Sofia's Tune (7 page)

“No. Things are not well in her home, Papà.” His words about her being harmful to Mamma wounded her already hurting heart, and she pondered whether they could be true, whether she was the cause of this.

Papà threw his napkin down on his empty plate. “Mamma will just have to sleep all day if that’s what she wants to do.”

It was time to tell him. “Papà, when I got home a candle in your bedroom was burning on the floor.”

“What?”

“It had just touched a newspaper. It had not spread to anything yet, thanks be to God. I put it out. It must have happened just before I came in.”

“And your Mamma? What did she do?”

“She didn’t seem to notice, Papà.”

He stood and gripped the back of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Her state has become a danger. To herself and to everyone in this building.”

Gabriella’s eyes grew round, as Sofia knew hers must be. Mamma began to rock back and forth, sending her wooden chair squeaking against the floorboards. Then she suddenly looked up at Papà. “Sofia. I saved her. I was right, Giuseppe?”

He went to her and tenderly put an arm around her shoulders. “
Sì
, my love.
Sì
.
Zitta,
now. Speak no more of it.” He glanced up at his daughters, his eyes bugged out as though deep in thought. “Gabriella, from now on after you feed the children breakfast, you will come back and allow Sofia to go to work. Then when the boys wake, you will take the children home and Frankie and Fredo will look after Mamma until it is time for them to leave for work. You will come back then and stay with Mamma between the time they are gone and until Sofia returns. No night school, Sofia. You understand? I cannot say when I will have extra work and not be able to come home, so no night school.”

Sofia remembered Mr. Richmond’s words. “I cannot be late for work, Papà, or I will lose my job.”

He pointed at Gabriella. “You hear that?”

She nodded. “
Sì
, Papà.”

He went back to his seat to finish the coffee Sofia had reheated from the priest’s earlier visit. “I will ask in the neighborhood. I think the government provides some kind of nursing. I will find out.”

Sofia’s heart sank as she studied her mother’s face. Mamma’s mind was taking her prisoner. Someone had to find a way to pull her back.

The next morning brought shouting from the family that sent Mamma crying. Gabriella had been delayed cleaning up after a sick child. Finally, Papà convinced
Signora
Russo to come so that he and Sofia could go to work. Sofia ran all the way from the el station to the factory and up the metal stairs to the fifth floor. Sucking in air, sweat pouring down the back of her shirtwaist, she punched her card in the clock machine just in time.

Mr. Richmond waited for her at her station. “I saw you running.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Richmond. But I did arrive on time.”

He snapped his pocket watch shut. “Indeed you did.”

When he left, Sofia took in a deep breath before sitting down at her sewing machine. Claudia, the girl working beside her, leaned over. “What was that about, Sofia?”

“He is threatening to dismiss me if I am late.”

Maria, the worker directly opposite the table from Sofia, joined in. “I would not be late then. What is more important than your work?”

Sofia, sighed, knowing she needed more time than she had to fully explain. “My mamma is ill. Until Papà can decide where to send her, we all have to keep watch over her.”

“Consumption? Typhoid?” Claudia asked while pulling thread through the needle on her machine.

“No. It’s more…uh, nervous, I suppose you could say.”

“Dear me,” Maria piped in. “I do hope they don’t send her to Ward's Island. It’s a horrible place, I hear.”

Sofia began to line up the soles she was to stitch. “I am sure it won’t be anything like that.”

“Must you go straight home after work today?” Maria asked, pushing her dark braid behind her as she worked.

Home was not appealing right now, and, besides, Papà thought she should not be around Mamma. “Perhaps not immediately.
Signora
Russo is with her. Papà will pay her.”

“
Bene
. We should go to Hawkins House.”

“Where?”

“You know, the library the Irish girl told us about, when we were in night school. I’d like to get a book. It won’t take long.”

She had thought they might want to shop the neighborhood vendors or gather outside their building and discuss the American styles in the
Sears
&
Roebuck
catalog or chat while they shined their shoes—the things they usually did. Leaving the neighborhood was not typical for them. Mamma never liked Sofia to venture too far. Although…Mamma wouldn’t know this time. Her conscience seemed to tap her on the shoulder. Sofia ought to get straight home and check on her. “Oh, I better not. Mamma might need me.” She hoped.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Perhaps.”

***

Sofia arrived home to find a crowd of people standing in the front room. “Papà? Why are you home? What has happened?”

