Rapture's Rendezvous (18 page)

“Why, Papa?” Maria said, taking one of his hands in hers, feeling the veins, so taut, like the veining of a dried up leaf.

“I was among one of the immigrants bought and paid for by that Nathan Hawkins.” he grumbled, reaching inside his shirt pocket, to get another plug of chewing tobacco to stick into the corner of his mouth.

“You . . . were . .. ?” Alberto gasped, paling even more.

“Yes. I never told anyone back home, but I had heard word of this man bein' so generous as to pay passage to America, guaranteeing a respectable job and house if a person would choose to take advantage of this rare opportunity. My dream was always of comin' to America. How could I refuse?”

“So you work for that man … and live … in
his
house?” Maria said in a near-whisper, feeling something tearing at the corner of her heart.

“Yes,” Giacomo said, faltering. “One of his houses. There are many.”

Maria set her jaws firmly. “And us, Papa? Alberto and myself? Are we … also . . . owned … by this .. . man .. . ?” she suddenly blurted, trembling inside. She had thought she had come to a land of freedom, to a
house owned by her papa. It was all becoming a nightmare. Why? Her papa should have told them. Why?

“Yes,” Giacomo answered, turning to walk on toward a horse and buckboard-style wagon that was at the side of the road, hitched to a tree limb. “When one lives in Hawkinsville, one is owned by Nathan Hawkins.”

“God,” Alberto moaned, kneading his brow. He lifted the trunk to his shoulder, but feeling more than its weight on his body. He felt the weight of a future of many years of labor .. . hard labor . . . pressing down upon him. And in the dark shafts of a mine? Where he would continue to get blacker and blacker? Would he ever be able to be a respectable citizen, dressed in fine clothes, and be able to flash clean, well-groomed fingernails? God. When he had played cards, how he'd hated letting anyone see the filth beneath his nails. Damn. He didn't want to work in a coal mine. Damn. Damn.

When Maria reached the wagon, she placed her violin in the back, then let her papa help her up onto the seat. “Our passage to America, Papa?” she said. “Did Nathan Hawkins . .. pay.. . for it?”

She scooted over so Alberto could position himself on one side of her and her papa on the other. Her papa lifted the reins, shouting loudly to the one lone black mare. “Yes, Maria, I had no other way,” he finally answered.

“But, you never said … it wasn't. . . your money,” Alberto said. “On board ship, no one mentioned it. We seemed to be apart from all the rest. Now I remember this. All the others seemed to stay to themselves.”

“I persuaded Nathan Hawkins to let me do this in
this way in order to keep my dignity in the Lazzaro family,” he answered. “I knew that you would have to be told once you arrived, but I didn't want your gran-mama nor Aunt Helena to know. Please understand.”

“Oh, Papa,” Maria said, wrapping her arm around his waist, hugging him. “It's all right. Truly it is. All that truly matters now is that we are together. Finally together. And nothing will ever part us again. We are a family … an alliance of love. We will fight for our freedom. Together.”

“There ain't no way to fight,” Giacomo mumbled.
“There are no different jobs for us immigrants. Only
these that Nathan Hawkins has given us. And if
anyone threatens to leave Hawkinsville, to go to an-
other city, he threatens right back, saying that he can
find ways to send them back to Italy. We are caught up
in somethin' ugly here, but at least we are alive . . .
well, and alive “

Maria felt hatred simmering inside. She had thought “revenge” earlier when she had heard of this Nathan Hawkins and his evil ways. Now she felt even a stronger urge to get even with him for having tricked her people . . . her own papa. She would find a way. She didn't want her papa and Alberto to have to spend the rest of their lives working in the filth and dangers of a coal mine. America had meant hope … not despair.

As the wagon moved into the outskirts of the small town, Maria looked in silence all around her. Even the brightness of the sun of this October day couldn't help to improve the appearance of the surroundings. The streets were laid out like cowpaths, with only bits of sidewalk in front of the business establishments. Faded-out, false-fronted shacks were wedged in be
tween undertaking parlors and saloons. Only a few men were standing, browsing at the doors of these establishments, but the noise surfacing from within made one quite aware of the boisterousness of those who were inside. The loud sound of pianos clinking and the high-pitched laughter of women made Maria cringe. It reminded her of the many books about the West that she had read. But this was Illinois. She had thought it to be filled with only gentle people … as gentle as the winds that blew across the straight stretches of the land.

