Children of Liberty

“Oh yes, we do.” Ear to ear was Ben’s smile. “We helped them send the telegram to announce their arrival, remember?”

“Why don’t we just drive this carriage off a cliff instead?” said Harry, slamming shut the door as the horse clopped away, and faint in the night he heard Ben’s tenor voice singing, “My wild Italian rose, the sweetest flower that grows …”

When Harry turned around, Esther was standing rigidly behind him on the portico, waving goodbye.

Chapter Seven

IMMIGRANTS, DEBUTANTES, STUDENTS

1

“WHERE in the world did you get this?” Salvo asked. “You must have stolen it.”

They were looking at the suit Gina was holding out for her brother. “What are you complaining about?” she said. “You think God would help you find work in a stolen suit? You’d be trampled by a horse before you got to the end of Canal Street.”

Salvo examined the wool trousers, the finely made jacket, the waistcoat. She had even got him a worn white shirt, a gray tie and some used shoes. He dressed while she watched and then they both stood in front of the mirror and appraised him.

“You should trim your hair,” she said. “It’s too wild.”

“You’re a fine one to speak.”

“I’m not a man in a suit.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Society of St. Vincent de Paul,” she replied.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A mission to help the poor. Yesterday I was asking around …”

“I thought you were looking for a job.”

“I was. For you.”

“Sciocca ragazza. I can look for my own work, thank you.”

“You were out yesterday in the clothes you sailed in on. How did that go?”

“I don’t see you having a job either,” he muttered.

“Yes, but today you have a suit.”

Salvo smiled. “I look quite dashing, don’t I?”

“Yes. If you cut your hair you’d look almost American.”

“I didn’t see that vagabond you were so keen on with a haircut.”

Stepping away, Gina busied herself with a sudden need to rid the sewing machine of loose thread. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But listen, don’t waste your time applying to be a machinist at the Pacific Mill.”

“Okay. Why would I? And why not?”

“Their ‘jobs offered’ signs are everywhere,” she said. “But they only hire skilled union men.”

“And I’m neither.”

“Right. But perhaps at the glaziers? Or the shoemakers?”

“I don’t know how to cobble shoes, Gia,” Salvo said. “Why do you keep mentioning all the things I can’t do? Why don’t you get work as a plumber? No, I’m going to apply at the restaurants. They must need cooks.”

Gina said nothing.

“What?”

“They pay poorly.”

“How do you know this?”

“I asked.”

“Who could you possibly ask? We got here five minutes ago.”

“We got here four days ago, and what do you think I was doing yesterday?”

“Looking for work—or did you also sin not only by your indolence but by lying to our mother?”

“I asked at St. Vincent’s.”

“It’s like the Boston Public Library, this St. Vincent’s,” said Salvo. “Maybe they have work too as well as information?”

“Oh, they do.” She sighed. “Not paid work, though.”

Salvo laughed. “That’s not work. That’s a hobby.”

“Okay, Mr. Clever. But in the meantime I found out what jobs you shouldn’t bother with.”

He put his palm over her mouth. “You think you’re the only clever one? I know what I’m doing. I’ll find some day work.”

“Day labor is neither stable, nor well-paying. Don’t you want to move out of this boarding house? I saw such nice houses near the Common. They have porches and big windows, and the streets are lovely and lined with trees.”

“Prima le cose,” he said. “First work, then a house. And don’t get all fancy on me. You know we can’t live in the nice areas.”

“It’s not that nice. It’s for people like us.”

“Mimoo asked you to find us a different church,” Salvo said, trying in vain to slick back his unruly hair. “Did you? She didn’t like the priest on Sunday.”

“Mimoo is full of opinions. It’s the only Italian church in town.”