Bread and Roses, Too (15 page)

With luck, the weather would stay cold a good while longer. But when spring came, as it always did, a passerby would be sure to smell the corpse. Jake had smelled plenty of rotting animals; he knew the stench. Or maybe some stray dogs would break into the shack.... He nearly vomited at the thought. Oh, God, what was he to do? But first things first. Shake the girl, slip through the mob at the station, and find someplace in this one-horse town to hide until he could make a plan for escape.

They were almost the last of the children off the train, but as soon as he stood on the steps, before he put his first foot on the station platform, he knew he wouldn't try to run that night. The freezing air that hit his face was like none he'd ever felt. Where in the hell was Vermont? At the North pole? Besides, the girl was holding on to his arm for dear life.

The crowd was not nearly the size of the crowd that had greeted Big Bill and beautiful Mrs. Gurley Flynn, but it looked as though it must be most of the town. There were signs, just as though the people were marchers, but the signs were held up and waved by smiling, warmly dressed people, many of whom sported bright red ribbons. Of course, he couldn't read the signs.

"That one says,
BENVENUTI
." The shoe girl was reading his mind. "Just like the one over there in English, see?" She had let go of his arm and was pointing out the signs in Italian, pretending it was only those that he couldn't read. "They all say,
WELCOME
or
WELCOME, LAWRENCE CHILDREN
. Just like the ones in English."

The crowd was being urged back so the children could pass through it directly and into the autos, trucks, and livery wagons that were backed up to the platform.

The girl stiffened and hesitated at the side of the auto they were being ushered toward, but Jake grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the running board and into the back seat. The engine was loud and the fumes smelly, but at least they'd be going in style—wherever they might be headed. It would only be for one night, he promised himself. As soon as he could beg or steal money for a train ticket, he'd be gone ... if they didn't catch him first.

The driver turned toward the back seat and smiled warmly. "
Buona sera!
" he said.

Cor!
Was Italian going to be the language in this town? How in the world would he manage? Even to skip town you had to be able to speak to somebody.

"We welcome you to Barre. We are expecting you so many days."

Whew!
The man could speak English, which gave Jake some hope for the rest of the town.

"By the door, there, is a blanket if you're cold."

"
Grazie,
" the girl murmured.

Oh, hell.
Was she going to go into Italian or was she just showing off? No, she was shivering too hard for that. He took the blanket from the corner of the seat and tucked it around them right up to their chins. The driver smiled and nodded.

"First we have a little welcome parade," he said. "Then we go to Labor Hall for a
beeeg
feast. You like that?"

"
Si,
" the girl said.

He wished she'd shut up with the Italian. What was she trying to prove? He was thinking up what to say when the doors opposite them opened, and two other children were crowded in beside them on the back seat while another climbed in beside the driver up front.

"Andiamo!
Let's go," the driver said, and did something that made the motor cough and the auto jerk forward. The girl gave a little muffled cry.

"It's a motorcar!" The child sitting on the other side of Rosa was exultant.

"Yeah?" Jake muttered. "You ain't never seen one?"

"I never
rided
in one!" the little boy said.

Neither had Jake, but,
cor,
the kid's wide-eyed wonder was worse than the shoe girl's terror. It made them all sound like they were just out of steerage. Like they were more backward than the dumb wops in this one-horse town.
Oh, Christmas.
It hit him. For the rest of the time that he was stuck here,
he
would be one of those wops just off the boat.
Sal—Sal ... hell's bells,
he couldn't even say his own stupid name.

The little kid who'd yelled about the motorcar now stood up, pushed his way past Rosa, and was leaning across Jake's knees to stick his head out the opening above the door. "It's a real parade," he said. "We're in a real parade!"

"That's right, son. Everybody in town come to see you and say, 'Hello! Welcome to Barre in Vermont.'"

"To see
us?
" His voice was so shrill, it pierced Jake's skull like a mill whistle.

"Just you, nobody else."

They were bumping along on what must be the main street, if a town this size had such a thing. Anyhow, there were stores on either side and people lined up in front of them, waving Italian and American flags and yelling and clapping as they went by. There were bands playing as well. Jake didn't know the tunes, but the music was not too bad, and as it got louder, nobody tried to talk, which was a relief.

