Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  She skipped along, dodging girls with hoops, boys playing stickball, and several newsboys hawking the evening edition of the papers. The smell of meat cooking made her stomach rumble. She had considered splurging at her favorite delicatessen near the factory for supper, but should they need to pay a doctor, one of those doctors of the psyche, she dared not waste a single penny, not even her promised bonus. Perhaps Signora Russo would spare some bread, enough to ease Sofia’s complaining tummy.

  She marched past the door to her home and up the stairs. She was about to knock on the healer’s door when Luisa, Carla’s daughter, opened it and came out into the hall.

  “Papà is angry tonight, Sofia. I am on my way to the Free Library for sewing school. I do not know if Mamma will speak to you.” She started to walk away and then retraced her steps. “Sofia, have you spoken to your friend Antonio?”

  “About what?”

  “The money.” She sighed. “I know about Joey and that he was looking for money the night Signor Baggio died.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I overheard. I hear lots of things. Mamma says we cannot change things, but I think Antonio Baggio can. Has he said he will try?”

  “Luisa, these are not things you should worry about. Go along to your sewing class.”

  She scooted on past Sofia, and then whispered low but Sofia heard. “I wish Papà would leave us.” The door was slightly ajar.

  Signor Russo was shouting something. A whimpering sound came from near the door, low and animal-like. Heartbreaking.

  “Buongiorno,” Sofia called out. “I have come for the healer. With money.” She thought that might cause the man to back away from mistreating his wife.

  A moment later Signor Russo burst through the door. “Another Falcone?” He pinched his fingers and tapped on his forehead. “You are all crazy! I leave this place, shake the dust off my boots, and never come back.” He stomped down the stairs.

  Sofia cringed for a moment at the word crazy. She went in and found Carla huddled on the floor. Her face was tear-streaked but she did not seem hurt. “He is a monster,” Sofia said, helping the woman to her feet.

  “He says he is leaving for good,” Carla sobbed.

  “Finalmente! You are better off.”

  Carla was shaking. “I cannot provide for Luisa alone. What will we do without his earnings?”

  Carla had no other family on Mulberry Street and Luisa was her only child.

  “I want her to stay in school. Learn things. Become a good American and marry well.” She kept squeezing Sofia’s arm. “I do not want her to work to support her poor, old Mamma.”

  Like I do?

  After Sofia made coffee, the two women discussed the cost of rent, food, and fuel. “Papà will pay you to sit with Mamma.” Sofia urged the sugar bowl toward Carla before realizing it was empty. “He might even take you and Luisa in. There is room in the apartment.”

  Carla sprung from the kitchen table and began opening cabinet doors. She scooped ingredients from several jars and began mixing with a large wooden spoon. Sofia could smell dried lavender and olive oil. She knew the woman was making a salve for Mamma. “May I help?”

  “I earn my way, Sofia. I am the healer.”

  “Of course you are.” Sofia gathered clear jars from a hutch and the two of them filled as many as they could with the mixture.

  “I will make all I can before we are put out of here,” the woman explained.

  If Signor Russo really was gone for good—and Sofia hoped the terrible man never came back because he was a disgrace to all Benevento men—Carla and Luisa could not stay here. Immigrant women in this neighborhood were not permitted to live alone. If the landlord did not hear of their predicament, the priest would and shame would come to them. Sofia was beginning to see how women could be business owners and fare well because she’d seen Mrs. Hawkins handle matters. Even Annie Adams, who was married to a postman, thought of herself as an independent businesswoman, despite bemoaning the fact that some did not respect her as they should. She was making strides, getting somewhere. Like that woman she’d spoken about, Miss Julia Richman. Those women were strong and resourceful. She glanced to the bruises Carla tried to hide. Here on Mulberry it might as well be another country. For some having a husband, even a bad one, was better than being left alone to starve and beg on the streets.

  Sofia had to help Carla if she could. “Tell me about Mamma,” Sofia asked. “Have you seen her since she has been home?”