“Are these people of our kind who frequent the saloons, Papa?” she whispered, looking sheepishly into the windows, trying to see who could be making so much of this type of noise. Surely they were drunk. But the women? What women would allow themselves to mingle with such men … unless … they were of the bawdy-house kind … ?

“Not too many,” Giacomo said, glancing a bit sideways as someone was tossed from a door of one of these saloons. He slouched his shoulders a bit more then continued to speak. “They come from the next town. A town called Creal Springs. It seems they ain't allowed to raise such a fuss there. In fact, no saloons are even allowed there.”

Maria looked into the distance. “Where is this town? Is it far away?”

“Only a few minutes' drive by horse and wagon,” he said. “But I seldom go there. We Italians are encouraged to stay here in our smaller community … to buy from the country store that Nathan Hawkins owns. In fact, most Italians are eager to shop there because Nathan Hawkins doesn't make us pay for what we buy
right away.”

Alberto craned his neck to see around Maria. His eyes grew wide. “How can that be. Papa? If he's so evil, why would he let you buy things without paying for them at the time you're buying them?”

“Most miners need food way before they receive their paychecks,” Giacomo said, slapping the horse with the reins. “So they are welcomed to Nathan Hawkins's where they are allowed to sign a slip of paper that states they will pay when their paychecks arrive.”

Alberto began to knead his brow, settling against the back of the seat. “Doesn't sound quite right to me,” he mumbled. “This Nathan Hawkins is up to something. I just know it.” He scooted to the edge of the seat once again, eyeing his Papa. “Have you ever signed such a paper, Papa?” he asked thickly.

“Yes. Many times….”

Maria's mouth went slack. “But, Papa, you don't even know how to count very well. Are you sure he isn't tricking you in some way? Are you sure when you pay, you are paying for only what you bought?”

Giacomo laughed hoarsely. “No one is goin' to trick me out of my money,” he said. “And don't you know I knew enough of numbers to teach both you and Alberto? Maria, you don't have much faith in me.”

Maria's eyes lowered. “I'm sorry, Papa. Truly I am.”

Giacomo spat chewing tobacco. “I know it sounds fishy, but so far, no one has complained of any wrong-doings. Feed in' the kids is the first thing they think about. Anything else is of less importance. Always. Remember. Family . .. strong family feelings is the only way of us Italians.”

Maria clasped her hands onto her lap, continuing to look around her, trying to not worry about all these discoveries. Then when her Papa guided the wagon down another street, what Maria saw made her insides begin to churn. On each side of her were row after row of tiny frame houses. None of them had been painted. They were bleak and were crowded together, with not even curtains at the windows. Behind the houses, Maria got her first glimpse of the coal mine and of its big sheet-iron tipple as it stood graceless into the sky. The houses had been crowded at the edge of the mine from which black, dusty chat seemed to have poured so heavily that it was apparent that neither trees nor gardens could grow. It was a barren wasteland all around the houses and the mine, and even the silence was led by silence.

Maria cringed more inside the further her Papa traveled down this street. She eyed each house as they passed, wondering which one would be the one she would have to be a part of. She ached inside, having dreamed of life so much different than what she was finding. Then her eyes shifted upward. Yes … these houses had chimneys. Why had she even thought they would not? But she did know that she wouldn't have to clean them. Alberto and her Papa had … a … job. She would not be required to work. She would devote her time to making her brother and father comfortable … as comfortable as possible … under the cir-cumstances.

“This is it. Home,” Giacomo said, nodding toward a house that was identical to the ones Maria had been gazing upon. Giacomo guided the wagon into a narrow drive and pulled the reins tightly, urging the horse to
stop. He then jumped from the wagon and secured the reins around a low tree limb.

