Sofia's Tune (21 page)

Mrs. Hawkins held her hands to her cheeks. “Aileen! What kindness. All you girls make me so proud.”

Once the five of them were settled in the library, Mrs. Hawkins in a leather chair, the sisters on a settee under a window, and Sofia and Aileen on a pile of quilts against a bookshelf, Sofia could not stop the tears.

“What’s the matter, love?”

Sofia looked past the Shakespearian bust on the top of the bookcase toward the window where rain beat against the house driven by a howling wind. “I am happy you are all right,
Signora
Hawkins.”

“I am fine. You kept a cool head in crisis, love.”

“My mother. The asylum is on an island. What will happen to her?” Her voice trailed off in a sob that even she had not anticipated.

Mrs. Hawkins waved a hand in the air. “Aileen, fetch that map over there, would you?”

Aileen glanced around. “That?” She pointed toward a glass case against the wall.

“Indeed. The map of Manhattan. Bring it to me, please. And come over here, Sofia. I want to show you something.”

Aileen went to the case, which looked something like a window mounted flat on long table legs. She lifted the top and drew out a flat sheet of paper. When Sofia looked at it on Mrs. Hawkins’s lap, she noted three large letters at the top, an English word she knew: MAP. Mrs. Hawkins drew her index finger underneath the words that followed.

“As you can see, this says ‘Map of New York City.’ Now along the left side here is the Hudson River.”

“The rest of it looks like wee window panes,” Aileen added.

“Streets,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “See this dark line here? That’s the elevated train track. And over here, the East River. If you follow that north…” She pushed her finger upward. “There. Ward’s Island.”

Sofia stared. The island seemed even farther from the tip of Manhattan where they were than she had imagined.

“Look carefully, love. See the land so close on either side? Ward’s Island is protected. They shouldn’t see as much flooding as we’ll have down here. That’s my estimation. So, no reason to worry.”

Sofia felt her shoulders droop. “In the morning I am going to her.”

Mrs. Hawkins struggled to her feet. “Anyone hear from Annie and Stephen?”

Aileen shook her head. “I will check, if you’d like.”

“No. The door up here to their residence will be locked and I think it’s best we don’t go downstairs in that mess right now. I will knock.”

She wove her way through the book stacks. Sofia heard her rap firmly on the opposite wall. She had forgotten the lady librarian lived in the adjacent house.

“Haalooo?” Mrs. Hawkins shouted. “Are you quite right over there?” She knocked some more. She was a strong woman and even after the accident she’d had downstairs she had no trouble making herself heard. Not even the rain beating against the roof could drown her out.

A few moments later voices drifted from the eaves. Aileen hurried over. Sofia heard the librarian’s voice, stronger now that the door had opened. “We are fine, Mrs. Hawkins, Aileen. Everything all right over here?”

“Indeed, love. We are planning to sleep in the library tonight. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Do you have everything you need?”

After they assured her they did, Annie told them she and her husband were fine in their extra third floor bedroom.

“The baby has even settled his kicking for the evening so there is hope I can rest.”

The door shut and The Hawk and Aileen returned to where Sofia and the sisters waited.

“I…uh, I meant to return the books she gave me,” Sofia said, feeling guilty.

“She is not concerned about that, love.” Mrs. Hawkins handed Sofia another pillow. “Try to get some rest, girls. Let’s all make a bed for the night.”

Some time later, Aileen shook Sofia. “’Tis morning, wake up.”

“Morning?” Sofia rubbed her eyes and looked at the window. Little light streamed in and rain continued to coat the panes.

“Aye. The sisters have left for work. Mrs. Hawkins says to wake you. The downstairs is flooded but she is determined you and she will get over to Ward’s Island.”

“And you are dressed already?”

“I am off to work as well.”

Sofia rose and gathered up the quilts. “I am sorry I slept so long. What time is it?”

“Only now seven. You will have to skip breakfast. Here, I snatched some apples from the scullery.” She handed Sofia one. “The stove’s not working. Leave everything up here. ’Tis storming still and we might be spending another night with the books.”

Just when Sofia and Mrs. Hawkins were about to go out the front door, the back door slammed opened. Leena and Etti had returned. “Streets are flooded, missus,” Leena said. “Trains not running. Wagons stuck. Cannot even walk on some of the streets.”

Sofia glanced from them to Mrs. Hawkins. “I have to go.”

