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He sank into the comfort of the warm bed. Auto or no auto, the Gerbatis must be rich. This big house, a mattress beneath him, and soft, fat quilts on top of him. Soon, even his frozen feet began to tingle, and before he could worry about what might happen the next day or the next, he was fast asleep.
"Sal ... Sal, wake up."
His eyelids felt glued together. It took him a moment to remember where he was—floating, as he seemed to be, upon a heated cloud. He grunted and turned his back on the intrusion, but Rosa, curse her, persisted.
"It's Sunday."
"Go away."
"Mrs. Gerbati wants to take us to Mass. She says she owes it to Mamma to see we go."
"I ain't Catholic."
"You are as far as they know."
"Tell her I'm tired and I got to rest today."
"Yes, maybe that's better. I don't want you to pretend to be Catholic. You got too much sin on your soul to add that."
He sat up now. How would she know about Pa? "What do you mean?"
"Oh, Sal, you know perfectly well. You lie, you cheat, you steal. I don't know how many mortal sins—"
She was just guessing. She didn't know anything about that body in the shack. He shivered and slid back under the covers.
"You really don't look well. If you need anything, Mr. Gerbati has just gone to fetch his newspaper. He'll be right back."
Hell's bells. He was hoping to have the house to himself. The rich old buzzard probably had a load of cash stashed under some mattress. That's what everyone said foreign-borns did, believing as they did that banks would steal their money. "I won't bother him none."
"We'll have breakfast when we get back—if you're up to eating."
He'd be up to eating, all right, just not up to trying to talk to the old man.
Rosa hadn't gone to confession, so she sat in the pew when Mrs. Gerbati went forward to receive the host. She should have been saying her Our Fathers, but instead she was trying to figure out what she could do about the boy ... Sal. The name didn't fit him in the least. He looked no more like a Salvatore than a pigeon. He didn't look Italian at all. He looked like an orphaned mill boy, probably not Irish, since he had no respect for Father O'Reilly, but native-born, with no religion at all, judging by his language. And why had he suddenly turned all funny? Yesterday on the train he'd acted as though he thought somebody was after him. The police? Had he done something so bad that the law was after him? If so, he wasn't the only one in trouble. Hadn't she helped him get away? That was as bad as doing the crime yourself, wasn't it? To help a criminal escape arrest? Her heart was thumping madly now. And Mamma had sent her up here so she would be safe. Oh, Mamma, if you only knew.
How was she going to make him behave? He'd said he'd disappear as soon as they got off the train. He'd practically promised that she wouldn't have to put up with him any longer than the ride itself. And yet here they were, brother and sister in the Gerbatis' house. Mrs. Gerbati was so kind, but Mr. Gerbati ... It was obvious that he wanted little to do with her and even less to do with the boy.
Maybe she should have disowned him last night, refused to help when the man was checking the list. That's what, she now realized, she should have done. Then it would be someone else's problem—what to do with him. She wouldn't be caught in a web of lies and pretense and who knew what else.
What should she do? She was so mixed up. And here came sweet old Mrs. Gerbati down the aisle, smiling at her so kindly, so lovingly, so trustingly.
On the walk back to the house, Mrs. Gerbati explained apologetically that her husband didn't attend Mass. "Socialisto," she said. "In Carrara the priest say he cannot be Catholic and socialist, too. So he choose. No more church. But good man, you see. Even is artist."
Rosa had thought all the men in Barre were granite workers. How could you be an artist, digging stone out of the ground? Maybe she'd misunderstood. She felt shy about asking. She didn't want Mrs. Gerbati to think she was doubting the woman's word about her husband.
After breakfast, which Sal, miraculously cured, was able to put away at an almost alarming rate, Mr. Gerbati went to the sitting room to read his morning paper. Once her husband was settled in his chair, Mrs. Gerbati took Jake by the arm. "Come, come," she said. "You, too, Rosa."
Through the open door, Mr. Gerbati looked up briefly from his paper but didn't speak, though Rosa thought for a minute he might.
"Scusami, per favore," Rosa murmured. She followed Mrs. Gerbati out of the kitchen into the hall and up the wide flight of stairs and another narrower flight into what must be the attic. She'd read about attics in books, but she'd never actually been in one. It was amazing to see the size of this house in which only two elderly people lived.
The space was under the eaves of the house, lit poorly by a small window at one end. It was empty, except for a couple of trunks and a few wooden crates. Mrs. Gerbati went to one of the trunks and opened it. A strong woody smell filled the musty air. Kneeling beside the trunk, the woman felt about in the depths. She pulled out several garments, studying each, glancing at Sal, and then putting some back, some into a pile on the open trunk lid. Finally, she gathered up the pile in one arm and turned, still kneeling, toward the children. Rosa stared. There were tears on the old woman's face. Mrs. Gerbati wiped her face hastily with the tail of her apron. Then she gave a laugh and reached out her free hand toward Sal. "Aiutami, per favore," she said.
"She needs your help to get up," Rosa whispered to the boy. "Give her your hand."
Sal pulled the old lady to her feet.
