Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  Sofia felt light-headed and foolish for being so gullible. She focused on the housekeeper.

  “Coffee, please.”

  Minnie winked. “I got this way of knowing what our girls prefer. Those new ones, they like drinking chocolate. Ever have it? Hot like tea. Well, no matter. I will be right back. Now you relax here, darlin’.”

  A few moments later Mrs. Hawkins entered. “Sofia, love. How delightful to see you back so soon.”

  Sofia stood and squeezed her hands together, willing the English words to come. “I was hoping…I don’t mean to…I just would like…a room?” Her voice squeaked like a mouse.

  “Minnie told me, love. And Ronald, I mean Reverend Clarke, he told me you might be stopping by. Of course we have a room for you. Let’s talk a bit.”

  The woman was patient with Sofia, encouraging her to take her time when she spoke. Sofia managed to do much better with her English when she was at ease. She explained her situation, leaving out the part about her deceased twin. She did not want Mrs. Hawkins to think ill of her parents.

  “I do hope your poor mother recovers soon. You wouldn’t mind a few preliminary questions, my usual information gathering?”

  What if Mrs. Hawkins did not allow her in? Sofia wasn’t sure if the woman liked Italians. It was too late to go anywhere else. A trickle of sweat ran down her back.

  “Don’t look so dismayed, love. I only need to know your parents’ names, their address, what chores you are best at.”

  Sofia nodded.

  “You are welcome to stay as long as need be. You say you work at a factory, Sofia?”

  “Oh, sì, yes. I stitch shoes. I even designed these.” She stuck out a foot to show her elevated boot. “For women like me of short stature.”

  “Short? You are taller than the rest of the women around here.”

  “Ah, perhaps an inch or two, but I like being able to see over heads, to be the height of a man, so I can see what’s in front of the crowd.” Sofia explained that she’d won a contest at her work and was given the chance to design a new shoe and to try out a sample so the owner of the company could decide if they’d be manufactured. She hoped her efforts would impress.

  “And do they like your shoe, Sofia?”

  “I don’t know. No one has said they’d be making them. But I like it.”

  They laughed over that and Sofia relaxed. Minnie returned. Sofia wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep up with the housekeeper’s speech because of the odd lilt, something Sofia had heard referred to as a southern drawl, very different from the night school teacher’s accent, or even Mrs. Hawkins’s, for that matter. This place would challenge her language interpretation skills, but she’d endure that with pleasure after the place she’d mistakenly visited earlier.

  Thankfully, the housekeeper said little, pouring coffee for Sofia and tea for Mrs. Hawkins. Judging from the flowery smell of Mrs. Hawkins’s cup, Sofia was pleased she had coffee instead. Minnie excused herself, leaving them to sample some apple tarts.

  “I’ve two other new girls at present, love. They are Eastern European Jews. Aileen will be sharing your room, but she is only here on occasion. She works as a nanny for the Parker family and often stays over, in her charges’ nursery. Annie, whom you’ve met, lives next door with her husband and they attend First Church with me. I’m so sorry there are no other Italian Catholics to go to church with you. It’s peculiar indeed, but you are the first Italian girl who has inquired here.”

  “We keep to our neighborhoods, signora.”

  “I see. Well, don’t you worry. You are most welcome here and I will see that you are escorted to mass on Sundays.”

  “Grazie.”

  The woman showed her upstairs to a spacious room with two beds. “Aileen is Annie’s cousin, but, like I said, most nights you’ll have the room to yourself. There is a washroom with a tub at the end of the hall. Minnie will show you how it works. The other room is occupied by sisters, Etti and Leena Maslov.”

  A heady feeling washed over Sofia. In only one day she’d been transported from the Italian corner of New York City to the part of town where people from all over the world congregated, and she had landed safely at Hawkins House. She would miss Mamma, but this was something she could never have imagined before Mamma took such a bad turn. An adventure, now that she knew what types of people to avoid and what streets to stay away from. Like visiting an entirely different country that was only a trolley ride away. Perhaps this was one of those times Father Lucci called a blessing in disguise. Not that God created Mamma’s affliction so that Sofia would come here, no. But rather he had turned an unfortunate occurrence into a grand adventure for Sofia.