“It does not sound wise, love. We won’t get very far. They did not.”

Sofia ignored her and hurried out into the street. Water the color of caffè latte
flowed past like a stream. Surprisingly, there were people out and about, trying to get by. She dismissed the calls for her to come back. She slopped through, grabbing on to the side of a slow moving wagon as she walked. She would likely ruin her prize-winning shoes, but she could make another pair. She had to get to Mamma.

When she arrived at the el station she learned the sisters had been correct. Transportation in lower Manhattan was slow moving, if available at all. Rain pelted her so hard it stung. Defeated, she waded back toward Hawkins House. Her heart sank with each step.

Sofia’s thoughts raced to Sister Stefania and The Most Precious Blood Church. They were in the basement. She turned and headed toward Mulberry. The Second Avenue el was fairing a bit better, so she was able to get back to her neighborhood.

Chapter 25

They’d had a good rainstorm last night, something Antonio didn’t normally worry about, but it was still raining hard so he decided he should check on his uncle. He whistled for his dog and put on his Macintosh.

Outside the streets were flooded but still passable.

“Much worse at Battery Park,” a passing newsboy told him.

“Stay out of the basement window wells,” Antonio hollered after him.

Lu didn’t like the rain and lashed out at it as though it were a rat he could frighten away.

“Sorry, pal. I should have left you at home. As soon as we find Uncle, I’ll make coffee and get out that bone for you that I saved from last night’s supper.”

He hoisted his dog under his arm and dashed up the steps of the mission. He found an attendant mopping up near the washrooms.

The man spoke as he continued his work. “Terrible storm, aye?”

“I’ll say. Everyone staying dry here?”

“Everyone that would come in. Stubborn, some of the bums.”

Antonio cringed. He knew others thought of his uncle as a no-good vagrant. But he knew the real Nicco Baggio. The man who had once been a hard worker, who loved his family, and who could sing, when he was sober. He was still Nicco, under it all.

“I am here to collect Nicco Baggio.” Antonio and Luigi started toward the men’s quarters.

The attendant tapped a pencil on a clipboard. “He is not here.”

“Did he leave?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t seen him on my shift. Can’t say when he was last here.”

“So he did not spend the night in the shelter?”

The man wagged his head.

Antonio and Lu hurried outside. “Maybe he’s inside the church.”

He wasn’t.

Lu ran on ahead and stopped outside a tavern Nicco frequented.

A ruddy, bearded bartender wiped a glass with a rag. “Haven’t seen him in a week at least.”

“Come on, Lu.” The dog lagged behind as the rain pelted them. Antonio could imagine how much it must hurt a dog Luigi’s size. He scooped him up and cradled him under his Macintosh. “I’m worried, Lu. We better keep looking.”

Lu licked the raindrops off Antonio’s hand as the shower slowed to a soft patter. “Thank God.” Antonio pushed back his hood and sloshed through puddles, looking behind alley trash bins and inquiring of men standing in front of small fires.

“Ask Paulo,” one of the men suggested. “You’ll find him in the alley behind St. Anthony’s rectory. The priests give him bread. He knows everything that happens in this neighborhood.”

“Thank you.” Antonio handed the man a quarter and Lu did his part by sticking out his nose for a rub on his head.

Antonio cautiously approached the tenements beside the church. He’d never ventured toward them before. Normally he entered and exited the church by Sullivan Street. He had told himself he had been minding his own business, which truly is something New Yorkers must do with the number of people one encountered in a single day. He had to ignore most of the corruption and unscrupulous behavior for his own safety. Maybe it had not been that way in Italy. Maybe Nicco had not been strong enough to avoid the vices, having grown up in a quiet village. But Antonio was raised on these streets and seeing only what he wished to see had helped him survive. Now he had no choice but to look the degeneracy in the eye, right here beside the church, where the poor lived. Many suffered from alcoholism like Nicco did. Antonio couldn’t save them all, but he’d never even managed to acknowledge them with a nod or a smile. He knew he could do that now, though. In this neighborhood, he was not an outsider.

“Paulo?” he asked one man after another.

Luigi sniffed around, seeming to understand why they’d come there. But so far neither one of them had any luck finding Antonio’s uncle.

“Why you look for Paulo?” a wizened man asked, pulling up his collar.

“I’m looking for a man named Nicco Baggio. I am told Paulo knows things.”

“That’s what they say, huh?” The man grinned, a wide gap exposed on his lower gum.