Maria climbed slowly from the wagon, then followed along behind her Papa and Alberto, clutching onto the handle of her violin case, looking all around her, feeling the complete loneliness of the surroundings grabbing at her. When she began to climb the steps that led upward onto a porch, she felt the steps give a bit beneath the weight of her feet. She grabbed for Alberto's arm and let him assist her the rest of the way. She gazed into his face, seeing the same torment in his eyes that she knew was in her own. What they had left behind, far away in Italy, had been better than what they had now come to.

But maybe once she was inside, she would see a difference, Maria thought to herself, hurrying her pace as her Papa opened a screen door, then the main door. He stepped aside and let both Maria and Alberto enter, then followed behind them.

Maria's hopes quickly faded. She sat her violin case down on the floor that was barren of any carpeting, a floor that had wide cracks between the oak strips of wood, showing earth beneath it only a few feet below her. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the draft even now. The aroma was that of damp earth and mustiness, making her nose twitch nervously.

Her eyes moved on around her, seeing one overstuffed chair that had its stuffing hanging from it in loose shreds of graying cotton; a lone kerosene lamp sitting on a table that had been made from strips of wood nailed awkwardly together; and a pot-bellied stove that glowed orange from the heat inside it.

The walls were the same as the floor . . . barren .. .
with tiny, gaping cracks, revealing the outside world if she looked closely enough, and the windows were stained a dirty yellow, void of curtains or shades.

Maria turned to her Papa, who had been watching her. “Papa, is this … really … your American home?” she murmured. She felt a deep pity .. . sorrow … for her father. She could see the remorsefulness in the depth of his brown eyes. He walked away from her and opened the stove, spitting into the flames.

“The best! can do, Maria,” he finally answered, going to slouch down onto the one chair in the room.

“But this isn't even good enough for an animal,” Alberto grumbled, placing the trunk on the floor. He felt insulted that this man Nathan Hawkins could get away with such a thing as this. He eyed the cracks in the wall and the flooring beneath his feet. He clenched his hands into two tight fists, determined to make things change. He would find a way. Maybe his Papa couldn't. .. maybe his Papa was compelled to let this stranger control his life … but Alberto just would not let this happen to himself. No. He had to find a way. He just had to. . . .

“And the rest of the rooms of this house, Papa?” Maria said, moving toward a door. “Are they the same?”

“The same,” he answered, placing a fresh plug of chewing tobacco in the corner of his mouth.

Maria moved on into the kitchen, seeing first a makeshift table and three chairs in the middle of the room. They were unpainted and black from fingerprints where many people's hands had touched. Another stove glowed orange in this room, but it was not of the pot-bellied kind. It was broader, with space
to place cooking utensils atop it. Maria had seen pictures of these in catalogues. At least this was one luxury that she hadn't had in Italy. She could remember her Gran-mama stooping before the fireplace many hours at a time, placing large kettles into the flames, even baking bread in the coals.

“There's no running water in the house, Maria.” Alberto said, moving to her side.

She turned, eyes wide. “How do you know?”

“I just asked Papa.”

“Where … do we get water for cooking . .. washing dishes and laundry … and for bathing? We at least had water at Gran-mama's house. We had to pump it up from the ground, but at least we had water.”

“There's a faucet somewhere up the street that all the women use,” Alberto said, going to the back door, looking out, seeing still no grass . . . nor trees. All he could see was the damn mine's tipple standing so tall and erect into the sky, as though it was a person, laughing at him, knowing that it would be pulling almost his soul from him when he went into the coal mine's bowels each day.

Maria had a look of weariness about her when she moved on into another room. She sighed with relief when she saw a bed … an actual bed . . . standing at the far end of the room. She went to it and touched the iron bedstead that had rusted from dampness, then the mattress. The mattress was thin, hard, but it was better than having to sleep on leaves as she had been forced to do while living at her Gran-mama's house.

“There is a bed for each of us,” Giacomo said, suddenly entering the room. “I did see to it that we have that luxury in America. I spent my first several months'
wages on these beds. But it was well worth it. I get me a full night's sleep most nights … that is . . . when I'm not too cold. I can't seem to keep the fires burmn' all night.”