Murder on Mulberry Bend (16 page)

Mrs. Donato’s round face darkened. “No funeral,” she said bitterly. “She no Catholic no more. She ... mission.” She said the word as if it were a curse.

Sarah remembered what Mrs. Wells had said about Emilia giving up her “popish” ways. She knew how important their faith was to Catholics. No wonder Mrs. Donato sounded bitter. Sarah stood there for a moment, wondering what on earth she could say. That was when she really looked at the other woman and saw what a trained nurse should have seen immediately.

“Mrs. Donato, when was the last time you had something to eat?”

Mrs. Donato’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “We have food. No need charity.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Sarah agreed, “but when was the last time you ate any of your food? You look as if you might be a little dehydrated.”

“No sick,” she protested, probably not recognizing the word. Few people would, even if they spoke fluent English.

“You will be sick if you don’t eat something soon,” Sarah warned. “I’m a nurse and a midwife. I delivered Maria Fortunato’s baby,” she added, hoping that would give her some credibility. “I just saw her down on the street, and she showed me where you lived.”

Mrs. Donato made a sound in her throat. Sarah didn’t know what it meant, but she chose to interpret it positively. She saw a coffeepot on the stove and stepped over to see if it was still warm. The kitchen was small enough, she only needed to take one step.

Warm enough, she decided, and took a cup down from the shelf and filled it. On second thought, she poured a second one. Sarah would sit down with her and force the woman to see her as a guest. With any luck, Mrs. Donato would feel obligated to treat her with some small bit of hospitality. She set the cups on the table, then got a plate from the shelf, too. Digging in the basket, she found some cookies and a sugar cake. She set them on the plate, breaking the cake in half. Then she sat down at the table, too.

“Please,” she said, “eat just a little to be polite.”

Mrs. Donato looked up at her in surprise, and Sarah smiled encouragingly.

“It really is delicious,” she added, breaking off a small piece of the cake and popping it into her mouth to demonstrate.

Slowly, almost grudgingly, the other woman reached out and did the same, bringing the morsel cautiously to her lips.

“Isn’t it good?” Sarah asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “I didn’t know Emilia very well. I only met her once. Someone asked me to visit the mission to see the kind of work they do there, and that’s when I saw her. She seemed like a lovely girl.”

Mrs. Donato wasn’t gratified at the compliment as most mothers would have been. “Emilia ... mistake,” she said after searching for the correct word.

“I know she made mistakes,” Sarah commiserated. “But many young girls get fooled by evil men. She was trying to change, though. She’d learned how to sew, so she could get honest work.”

The eyes that stared back at her were full of suppressed rage. “No,” she said slowly and deliberately, trying to make sure Sarah understood. “She mistake, from before born!”

“Because she was a girl?” Sarah asked, not really certain what the other woman meant. She knew many people, especially the foreign born, preferred sons.

“No, because she is!”

Now Sarah thought she understood. “You didn’t want another child after ... I know your son is crippled.”

But that wasn’t it either. She leaned forward, desperate for Sarah to comprehend. “Emilia child of
Devil
!
”

Sarah couldn’t let Mrs. Donato remember her daughter only for the tragic mistakes she’d made in her short life. “No child is born evil,” she tried.

Mrs. Donato made a growling sound in her throat. “She child of
Devil,”
she repeated. “On ship to America, I get lost one day. Sailors find me.” The pain in her eyes left no doubt as to what the sailors had done to her. Sarah instinctively reached out, laying a hand on the other woman’s arm in comfort. She didn’t even seem to notice. “I never tell what they do. I too ashamed. I never tell. Then I get baby.”

How horrible that must have been for her! She hadn’t been able to share the pain of being raped, and then to get pregnant from it. If the child was the result of the rape, she’d be a constant reminder of it for the rest of her life. “She could have been your husband’s child,” Sarah tried.

“I pray it is so. I do not know until I see her. I afraid, all a time afraid. Then I see her, and I know. One sailor, yellow hair. Baby with yellow hair. I know. Child of Devil.”

