seems. They want you over there. Half past six.” Mac glanced at his pocket watch. “I’d recommend you skedaddle.”
Stunned, Antonio struggled not to stutter. “Thank you. Thank you, Mac. Listen, I’m sorry about those fellas—”
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 6
Sofia met Father Lucci two doors down from the building where the Falcones rented rooms. As they walked together, the Father spoke toward the ground. “Your papà, he mentioned this to me a few months ago. He warned me your mother might need…well, some extra care.”
“Sì, she gets the melancholy every year, but this time is worse than Papà anticipated, Father.”
“Oh, why is that? Is there more I should know?”
“So much more, Father.”
They paused at the stoop. A woman approached them, a parishioner Sofia recognized but didn’t know. A recent immigrant from a village near Naples. “Father, mio bambino. He is ill. You must come pray for him. Just over here.” She inclined her head toward a building on the opposite side of the street.
He took a step in that direction and then paused. “Sofia, a baby. You understand. I will be along when I’m finished over there.”
“But, Father, I must tell you—”
“And you will. Soon.” He reached for her hand and then kissed her cheek before moving away with the woman.
Sofia turned toward the steps blackened from the coal dust that rained on the streets in Mulberry Bend. Pinching her scarf tight against the lump forming in her throat, she made her way to Mamma, without the healer and without the priest.
She let herself in with her key. “Mamma, I am home. I am not going to night school.” She chided herself for forgetting the roasted peanuts. She would get them tomorrow.
An odd light glowed from underneath the bedroom door. “Mamma?” Sofia slowly opened the door. The scent of smoke hit her. Shoving the door open wide, she could see a candle on the floor. It had ignited a newspaper, but fortunately the flame had not spread toward the bed where Mamma lay.
“What’s going on here, Mamma?” Sofia stomped out the small fire in a panic. She threw open the window on the street side.
Mamma coughed and then thrashed about, throwing a blanket off the end of the bed.
“Have you been in bed all day, Mamma?”
The woman looked at her then, her eyes shadowed and her hair unpinned. “I miei poveri bambini! What could I have done? Oddio, what?”
Sofia urged her mother to lie back on a pillow. “It was an accident, Mamma. There was nothing you could have done. God knows that.”
Mamma moaned but at least she wasn't wailing.
“I will bring you a damp cloth to wash up, Mamma. We will be having company, and Papà should be home from work soon.”
Sofia’s hands shook as she turned on the faucet in the bathroom outside their rooms. Mamma was worse. Much worse. She rambled as though in the middle of a dream. She should not be left alone.
Sofia had just gotten Mamma freshened up when someone knocked on the door. “Father Lucci, Mamma. Would you like to answer the door while I make coffee?”
Mamma just stared toward the open window. Sofia rushed over, shut it, and fastened the iron security bar before leaving the room, worried that the woman might hurl herself out of it while Sofia was busy letting the priest in. She could no longer predict what her mother might do and that thought landed in her chest like an iron anchor. Sofia quietly closed the bedroom door before greeting Father Lucci.
“Father, might I have a word before I get Mamma? She is…resting.”
“How may I help, child?”
Sofia set a china plate on the end table beside him. She retrieved a slice of yesterday’s bread from the tin she’d brought into the sitting room and placed it on the plate. “I am sorry I have nothing better, Father.”
He smiled. “That looks wonderful to me. And you said you have coffee?”
“Sì. It will be ready in a moment. May I tell you something?”
“Indeed you may.”
“My mamma, she’s always had blue moods, come September.”
“As your father told me. Even back in Italy, he said.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No, but I understand women her age have episodes of melancholy. Not all that unusual, Sofia.”
“But do other women have them like anniversaries? At a certain time of the year?”
“I admit that is a bit unorthodox. What did you want to tell me?”
“I just discovered I had a twin who died. We were very young. I don’t remember. She died in September.”
“Oh, I see. That is most unfortunate.”
Sofia sat on Papà’s chair and put her elbows to her knees, leaning closer to whisper. “They did not tell me this, Father. I found out on my own, and, ever since I questioned them about it, Mamma has been in a terrible state.”
He arched his brows. “I am very sorry, Sofia. I know many families, well…they do not like to discuss sorrows. I’m sure they meant no harm in not telling you.”
Sofia rubbed her fingers around her neck. “That may be. Father, I am afraid I might have been the reason for this tragedy. I might have done something to cause my sister’s death and that is why they didn’t tell me. I was so young. Try as I might, I cannot remember.”
He folded his hands in his lap. “You want forgiveness for this thing?”
She had not thought of that. Just of Mamma, and what this had done to her. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know the truth. I think if Mamma would tell me, if it would all come out in the daylight, she would get better. The truth is best, don’t you think?”
He sighed and leaned back on the lumpy sofa. “Life is not as simple as that, I’m afraid. There are usually reasons, good ones, why families keep secrets. I cannot presume to know, but if your parents felt it was best not to discuss this I will not disagree.”
She did not know what to say in response. The priest was supposed to help, and she could not understand how this dismissal would do any good. She went to the kitchen to grind the coffee.
Papà walked through the door just as Sofia finished boiling the coffee grounds. She hoped he would not scold her. They normally drank coffee only on Sundays. The rest of the week they had weak tea. She couldn’t serve that to Father Lucci. She needed the priest to stay long enough to help Mamma. The coffee was the lure.
“Ah, Father Lucci. Thank you for coming.” Papà gave Sofia a stern look. He did not want the priest to know he had not asked him to visit.
The men shook hands as Sofia returned to the kitchen. She poured the coffee into Mamma’s best serving set, reserved for special guests. When she returned, Father Lucci’s expression was grim. What had Papà said to him?
“Bring your mother in, Sofia.” Papà took the tray from her.
This could be the moment she’d find out what happened. If she had been the reason Serena died, she was unsure how she would cope with that knowledge, but the truth must come out. One cannot go around troubles. The only thing to do was to go through them and come out on the other side. Her right hand grew icy as she reached for the bedroom’s doorknob.
Angelina Falcone, normally a well-groomed woman, sat on the edge of her bed, her hair spun around her head as though whipped by wind. She wrung her hands in her lap.
“Papà is home, Mamma. He and Father Lucci would like you to come into the parlor now. I made coffee.”
Mamma set her feet on the floor and without giving Sofia a glance, she shuffled out of the room.
Sofia stood in the cold bedroom a moment and listened to the ticking coming from the old clock Mamma said once hung in the casetta where she’d grown up. The coldness in her fingers had risen all the way up her arm. If someone were at Sofia’s side right now, she might be braver. An overwhelming sense of neediness, like a driving hunger, gnawed at her insides. Not wishing to be alone with the ticking clock another moment, she hurried out into the sitting room.
Papà was helping Mamma to the sofa.
“How long has she been this way?” Father Lucci asked.
Sofia sat beside her mother, but Mamma didn’t acknowledge her.
“This is the second day.” Papà turned to Sofia. “How was she when you arrived home?”
Sofia bit her lip. She didn’t know if she should say, but it was true that Mamma should not be left alone. “She was in bed, Papà.” That was the truth, although Sofia couldn’t yet admit Mamma rambled like a woman who had lost her mind, or that the room was about to go up in flames. The madness was temporary. Surely.
Papà stood and began to pace. “She doesn’t eat. She barely answers me. We cannot hire a nurse, Father. We cannot afford it.”
Father Lucci set his coffee cup down on a side table. “She needs to be looked after, Giuseppe.”
Sofia's Tune Page 5
