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“Why not?” he snapped back at her.
“My brother and I have our own bunks. Up on top deck,” she said stubbornly.
“Then you refuse my help?” he argued, rising, glowering.
“I would appreciate it if you'd help Alberto to his bunk,” she said softly, with wavering eyes.
“You sure you want me to help to even do that?” Michael boomed, placing his hands on his hips.
“Please, Michael?” she pleaded, sobbing openly.
“Oh, God, Maria,” Michael answered, stooping to lift Alberto's arm over his shoulders. “Don't cry, Maria. Please don't cry.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand and lifted her violin case up with the other and walked beside Michael as he semi-dragged Alberto until he had him stretched out atop his bunk.
“There,” Michael said, panting, then staring around him at the immigrants watching, seeing fear etched on each of their faces. It made Michael feel so damn helpless. But maybe once he reached America, they could all have a chance to thank him. Yes, once his mission was accomplished. . . .
“Alberto,” Maria said, resting on bended knees beside his bunk. “Please wake up.” She accepted a handkerchief from Michael and began gently wiping the blood from Alberto's face. Then she remembered the commotion she had heard outside Michael's door . . . shortly before she and Michael had fallen into bed, wrestling, pleasuring one another. She closed her eyes as they burned with tears, knowing that this noise had been her own brother being beaten while she. … He had probably been searching for her.. . .
“Is there anything else I can do, Maria?” Michael asked, touching her hand.
She jerked free of him and glared upward. “Yes,” she said darkly. “You can leave me and Alberto alone. I will not leave my brother's side for the rest of this journey. It is he who now needs me to watch over him, and I shall do this, no matter what.”
Michael clamped his lips together tightly and swung around and stormed away, leaving Maria with an aching, throbbing heart. “But I do love you, Michael,” she whispered after him.
Then her eyes traveled around her, searching the faces, anger swelling inside her, hoping to find out who was responsible for her brother's injuries.. . .
Chapter Three
The ocean had changed its mood. It now lay quiet. . . a canvas of blue stretched out as far as the eye could see. The only ripples in the water were from the ship's movements, and it didn't even appear to be making any headway.
Maria peered across the endless body of water, thinking to never see land again and all the comforts it had to offer. Oh, if only she hadn't taken for granted such things as fresh drinking water … the softness of grass beneath one's feet… the song of the birds in the brush. She licked her lips thirstily, feeling the dried cracks of flesh peeling from them. No. Never again would she even be able to run with her brother through fields of tall grass, or be able to share a bed, where late in the night they could exchange their secret thoughts.
Maria leaned down over Alberto, trying to shade him with her body. Now the rains would be welcome, for the sun was even worse punishment as it continued to beat down onto Maria's head, making her scalp tingle in a strange way. It had been this way for days. Nothing but sun and sea. The colors of blues and yellows meeting were now a constant blur to Maria. And she had to wonder if it was the same for Alberto, as his eyes looked into the distance in a bulgy, silent stare.
“Alberto?” Maria whispered, dipping a cloth into a pail of water, then touching it softly to Alberto's lips. “Please suck on this cloth. Please, Alberto. You need the moisture in your body, or you might even dehy-drate and die a slow, lingering death.” She squeezed the cloth, watching the droplets settle onto his closed lips, only to run, as drool might do, down his chin and onto his sweat-soaked shirt.
Alberto blinked his eyes and moved his head slightly, but still lay mute, as he had now since Sam's fierce blow upon the head. Maria gently turned his head and checked the head wound. It had finally quit seeping a colorless liquid. Guilt flooded her senses, as she remembered not having found the wound for two full days after his accident. Even the ship's doctor hadn't seen it. Doctor Rawson had fleetingly checked Alberto over, saying he would be all right in time, to not fret. But when Maria had continued to worry as each day had passed, seeing no change whatsoever in Alberto she had insisted that Doctor Rawson take a closer look at Alberto. That was when the head wound had been discovered.
“It don't look good, missic,” Doctor Rawson had drawled in a cockney sort of dialect. “It appears to me that your brother might or might not make it now
that I see his head. Sure willpower will be the only thing to pull him through now. We will just have to wait and see.”
“You will be all right, Alberto,” Maria said, smoothing his shirt with her hand, so wanting him to awaken and pull her into his arms, to reassure her that indeed he would arrive on America's soil with her. Even to think of seeing his body heaved from the ship, into the ocean that had become a grave for many since having left Italy, made Maria's stomach turn into massive quivers.
Looking down into her pail of water, fear gripped her heart even more. What had been rationed her and all on board just wasn't enough to keep her and Alberto's tongues wet, let alone to use it for anything else. Her eyes searched all around her, seeing all the others who were suffering from different maladies. The ugly moods of the weather continued to take their toll. Coughs and sneezes wracked all, it seemed. The children were the ones who had managed to stay the healthiest. But the elderly? So many . . . oh, so many hadn't made it.
Maria clutched at her chest, coughing herself. Her eyes continued to travel through the throngs of people lining the rails of the ship, now looking for the familiar stance of Michael. He had let her be … since that night she had attacked him verbally for his having spoken so wickedly of her and Alberto's relationship.
Now? She wished that her stubborn side hadn't been dominant that night. Now? She wished she had said yes to Michael's invitation for her and the wounded Alberto to share his cabin. Ah, to be in the comfort of his cabin . . . attired in comfortable clothes . . . being given all she desired to eat and drink. Yes, even Alberto would most surely agree that that would have been best for them. Maria now feared that Alberto might possibly have a sunstroke, instead of the usually fatal disease called pneumonia. She hadn't decided yet which was the worst. These past several days she had seen so much of both.
Feeling suddenly exhausted, and oh, so sad, Maria stretched her legs out beside the bunk, pulling her breeches legs up beyond her ankles, and placed her head on Alberto's chest, sighing. She again hadn't seen Michael, but she knew that he was smart to stay below deck, where he was able to forget the stench of top deck and all those who were suffering so.
With tears burning at the corner of her eyes, Maria took one of Alberto's hands in hers and let herself be lost to all that was around her … dreaming sweeter dreams than those of the present. .. reliving her one time with Michael. . . wishing it could be again. She didn't see Alberto's lips begin to move, or feel his heartbeats hasten against her cheek. .. .
Alberto was aware of Maria's closeness. He wanted to reach out to her. Comfort her. Explain how he had happened to ignore her that day. Explain how he had happened to be below deck . .. where Sam had assaulted him. . . .
Alberto had loved the feel of the cards between his fingers and the power that each card represented when he would spread them out, face side up, on the ship's flooring before him. He had found that the Aces were the best to be dealt, and that he had been dealt many of those. It was all so vivid in his mind now … so easy to recall. . ..