  She sighed, looking around. She would not like sleeping alone in this big room, however. Perhaps she could leave the door open.

  Sofia could not stand there daydreaming for long. “I must go, Mrs. Hawkins. My papà, he expects me to meet him at the gate of the building where he is working. He wants to know I am all right.”

  “Of course, love. Can you find your way? I could call for the message boy to lead you.”

  “I can find my way. Grazie, Signora Hawkins.” She’d meant to use more English but she didn’t have time to consider her words. She needed to be there to give Papà her new address and tell him not to worry. She couldn’t possibly check in with him every day, not from this place way down on the tip of Manhattan.

  ***

  Papà stared down at the paper where Sofia had written, “Agnes Hawkins, Hawkins House.” He couldn’t read it, of course, so she told him what it said. “This place, a Christian woman runs it?”

  “Sì, Papà.”

  He wagged his head. “Hawkins? Not from Benevento.”

  “No, Papà. I told you that. But you do not need to worry.”

  He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “A papà will worry. Do not tell me different until you have your own children.”

  “Sì, Papà.” She could not read his expression. Relief? “The house is a good distance from here. But it is a nice one, clean, spacious, run by a good-hearted woman.”

  “Well, that is a proper thing, I suppose. My children are in America now.” He huffed. “You are sure of this, Sofia?”

  “Absolutely sure. Would you like to come by?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, contemplating. “I have no time.”

  “Please, Papà, I will come by your work…once a week. That should be fine, sì?”

  He put a hand to his forehead. “My daughter leaves my house, leaves her neighborhood, tells me not to worry, and now she decides for herself what will be fine? Is this what America brings?” His voice escalated as an argument seemed to bandy about in his mind. “Because if so, I will walk you back through Ellis Island right now and put you on a ship to Italy.”

  “Papà, no, please. You decide. I will tell you all about the boarding house, but you decide.”

  “Sì. I will.”

  “The church watches over the women at this house. They promised I will attend mass. In fact, they require it. I will have to go to St. Anthony’s, because it is closer, but I will go. They will see to it.” She was careful not to mention what church the others attended. But she hadn’t been untruthful with him.

  He nodded his head. “Just until your mamma is better.”

  “Grazie, Papà. I will walk home with you now to check on her.”

  “No, Sofia.”

  “I will stay out of sight. I promise.” Her voice took on a pleading tone. She hated that.

  “You come in the morning, if you must come. Before work, sì? Mamma will be asleep then and you can talk with the healer. And from time to time, you will come to our church for confession, to let Father Lucci know you are well. You will do this, Sofia.”

  She thought about how this would add to her long days, but after he agreed that she could spend part of her salary on trolley and train fares, she kissed him good-bye.

  As she walked back to Hawkins House, the street lamps began to g
low over the sullen sidewalks. Even surrounded by so many people on the streets, she felt alone, worse than normal. The nip in her side rose up her spine and seemed to settle in the back of her neck. Perhaps Mrs. Hawkins and Minnie would allow her a warm bath when she returned.

  As she neared Hawkins House, she could see oil lamps glowing from the windowsills. Someone’s shadow seemed to be lighting them. Minnie Draper, she assumed.

  The housekeeper met her at the door. “Evenin’, Miss Falcone. Your room’s all ready. Would ya like a bit of supper? Got a mess o’ beans on the stove.”

  Sofia didn’t know what that was, and the confusion of hearing English spoken so differently made her head ache. “Grazie. I have…” She mumbled the Italian under her breath before forcing out the English. “I eat already, Signora Draper.”

