Authors: Cindy Thomson
Chapter 3
A weight pressed against Sofia’s chest and she struggled to catch her breath. Now that the shouting had stopped, her mother’s rejection, and the revelation that she’d had a twin that died, nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. The walls and ceiling seemed to creep in. She scrambled out of the house to the sidewalk as a coal truck rumbled by, sprinkling bits of black dust onto her grief. She should have realized when she found that photograph there would be an argument, a denial that hiding what had happened was wrong. But what she hadn’t anticipated was how revealing the truth would make her mother so distraught. It had not been right for them to keep it from her, no matter how painful it was for Mamma. Winter could not come soon enough this year.
“I did not know.” She looked up to find Joey standing at the curb. “No one told me.”
She bit her lip. Who confesses a lie to their youngest child? Certainly not her parents.
He raised his brows and tilted his chin upward. “This was a bad thing.”
His affirmation boosted her spirit.
“So long ago, Sofia.” He wagged his head as he strode to her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he leaned down to look into her eyes. “Thinking on it will only tear you apart, like Mamma. Try to forget.”
She fought tears. “They should have told me.”
“
Sì
, they should have, but it’s all done now. That’s what Papà told you, didn’t he? I am sure he said to forget it.”
“He did.”
Joey nodded as though the matter was settled. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dungarees and moved on down the sidewalk, softly humming a tune from their days in the old village. Stunned, she watched him go. What was wrong with everyone? Forget? How?
She dropped to the top step of the window well, where some newsboys huddled. Annoyed by her presence, they hurried out to trail behind the truck and collect whatever it dropped. Were any of them twins? Sofia had twin brothers, and, back in Italy, twin cousins. A spark of jealousy rose in her like a fever. It was not right for twins to be separated in death, especially before they had shared everything that needed to be shared. Her parents just did not understand. They had not trusted her with this knowledge. More than that, they had allowed everyone to think she was a bit loony for imagining she’d had a companion. She had not been delusional, and she certainly wasn’t now.
La Famiglia’s
code of silence. How she detested it.
Sofia wiped her eyes as a crowd of schoolgirls bustled by. Turning away from their stares, she thought about how she had been unable to meet her mother’s expectations, the daughter who was “less than God intended.” And Papà? He thought Sofia was too delicate to face life’s harsh realities. She’d known they believed this all of her life, but now it made sense. Sofia was a painful reminder to them, especially when the anniversary of Serena’s death came around.
A thought struck her like a blast of frigid air.
What had Sofia done? She had to know. What if the reason they didn’t want to talk about it was because it had been Sofia’s fault? She glanced down at her cold hands. She had to know the truth. Papà probably had not been there when it happened. He would have been working in the lemon groves. Mamma would just have to tell her and Sofia would have to wait. Wait until the melancholy left.
The crisp air swept the aroma of sweat, soot, and musty rain down the street. She glanced around. Gabriella and Joey must have gone to play cards or sing at the Mazzones' or the Russos' home. If not there, then on one of the other stoops of any one of the families that had immigrated from their village. This had happened before Sofia’s siblings were born. They could not understand.
Sofia covered her face with her apron. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Thinking her sister had returned home, she shook her head.
“What’s the trouble, lass? Sofia, isn’t it? Can I help?”
Surprised, Sofia dropped her apron to find a red-haired woman she vaguely knew, someone she had seen at night school, staring down at her. “I am sorry. I thought you were…I thought my sister had come home,
signora
.” Sofia glanced at the young woman’s round belly. She’d noticed it when she’d first seen her, thinking to herself how different America was, where women did not shut themselves away during pregnancy. However, thinking about it, she realized she really hadn’t seen any other pregnant girls out on the streets. Perhaps it was just this woman going about in public in this state.
The girl joined her on the step. “Mrs. Annie Adams. Do you remember me? I was at your night school, discussing the possibility of offering extra services for the girls there. I’m from Hawkins House.”
Sofia barely recalled the conversation. “I am fine. I am…surprised to see you in this neighborhood”
“I was making some visits, as is my habit. Someone helped me when I first arrived and ’tis my extreme privilege to be able to help others now.”
“You are kind. The sun is so low now, though. You should get along.”
“Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Please do not worry.” Sofia was puzzled by this stranger’s concern.
“All right, so.” She reached into her pocket purse and pulled something out. She handed a small card to Sofia. “We have just opened a memorial library. Borrowing some books written in English might be good practice for you. If you’ve a mind.”
Sofia stood, cradling the card as if it were a valuable thing. “
Bene. Grazie
,
Signora
Adams.” Even though she could not accept, she was grateful for the offer.
“Annie, please. I hope to see you there. Sofia, correct?”
“
Sì
. Sofia Falcone.”
Sofia watched the young woman march away, a market basket swinging from her arm. Incredible that when your world is crumbling around you, hoards of people walk down the street and pass you by without seeing your anguish. What was it about this Annie that made her notice Sofia’s pain, when no one else had?
When Sofia went back in, she did not see Mamma.
“Off to her bed, Sofia.” Papà paced the small sitting room. “I have never seen her so bad.”
“She will be better, Papà.”
“I do not think so. Her heart is broken.”
Sofia closed her eyes a moment. “No. Like always, it will last a while and then she will get better. By Christmas, or just after, as always.”
“No, no. Have you ever known her to leave her soup pot?”
Sofia turned toward the stove. Orange liquid dripped down the side of the pot while the flame underneath licked up spilled soup with a rhythmic sizzle. No, Mamma had never done that before. Her cooking was her joy, evidence of her delight in nurturing
la famiglia
.
“She is not herself, Papà. She will get better.” Sofia hurried to clean up the mess.