No wonder Emilia had felt unloved. Her own mother had seen her as a symbol of shame and degradation. “Did your husband know, too?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I never tell. Never tell no one until now. Now you know. She not good. Child of Devil.”

Poor Emilia. The shame of her conception had destined her, in her mother’s eyes at least, to a life of disgrace. Then she had fulfilled her mother’s expectations in the worst possible way. “She was trying to change,” Sarah offered.

“She never change,” her mother insisted. “Better dead.”

Sarah managed not to wince. She’d seen too many women express such a sentiment. Only the rich could afford the luxury of cherishing their children. A baby born to a poor family was a burden, another mouth to feed that wouldn’t be able to contribute to its support for many years. Worse, it might get sick and further drain the family’s resources.

Many times the babies Sarah delivered were considered a curse, not a blessing. No wonder so many women drank noxious potions to abort their pregnancies. No wonder abortionists grew fat and wealthy. No wonder babies were left in alleys to die. No wonder thousands of homeless children roamed the streets, scrounging and thieving and prostituting themselves just to stay alive. At least the Donatos had raised Emilia instead of turning her out. That was probably Mr. Donato’s doing, since he had no reason to suspect she wasn’t his child. As loveless as her home was, she’d had one, which was more than far too many children could claim.

“Mrs. Donato, do you have any idea who might have killed Emilia?”

The other woman narrowed her eyes in suspicion again. “No. We no see her, long time.”

Sarah decided to take a chance. “What about Ugo or Lucca?”

Mrs. Donato reared back as if Sarah had slapped her and muttered what might have been a curse in Italian. “Get out my house,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. Her face had paled, but Sarah judged she was more angry than shocked. “You go now.”

Sarah wanted to bite her tongue. What had she been thinking to mention those names to Emilia’s mother? “I’m sorry if I offended you ...”

“You go now. I tell you nothing.”

Sarah rose to her feet. “Let me leave these things for you,” she said, reaching into the basket and setting another cake onto the table.

“We no need nothing,” she insisted, her voice rising along with her color.

“I know you don’t, but please accept it as a gift.” Remembering her pledge not to carry these things back with her, she relentlessly continued to empty the basket, setting the things out on the crude kitchen table as quickly as she could before Mrs. Donato threw her out physically.

She hadn’t quite finished, but she could see from the way the other woman was breathing that she was working herself up to an emotional outburst. Sarah quickly gathered her basket and said, “I’m very sorry about Emilia. If I can do anything, please let me know.”

An empty platitude, if ever she’d uttered one. Mrs. Donato would have no way of contacting her except through the mission. Sarah figured the woman would starve to death before contacting the mission about anything.

When she reached the door with her basket over her arm, Sarah looked back to take her leave. For an instant she thought she saw tears standing in Mrs. Donato’s eyes, but she couldn’t be sure in the poor light. “Please, try to eat something,” she said lamely before making her hasty departure.

As she groped her way down the dark stairs, she sent up a silent prayer that Malloy would never find out about this visit. Not only hadn’t she learned anything useful, but she’d alienated Mrs. Donato, which meant she’d never be able to go back again.

As she left the building, she had to pause a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight. A group of ragged children were playing stickball in the alley, shouting and running and screaming at each other for not performing as well as they might have. All of them, she noted, had dark hair, just as Malloy had observed. Emilia must have felt very strange growing up in this neighborhood.

Sarah remembered the goodies left in her basket, the ones Mrs. Donato hadn’t given her time to unpack. She strolled over to the group and asked if they wanted something to eat. When they saw what she had, greedy hands quickly relieved her of every last crumb.

A few mumbled
“grazies”
trailed after the children as they darted away, disappearing into nooks and crannies with their treats, lest she change her mind. Watching them running away so nimbly made her think of Brian and wonder if he would soon be able to run like that. Which made her think of Emilia’s brother Georgio, who had never been able even to walk.

