Authors: Cindy Thomson
He drew in a breath to calm himself and noted the smells of oil face paints and paper-mâché props, which nearly turned his stomach. He longed to be wearing tails and a white tie while sitting behind a gleaming piano in a concert hall. He pictured a place decked out with red velvet seats. Gold gilded chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like cake frosting. The longer he stayed in vaudeville, the less likely he would find himself in such a place. He needed to save as much as possible to move on to what he was truly called to do.
Mac’s voice boomed from the hall. “Tony, you say? He’s not our regular. I don’t know where he’s working now.”
Antonio jumped up and gripped the doorknob. The door was stuck. He jiggled it while Luigi looked at him, tilting his head left and right. “Come on,” he muttered. The door would not budge. Mac was loud, but Antonio couldn’t tell what was happening. Putting his ear against the door, he could make out other, lower voices, but not what they were saying.
A few moments later the knob rattled. “Who’s been mucking aboot with this door? Tony?”
“I can’t get it open either.”
“Stand back!”
Antonio pulled Luigi toward the shelves on the far wall just as Mac burst in.
“I tell ya, I’m gonna sack the superintendent. Are you all right?”
“We’re fine, but who was that out there?”
“I don’t know, son, but something tells me you don’t want to meet them.”
“You told them I wasn’t here.”
“You can thank me for that.”
Luigi sniffed at the scent they’d left under an exit door.
“Did they say anything else? Did they say what they wanted?”
“Yeah. ‘We’ll find him, old man. Tell him the next time you see him that his Papà had our money and now his son must pay.’”
Antonio held up his palms. “Listen, Mac, I don’t know what they were talking about. My father owed no one. They probably have the wrong man. Did they hurt you?”
“I am not hurt, but I think it’s best you go along home, Tony. For your own sake, and for ours.”
“I…uh, I will. Of course. Tell me, were they Italian?”
“They were. Glad they didn’t see you. If you’d come charging out here, well, who knows what they would have done to you. Panned you in, I expect.”
“They seemed…violent?”
“Might be just talk. You know how those type of thugs can be. I mean no offense.”
“It’s all right.”
“Why take chances, Tony?”
“I’ll be going.”
“Wait. Before you go, sit down for a moment, you and your dog.”
Mac and Antonio each took a wooden folding chair. Antonio ordered Luigi to sit outside the office, just in case, and they left the door open. Antonio leaned back on his chair, nearly bumping his head on a shelf of scripts and prompt cards on the wall behind him.
Mac’s brows shot up as though a thought sparked in his mind. “Say, my news for you is even better now, in light of those fellas coming here.”
“News?”
Mac dabbed at his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. “That’s right. You did a pure dead brilliant job improvising last night, Tony. You surely did.” He poured himself a drink from a flask he’d stored in his desk drawer before offering it to Antonio.
“No thanks. I don’t drink.” And he never would, after seeing what the stuff had done to his uncle. “But thanks for the compliment, Mac. What news are you talking about? I should get home to practice and leave you to your work.” And maybe he could get a glimpse of those men on the street.
“And you will. I won’t keep you long. Practice, you say? Still waiting for Oberlin to come calling, then?”
He shrugged. “What if I am?”
“Keep the heid, Tony.” The man liked to use Scottish colloquialisms. This one meant he was to stay calm.
“I’ve been a bit jittery, Mac. People asking after me and all.”
He took a swallow from his flask. “I don’t blame you. I’m just saying…you’re a smart musician, lad. One of the best in vaudeville, whether you want to be or not.”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. You’ve been very kind to me. Please, Mac. Have your say and send me on my way.”
Instead, the man took another long pull on his flask. When he finally put it away, he smiled. “That’s better. Now the news. Good news, if you’ll have it.”
“I could use some. Spill it.”
“Well, I was not the only one who noticed your talent. Those boys, the quartet?”
“I appreciate that.” Antonio stood and whistled for his dog. “Tell them I’m pleased they liked it, won’t you?”
