"I'm not."
"Sure you are."
"You wouldn't understand."
"How do you know? You think I'm dumb?"
"No, I think you got a lot of nerve. You're probably dying to go."
"Go? Go where?"
"My card says I'm supposed to go to New York. All the children last week went to New York."
"New York City?" His eyes danced at the thought of going to such a magical place.
"Yes. But tomorrow it may be New York or it may be some other place—Vermont somewhere."
"Vermont? Is that in the
Yew
-nited States of America?"
"Since 1791," she said primly, then her lips began to tremble. "But it's a long way from here."
"New York. Wow, wee." His head was already calculating the riches of the place. And a guy like him could get ahead there, Jake was sure of it. No more shacks by the river, no more lint-filled, stinking, steaming mill work. "Well, I ain't going to no Vermont. No, sir, I'm going to go to New York City."
"I don't think the kids get to decide. It's the parents and the committee that decide."
"What committee? I don't know nothing about no committee."
"But isn't that why you're here? To have your examination?"
"No, I come for the soup. But if anyone's going to New York City, I aim to go, too."
"You have to have a card that says so."
"What you mean, 'card'?"
"Your parents have to fill out the card and sign it, saying they want you to go and where."
Hell's bells!
He should have known there'd be a catch. "How do I get me a card?"
"They won't give
you
one. They just give them to the parents."
"But's'pose ... s'pose your ma is dead and your pa is too sick to come get a card?"
"I don't know. I wish they'd give you mine." She looked as though she might burst into tears again.
"C'mon now, c'mon. It would be
great
to go to New York City." The prospect of going to the city was suddenly the only thing in his life that rivaled the glamour of Mrs. Gurley Flynn. He was lost in a daydream of himself in the big city. He might have to start out small—selling papers, say—but it wouldn't be long before he'd be rich as Billy Wood, clever as he was. "Who gives out them cards?"
"I don't know—somebody from the union committee, I think. Mamma brought hers home from a meeting. She meant for me to go last week, but I got sick."
He looked at her and she blushed. She'd
faked
it. Why, the little trickster! But now she was caught. She was going to have to go whether she wanted to or not. "You lied, didn't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"It takes one to know one. You faked sick last week."
She tossed her head defiantly. "So?"
"So, you can help me get one of them cards now or I'm telling on you."
She bit her lip. "You're a—a—"
"Regular old bully?"
She just sighed and went over to speak to one of the gray-shawled women. The woman was holding the hand of a tiny boy, but she put her free arm around the girl's shoulders. They both turned and looked at Jake, so they were talking about him, talking about getting him one of those precious cards that would be his ticket out of Lawrence and into the greatest city in America. He knew that the streets of New York City weren't paved with gold—that was just one of those lies the foreign workers believed—but there would be chances there for a boy, and opportunity was as good as gold, now, wasn't it?
Eventually, the woman came over to where he stood, a child on each side staring at him. The little boy had eyes big as plates and a skinny little stick of a body—it was a wonder he could stand, much less walk.
"Rosa tell me your papa need a card."
"Yes, ma'am. He woulda come, but he's down real sick."
"Lotsa sick ones." The woman nodded sympathetically. "I ask for you. Go ahead, get your exam, eh? Then bring your card to the hall first thing in the morning. Okay?"
"Thank you, Mrs.—?"
"Serutti. I'm Rosa's mamma." She stroked the girl's hair. "You be good to Rosa on the train, okay? She's a little worried—go so far from home."
He promised to look after Rosa, "like a brother," he said.
After the soup, they divided the children, boys on one side of the hall, girls on the other. The woman with Mrs. Gurley Flynn examined the girls; to Jake's relief, it was a man doctor who examined the boys. The worst part was taking off his shirt and having the doctor cluck about his sunken chest and prominent ribs and then sigh deeply at the sight of his scarred back. "You do need a vacation, don't you, son?" he said.