Maria had said he played his organ outside of Macy’s. How difficult would it be to find an Italian organ grinder with one foot? Sarah wasn’t sure what he would be able to tell her, but she really couldn’t know any less than she already did about Emilia. If nothing else, she’d be able to tell Malloy where to find him.

The Canal Street Station of the El wasn’t too far. She took the train to Fourteenth Street and walked over to Sixth Avenue. The sidewalks were crowded with the buxom wives of successful businessmen who were doing their duty by spending the money their husbands earned.

As she walked along, Sarah realized she’d never really paid much attention to the people who came here for the purpose of earning their daily bread by performing for the passing crowd. Everyone understood that they were beggars, but if they juggled or played a musical instrument or performed in some other way, people could maintain the fiction that they were earning a living. No one wanted to see real beggars on the sidewalks.

Macy’s occupied the entire block between Thirteenth and Fourteenth Streets, so Sarah had a lot of ground to cover as she circled the building. She was just starting to feel silly for having thought she could locate Georgio so easily when she found him on the comer of Sixth and Thirteenth. Actually, she’d noticed the little girl first, not even registering who was making the music to which she danced.

The child was adorable. She was probably about four or five years old and as dainty as a fairy in her bright red dress. Her dark hair hung in curls that fell to her shoulders and bounced delightfully as her tiny bare feet formed intricate patterns on the pavement. Her enormous brown eyes glittered with happiness at the attention she had attracted. Sarah wasn’t the only passerby who had stopped to watch, entranced. Then the song ended, and the gathered crowd applauded. The girl bobbed a curtsey and looked around expectantly. In a moment, coins appeared, fished from pockets and purses and offered in tribute. The coins disappeared again as if by magic, spirited away by little fingers as nimble as the little feet had been and deposited into the pocket of her dress.

While the crowd disbursed, the girl turned and hurried back to the man who had produced the music. That was when Sarah recalled her purpose in being here. The child was emptying her pocket and giving the coins to a handsome youth who sat on a small stool with his back against the building. He held the organ between his knees, resting on a small stand. He wore a dark shirt and trousers and had a red bandanna tied rakishly at his throat. He looked so perfect that Sarah almost didn’t notice the wooden crutches tucked discreetly between his stool and the wall. Finally, she saw the pant leg pinned up at the ankle.

She’d never expected Georgio to have a child, which was why she’d been so slow to realize she’d found him. Taking advantage of this lull, she stepped over to where the man and the girl were conversing in Italian. There seemed to be some question about whether she’d given him all the coins she’d collected.

“Georgio?” Sarah tried.

He looked up from beneath the bill of his small cap. His eyes were dark and liquid, his smile big and bright and charming.
“Si, Signorina,
do you want to see the little one dance?” His English was very good, probably honed from conversing with his customers.

“No, although she dances very well,” Sarah added, giving the child an approving smile, in case she didn’t understand the compliment. “I wanted to ask you about your sister Emilia.”

His charming smile vanished, and the dark eyes grew wary. “She is dead,” he said very carefully.

“I know. I’m very sorry.”

“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked suspiciously. When he frowned, Sarah realized how much he looked like his mother.

“My name is Sarah Brandt, and I met Emilia at the Prodigal Son Mission.” His expression hardened from wariness into anger. Plainly, none of the Donato family had any love for the mission. “She was such a lovely girl, and she was trying very hard to become a respectable young woman,” Sarah hurried on, wishing she had some idea how Georgio felt about his sister.

Seeing that the grown-ups were going to talk a bit, the little girl sank down onto the pavement with a weary sigh and leaned back against the wall. Sarah wondered vaguely how many times she had to perform in a day. She probably had a right to be tired.

“Emilia is whore,” he said baldly. “Now she dead. Why you care? Why anybody care?”

“She was learning to sew,” Sarah tried. “She wanted to earn an honest living. She wanted to change.”

“She go to mission before, then she go back with Ugo,” Georgio said. “She never change. Just pretend. She want clothes and food and place to live. Easy life for a while. Then she go back.”