Obviously, this was Paulo. Who else would be so delighted to hear the compliment? “Nicco is my uncle. I’m worried about him.”

“Your uncle, you say? Well, I am Paulo.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

“He is your uncle? Then you should know. They should have notified you, young man.”

Antonio drew in a breath and snapped his fingers. Lu stood obediently at his side. “What’s happened? I was working late uptown. No one notified me.”

“Ah, well, the police. They have some kind of order from the commish. I listen. I hear things over at the police headquarters. In the old days you used to be able to sleep there, you know.” He lifted one boney shoulder to his jaw. “Still a good place to get a hot cup of coffee.”

“My uncle?”

Paulo closed his eyes a moment. “They rounded up men sleeping on the streets and took them to Ward’s Island. Not me. I got away.”

“Why? Nothing like this has happened before.”

“Like I said, a new order or something.” He held out a grimy hand.

Antonio reached deep in his pocket and drew out his money clip. He held out a one dollar banknote but drew it back when the man reached for it. “And how do I know you aren’t mistaken? How do you know my uncle was taken away with the others?”

Luigi growled and Antonio did nothing to correct him.

“It was him.”

“Again, why should I believe you?”

“Nicco? He is usually up at St. Anthony’s?
Sì
? He sings that song, uh…
There’s a time in each year that we always hold dear, good old summertime
…” He coughed as he squeaked out the last note.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s him. Thanks.” He handed the man the money and directed Lu out of the alley. “Uncle’s costing me my savings. He better straighten up this time. Let’s head to the el.”

When Antonio and Luigi exited the ferry onto the island, the rain began again. Antonio dared not take out his pocket watch and risk ruining it, but it was now afternoon and if he didn’t take care of this quickly, he’d miss his evening engagement. He didn’t expect Mr. Paderewski to return. Antonio was convinced there would be no sponsorship after the classical master heard the ragtime music. Therefore, he had to keep working to fund his education himself. If only his uncle would stop drinking.

He walked several blocks to pick up the Second Avenue el, dodging folks who scurried to get out of the rain. The streets were flooding now, dirty water rushing along the curbs as though it too wanted to escape the downpour. He sloshed on, holding Lu tighter inside his coat. The dog whimpered. “I know, I know. You’d rather be home curled in front of the coal stove. You don’t even like Nicco. But we have to make the best of it.”

Antonio swallowed hard as he realized he’d spoken the words he’d so often heard his father say.
I promise, Papà. I will get back to this padrone business and find justice.
If others like Sofia had also been harmed by this man, something had to be done. And just as he could no longer ignore the poor near his own church, he could not stand aside while someone else’s loved one was shot down on the street.

Justice came so seldom to the hard working poor in Manhattan. Antonio tried to study the faces of those hurrying past, despite the driving rain. He’d always told himself his music was for them. For the people who came to hear him. Every time he realized his music uplifted someone’s spirit, helped to bring the listener somehow closer to God, he worked harder. Surely bettering himself at Oberlin would achieve that. God would certainly agree and make a way.

A crowd gathered at the el platform. “Has the train stopped running?” he asked a man.

“Not yet, but everything else has. Better hurry on, young man, before they shut it down.”

“But it’s elevated. Far above the floods.”

“Powered by electricity. The floodwaters will turn it off soon if the rain doesn’t stop.”

As if to punctuate the man’s contention, a thunderclap struck overhead. Antonio hoisted his dog up to his shoulder, paid his fare, and squeezed onto a car stuffed with drenched passengers.

At the 92nd Street station, the lights flickered out and the train’s wheels ground down slowly, sending a squeal of metal against metal that caused Luigi to wiggle free. He jumped to the floor at Antonio’s feet and began to howl. No one could hear him, however, due to the loud groaning of the train’s occupants. Antonio leaned down to hook the leash to his dog’s collar. “Time to go, Lu. Easy now. Let’s let the pushy folks go first.”

They inched along behind others from the aisle of the car into the damp station and out onto the rain swept street. When they finally broke free Antonio was relieved to find that they were only a few blocks from the ferry to Ward’s Island. When they arrived at the dock the ferry was still operating.

“A little water never hurt anyone,” the ferryman proclaimed as he drew up a thick rope and waved the all-clear to the captain.

Once on the island, Antonio tried to ignore the water oozing through the seams of his leather shoes as he followed the directions he had been given toward the intoxication ward.