Their mother reluctantly let him go—under the condition that Giuliana would accompany him. That way, he wouldn’t be all alone in this strange land and would have someone to cook for him and tend to his home.
Now Turi would be buried here, in this strange land, as their mother had called it, and Giuliana was left behind on her own.
When she finally lifted her head off Turi’s chest, she realized that Dr. Sharpe hadn’t left. She was standing next to the bed without saying anything, just keeping her company. “If you need any help making arrangements…”
Giuliana squared her shoulders. There was no time to grieve now. She had to take charge and do what was right. “I want to take him home.”
“Home? But…”
“It is tradition where I come from,” Giuliana said. Turi had forever teased her about her becoming too American; he would have wanted her to observe the old traditions.
The doctor nodded. “All right. I’ll get someone to help you.”
* * *
“Good thing
Nonnu
can’t see this,” Giuliana muttered in Sicilian and pointed at the simple pine casket in which Turi now lay. Their grandfather had been a master carpenter in his day.
Nedda Galati, whose family owned the crab stand next to Giuliana’s, patted her shoulder. “You did the best you could,” she said, using their native language too.
Giuliana didn’t answer. She moved around in their small room in the boardinghouse South of Market, trying to stay busy and avoid thinking too much. Every time she glanced at Turi’s face, tears blurred her vision.
Nedda and her husband helped her lift Turi’s head so she could sprinkle salt beneath it. They placed his favorite possessions—his good pipe, his razor, and a photograph of their parents—in the casket with him, as her grandmother had done when their grandfather had died. She didn’t want Turi’s soul to come back looking for the things he had loved most.
Nedda’s husband, Francesco, opened the door and the room’s single window so Turi’s soul wouldn’t remain trapped in this world. The aroma of boiled cabbage and sausage drifted in, probably from one of the rooming house’s Polish tenants.
Giuliana’s stomach growled.
“You should eat something.” Nedda slid the
arancini
—fried rice balls—and the caponata she had brought closer to Giuliana.
“I’m not hungry,” Giuliana said, even though she hadn’t eaten all day.
Nedda and Francesco traded gazes. They kept her company as she sat next to the casket, trying to say good-bye to her dead brother, but not knowing how.
She stared down at Turi
’s now-calm face. How could this have happened? Just a few days ago, she had stared at him in this very room because his snoring had kept her awake. And now…Now he was gone. She still couldn’t believe it.
Francesco cleared his throat.
“What are you going to do?” he asked in Sicilian. “Go back home, I suppose?”
Giuliana looked at Turi as if he’d provide her with the answer.
Five years ago, she wouldn
’t have hesitated. She’d have grabbed the chance to return home with both hands, no matter what. Her first year in San Francisco, she’d ached for Mamma’s food, for the familiar sight of old men playing bocce ball in the village square, and for the way her younger siblings’ small bodies draped over hers at night. But with every year that had gone by, that ache had faded a little more, until she was no longer sure where her place in the world was. Would she still fit in at home with her American ways, as Turi had called it?
“I’m not sure.” She looked at the photograph of her parents in the casket. “What would happen to my family if I go back?” They would be just as bad off as they had been five years ago, before she and Turi had set off for Merica—or actually even worse, without Turi. As a woman, Giuliana couldn’t provide for her mother and her siblings back home. In Sicily, there was no work for women, no way to make a living for her family.
“So you want to stay? All alone in Merica?” Nedda asked, her eyes wide.
Giuliana’s chest tightened until she could barely breathe. “I think I have to. At least for a while, until my siblings are older.”
“But how will you earn enough money to feed them all?”
Giuliana dug her teeth into her bottom lip. “I don’t know. Maybe…” She gave Francesco a hopeful look. “Maybe I could help you sell your fish. People tell me I speak English very well. I realized that Ida, Tommaso’s American wife, always sold more fish and got better prices from the restaurant owners, so I asked her to teach me her language. You know people cheat you and pay less for crabs if they think you’re an uneducated fool.”
Francesco sighed. “Giuliana, I… It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but I barely make enough to provide for my own family.”