Even Joey was there. He gave her a sad look.

Father Lucci quietly called her to the side. “
Signora
Russo is quite concerned. Your mother has been wailing all day, mourning the loss of a child who died decades ago, as if it just happened.”

Sofia glanced to Gabriella, who had her charges sitting on the floor around her feet. The youngest cried and pulled on her skirt. Sofia pointed at her sister. “Take them home and feed them, Gabriella. I am here now.”

Her sister’s shoulders drooped, obviously relieved. “Come Rico, Vanessa, Simone. Back to your kitchen now.” They shuffled out, leaving space that seemed to help Papà breathe better.

Sofia wove around her father, the priest, and the healer until she reached the bedroom door. She knocked softly. “Mamma? I am here now.”

Mamma lifted her head from her pillow. “Serena?”

Sofia entered and sat on the end of the bed. “No, Mamma. It is me, Sofia. You remember. Serena was my twin and she died long ago.”

Mamma turned toward her with liquid eyes. “I remember. Twins.”

“That’s right, Mamma. Serena is not here anymore. But I am. I am your daughter, the one you like to cook with. Perhaps we should make some
zuppa di fagioli.
A nice soothing soup. You would like that,
sì
?”

“Sofia?” Mamma’s face drew tight and red. “No! It is you. I cannot bear it.” A guttural cry sent a crowd scurrying into the room. Mamma shoved Sofia with an open palm sending her tumbling off the edge of the bed.

Horrified, Sofia scrambled to her feet. Papà grabbed her arm. “Leave, Sofia. Wait in the other room.”

Sofia went to the kitchen, wiped her face with a towel, and began grinding more coffee beans. Joey sat at the table. “It is bad.”

“I know, but we will make it better. Somehow.”

He left to join the men in the sitting room.

After she set some water to boiling, she reached for the flour tin. She would make cakes for the guests. She didn’t know what else to do. A few moments later
Signora
Russo joined her. “I am so sorry I cannot help your Mamma, Sofia.”

“You have done enough,
signora
. Let me get you some coffee.”

Carla Russo bit her lip and squeezed her hands together. “I must get back home before
Signor
Russo comes looking for me.”

Sofia reached out to her and kissed her cheek. “You let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

“
Grazie
.”

Sofia walked her to the door.

The woman’s pitiful look as she glanced toward the bedroom door made Sofia feel even worse. “I do not know why, but when you are around she gets worse. She was sad today,
sì
, and I was alarmed, but this…the way she responded to you…I had not seen that before. I have never known Angelina Falcone to be…violent.”

“She is not herself, but she did not hurt me. I am grateful you came. Will you be back? I hate to ask it, but my boss will get rid of me if I am late to work.”

She nodded. “Your papà has paid me for the week.
Signor
Russo appreciates that so long as I work as a nurse.” She lowered her gaze. “And not a healer.”

As soon as Sofia shut the door, she noted Father Lucci and Papà in the sitting room. Joey stood looking out the window.

“I must be going now.” The Father smiled tight-lipped. He turned to Papà. “I think it’s best. At least for a while. Perhaps later, Giuseppe, when Angelina is stronger, she will confront her sorrow.”

Sofia raised her right hand to speak, aware of the chill creeping into her knuckles. “Won’t you stay for coffee, Father? It is nearly ready now.”

He dipped his chin. “Thank you, Sofia. You are very kind. I have to return to my duties. There are confessions to be heard.”

Papà saw him out. When he’d closed the door, he turned slowly to look at her.

She could not wait for him to explain what they had discussed. “What did he mean, Papà? What is best? You are not sending Mamma away, are you? I know you paid
Signora
Russo to come—”

He held up his hand. “You talk too much, Sofia. Bring me some coffee. Since you’ve already used most of what we have, and what I pay
Signora
Russo will mean we cannot buy more, I might as well drink it now.”

As she stood stirring canned milk into a cup of the dark brew, a feeling of dread came over her. She worried Mamma might never get well. The priest had probably suggested Papà tell Sofia what she had done so long ago that had resulted in her twin’s death—unlocking forgotten memories. The truth was probably painful for Papà. As Father Lucci said, folks do not like to talk about sorrows. Papà would need the strong brew to work up the courage to tell her.

When she brought Papà his cup, he set it aside. “The Father thinks it best if you don’t live here, Sofia.”

