Children of Liberty

“She said Italian is not a must. Proper Catholic is a must.”

Gina whistled in surprise. “St. Mary’s of the Assumption that runs St. Vincent’s is some church. Father O’Reilly is the priest there. He’s famous around these parts.”

“Where could you possibly hear that? No, don’t tell me …”

“St. Vincent’s,” she confirmed, pausing. “I hope to hear from the mill today,” she said.

“About what?”

“A job as a wool sorter.”

“So you did look for a job!” Salvo scoffed. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t work at the mills?”

“It’s skilled labor, Salvo,” she said. “Many people crave those jobs.”

“What in the world could you possibly know about wool?”

“Clearly something.” She shrugged. “The manager at Washington told me I apparently have a gift of hand sensitivity.” She smiled. “I can tell the difference in the quality of the fleece just from touching it. I’m fast too. He gave me a pound of fleece to separate, based on curl, length, softness. He said he’d never seen anyone do it so quickly. So he wants me to interview with his boss.”

“What are you going to wear?”

She flared her dress with her hands.

“Should’ve gotten yourself a dress instead of me a suit, sister,” Salvo said, looking over her drab rags. “It’s okay. You don’t want to be a fleece sorter anyway.”

“Oh, really? Angela gets paid three dollars a week for over fifty hours of work. You want to know how much they will pay me if I get this job?”

“How much?”

“Twelve dollars.”

Now it was Salvo’s turn to whistle. “Oh, how badly you need to be a sorter,” he said, hugging her.

“That’s what I thought. Go kill ’em, Salvo. And stay away from carpenters.”

Don’t count me out, Salvo whispered into the mirror as he adjusted his tie and hid the frayed collar under the jacket before leaving.

He came back late that night, his suit dusty and soiled. They had already eaten and Mimoo and Pippa—who had cleaned three large houses together, working over sixteen hours—were exhausted and asleep. Angela was upstairs visiting with a girlfriend. Gina dutifully waited for Salvo on his couch, nodding off with an English book on her lap.

“How did it go?” she said as soon as she heard him open the door. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” he said, sitting at the table, crossing himself, and gulping down the bread with salt and olive oil before he could speak. “I did all right. I have work for tomorrow. I found work for a week as a grinder.” He almost smiled but was too tired. “Don’t need a suit for that.”

“No,” she said sitting with him, putting her head on the table.

“How did you do? Why do you smell of sheep?”

“I washed in the river. What, didn’t help?” She shrugged. “I must get a new dress at the mission.”

“Did you get the job?”

“Sort of.” She said it without enthusiasm. “They hired me, Salvo, but they didn’t want to pay me the going rate. They said other women would get extremely upset to see a young kid like me taking away the job they spend years trying to get promoted into. It’s union work. So they said they could hire me but pay me only five dollars as non-union.”

“I hope you told them in perfect Italian what they could do with their sheep sorting.”

“Except I really want to move to a different house,” Gina said. “What I told them was I’d work part-time for five dollars. If they wanted to give me half the pay, I’d only work half the time. Then no one could complain.”

“Did they agree to this?”

“Reluctantly. The manager liked me. He thought I was productive.” She was too tired for inflection. She showed Salvo her hands, dried and abraded from the thorns and burrs, from rough wet and dry work. Hives were forming on her fingers from the sheep grease.

“Gia!”

“Well, I know. It’s not great. It’s better than being a skirter and wool washer, don’t you think? Tagging off manure-filled fleece. Yuk. And Washington has the nicest mending room in Lawrence, Salvo. That’s where I want to get promoted to. Ladies work there, and they sit behind a table and the room is sunny with big windows. I would get to dress up. So I took this, hoping in time for that.” She pulled out a large shopping bag from under the table, stuffed to the brim with clean pale fleece. “I got four more just like this. Almost a pound total.”

“You stole from your new employer?” Salvo couldn’t believe it.

“Why do you attribute the worst motives to me? I didn’t steal it, I took it.”

“Oh! Fine difference.”

“They told me I could take it. It’s the discard pile. Downrights and abbs and breech.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, it’s been thoroughly washed.”

Salvo inhaled the bean soup, the half block of mozzarella and fell away from the table, wiping his mouth. “What are we going to do with your sheep hiding under the table?”

“First thing I have to do is pay St. Vincent’s back for your suit,” she said. “Then buy me a dress. After that I have a plan. You’ll see.”

“You and your plans.”

They fell asleep on Salvo’s couch, sitting up, leaning against each other.

2

Alice stood in front of her closet and waited for Trieste, her lady’s maid. Trieste was late and Alice was already running behind a carefully constructed schedule, though it was barely eight in the morning. She decided on a dark blue wool skirt and a white lace blouse. She kept her jewelry simple and was already putting on light makeup—by herself. She thought her face looked swollen from having slept too long on one side, having been in bed since nine the night before. She made a mental note not to sleep on her side, because it creased her cheeks, made her look puffy. But she needed her beauty sleep. She worked hard during the day and she needed to get proper rest at night. Mother said so, and it made perfect sense. Ever since she had been a little girl she loved to sleep, though the opportunities for unabashed rest were lessening with the years. Once she turned eighteen, and had gone to forty balls and functions, she just got busier and busier.

After a short knock on the door, Trieste came in with a tray of tea and soft biscuits with jam. She apologized for running late, but they couldn’t get the stove to turn on, to heat up the water for the tea. Trieste thought an engineer needed to be called in. Alice said she didn’t care about the silly old tea, “but what I do care about, Trieste,” she continued, “is that a shipment of six thousand logs is waiting for me at Roxbury, and do you know where I am? Not at Roxbury. That is my problem. I’m going to be late for all my appointments.”

“I apologize, Miss Alice. I know you like your hot tea in the morning.”

“Not more than I enjoy being on time, Trieste.”

Trieste apologized again, while quickly spreading jam and clotted cream on the scones.

“Where is your day journal, Miss Alice? Would you like to go over your schedule?”

Irritated, Alice pointed to her bedside. She had looked at the schedule the night before, but she couldn’t remember anything past the sawmill. She continued applying her makeup while Trieste read aloud the day’s events.

“At 8:30 you’re supposed to be in Roxbury …”