Sofia's Tune (19 page)

Chapter 22

Sofia could barely concentrate on her work. Even though she was once again cocooned within the nest of sole makers in the center of the large workroom, her heart ached for her mamma. She counted the hours until her shift was finished, planning to head directly for Ward's Island. They would have to let Mamma leave with her. Where they would go, she didn’t know. Sofia was not used to going against Papà’s wishes, but this time she had no choice. He was not listening to Sofia or even trying to consider her opinion. So she would have to do the things she knew to be right. Sofia could not be sure Mamma would submit to leaving with her but she had to try.

Flinging a finished sole down on the top of her pile, she strengthened her resolve.

“Daydreaming again?”

Sofia turned to find Mr. Richmond hovering over her. “No, sir. I am working.”

He leaned down and whispered into her hair. “In my office as soon as the whistle blows.”

“But—”

He spun on his heels, ignoring her protest. How would she explain to him that there were matters of critical urgency that overruled his worries about a strike, something that was not going to happen in the first place?

She jabbed a needle into the end of her thumb. “
Ai
!”

“What is the trouble?” Maria called out from behind her machine.

“Nothing.” Sofia squeezed her thumb inside her apron and prayed it would not bleed so much as to cause her to have to change. It was too late in the shift.

“You have hardly said a word,” Claudia complained, wiggling a bit in her chair next to Sofia.

“I, uh. I have been focusing.”

“I hear that you have become Mr. Richmond’s favorite. That for some reason he has decided to prefer you.” She examined Sofia’s pile of soles. “Very nice work.” She inclined her head toward Mr. Richmond’s office. “Be warned, he doesn’t care about his workers.”

Impatient, Sofia resuming her sewing. “Do not worry, Claudia. Everyone knows your stitching is superior.”

The girl grinned and turned the wheel on her machine. “I am happy you think so, but I am trying to help you. Don’t be blinded by the promise of more pay.”

“What are you talking about?” How on earth could word about their arrangement have gotten out already? “I did not accept more money from him.”

“So, he offered, didn’t he?” Claudia blew out a breath. “That humbug.”

“Stop it,” Maria cut in. “She is more worthy of respect than most.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.” The crimson-haired girl, smug as though she was privy to information—and of course she could not be—shrugged her shoulders and counted her own day’s pile of soles. Sofia thought the girl’s estimation of her own value as an employee was inflated. No one’s job was completely secure. That was the nature of business. Sofia had come from a hardworking family that understood there were no guarantees in life.

Sofia darted into Mr. Richmond’s office seconds after the dismissal bell rang. “Should I punch my card first?” she asked as he began to close the door.

“No. This won’t take long. What did you find out?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Don’t play games, Miss Falcone.”

“I…uh, I am most serious. No one is talking about a strike.”

“I don’t believe you.” His face turned tomato red.

“Truly. Please, I have to leave promptly. My mamma…she is not well. I have to go to her.”

He stood with his back against the door. “It’s that Claudia, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

“Come now, Miss Falcone. The little redhead beside you. She is firing everyone up, isn’t she?” He grunted and swore under his breath. “A hardheaded carrot top. If she wasn’t such a good worker…well, don’t think I am completely bamboozled.”

“Completely what? I am sorry. I do not understand this word. And carrot? What do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

She tried to push past him but he held on to her wrist.

“You should learn English, Miss Falcone, if you’re going to stay in America.”

“I…uh, I will. I do…” He held her too tightly for her to get away.

“I know what they say about me out there. But I am much nicer than I look.”

She could smell licorice on his breath. She’d often seen him eating the candy but had never before been so close she could smell it. “I must leave, please.”

He cupped her cheek with his palm. “I am quite the pleasant fellow once you get to know me.”

“Yes, sir. May I go now?”

He flung the door open. “All right go. But know that I am watching. The girls need to make me happy if they are to stay employed.”

Happy? He wanted something more than information. Sofia would keep sidestepping as long as she could.

She rushed out of his office, hurried to the clock, and got in line behind the last two girls to leave. Brushing away the strands of hair that had tumbled loose from her bun, she considered the feasibility of quitting. She could find another job. Papà wouldn’t force her to stay, not if he knew what her boss was like. But she would never tell him. God only knew what he’d do if he knew how Mr. Richmond treated her. She didn’t want her father sent to Sing-Sing while her mother wasted away on Ward's Island.

Before she left the sewing floor, she glanced back to her station. She was now nearly in the very center, a position of esteem. She turned toward the corner where Mr. Richmond had placed her earlier, a lonely location where her fingers had grown numb along with her mind. There had to be another choice besides staying safe or becoming an outcast.

She headed north on the el, wishing she had time to petition Father Lucci to join her. She didn’t know how late hospitals allowed visitors so she wanted to go straight there. Anxiety built with each squealing rotation of the train’s wheels on the metal track. She would much prefer a companion on this journey. If her twin had lived, she would have come. But, if Serena had not died, none of this would be necessary.
Oh, God. Did I cause this?

Her urgency would not be satisfied on the el. The ride was exceedingly slow. At irregular intervals, and not at the scheduled stops, the train halted and the passengers had little choice, if they didn’t care to walk, but to wait. The attendant had told her where to get off, as close to 116th Street as they would go, near the north end of Central Park. Dusk was not far off and she still had a long way to go. She gazed out the window the best she could. A fine film of dirt and soot cast the city in a dull light. She bit her lip and focused on the announced stops. Tears began to sting the corners of her eyes and when she willed them away her eyes overflowed all the more.