They followed the livery in front of them around a tiny common, which was nearly surrounded by churches. There were people standing in the snow even on the common, waving signs and yelling. Then their little parade headed back down the street the same way it had come.

"Ouch! Would you get off my foot?" The kid was not only standing on Jake's foot, he was jumping up and down on it in his excitement, but the boy either didn't hear Jake or just chose to ignore him. Jake picked him up and plopped him down on the seat next to Rosa. "He was killing me," he explained, but Rosa didn't indicate that she had heard. She was staring straight ahead, her eyes wide with fright. "I didn't hurt him. See? He's all right." The little boy had jumped right up and now was crowding the little girl who was standing at the opening on the other side.

They passed the street leading back to the station and turned into a narrower one a little way farther on. By the time the driver stopped the auto, it was truly night. Night came early up here, it seemed.

"Okay," the driver said. "Here we are. The feast is waiting."

The three smaller passengers leaped out of the auto and joined the crowd of children hurrying up the stone steps that led to the brick building, which must be the Labor Hall the driver had mentioned earlier. Rosa was still sitting there on the seat, as though frozen in place. Jake punched her elbow. "We're here now. Get out."

She stumbled toward the open door, onto the running board, and then down to the street. He followed her, and the two of them walked up the steps into the hall.

The smell of food was what hit Jake first. The glorious smell of meat and garlic and hot, fresh-baked bread. He'd thought, on the train, that he'd never have any appetite again, just thinking of pa's dead body and what might become of it—as well as what might become of him when it was found. But he was hungry, hungry enough to eat an automobile if it was covered with enough meatballs and tomato sauce.

There were people at the door greeting everyone, both in Italian and in English. Jake almost burst out for one of the long tables, but he was stopped and sent to one end of the hall. Rosa was sent to the other end.
Hell's
bells,
hadn't a doctor just cluck-clucked over him a few hours ago? But there was nothing to do but to wait his turn while a local doctor listened through his little rubber thing and thumped his back and looked down his throat and into his ears.

A young man was standing by the doctor, checking names off the list. What was Jake to do? His name wasn't going to be on any list.

"What's your name, son?" the young man asked.

"Oh," Jake said, "I ain't on no list. My sister—see, that girl over there with the—Wait, I'll get her. She can explain."

The man looked puzzled, but he didn't try to stop Jake from running across the hall and grabbing Rosa by the arm. "You gotta come," he said. "I ain't on the list."

He was glad to see that she seemed to have recovered from the terror of the auto ride. "Oh, honestly," she said, but she came with him to speak to the man holding the fateful list.

"I—I wouldn't leave unless my brother came with me this morning, so he snuck on board. Mamma will know where he is. She wanted him to come to look after me."

The man raised his eyebrows. "And your name, young fellow?"

"Uh—Sal—"

"Salvatore. He hates it. He wants everyone just to call him 'Sal.'"

"All right, Sal, but we need to have your whole name."

"Serutti." Rosa jumped in quickly. "Same as me."

"Salvatore Serutti," he said and then smiled. "Just for the list, all right? Otherwise, we call you Sal." He wrote something down on the board. "Have you had your examination, Miss Serutti?"

"Rosa," she said, smiling prettily, like a picture. "Yes. I have." What a faker!

"Then you're all set. Go find yourselves seats at the tables. The food is coming as soon as we finish the examinations and check everyone in."

"Well, you could at least thank me," she muttered as they headed for the nearest open seats.

"Okay," he said. "Thank you. Now are you satisfied?"

She just sighed. "Just behave yourself, all right? I can't help you if you don't try to behave."

But Jake was paying no attention. His eyes were following the line of women emerging from a room at the end of the hall. Each was carrying either a pot or a huge platter, which she then set down on one of the tables. There were round tubelike noodles big as his finger covered with tomato sauce. There was a platter with hunks of sausage swimming in tomato sauce. There were huge plates of juicy pieces of chicken so tender they were falling off the bone. There wasn't the spaghetti that he thought Italians ate with every meal, but a dish of something that wasn't potato but not pasta, either.