Mrs. Serutti brought him the precious card as he was rebuttoning his shirt. "Here, boy, have your papa do it and bring it back first thing in the morning, okay? Else you can't get on the train, you understand?"
He understood. But he had no intention of taking it to his pa. He'd just scribble something on it that would look like a signature. How would anyone know it wasn't? But then he looked at the card. It was filled with words. There were lots of dotted lines that looked as though you were meant to write things down. Maybe he could scribble something that looked like somebody's name and get away with it, but all these lines? Jake couldn't read. He didn't even know what the card was asking for, much less how to write it in.
The shoe girl? Rosa? Where was she? He had to get help. He made his way to where the girls who had finished their examinations were standing and motioned her over.
She came. "Mamma got you a card, I see."
"Yeah, thanks. But could you help me? My eyes ain't too good in this light. Would you read it for me?"
She gave him a look that assured him that she knew that this time he was the faker. But she didn't say anything, she just began to read, stumbling a bit over words like "imperative" and "facilitate" that totally mystified Jake.
STRIKE COMMITTEE.
Lawrence Textile Workers.
9 Mason Street.
IDENTIFICATION CARD.
It is imperative that the parents of a child, or of children, who wish to go on a vacation, during the strike of mill workers at Lawrence, Mass., give their consent in writing, and to facilitate matters they are requested to sign this identification card. No children will be accepted except the parents, father and mother, sign such a card.
Name of child............................................................
Age of child...............................................................
Residence in Lawrence..................................................
Postal address of parents................................................
Nationality...............................................................
We, the undersigned, parents or custodians of the child above described, hereby agree that it be allowed to go on vacation to people in...................................................................in care of the "Lawrence Strikers' Children's Committee," and we agree to allow the child to stay with the friends of the strikers in that city as long as the strike will last, except that unforeseen circumstances may make the return of the child necessary before that designated time.
............................................... Father.
............................................... Mother.
...............................................Custodian.
Approved by the Children's Committee.
"Cor!
How the hell could your ma even read it, much less fill it out?"
"I read the hard parts. And please, watch your language." Then her voice softened. "Can your papa read English?"
"Better'n me," he mumbled. "Couldn't your ma do it for me? Say I'm your brother or something? I mean, I'm going to be just like your brother, taking care of you on the train and all." He tried to smile in what he imagined to be a brotherly fashion.
"She won't lie for you, if that's what you mean."
"Oh, hell. I guess I gotta ask the old man, huh?"
"Look. The main thing is his signature on this line here." She pointed.
"Well, I could fake that."
"Some kids already tried. It didn't work. Just get his real signature, all right? The rest I'll help you with. We won't fake his name. It wouldn't be right."
He still had money in his pockets from the priest's handout. He stopped by the Syrian shop, which stayed open most of the night, and got more whiskey. He needed to grease the old man up before asking for anything as weighty as his signature.
The shack was pitch dark inside. "Pa?" he whispered. "You here? It's me, Jake. I brung you a treat."
No answer. He must be out. Jake felt his way to the table. His hand found the oil lamp, but even patting the whole tabletop, he couldn't locate matches. There weren't any. He hadn't bought any for ages. He shuffled across the dirt floor to the bed. He'd just have to wait until his pa came home. He eased himself down, but when he started to push himself over to the wall, he hit something. It was Pa, lying there peaceful as the grave, not even snoring. His first thought was relief—no beating tonight. Maybe none tomorrow. And when he explained to Pa that he'd be going to New York—to
work!
—why, the old man would just jump to sign the card.
He slid under the thin quilt.
Hell's bells,
it was cold in the shack. You'd think Pa would have warmed the bed a bit by now, but then Jake had gotten soft, sleeping in churches and all. He'd clean forgot how cold the shack could be, almost as bad as a trash pile. He didn't think he could sleep, freezing as it was and excited as he was, waiting for day to come. He had to have the card signed early and get to the hall. They'd be gathering to go to the train station by nine, they'd said. So he had to be there before then. But he did fall asleep, waking with a start when light came through the dirty window and the cracks around the door.