  “Only for a moment. She is pitiful, Sofia. Always looking out the window with no expression. Her thoughts drift from her when she does try to speak so that her words flitter like sparrows. Here and there. Back and forth. She needs the high cost doctors, Sofia.”

  Sofia brushed a stray strand of hair from her face as she worked. “Perhaps, if we cannot heal her first. You, here. And me offering advice from a distance. Get her to talk about what happened the day my twin died. It will be painful at first, but then she will heal. You will see.”

  Carla stopped stirring and gripped Sofia’s wrist. “Listen to me, child. Some things are better forgotten. You will stir up terrible things with this talk.”

  “I do not think—“

  Carla held up her hand so Sofia relented. For now. Until she could speak to Papà alone.

  Chapter 35

  Antonio roused with a growling stomach shortly before nine in the morning—early for him, but then he had not been working the night before. Luigi noticed he was awake and trotted over from his bed near the stove.

  “Hey, boy. I wish you could tell me where you went and what you were doing.”

  Antonio got a sniff of something musty like stale rain gutter water. “Or maybe I don’t want to know. You’re getting a bath.”

  As he scrubbed the dog with a bar of Ivory soap, Antonio detected a yeast odor, something fermented. Alcohol? “Were you snoozing on the floor of a saloon, boy? You smell like the inside of a whiskey barrel.”

  When someone knocked on the door Luigi broke free and went toward the sound, scratching until Antonio got it open. “Uncle! Come in.”

  Luigi shook his body, sending soap bubbles toward Nicco’s trousers. Instead of pushing the dog away, as he usually did, Nicco laughed. He was freshly shaven and wore a crisp, white shirt under his weathered overcoat. “There’s the fella.” He rubbed Luigi’s damp ears.

  “Since when did you two become friends?”

  Nicco hung his overcoat over the back of the kitchen chair and leaned against Antonio’s bed. He gave Luigi a firm pat as the dog sat at his feet. “Since he came looking for me. I was…uh, under the weather.”

  Antonio huffed. “Indeed.”

  “Oh, truly, I was. Not drunk. Not very much.”

  “Well, that is a good thing, Uncle. One day you will give it up entirely.”

  Nicco smiled. “You know those Benevento men I told you about? The ones I tried to keep away from here? They found me.”

  “Uncle, are you hurt?” Antonio put a hand on his uncle’s shoulder, but he brushed him away. Antonio noticed the redness on one side of Nicco’s face that hinted of the black eye to come.

  “They shoved me around. I…uh, I am afraid I don’t remember much else, but I am not harmed. I woke later in back of the grocer’s shop, you know, the one who shares space with the butcher? I woke with this fella licking my face.”

  “The establishment that doubles as a saloon?” He went to the sink to dampen a cloth for Nicco’s eye, wishing he had some ice or even a steak to bring down the swelling.

  “Sì, that place. Maybe I went there for…pickle from the jar. I do not remember. Probably nabbed me in the alley, but they just pushed me around some. Do not worry.” He placed the cold cloth to his cheek.

  “I’m glad you are okay, Uncle.” Antonio patted his dog on the back. How on earth had Luigi gone from Mulberry all the way back there to help Nicco?

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Nicco pointed a gnarled finger at the dog.
/>   “You do?”

  “Sure. My brain’s working this morning. How did he do it, that pooch? I wasn’t surprised when I saw him, not too much, because I did not know that you had misplaced your Luigi in Little Italy until the attendant at St. Anthony’s told me. You said the train drivers let him board, sì? That everyone welcomes him because he looks like the Victor dog, and anyway, he is better behaved than President Roosevelt’s pets? You say this, sì?”

  “Uh, yeah, something like that. He knew trouble was brewing. Dogs have a sense about things. Good boy.”

  “Sì, sì. Trouble.”

  They could have done to Nicco what they did to Antonio’s father. They did not. That must mean they thought Ernesto had what they wanted, but Nicco did not. Why rough up the old man? Because they thought Antonio would pay up. This revelation nauseated him.