“No,” Joey said. “Sofia belongs here with her family.”

Papà held up his palm to silence his youngest son.

Her knees refused to hold her up. She dropped to the sofa. “What do you mean? You are putting me out?”

Her father rubbed his gnarled fingers over his face. “Of course not. You are my daughter. But, Sofia, you must see how you upset Mamma.”

“It is not her fault,” Joey said, pounding his fists together. “She should not be made to pay.”

Papà did not look at him. “This is not your concern, Joseph.”

“
Mia famiglia
is my concern, Papà.”

“Silence!” Her father’s stern rebuke ended her brother’s protest. Joey stomped out the door.

“But why, Papà? Won’t you tell me what I’ve done? I’ll go to confession right now.” Tears choked her voice.

He wagged his head and stared at the crucifix on the wall. “None of us know why this has happened, Sofia. It is best if Mamma puts this out of her mind as soon as possible. I will find you a boarding house.” He grunted. “It will cost money. The healer costs me money.
Uffa
, what will we do?” He gazed at the ceiling, obviously more upset over that than the state of her mother’s mind and the living arrangements for his daughter. “But if we are to keep Mamma here, it is the best way. You will see.” He grabbed the newspaper from the table by his chair.

It was decided then.

Sofia glanced at the date on the back of the page Papà held in front of his face. Her birthday. No one had even mentioned it.

Chapter 7

Antonio rose early on Sunday, for once not minding that he hadn’t had work the night before. The Roman Athenaeum had hired him on the spot to play for a performance lasting all next week, maybe even longer, if it went well. It seemed his crazy improvisation the other night had appealed not only to the singers he’d played for, but also to the manager of The Roman who had been at The Fourteenth as a paying customer. Why the man would spend his money on that vaudeville show Antonio didn’t know, but he was grateful he had.

He had put off returning to The Bend. Today he was headed for the magnificent organ at St. Anthony’s. His father had always loved hearing him play there, but there hadn’t been much opportunity in the past. There was the regular organist and then an alternate who got the job because he had played the organ in cathedrals in Europe. But that man was getting older now and most often preferred to sleep through mass, which would not do at all when he was at the keyboard.

Antonio had been allowed to practice on the church organ during the week ever since he was a boy, not long after they had immigrated. Apparently the organist had noticed potential in him the first time he’d asked to give it a try. And with years of practice, he’d learned to use his feet on the pedals. The organ became his first love despite his access to the piano. He’d only taken up the piano because he had one. But it was nothing compared to the sound of a magnificent pipe organ. Even after all this time, he still had to keep to the simplest pieces, but when the regular organist was unavailable, the congregants and the priest seemed satisfied with his playing. He was in a jubilant mood because with a somewhat steady job, now he’d be able to save for Oberlin College where his talents would be challenged and improved.

He’d spent yesterday considering the men who’d said his father owed them something, making notes the way a police detective would do—facts that were known, speculation, details on what he remembered about his father’s poor mutilated body—only to decide he’d wasted his time. There was probably no answer to the mystery of his father’s death, and now he had no time to investigate anyway. Or maybe he didn’t want to think about it, and the new job was his excuse. That was probably the truth. He would be better off letting matters lie. He spoke a quiet prayer in his mind, one he hoped God would attend to.
If I am to stay out of this business, God, let the matter drop from my mind.

When he entered the church he immediately climbed to the organ platform and took in the morning light from the rosette shaped stained glass window. As he silently slid his fingers over the keys, he remembered the remarks people sometimes made about his playing.
A gift. God’s music flowing through him. Pleasing to our Savior and the Blessed Mary. What he was designed to do. An ability few others had.

Antonio shut his eyes. He did not want to become prideful. Besides, he was not the greatest musician. Far from it. If he were, he would not be cooling his heels during the week in the nickel theaters. But maybe the Roman Athenaeum would put an end to that.

The custodians at St. Anthony’s took extreme care cleaning the place on Saturdays. He breathed in the scents of lemon oil, freshly cut flowers, and women’s perfume. The smells always worked to bring clarity to Antonio’s mind, the aroma of worship. Just sitting at the organ settled Antonio into the proper predilection for entering God’s presence. In that respect, he did seem to be doing what God intended him to do. This would honor his father best, rather than uncovering old wounds.