"Pa ... Pa," he whispered. He didn't want to wake him up too fast; it might anger him to be woken up abruptly from his sleep. Jake leaned up on his elbow and looked at his pa—stubble-bearded, his face grimy as ever—so still and peaceful. Jake had never seen him so quiet.
Something jarred inside Jake's chest. So still—too still—he was. "Pa?" Jake lay his hand on his father's arm. Then, trying hard not to panic, he cupped his hand over the man's mouth and nose. There was no hint of movement, no breath. He jumped out of the bed. "Pa!" he yelled. "Wake up! Wake up, damn you!" There was no response.
By the wall, at his father's right hand, the whiskey bottle he'd bought two days earlier lay empty. Empty as the husk on the bed. He'd slept all night with a dead body. He hadn't even had the sense to know that his pa was lying there stiff and dead beside him.
Cor,
what a fool he was.
I killed him. Didn't I wish him dead more than once? Didn't I buy the poison that done it?
Jake could hardly breathe. He had to get out of there.
The boy hadn't turned up at the hall the next morning. Rosa didn't know whether to be worried or relieved. He'd acted as though he really wanted to go. He must have found out she wasn't headed for New York City after all—at the last minute, Mamma had scratched out "New York City" on the card that she had filled out a week ago and had Rosa write "Barre, Vermont" in its place.
"Like a nice little village, yes? No big city for my little girl, eh? Nice people in little places, I think."
But how would the boy know that Mamma had changed her mind? He had been nowhere in sight. Even if he had seen her card, how would he know what was on it? He couldn't read—she was sure he couldn't. That thing about his eyes being too bad to see in the dim light
—Ha!
He was just ignorant. Even native-borns could be ignorant. His pa must have refused to sign. That was all she could imagine. Unless he didn't even have a father. Why would a boy who had a father be sleeping in trash piles or on someone else's kitchen floor—or getting charity from Father O'Reilly? That was it. He was an orphan. She felt sad for him, but only for a minute. Most of her pity was for herself, leaving home, leaving Mamma and Anna and Ricci. She even minded leaving the Jarusalises—a little. She wouldn't miss the smell of the little boys or the sound of Granny's snoring. But they were now part of her home, and the thought of leaving was almost more than she could bear.
If Rosa hadn't acted so cowardly, Mamma wouldn't be sending her away. Mamma wasn't sending little Ricci, and he was much thinner and punier than Rosa. Mamma should be sending Ricci. Rosa had told her so, but Mamma only said, "I can't send him away. He's just a baby, he don' understand, like you."
Like me?
Rosa wanted to say.
You think I understand why you don't want me here anymore?
But she couldn't say it out loud. Mamma wouldn't understand that as frightened as Rosa was by the strike, the thought of leaving home was much scarier. At least, during the strike she saw Mamma and Anna and knew at the end of each day that they were still safe. How was she to know that they were all right if she was far off north in an unknown place, living among strangers who didn't even know Mamma? Who might or might not tell her if anything had happened to ... No, she couldn't think like that. She couldn't let her mind play with the possibility. Sometimes what you imagine will happen, does, as though you made it happen.
Mrs. Gurley Flynn was asking for everyone's attention, so Rosa turned hers to the union lady who had helped think up this idea of sending her away. All the children who were leaving were surrounded by their parents and any brothers or sisters who were being left behind. As far as Rosa could see, she was one of the few children not practically dancing with excitement. The huge crowd of children going to New York were grouped together. They left first for the station. Then Mrs. Gurley Flynn gathered the Vermont-bound children and introduced them to their escorts—two men from Barre, a Mr. Broggi and a Mr. Rossi, and a man and a woman from Lawrence, neither of whom Rosa knew. The man was a Mr. Savinelli, but the woman said her name so softly that Rosa didn't hear it. Everything was taking so long, she was almost sick from waiting.