“Sit down, lad. There’s more.”
Antonio waited but did not sit.
“Those boys told the manager at the Roman Athenaeum. Apparently they’ve lost their piano player. Terrible case of consumption, it seems. They want you over there. Half past six.” Mac glanced at his pocket watch. “I’d recommend you skedaddle.”
Stunned, Antonio struggled not to stutter. “Thank you. Thank you, Mac. Listen, I’m sorry about those fellas—”
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 6
Sofia met Father Lucci two doors down from the building where the Falcones rented rooms. As they walked together, the Father spoke toward the ground. “Your papà, he mentioned this to me a few months ago. He warned me your mother might need…well, some extra care.”
“
Sì
, she gets the melancholy every year, but this time is worse than Papà anticipated, Father.”
“Oh, why is that? Is there more I should know?”
“So much more, Father.”
They paused at the stoop. A woman approached them, a parishioner Sofia recognized but didn’t know. A recent immigrant from a village near Naples. “Father,
mio bambino
. He is ill. You must come pray for him. Just over here.” She inclined her head toward a building on the opposite side of the street.
He took a step in that direction and then paused. “Sofia, a baby. You understand. I will be along when I’m finished over there.”
“But, Father, I must tell you—”
“And you will. Soon.” He reached for her hand and then kissed her cheek before moving away with the woman.
Sofia turned toward the steps blackened from the coal dust that rained on the streets in Mulberry Bend. Pinching her scarf tight against the lump forming in her throat, she made her way to Mamma, without the healer and without the priest.
She let herself in with her key. “Mamma, I am home. I am not going to night school.” She chided herself for forgetting the roasted peanuts. She would get them tomorrow.
An odd light glowed from underneath the bedroom door. “Mamma?” Sofia slowly opened the door. The scent of smoke hit her. Shoving the door open wide, she could see a candle on the floor. It had ignited a newspaper, but fortunately the flame had not spread toward the bed where Mamma lay.
“What’s going on here, Mamma?” Sofia stomped out the small fire in a panic. She threw open the window on the street side.
Mamma coughed and then thrashed about, throwing a blanket off the end of the bed.
“Have you been in bed all day, Mamma?”
The woman looked at her then, her eyes shadowed and her hair unpinned. “
I miei poveri bambini
! What could I have done?
Oddio
, what?”
Sofia urged her mother to lie back on a pillow. “It was an accident, Mamma. There was nothing you could have done. God knows that.”
Mamma moaned but at least she wasn't wailing.
“I will bring you a damp cloth to wash up, Mamma. We will be having company, and Papà should be home from work soon.”
Sofia’s hands shook as she turned on the faucet in the bathroom outside their rooms. Mamma was worse. Much worse. She rambled as though in the middle of a dream. She should not be left alone.
Sofia had just gotten Mamma freshened up when someone knocked on the door. “Father Lucci, Mamma. Would you like to answer the door while I make coffee?”
Mamma just stared toward the open window. Sofia rushed over, shut it, and fastened the iron security bar before leaving the room, worried that the woman might hurl herself out of it while Sofia was busy letting the priest in. She could no longer predict what her mother might do and that thought landed in her chest like an iron anchor. Sofia quietly closed the bedroom door before greeting Father Lucci.
“Father, might I have a word before I get Mamma? She is…resting.”
“How may I help, child?”
Sofia set a china plate on the end table beside him. She retrieved a slice of yesterday’s bread from the tin she’d brought into the sitting room and placed it on the plate. “I am sorry I have nothing better, Father.”
He smiled. “That looks wonderful to me. And you said you have coffee?”
“
Sì
. It will be ready in a moment. May I tell you something?”
“Indeed you may.”
“My mamma, she’s always had blue moods, come September.”
“As your father told me. Even back in Italy, he said.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No, but I understand women her age have episodes of melancholy. Not all that unusual, Sofia.”