“Of course.” Giuliana tried to keep her head up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He squeezed her hand for a moment. His fingers, callused and strong, felt so much like Turi’s that tears burned in her eyes. “It’s all right. There’s one thing I can do. I could buy the boat from you. That would give you enough money to last for a while…or to pay for the journey back to Sicilia.”
Sell the boat…Turi’s boat… At the thought, a hand seemed to squeeze Giuliana’s heart. No, she couldn’t do it, no matter how reasonable Francesco’s suggestion was. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“I understand.” Francesco got up, followed by his wife. They pressed kisses to her cheeks and told her when to expect them and the other piscaturi for the procession to the graveyard.
Then Giuliana was alone with Turi and her despair. For the first time in her life, she was on her own, with no one to rely on for help. The other Sicilian families in the city wouldn’t be able to help either; they just didn’t have the money to spare. What was she to do?
She bent over the casket and kissed Turi
’s cold forehead one final time. “I’ll stay,” she whispered to him in Sicilian. “I’ll find work in a factory or in a private home.”
But that was easier said than done. Like most women in her village, Giuliana had never learned how to read or write, so how was she supposed to read the newspaper advertisements?
CHAPTER 2
Winthrop Residence
Nob Hill
San Francisco, California
March 21, 1906
Today was the day. Nervous energy prickled down Kate
’s spine as she headed for the morning room. She hoped she would be able to sit still during breakfast. Her mother hated it when she fidgeted. She took her place at the mahogany table, pulled her linen napkin from its silver ring, and spread it across her lap. “Good morning, Mother. Morning, Father.”
“Good morning,” her father said, glancing up from his newspaper.
With any luck, she would soon provide the photographs for this very newspaper. The thought made her giddy.
Her mother returned the greeting but kept looking at her plate with a frown. “The bacon is cold—again.” She stabbed at it with her fork. “With a name like Obedience, you’d think our maid would manage to get the food onto the table while it’s still warm. I’ve told her a hundred times. If it weren’t nearly impossible to get good servants, I’d put her out on the street.”
“Obedience can’t manage all the work on her own,” Kate said.
“Well, it’s not as if we didn’t try to hire another maid, but you know how hard it is to find a reliable girl nowadays—or any girl, for that matter.” Her mother tsked with disapproval. “Many young women are seeking employment in the factories South of Market.”
“Then why don’t we hire a Chinese houseboy?” Kate reached for the pitcher of cream and poured a little over her bowl of oatmeal. “The Harringtons have one, and they seem very satisfied with him.”
Her mother’s frown deepened. “You know I don’t like Chinese people. They are just not trustworthy.”
Kate sprinkled sugar over her oatmeal. “How do you know, if you’ve never employed one?”
“It is common knowledge,” her mother answered. “Right, Cornelius?”
Not looking up from his newspaper, her father gave a noncommittal nod. “It shouldn’t be a problem for much longer. They’re running our ad again today, and they added the bit about ‘good wages,’ just the way I suggested. See?” He turned the newspaper around to show them the help wanted section.
Her mother pushed the plate with the cold bacon away. “I hope a competent girl will turn up this time.”
The grandfather clock in the vestibule struck nine.
By the time it struck ten, she would either be the
San Francisco Call’
s newest staff member or be on her way home, dejected.
Her father folded the newspaper and emptied his cup of coffee. “I have to head to the office now. The
Millicent
sets off for Shanghai tomorrow, and I want to make sure all the cargo is accounted for.”
The mention of the ship named after her softened her mother’s expression.
Kate hastily swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal and then jumped up. “I’ll go with you. I have some things to attend to on Market Street.”
Her mother’s delicate china cup rattled on its saucer. “But I need you to be here when the applicants for the maid position arrive. What could you possibly have to do on Market Street that is more important than that?”