She had not been aware of the man next to her until he spoke. “Miss?” He held out a handkerchief and bobbed his head, indicating that she should accept it.

“
Grazie
.” She did not even bother to speak English.

“You may keep it.” He stood at the next stop and exited.

Sniffing, she tried to summon an image in her mind, a map of where she was.

“St. Mark’s. Tompkins Square,” the conductor bellowed.

She leaned forward to get the attention of a woman seated in front of her. “What number street?”

The woman turned. She was dark complected, like Sofia. She would understand her difficulty with English. The woman pinched her lips together as though trying to remember. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and blurted, “Ah. Eight. Maybe nine.”

Sofia moaned and leaned back in her seat to rest her eyes. Much later she heard the conductor shout, “Central Park.” She had nearly missed getting off. At some point she knew the train would end but how far that was and at what distance from her destination, she couldn’t guess, so she was pleased she hadn’t dozed for the entire trip.

She exited and rushed down the iron stairs behind others whom she assumed had only been visiting or shopping in the lower part of the city and were now on their way to their colossal dwellings. Here, everyone was dressed in fine clothing and spoke smooth English with no hesitations. She had never felt so foreign in America, not since stepping off the Ellis Island ferry in Battery Park.

After some searching, she finally found a street sign. “Sixty-fourth Street?” She hadn’t missed her stop. She had gotten off too soon! She stepped in front of an elderly couple about to cross the street. “Central Park?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from warbling.

“Just a few blocks west,” the man replied, curling his wife’s fingers over his right arm.

“Please, wait. I am…looking for…” She swallowed hard. “One Hundred Sixteenth. Is that not close to Central Park?”

The man chuckled. “Indeed, but Central Park is vast, my dear.” He exchanged looks with his wife. “Perhaps you would care to share a carriage with us. We are headed that direction.”

Sofia nodded, fully aware that the change in her pocket needed to get her back to Hawkins House. She had to get to her mother, though. That came first.

She sat across from the couple, nervously jingling the coins in her pocket. She knew that sixty-four was less than one hundred sixteen, and with paper and pencil she might be able to calculate how far they had to go, but what a carriage ride cost, she didn’t know.

The elderly woman cleared her throat. When Sofia looked up the woman asked her name.

“Sofia Falcone.”

“Well, I am Amelia Whitfield and this is my friend, Mr. William Price.”

“Please to meet you,” Sofia said, the echoes of her night school teacher’s instruction meeting her ears. So the couple was not married. They were acquaintances, like she and
Signor
Baggio. Another person who might have helped her had she taken the time to ask.

The woman, face pale with chalky powder, smiled like a kind Italian
nonna
might, calming Sofia’s anxiety just a bit. “Might I ask where you are headed out here alone, Sofia?”

“The ferry to Ward’s Island.”

“Ward’s Island?” The woman began waving an ornate paper fan about although the evening was cool.

“Are you perhaps an employee at the hospital there, my dear?” Mr. Price asked.

The woman sighed as though that would explain everything and she no longer had to worry that they had given a lift to a crazy immigrant girl.

“No. They have taken my mother there, but she is not mad.”

“Oh, dear. I have heard of such things.” Amelia Whitfield quickened her fanning. “I do hope you get her home soon, dear.”

“
Grazie
. Uh, thank you,
Signora
…uh, Mrs…” Was she married? Sofia’s stomach turned with the realization that her poor English inhibited her ability to be polite to these people who were quite sympathetic toward her.

“Just call me Miss Amelia. That’s how all the young people refer to me.”

The man interrupted. “I am afraid you won’t be going over to Ward’s Island this evening, Miss Falcone. The ferry doesn’t run this time of day.”

A tear ran down Sofia’s face as frustration gripped her like a vice. “I see. I will take the train back. How much do I owe…for the carriage,
signore
?”

“Nothing at all, my dear. Are you sure you can find your way?”

“I can. You are so kind.” Emotion choked her voice.

“There, there, child. I am sure your mother is fine,” the woman said, waving as Sofia left them.

She walked to the 116th Street dock anyway, just to get a glimpse of the place where her mother was. The dock was deserted. She wandered around but she supposed the boats had been locked up somewhere beyond the rope blocking the way to the end of the dock. It wasn’t like she could row over anyway or, then, having done so, convince the hospital staff she herself was sane enough to warrant a visit with one of their patients.

The buildings on the island in the river were not far, she could see them clearly. But in the absence of a ferry, the place they had taken her mother to seemed as distant as the moon. A smell of fish and murky water turned her stomach. It seemed America smelled rank on every street, making her miss the Italian countryside and hills. The streams and seashore back home held sunshine and warmth, despite the fact that when they lived there Mamma had still drifted into a seasonal melancholy. In Italy, however, she had always risen from it. Now, here, the hope that she’d get better was sinking with the sun.

Sofia made her way to the train. She was a penny short but a kindly man paid the rest of her fare. He offered her a small book, which she could not refuse after the kindness he’d shown her, and then he moved on to the back of the car and struck up a conversation with a Chinese woman.

In the fading light, she studied the English words in the book. The small numbers among the letters told her this was a Bible very much like the one on her nightstand that the stranger in the alley had given her when she was looking for her mother. She glanced out the window at the dim buildings rushing toward her as they traveled to the southern tip of Manhattan. Was God out there? She felt the smooth binding of the Bible in her lap. Or was he here in the gift of a stranger at the moment she’d felt the most alone?