"What's this stuff?" he asked Rosa.

"Polenta," Rosa whispered. "Taste it. It's good."

Good?
Jake bet the angels in heaven didn't have anything that tasted half this
good
.

There were baskets of bread—thick, crusty slices of it—and smaller platters with cheese and salami and olives and all sorts of strange things. Jake didn't pay much attention to these—he was loading his plate with chicken and polenta and meat sauce, none of that other foreign stuff he didn't recognize. A meal like this ought to last him a few days. Now all he needed was enough money to get himself out of here.

The bands had followed them right into the hall, and while they ate, the musicians played cheerful tunes. Every now and then, between the food and the music, Jake would forget all about the troubles he was running from.

The feast ended with cakes and sweets. Jake stuffed some of the candies into his pocket when Rosa wasn't looking. He knew she'd object if she saw him do it.

"Now, boys and girls," the big man who had been on the train was saying in a booming voice. "Let me ask you. Have you had enough to eat?" A few scattered yeses and thank-yous were heard. The man cupped his hand against one ear. "I can't hear you.... Have you had enough to eat?"

"YES!" the children thundered back.

"Good," he said. "We don't want no child hungry tonight. Now you will meet your hosts for your visit in Barre. Is everyone excited?"

"YES!"

"Good. I can promise you all the people in Barre are excited, too. I bring here only thirty-five children, and many, many more families want to be hosts." He shook his head. "So now, Mr. Marchesi, please to call out names from the list, and the family that has this name, come meet your guest, all right?"

"Gladly, Mr. Broggi." The same young man who had checked names off the list earlier stepped up and began reading the names of the children. Not all the names were Italian, Jake realized. He could have kept his own name, except that he couldn't be Rosa's brother with a name like Jake Beale. His heart thumped as each name was called. What was the man going to do when he got to Rosa's name? But he needn't have worried. "Rosa and Salvatore Serutti," the man called out, just as though his peculiar name had always belonged on the list.

"Stand up!" Rosa commanded. He got to his feet, looking around for the people that would come forward to claim them. At first, no one seemed to move.

"Rosa and Salvatore Serutti?" Mr. Marchesi repeated, looking around as well.

A woman was moving toward them. She looked ancient to Jake, all white hair and wrinkles, a shawl wrapped around her body. Several steps behind her was a tiny man. He was no taller than a child, but not a child at all, for he had a head of snow-white hair and a great white mustache sprouting from his upper lip like a snow-covered bush.

They came slowly from the far corner of the hall to where Mr. Marchesi stood holding the list. The woman turned and waited for the old man to catch up with her, and when he did, he muttered something in Italian to Mr. Marchesi.

"What did he say?"

"He said he didn't ask for any boy," Rosa whispered back.

Jake almost panicked. If the old man didn't take him, what would happen? He'd be separated from Rosa and stuck with some family that probably didn't even speak English.

"Mr. Gerbati," Mr. Marchesi began, but Rosa interrupted whatever he was about to say.

"
Scusami, Signor
—" She was putting on her saddest, prettiest little face. He'd probably never know whatever it was she said to the old man, but he could see the old lady's face soften.

"Oh," she murmured, "
povera bambina,
" and she put her arm around Rosa's shoulders.

"There are many families who would be glad—" said Mr. Broggi, but the woman interrupted him.

"We fine, Signor Broggi. Is okay."

The old man was defeated. Jake could see that. Without speaking another word, he started for the door. There was a coat rack beside it from which he took an overcoat and a fedora. Then he led them outside and down the stone steps. Mrs. Gerbati followed, her arm still around Rosa's shoulders, with Jake trailing behind. Mrs. Gerbati stopped on the top step, took the shawl off her own shoulders, and wrapped it around Rosa. She turned and smiled at Jake, as if to apologize for not having another to give him. The old man never glanced around. He was down the steps already and, shoulders straight as a sergeant major, was marching up the middle of the street where most of the snow had been cleared away from the cobblestones.