  However, Nicco seemed better despite it all. More coherent.

  Nicco rubbed his chin. “Now, where is that accordion case? I just remembered something.”

  Like one of Mac’s actors responding to a cue, Lu jumped up and yelped. He trotted over to the case and sniffed. Antonio picked it up. “Nothing to this, Nicco. I examined it. If you thought there was a clue inside, there isn’t. I found nothing—”

  “Hold on. There has to be something. Sit down, son. Let me tell you what I remembered, like it was a dream, but it wasn’t. Ever hear those soldiers talk about remembering things many months later?”

  Antonio sighed. The man’s moment of clarity had waned. “Soldiers?”

  “The ones coming back from China. The fellas visit the shelter like I do and they talk. Mamma mia, do they talk. They tell me they have dreams that reveal lost memories. Flashback, some call it. A spark of something that comes to you and reveals an experience once deeply hidden.”

  “I know, Nicco. Those men, they witnessed horrible things. They buried memories to protect themselves from dwelling on unspeakable evil. A defense of the mind. I don’t see how the accordion—”

  Nicco held up a hand. “I don’t say I’m the same. I am just telling you that I had a memory brought back to me. That is all.”

  “All right. What was it?” He rose to prepare coffee, only half-listening to the man’s ramblings until he mentioned Antonio’s father.

  “Your papà, he came to me the morning before he was shot. I was sitting somewhere. Sì, the park. Relaxing a bit, you know. And your papà, he found me and he said, ‘Brother, if ever you respected me, listen to me now. I am going to do something about those Benevento men. They should not be pressing the poor shopkeepers for protection money like they do. I pretended to help those thugs by collecting some of the money, but I will not hand it over. I will get help. A lawyer. Until I get back, you watch this.’ I asked him, why me? Why not your son? And he scolded me harshly. He did not want you involved.”

  Antonio plunked down on the piano bench with a thud. “My father was a secret informant of some kind?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is he was trying to help the poor workers who struggle to put food on their tables and coal in their stoves, and he knew it was dangerous. That is why he did not tell you. To protect you.”

  “They want their money back. Do you have it?”

  The man’s face drooped. “I tell you the truth, God help me. I try to get better. I try. But…if I had that money all these months I would have spent it at the saloon. You know that. I cannot be trusted because I do not even realize what I’m doing until it’s too late.”

  “Then where is it?”

  Nicco glanced toward the case that Luigi sat near. The dog, motionless and rigid, reminded Antonio of the Peter Cooper statue that sat on its stony perch overlooking the violence when his father was killed. “In the case? Impossible. It’s so compacted inside, and besides, I already looked.”

  Nicco shrugged his shoulders.

  “Do you remember telling me Papà had told you to give this to me if he didn’t come back? Why would he say that if he was trying to keep me out of it?”

  “I remembered wrong. He did not say to give it you. He said to keep it away from you. Give it to me. I will hide it in the basement of the shelter.”

  “Now wait a minute. If it’s that important we have to find out why. What if it does hold some kind of clue that could lead to the arrest of Papà’s killers?”

  The two of them searched inside and out, lifting buttons and feeling along the edges of the billows. Nothing.

  “Any pencil writing inside? Nicco asked. “My eyes are not too good.”

  “It is as clean as a whistle. Nothing. Just this one broken key.” He turned the accordion upside down. “Probe with your little finger in that reed opening there. I hear something but it seems like nothing is there.”

  After a few moments of shaking, a metal key slid through and clinked to the floor. Luigi whined and went over to sniff it.

  ***

  After Sofia got Carla settled in in her parents’ apartment, and carefully avoided Mamma’s blank stares while speaking softly so as not to disturb her, she slipped outside to find Luisa. Carla was worried her daughter would come home to a cold apartment and not know where her mother was. Only days earlier Sofia would have expected to encounter Joey on one of the stoops or chatting with the newsboys. It pained her to think she might not see him again. Might not even know if he was alive or dead.As she walked, she drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The familiar coldness returned with magnified strength now that she had lost two siblings. Would this ever get easier?