“But do other women have them like anniversaries? At a certain time of the year?”
“I admit that is a bit unorthodox. What did you want to tell me?”
“I just discovered I had a twin who died. We were very young. I don’t remember. She died in September.”
“Oh, I see. That is most unfortunate.”
Sofia sat on Papà’s chair and put her elbows to her knees, leaning closer to whisper. “They did not tell me this, Father. I found out on my own, and, ever since I questioned them about it, Mamma has been in a terrible state.”
He arched his brows. “I am very sorry, Sofia. I know many families, well…they do not like to discuss sorrows. I’m sure they meant no harm in not telling you.”
Sofia rubbed her fingers around her neck. “That may be. Father, I am afraid I might have been the reason for this tragedy. I might have done something to cause my sister’s death and that is why they didn’t tell me. I was so young. Try as I might, I cannot remember.”
He folded his hands in his lap. “You want forgiveness for this thing?”
She had not thought of that. Just of Mamma, and what this had done to her. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know the truth. I think if Mamma would tell me, if it would all come out in the daylight, she would get better. The truth is best, don’t you think?”
He sighed and leaned back on the lumpy sofa. “Life is not as simple as that, I’m afraid. There are usually reasons, good ones, why families keep secrets. I cannot presume to know, but if your parents felt it was best not to discuss this I will not disagree.”
She did not know what to say in response. The priest was supposed to help, and she could not understand how this dismissal would do any good. She went to the kitchen to grind the coffee.
Papà walked through the door just as Sofia finished boiling the coffee grounds. She hoped he would not scold her. They normally drank coffee only on Sundays. The rest of the week they had weak tea. She couldn’t serve that to Father Lucci. She needed the priest to stay long enough to help Mamma. The coffee was the lure.
“Ah, Father Lucci. Thank you for coming.” Papà gave Sofia a stern look. He did not want the priest to know
he
had not asked him to visit.
The men shook hands as Sofia returned to the kitchen. She poured the coffee into Mamma’s best serving set, reserved for special guests. When she returned, Father Lucci’s expression was grim. What had Papà said to him?
“Bring your mother in, Sofia.” Papà took the tray from her.
This could be the moment she’d find out what happened. If she had been the reason Serena died, she was unsure how she would cope with that knowledge, but the truth must come out. One cannot go around troubles. The only thing to do was to go through them and come out on the other side. Her right hand grew icy as she reached for the bedroom’s doorknob.
Angelina Falcone, normally a well-groomed woman, sat on the edge of her bed, her hair spun around her head as though whipped by wind. She wrung her hands in her lap.
“Papà is home, Mamma. He and Father Lucci would like you to come into the parlor now. I made coffee.”
Mamma set her feet on the floor and without giving Sofia a glance, she shuffled out of the room.
Sofia stood in the cold bedroom a moment and listened to the ticking coming from the old clock Mamma said once hung in the
casetta
where she’d grown up. The coldness in her fingers had risen all the way up her arm. If someone were at Sofia’s side right now, she might be braver. An overwhelming sense of neediness, like a driving hunger, gnawed at her insides. Not wishing to be alone with the ticking clock another moment, she hurried out into the sitting room.
Papà was helping Mamma to the sofa.
“How long has she been this way?” Father Lucci asked.
Sofia sat beside her mother, but Mamma didn’t acknowledge her.
“This is the second day.” Papà turned to Sofia. “How was she when you arrived home?”
Sofia bit her lip. She didn’t know if she should say, but it was true that Mamma should not be left alone. “She was in bed, Papà.” That was the truth, although Sofia couldn’t yet admit Mamma rambled like a woman who had lost her mind, or that the room was about to go up in flames. The madness was temporary. Surely.
Papà stood and began to pace. “She doesn’t eat. She barely answers me. We cannot hire a nurse, Father. We cannot afford it.”
Father Lucci set his coffee cup down on a side table. “She needs to be looked after, Giuseppe.”
