Children of Liberty. Paullina Simons
They were looking at the suit Gina was holding out for her brother. “What are you complaining about?” she said. “You think God would help you find work in a stolen suit? You’d be trampled by a horse before you got to the end of Canal Street.”
Salvo examined the wool trousers, the finely made jacket, the waistcoat. She had even got him a worn white shirt, a gray tie and some used shoes. He dressed while she watched and then they both stood in front of the mirror and appraised him.
“You should trim your hair,” she said. “It’s too wild.”
“You’re a fine one to speak.”
“I’m not a man in a suit.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Society of St. Vincent de Paul,” she replied.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“A mission to help the poor. Yesterday I was asking around …”
“I thought you were looking for a job.”
“I was. For you.”
“Sciocca ragazza. I can look for my own work, thank you.”
“You were out yesterday in the clothes you sailed in on. How did that go?”
“I don’t see you having a job either,” he muttered.
“Yes, but today you have a suit.”
Salvo smiled. “I look quite dashing, don’t I?”
“Yes. If you cut your hair you’d look almost American.”
“I didn’t see that vagabond you were so keen on with a haircut.”
Stepping away, Gina busied herself with a sudden need to rid the sewing machine of loose thread. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But listen, don’t waste your time applying to be a machinist at the Pacific Mill.”
“Okay. Why would I? And why not?”
“Their ‘jobs offered’ signs are everywhere,” she said. “But they only hire skilled union men.”
“And I’m neither.”
“Right. But perhaps at the glaziers? Or the shoemakers?”
“I don’t know how to cobble shoes, Gia,” Salvo said. “Why do you keep mentioning all the things I can’t do? Why don’t you get work as a plumber? No, I’m going to apply at the restaurants. They must need cooks.”
Gina said nothing.
“What?”
“They pay poorly.”
“How do you know this?”
“I asked.”
“Who could you possibly ask? We got here five minutes ago.”
“We got here four days ago, and what do you think I was doing yesterday?”
“Looking for work—or did you also sin not only by your indolence but by lying to our mother?”
“I asked at St. Vincent’s.”
“It’s like the Boston Public Library, this St. Vincent’s,” said Salvo. “Maybe they have work too as well as information?”
“Oh, they do.” She sighed. “Not paid work, though.”
Salvo laughed. “That’s not work. That’s a hobby.”
“Okay, Mr. Clever. But in the meantime I found out what jobs you shouldn’t bother with.”
He put his palm over her mouth. “You think you’re the only clever one? I know what I’m doing. I’ll find some day work.”
“Day labor is neither stable, nor well-paying. Don’t you want to move out of this boarding house? I saw such nice houses near the Common. They have porches and big windows, and the streets are lovely and lined with trees.”
“Prima le cose,” he said. “First work, then a house. And don’t get all fancy on me. You know we can’t live in the nice areas.”
“It’s not that nice. It’s for people like us.”
“Mimoo asked you to find us a different church,” Salvo said, trying in vain to slick back his unruly hair. “Did you? She didn’t like the priest on Sunday.”
“Mimoo is full of opinions. It’s the only Italian church in town.”
“She said Italian is not a must. Proper Catholic is a must.”
Gina whistled in surprise. “St. Mary’s of the Assumption that runs St. Vincent’s is some church. Father O’Reilly is the priest there. He’s famous around these parts.”
“Where could you possibly hear that? No, don’t tell me …”
“St. Vincent’s,” she confirmed, pausing. “I hope to hear from the mill today,” she said.
“About what?”
“A job as a wool sorter.”
“So you did look for a job!” Salvo scoffed. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t work at the mills?”
“It’s skilled labor, Salvo,” she said. “Many people crave those jobs.”
“What in the world could you possibly know about wool?”
“Clearly something.” She shrugged. “The manager at Washington told me I apparently have a gift of hand sensitivity.” She smiled. “I can tell the difference in the quality of the fleece just from touching it. I’m fast too. He gave me a pound of fleece to separate, based on curl, length, softness. He said he’d never seen anyone do it so quickly. So he wants me to interview with his boss.”
“What are you going to wear?”
She flared her dress with her hands.
“Should’ve gotten yourself a dress instead of me a suit, sister,” Salvo said, looking over her drab rags. “It’s okay. You don’t want to be a fleece sorter anyway.”
“Oh, really? Angela gets paid three dollars a week for over fifty hours of work. You want to know how much they will pay me if I get this job?”
“How much?”
“Twelve dollars.”
Now it was Salvo’s turn to whistle. “Oh, how badly you need to be a sorter,” he said, hugging her.
“That’s what I thought. Go kill ’em, Salvo. And stay away from carpenters.”
Don’t count me out, Salvo whispered into the mirror as he adjusted his tie and hid the frayed collar under the jacket before leaving.
He came back late that night, his suit dusty and soiled. They had already eaten and Mimoo and Pippa—who had cleaned three large houses together, working over sixteen hours—were exhausted and asleep. Angela was upstairs visiting with a girlfriend. Gina dutifully waited for Salvo on his couch, nodding off with an English book on her lap.
“How did it go?” she said as soon as she heard him open the door. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” he said, sitting at the table, crossing himself, and gulping down the bread with salt and olive oil before he could speak. “I did all right. I have work for tomorrow. I found work for a week as a grinder.” He almost smiled but was too tired. “Don’t need a suit for that.”
“No,” she said sitting with him, putting her head on the table.
“How did you do? Why do you smell of sheep?”