Antonio played that morning with pleasure and delight. It ended all too soon. He gathered his music and prepared to leave, telling himself he should take Luigi to the park. A man approached him as he entered the gallery.

“Young man, was that you playing the organ?” The man was older, about the age of his father, with gray sideburns, and a husky build. He leaned on an elaborate walking stick.

“Yes, sir. I hope it was acceptable.”

“Indeed it was. I’m visiting here from a small church over on Rayburn Street. Protestant, but I hope you will not hold that against me.”

“Not at all.” The man’s appearance did differ from that of most of the parishioners. Definitely not Italian. Irish or English perhaps. American in speech certainly. He had welcoming blue eyes and a kind smile. Antonio took a deep breath and focused on the visitor. “I am happy you are here.” Clearly, God was directing Antonio to set his thoughts on other things.

“Might you be going my way?” The gentleman pointed to the door.

“Uh, yes. Thank you.”

Before Antonio could move toward the door, the man stuck out his hand. “I am Ronald Clarke.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Clarke. I am Antonio Baggio.”

As they stepped outside into the sunny late morning air, Antonio matched his stride to the man’s, which was surprisingly spritely. “What brought you to St. Anthony’s, if I may ask?”

The man chuckled. “You may ask, but I may not have an adequate answer.”

“You say you were visiting?”

“Yes. You see, I am a member of an aid society, a small one, which until recently has focused on helping young Irish women who come to America without relatives to help them.”

“A valuable outreach, I would imagine.”

“It seems to have been. We have vowed to follow God’s leading in this endeavor.”

“Admirable.” They paused at a street corner to allow a horse-drawn wagon to pass. A new automobile followed, barely able to match the pace of the horse.

“Would you look there?” Ronald Clarke exclaimed. “More of those on the streets all the time, and what for? They don’t travel any faster along these pedestrian clogged avenues than traditional modes of transportation.”

“I suppose not.”

“About this endeavor I mentioned. That seems to be why I visited your lovely cathedral this morning.”

“Oh?” They continued on, dodging folks who were gaping at the automobile. Antonio had had few chances to speak to people outside his neighborhood other than those he encountered at the theater. Some Irish Catholics attended mass at St. Anthony’s from time to time, but never a Protestant American like Mr. Clarke. Antonio was intrigued.

“Excuse me, Mr. Baggio, but I sometimes ponder whether or not I’m hearing God correctly.” He chuckled again, his bright eyes almost disappearing behind wrinkled cheeks.

“I imagine we all struggle with that discernment, sir.”

“I suppose so. But I’m fairly certain God intended me to meet you at St. Anthony’s today, although I cannot say why.”

Antonio found the man’s pleasant demeanor charming. “Me? Well, I am flattered and I am glad we met. I hope you come back.”

“Well, my congregants would not permit me too many Sundays away, I’m afraid.”

“Your what?”

“Didn’t I mention it? I pastor the flock at First Church.”

“Uh, no.” Antonio had not imagined a man of the cloth would not, on a Sunday, be wearing the cloth. “Well, that’s…I mean, how wonderful…for them to have you.”

“You are very kind to say so.” The reverend urged him forward once the way was clear. “Say, I’m headed over to Hawkins House for supper. Won’t you join me?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be right to impose. But, what, if I may ask, is this Hawkins House?”

“I mentioned the outreach to immigrants?” He tapped the brim of his hat with his walking stick. “Yes, of course I did. Hawkins House is part of that, a boarding house for girls, along with a night school and a lot of books.”

“Excellent.”

“Oh, it is. We would like to open ourselves to the possibility that God will direct other ethnic groups to us. After all, the city is quite diverse. In the past, we’ve had a German girl living there, and right now there are a couple of girls from Eastern Europe residing at Hawkins House, so we are not just Irish.”

Antonio agreed that the city was indeed a diverse place. He had seen all sorts of people at the theaters and on the train, although he had not conversed much beyond comments about the weather. His trip to Mulberry Street had not provided much interaction either. Perhaps he should mingle with those not like himself. “They won’t mind an extra person at the table?”

Reverend Clarke huffed as though Antonio had made a joke. “They will welcome you warmly. Do you like to read? As I said, we have quite the library over there.”

“I would enjoy seeing it.” They were headed south, not the direction Antonio would normally go. He might as well tag along, now that he was this far away from home. The elderly man hailed a cab and they set off toward Battery Park and the harbor.