“I’m sure you’ll manage to pick the best one,” Kate responded without answering her mother’s question. Her mother wouldn’t approve if she knew Kate was heading to the
Call
building to ask for a job as a staff photographer. While her mother at first hadn’t objected to Kate taking up photography as a hobby, she now thought it was an unnatural obsession for a young lady of Kate’s standing. She wanted her daughter to spend her time in the drawing room, drinking tea, crocheting for one of her charities, and receiving dapper young gentlemen from wealthy families.
Kate found that kind of existence mind-numbingly boring. She preferred the darkroom to the drawing room. There had to be more to life than just marrying well. In fact, she didn’t want to marry at all, but it was better not to come right out and tell her mother that.
“But how will you get back home?” her mother asked.
“I’ll take the cable car. It stops right in front of the Fairmont Hotel, so I won’t have to walk far,” Kate said, knowing her mother didn’t like her walking along the street like a commoner, especially not while she was unchaperoned.
Kate sighed. Sometimes she wondered if her family’s money afforded her any more freedom than their servants or the other working-class women had.
“Kate,” her father called from the entryway. “Are you coming?”
Not waiting for her mother to object again, Kate rushed out of the morning room.
* * *
Kate had her father stop the automobile in front of the Emporium, between Fourth and Fifth Street. She would walk the rest of the way and let him assume she intended to shop at the department store.
Without waiting for her father to help her, she jumped down and stepped up onto the sidewalk. “Thank you.”
“Don’t spend too much,” he said.
“I won’t.” Quite the opposite. If all went according to plan, she would soon have her own money to spend and wouldn’t have to rely on the spending money her father gave her anymore.
She watched as her father set his Model N Packard into motion and veered around a horse-drawn carriage on the way to his office at the foot of Market Street, near the ferry building. For a moment, she stood in the middle of the sidewalk of San Francisco’s main business street. Tall buildings—hotels, banks, restaurants, and stores—lined the broad avenue on both sides. A cable car rumbled down the center of the street while horse-drawn buggies, automobiles, and the occasional bicycle used the outer tracks. Newsboys dodged the vehicles, boldly crossing the street, sometimes jumping onto cable cars or the back of automobiles.
After watching for a minute, she set off toward the intersection of Market, Kearny, and Third Streets, known as the Newspaper Angle. Here, the city’s three leading newspapers—the
Chronicle
, the
Call
, and the
Examiner
—
had their offices.
Kate ignored the
Chronicle
building with its clock tower and the
Examiner
with the Spanish tiles atop its roof. Her destination this morning was just one: the Spreckels building, home of the
San Francisco Call
. With its eighteen stories, it was the tallest building west of Chicago. The terra-cotta dome made it look like a crowned queen towering over her underlings. Kate glanced up at the square sandstone tower. She’d been in the building just once, dining with one of her suitors in the restaurant that occupied the domed roof. The view over the city had been spectacular even though her dinner companion had failed to impress her.
Today, she wasn’t here to enjoy the view or the food. She marched through the marble lobby and to the elevator.
Two men stepped in with her, one of them wearing a press badge on the lapel of his coat.
Kate stared at it with longing. She would do her very best to march out with one of those.
The elevator doors opened with a loud ding, and the two men indicated with a polite gesture that she should go first.
Deep breath. Don’t show them how nervous you are.
Kate squared her shoulders before stepping out of the elevator.
The newsroom clearly was a world of its own—a world that she wanted to be part of.
As soon as she entered, a cacophony of sounds engulfed her. The large room resounded with the clatter of typewriters. Telegraph wires clicked, and a telephone rang somewhere. Messengers and telegraph boys rushed in and out, weaving between the rows of desks spread through the newsroom. A few were still empty at that time of the day, but about ten reporters and copy editors were already bent over their typewriters, hammering away at the silver-rimmed keys. Cigarette smoke curled up, filling the room with a haze. The smell of tobacco and smoke mixed with that of ink and paper.
Most of the reporters were men, who worked with their shirtsleeves rolled up and their ties loosened. Kate saw just one woman.
Well, hopefully that will change soon.
With her head held up high, she walked past the desks and knocked on a door that said EDITOR written in large block letters. The clacking of the typewriters drowned out any other sound. Had there been a “come in”? She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t very well press her ear to the door.