  When she reached the church, she found Sister Stefania sweeping the steps next door. She had handed over Mamma’s care to Carla earlier that day. “Sister, it is so late. Why are you doing that?”

  The diminutive woman looked at her with rounded eyes. “Working while I was waiting for you, dear.”

  “Oh, well I’ve come for Luisa Russo. Is she here or at the Free Library?”

  “She is here. After visiting that place we have to remind her she is a good Catholic.” She winked and nodded toward the yellow light coming from a window a few paces down the sidewalk. “They will be finishing up there any moment and she will come out. Until she does, tell me, Sofia, have you talked to that young man again? The one I said could help lead you to the bad padrone?”

  “I have. He’s a very fine young man, although, Mamma might not approve since he is from Northern Italy. I do not think he can help with Joey’s situation, though. It was kind of you to try to help, Sister. Joey is away safely and there is nothing else to be done.”

  The nun wrinkled her nose as though Sofia had spoken an alien language. “You did not heed my advice?”

  “No, we spoke, Signor Baggio and me. He does not have what the men want. He knows nothing about it. But I have explained to the police. They are aware of the bad man and I believe they will handle matters. I just wish Joey could come back home, but that is yet to be seen.”

  “Police?” She tsk-tsked the suggestion. “That young man, Antonio, he is who you need.”

  Sofia was pleased they could have this conversation but the woman was misdirected. “Why would you think that?”

  “Your brother, Joseph, told me. Your brother worked for the bad man.” She crossed herself as she said this.

  “I know Joey worked for the extortionists. I know he helped threaten people, although I can’t imagine he was very good at it. Antonio is not a threat. Parrella’s men sent Joey on a bootless errand.” She waved dismissively. “Maybe Antonio looks like someone else.”

  Luisa and a few other girls came toward them, chatting happily now that their charity work was done for the day. When the friends parted, Luisa joined Sofia and her aunt. “Did Mamma send you to walk me home? She worries too much.”

  “No,” insisted Stefania. “She does not worry too much. You two girls should not walk home alone.”

  “We will be fine,” Sofia said.

  “One of the boys working on the church might walk you back. The Father retires early. If you wait, someone w
ill be coming down. They have been working on the predella.” She clapped her hands. “In my lifetime I may yet see the altarpiece installed.”

  “That is wonderful,” Luisa said.

  Sofia had no energy to entertain the musings of her distracted aunt. While they stood chatting about the cooler weather and changing colors of the trees in the park, a policeman crossed the street and headed in their direction.

  “Miss Falcone,” he called out.

  “Sergeant McNulty? What brings you out here?”

  When he got close enough, Sofia introduced him to Luisa and Sister Stefania.

  “I was working,” he explained. “I am finished for the day.”

  Stefania clapped her hands. “Since you already know my niece, perhaps you would walk her and her neighbor home?”

  Owen McNulty bowed his head “I would be most happy to, Sister.”

  Luisa did not budge when Sofia tried to urge her forward. “I have never needed an escort before. We are only a few blocks from home. What is this all about?”

  Sofia sucked in her breath.

  “Coffee first!” Sister Stefania announced, herding them all toward the convent’s kitchen.

  Sofia plopped down on a chair. “There isn’t time, Sister. We have to get back. Mamma needs us.” She glanced up at Luisa. “Your mamma needs you.”

  “What has happened?” The young girl’s expression stiffened. She shook her head at Stefania’s offer of a cup.

  “Your mamma is fine,” Sofia also refused the convent’s hospitality. The sergeant, however, supped as though famished.

  “There has just been…a change. That is all,” Sofia whispered.

  “Sofia, tell me.” Luisa’s eyes watered. “What did Papà do?”

  “He left.”

  Luisa looked at her strangely.

  “Do not try to deny it. We know he was a wife beater.”

  “He was much more than that,” Luisa said, plopping her arms on the table. “I must ask. Do you trust this policeman, Sofia?”