Papà faced the priest. “Is there someone from the church who can sit with her during the day?”
The priest shook his head and turned to Mamma. “
Signora
Falcone is not merely debilitated. This is not a matter of a parishioner bringing her some soup or doing her laundry for a time. Those things the church can help with, but this? Your wife, she is not responsive. Her mind has taken her somewhere the rest of us cannot go.”
“But prayer, Father. She can be healed.”
“In God’s time, Giuseppe. You must understand she needs medical help.”
Papà drew in a deep breath. Then he knelt before Mamma. “You know I would do anything in my power for you, Angelina.” He put his head in her lap and sighed deeply, like a mourner. “What happened took away not only my daughter, but the woman I love. The baby cannot come back to me, but you, my love, can.”
Heartbroken, Sofia laid a hand on his shoulder. “Papà.”
Papà lifted his head not to look at her, but at Mamma. “You must wake from this, Angelina.” He clapped his hands twice as though that was all it would take. “I cannot hire a nurse.”
The priest cleared his throat. “A doctor. They are making great strides with nervous disorders.”
Papà did not look at him when he spoke. “Who is?”
“The doctors over at Manhattan State Hospital. Those who study the mysteries of the mind.”
Papà stood and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Doctors cost money. A lot of money.” He flicked a finger into the air. “All the way out there? Long Island? Father Lucci, that is for the rich man, not me.”
Sofia could stand by no longer. This was not the time for Papà to be stingy. “Having Mamma back to her senses, Papà. Think of that. You cannot worry about money at a time like this.”
He ignored her. “Father, there must be someone else. Something else to help.”
The priest stood and made the sign of the cross over Mamma’s head, speaking a prayer. God knew what was happening. Sofia knew God always knew.
Father Lucci turned to Papà. “God blesses his children with gifts and talents. With special skills to help others. These doctors, the good that comes from their work, are a gift from God. But a worker is worthy of his wage, Giuseppe. You would not want your employer to hold back what you have earned.”
Papà walked the Father to the door. “I do not deny these men earn their pay. I just do not have it to give, Father.”
Sofia hoped her mother was not aware of Papà’s unwillingness to help her. Mamma needed something to snap her out of this fog. She joined the men at the door. “Father Lucci, may I speak?”
He turned his warm, honey eyes on her. At last someone who would listen. “Can we not help Mamma by making her remember the accident?”
“Sofia!” Papà grabbed her arm. “You do not know what you are saying.”
“I know, Papà. At least I understand what you’ve allowed me to know. There is more, sì? It might help her to remem—”
The priest raised his hand, as he often has to do when the Italian people get too passionate in their conversations. “I have seen the dark side of depression. Prayer and medical help is what she needs. Not one without the other, but both.”
Frustrated, Sofia turned and stomped off to the kitchen. It was rude, but what were they if not rude for not listening to her?
Later, after Gabriella returned from her job watching the neighbor’s children, the four of them sat at the square table in the kitchen. Joey, as usual, was off somewhere else. He should be there to help.
Mamma chewed on a bread crust, the first thing they’d gotten her to eat since Sofia found the hidden photograph.
Gabriella chattered on about her day, barely aware of the crisis the family was facing. “
Signora
Martina, from downstairs? She says some wayward boys broke her window last week and the landlord will not fix it. She says she will not pay her rent until he does. You will see. She will be evicted, and I think the boys who broke it are her own.” Sofia’s sister was turning into a gossip. Finally Gabriella focused on Mamma. “Did our brothers look in on her before they went to their jobs?”
Sofia moved a fork around on her plate of pasta. “They said they did, but they are not much help. I could quit my job and look after her, Papà.”
Sofia’s father wiped his chin with a napkin. “I do not think that is wise, Sofia. You being here upsets her. You would be more harm than help. And we need your salary.” Tension showed in the wrinkles around his eyes. “You say our doctor, the healer, she will not come?”