  “Uh, just call me Minnie, honey. Now if you need anything a’tall, you just holler. Can you find your way up to your room, child? Would you like a bath this evenin’?”

  “A bath? Sì, yes, grazie.”

  ***

  As Sofia snuggled under a floral quilt, an extra pillow pressed firmly against the emptiness on her right side, she watched the moon shaded by lace curtains. She thought she’d see the other boarders, but Minne had told her they had gone to see a vaudeville show. Sofia’s day started early, so she decided to retire. She was so relaxed from her bath that despite the quiet in the house she drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

  ***

  The rest of the week Sofia scrambled around trying to figure out which trolley to take and when they would arrive. It took her several days to get the timing right, but she hadn’t been late because she left Hawkins House while the moon was still out. She remembered the names of the streets where the repugnant houses were, and avoided those deftly. She’d only had one brief conversation with Carla Russo, but the healer assured her Mamma was no worse.

  “Time, Sofia, this will take time,” the healer had said. “I rub her shoulders with oil and sprinkle holy water on her bedcovers. I light a candle at church, too. Try not to worry. God will hear.”

  But she did worry. She was so far away from Mamma now.

  On Sunday, Mrs. Hawkins walked her to St. Anthony’s and said good-bye at the door so she could get along to First Church on Rayburn Street in time for services. She explained that while the reverend was willing to come for her, he was too busy for his own good, and she had told him she would bring Sofia to church.

  Sofia smiled at the folks moving around her as they entered for mass. Strangers. Not smiling, not returning her glances. Finally, she drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and marched in. God knew her, didn’t he?

  She was a little early, but she could pray while she waited. She knew God would not want her to be noticing the other parishioners—she was here for worship—but she couldn’t help it. Their clothing seemed finer, their mannerisms more…American. Most were speaking a dialect she couldn’t understand. She gathered the ends of her fraying scarf in the palm of her right hand as much to still her jitteriness as to hide her poverty. You belong, she kept telling herself. Stop feeling as if you don’t.

  Someone brushed past her just then. A man. He slipped behind a door and she heard his footsteps clatter up stairs. The organist, she presumed. He looked like Signor Baggio. He hadn’t minded, when they’d met, that she was southern Italian. These others shouldn’t either.

  Putting on her best posture, feeling elevated in her specially made shoes, Sofia held her head high when she entered the church and found a seat. But no one seemed to notice her anyway. She wondered, after her horrible experience at that other boarding house, if it might be better to be ignored. She was safe if no one knew she was there. She was also woefully alone.

  Chapter 12

  Antonio was not as rested as he should have been that morning. Playing the organ was his joy, but he’d stayed up far too late, making sure Nicco had a bed at the aid society. His uncle had left Antonio’s last night after getting something to eat, but much later a troubling feeling prodded Antonio to grab his coat and hat and go looking for him. It had taken several hours of waking up vagrants and asking after Nicco to finally find him passed out in an alley. Dragging a drunken man along the streets on a Saturday night when every dive and brothel was filled to capacity and spilling out onto the sidewalks was not an easy thing. Taking him back to his apartment seemed to be most prudent, but Uncle wouldn’t have it. Even in his stupor he refused to allow Antonio to renege on his father’s principles. “I’m a bad, bad influence,” the man kept muttering. The truth was, keeping him in his apartment could cause Antonio to lose his lease. His landlords were strict teetotalers and made no mistake about it. Antonio didn’t want to think about having to move. His apartment was less expensive than most others and he was still saving all he could to get to Oberlin. Regardless, he would have snuck Nicco in if his uncle had allowed him to. He was, after all, his father’s brother.

  The only place Antonio felt secure about leaving his uncle was the Italian mission several blocks east. It must have been two in the morning when he and Luigi got home. Antonio had rushed out this morning while his dog barely noticed, snoring away on the end of Antonio’s bed.

  After the mass, he waited until most of the folks had left and then descended the stairs from the organ loft. The priest met him in the vestibule. “Antonio, my son, how are you?”