The rest of the evening Mamma did not come out. Frankie and Fredo, Sofia’s twin brothers, returned from their night jobs and Sofia served them slightly scorched soup. Then she washed and scrubbed and set the kitchen in order. No sign of Mamma.
***
Antonio stared at the playbill he’d been handed and tried to focus on his task. Tony Pastor’s Fourteenth Street Theatre. He glanced to the page after the advertisements. For the week of September 21, 1903. Antonio had been a mid week fill-in, but a job was a job. He ran his thumb past the acts that had already performed to the end of the show where he came in. A trained monkey act and then he was on.Once he saw the creature and his trainer bounce off the stage through the curtains, he took his place at the piano. He had to improvise, something he despised, but he had a fairly detailed typed script in front of him, so at least he knew where the skit was headed. The act seemed to be going well until the performer veered away from the plan.
Perspiration gathered at Antonio’s collar as he strained his neck to see around the piano. His tempo lagged behind the act.
When the piece was finished, the actor with a heavily powdered face stormed up to Antonio, threw down the scarf in his hands, and began shouting at the theater manager who had come to greet him. “This man is a disgrace. Sack him and get someone who knows what the devil he’s doing! I will not be made a fool of, Mac!”
Not again. Antonio had been the victim of too many talentless performers in the last few weeks. Antonio had not been the one to change the skit. This actor had forgotten his lines or something. Apparently mediocrity was preferred in most theaters.
“Let’s go, Otis. It’s all over now.” The theater manager, a man known simply as Mac, urged the irate actor back to his makeup table. When the manager returned, Antonio was already packing up his music. “Look, Tony, vaudeville ain’t good enough for a classical musician like ye.”
If the man hadn’t called him Tony, Antonio might have been flattered. He liked the manager, a friendly fella of Scottish descent with wide blue eyes. “You are probably right, Mac, but I have to make a living.”
“Don’t we all.” Mac wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then returned the rag to his vest pocket and checked his timepiece. “I’ll toss in an extra quarten for this next act. Not a bad deal for a couple of minutes of work.”
“I’m finished. It’s the end.”
“Oh, no, it’s not. You know we got to run the program again. Say, I’ve got another piano player coming in about thirty minutes. Some acts don’t require accompaniment. Others do. If you stay just until he gets here, I’ll pay you for the extra time, fair and square. I’m in a spot with the opening act, though. I need the piano. Help a
min
out?”
Antonio lifted his gaze to the rafters. He had read the playbill. “Dolly?”
“That’s right. ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage.’ You’ve played it before. No surprises there.”
Antonio dropped back to the stool. “Fine.”
Mac slapped his shoulder, sending him forward with the force. “Take fifteen minutes and then we’ll be all set, aye? I’ll tell Marcus.”
“Just don’t call me Tony.”
“Sure. Righto.” The man scrambled off into the shadows.
Dolly was a female impersonator, although most folks didn’t realize it. His real name was Marcus, apparently. B.F. Keith, the owner of many theaters including Union Square, where they showed those new moving pictures called the Lumière Cinématographe, set the pace for vaudeville. He made a big deal out of offering theater suitable for women and families in his establishments. Tony Pastor, the owner of the Fourteenth Street Theatre was no different, for the most part. Wholesome entertainment was the fashion now in Manhattan, it seemed. Therefore, no one mentioned Dolly’s masquerade. The farce was just another instance of what Antonio had to put up with in order to save money to fulfill his father’s dream for him. One day he would be that classical musician Mac thought he should be. For now, this wasn’t too bad. Antonio could do worse for his supper, he supposed. He’d been told that in the old days patrons were not prohibited from throwing vegetables at the acts. If he had to perform on stages like this, at least the Fourteenth didn’t allow disgruntled mobs.
He stared down at the keys under his fingertips. This song, meant to make genteel ladies weep over a woman who had not married for love, launched the show nearly every night. While Antonio waited out the intermission, he brought his dog a cracker.
“Good, loyal mutt you got there.” A stagehand offered Antonio a cup of coffee.
“Thanks. He is.”
“He’ll wait right here until you’re done?”
“He will.”
The man’s face bloomed with a toothy grin. “Don’t that beat all.”
Antonio whispered instructions to Luigi although he didn’t have to. The dog was more reliable than the humans Antonio knew. After a quick visit to the men’s room, it was finally time to take his place at the piano again. He would play for this ridiculous act simply because he needed to eat. Antonio held on to the hope that one day he would rise above this, play in concert halls for wealthy patrons who had discerning tastes. If he continued to save as much of his earnings as possible to fund a trip west for an audition at Oberlin College, it could happen. A dream, perhaps unreachable, but one he was determined to pursue.
He stared down at his fingers hovering over the black and white keys like a bird of prey. Only one thing could throw a snake into the plan: the mystery of his father’s death. Many times he had gone to sleep hoping to wake up from a bad dream.
He rubbed his hands together and flexed his joints. Right now he had a job to do. He had to put other thoughts aside and get through this.
As soon as Dolly hurried off the stage, to undeserved applause Antonio thought, a quartet scrambled up. One of them handed some music to Antonio. “ ‘Strike Up the Band?’ Absolutely not.” He stood, ready to leave, but Mac’s firm hand pushed him back down. He dangled three dollar bills in front of Antonio.
“But this is a complicated piece,” he complained.
“Can’t you do it?”
“Yes, but probably not the way—”
“Just keep it up tempo. It will be fine.”
Mac hurried away and the four men stood in the electric spotlight, waiting. Antonio inhaled deeply and then played an F to allow them to find their notes.
“Brum, brum, brum,” they sang. “Jaaack...is the king of the dark blue sea...Jaaack...is as brave as the brave can be...”