Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [118]
Clement slid into a chair next to his father. “Papa, what do we do now?”
“You put on your clothes and go to work. Even you, Frances. See if you can get sewing work from the signora down the street. Or ask Zia Teresa about factory jobs.”
Mary stood at attention, waiting for her assignment. When her father didn’t address her, she asked, “Papa?”
“You go to school. People will be suspicious if we take you out of school, but Frances should have been out long ago.”
Rocco had heard from Teresa that Giovanna hadn’t spoken for many months after her husband’s death; he wondered if it was going to happen again. Giovanna hadn’t said anything since last night, and she didn’t protest when Rocco ordered Frances to work. He was thinking it might not be a bad thing for Giovanna to lose her speech—but then she spoke.
“Mary, I’ll get piecework for you to do after school.”
Rocco assumed this was Giovanna’s way of saying she approved of what he was doing. He was grateful for this little bit of recognition.
Rocco got up. “Let’s go. I’ll take Mary across the street and tell the principal it is time for Frances to go to work.”
Giovanna remained seated as the family bustled around her. While her body and lips were motionless, her mind was reeling. Her husband’s solution to everything was to work. While she was grateful he at least took action, did he really believe that the money the children brought in would make a difference? She wanted him and everyone else out of the apartment so that she could leave before Teresa showed up.
Last night, Rocco described the big man who had come to his cart, and Clement said that he was the same man he saw in the Star of Italy and that his name was Tommaso. Giovanna was anxious to walk through the neighborhood. There had to be something she could find that Rocco didn’t.
The moment that everyone was gone, Giovanna removed the clothes she had been wearing since the day before, washed her face, and dressed. In the hall she heard the calls and burdened footsteps of the iceman. The doors on the second floor were opening and closing. Looping string through the buttonholes on her skirt to accommodate her belly, she was knotting it together when outside her own door the man called, “Issaman!”
“I need no ice,” answered Giovanna, opening the door a crack. But instead of a block of ice on his shoulder, the iceman held out an envelope.
“Signora, a man downstairs asked me to bring this to you since I was coming up.”
Giovanna did not move to take the envelope from the iceman’s outstretched hand.
“Who gave you this?”
“I told you, a man outside.”
“What man? Show him to me?” pleaded Giovanna, flinging open the door and running to the window.
The iceman reluctantly went to the window and looked. “I don’t see him. I made two deliveries before I came to your door. Signora, are you going to take this?” he asked once again, stretching out his hand.
“Sì, sì.” Giovanna glanced at the envelope. “What did he look like? Big chest and square head?”
“No, short, a mustache.” The man got frustrated. “I don’t know, signora. You put two hundred pounds on your shoulder, and the only thing you notice is that your back hurts.”
The frantic expression on Giovanna’s face finally caught his attention. “Signora, what’s wrong?”
His question stopped Giovanna’s mind from racing, and she tried to cover, “No, no, nothing.” Walking him to the door, she said, “I was hoping it might have been word from a woman whose child I must deliver. Thank you.” She closed the door. The sweat from Giovanna’s hand had already stained the envelope. Lifting the flap, she removed a coarse piece of brown paper.
Giovanna steadied herself against the wall at the confirmation of what she already knew. She moved in fruitless circles from the window to the table. Reading about the earthquake had given her experience at feeling powerless, but this was worse. Her child was frightened, maybe hurt, or worse, and there wasn’t anyone running to rescue her. It was like the