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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.”
Maria went to Giacomo and placed her arm around his neck. “It's the cracks in the walls and floors, Papa,” she murmured. “No one could keep a house warm in such conditions.”
“And we don't have stoves in the bedrooms. That's another reason,” Giacomo said, moving back to the kitchen. “But I can't expect to have everything at once. What we have will just have to do for a while.”
Maria followed behind him. “And there is just the one other bedroom?” she asked, going to a roll of shelves, picking up dishes and silverware, seeing how they were caked with dried food. Yes. This kitchen had been lacking a female's touch.
“Alberto and I will share the other bedroom,” Giacomo said, placing a tea kettle on the stove. “We each have a bed, though.”
Something grabbed at Maria's heart. “Papa, I had hoped . . . that . .. uh . . . your house would have . . . uh . . . a bathroom,” she said, blushing.