  “I am well, Father.”

  “Working?”

  “I am indeed. I’ve been hired to play at the Roman Athenaeum and I’m hoping…” He cleared his throat. “Praying, I mean to say, that God will allow me to continue playing concert music.”

  “Well done.” He placed a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “There are some Italians, Antonio, who…..engage in behavior that is not becoming the Church. Do you know this?”

  “There are some like that in all walks of life, Father.”

  “We must discourage this, but we must also protect our parishioners from ill repute, bad influences, you understand. That is why I must address you like this.”

  The priest’s condescending tone irritated Antonio. “Please don’t be vague, Father. Which Italians? Southerners? Sicilians? Or more specifically, Father, The Black Hand?” There were many prejudices and perhaps not enough caution in the right places. “I know nothing of any ill repute, as you say, among the people I spend time with.”

  The priest shrugged and whispered under his breath. “I cannot bear these jabbering women’s complaints one more moment.” Placing a hand to his collar, he cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is, better not to be seen in the company of those southerners, just because of appearances.”

  “You mean the young woman I walked to the train the other night? Signorina Falcone?”

  “Whomever it was.” He lifted his gaze to the rafters. “For all that is holy, just be careful. That is all I want to say.” He started to turn away and then stopped. “A young girl asked the name of the organist and then gave me this for you.” He sighed and then placed a note in Antonio’s hand. “I am not a messenger, Antonio.”

  “Oh, no, Father. I have no idea—”

  “Once is fine. No more.” The priest moved on toward the doors.

  Antonio looked at the note. It was written in the same hand as before, in Italian. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated until a rough English translation came to him.

  Your father was a caretaker. Now that he is gone, the men worry. Will you take up his cause?

  It made no sense. What cause?

  Antonio walked outside, stunned that he’d been spied on and reported on to the priest, and now he was receiving cryptic messages. He glanced around at the parishioners still assembled on the sidewalk, wondering who among them was judging him. Antonio had accepted an invitation to Sunday dinner at Hawkins House. Sofia had been the only Italian there, but who would have known that? No, she couldn’t be the reason someone had complained. Most likely a gossip had seen him staggering down the gas lamp lit streets with N
icco last night and assumed something worse than the truth—that he’d been helping his very own relative. No matter that one of the parishioners would have been out late as well in order to report it. Whomever was bending the Father’s ear was probably also filling the church’s coffers. Money rules hearts, despite what we all tell ourselves. Perhaps the “cause” was nothing more than the church offering. Maybe it was no different in The Bend.

  He balled his fists in the pockets of his overcoat as he walked down Broadway. He didn’t want to give up playing the organ. Tears filled his eyes as he thought about how proud his father had been of his playing. He stopped and turned the opposite direction when he remembered he’d been invited again to dine at Hawkins House. In fact, Mrs. Hawkins had asked him to…oh, no!

  Antonio spun on his heels and hurried back to the church. He found Sofia leaning on an iron post out front. She was gazing down Sullivan, presumably looking for him. What would the busybodies think of that? He didn’t care.

  “Miss Falcone, I am so sorry. I am not accustomed to escorting anyone. I’m afraid it slipped my mind.”

  She glanced over to him. A momentary smile was replaced with a serious look. “I did not know they sent you.”

  “Not who you were expecting. I am sorry.”

  “No, it is not that. I am happy…uh, I mean I am able to escort myself. I could have, since you are busy with your music, signore.”

  “Not at all. My fault entirely.” He held out his hand.

  She slipped her long fingers tentatively in the crook of his arm. “I only wish the mass did not let out after First Church. Everyone will be cooking without my help.”

  “Well, let’s hurry along, shall we?” He quite enjoyed having a girl on his arm. He’d never courted before. He reminded himself not to forget his mission, even as the scent of lavender emanated from her hair and her jaunty walk on those…those boot-like shoes she wore put a spring into his own step.