The King of Mulberry Street (21 page)

So when the breakfast shift was over, I said, “Pull up your shirt.” His open wounds made me gasp. Even Gae-tano, who had never said a friendly word to Tin Pan Alley, was so furious, I thought the pulsing in his temples would burst.

That night after supper I sat on my bed in our room and said, “We have to help him escape.”

“You're such a mook.” Gaetano paced around the small floor. “It might even be illegal.” He opened the window higher. “Maybe it would be a kind of kidnapping.” He punched his right fist into his left palm. “No one has ever crossed a padrone and gotten away with it.” He paced some more. Then he stopped and looked away. I wondered how much he really disliked Tin Pan Alley, and how much that dislike was behind his words now. When he finally looked back at me, he said, “But there's always a first time. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Saint Patrick's.”

We walked to the cathedral and waited by the side door until Padre Bruno, the Italian priest, made his rounds through the benches that served as pews, checking to see that the basement was empty before blowing out all the candles.

“Father,” said Gaetano, “if there was a boy who lived
with a
padrone
and if the
padrone
beat the boy savagely and if that boy should happen to run away, would the church take him in?”

Padre Bruno smoothed his hands over the front of his surplice. “If there were such a boy, then there would be hundreds of such boys. If a church took one in, it would have to take all in. No church could do that.” He straightened his sleeves. “And it shouldn't do it, for God, in His almighty wisdom, would take care of such a boy, if there were such a one. God has a plan for such a boy.”

“God has a plan?” Gaetano bristled. “Do you really believe there's a divine plan in this boy's being beaten?”

“Yes,” said Padre Bruno. “He'll come through it stronger.” Even I could tell he was lying.

Gaetano looked away. When he looked back, his face had turned soft. “Please, Father, could we take clothes from the poor bin? We're not asking for charity for ourselves.” He shook his head, and I shook mine, too. I didn't believe Padre Bruno was a charitable sort. “No,” said Gaetano, “we want to help a family clothe their child's corpse.”

For all the business smarts I had, I was a mook about how this sort of thing worked. I didn't get why Gaetano was suddenly lying. It turned out to be a perfect lie, though, because then Padre Bruno gave us an old sheet as well. For the corpse.

Walking home, Gaetano told me he wouldn't go to Saint Patrick's Cathedral anymore. He said, “A priest without faith is like a turd on a cushion. And that church is Padre Bruno's cushion.”

The next morning, after the breakfast shift, we told Tin Pan Alley the plan.

“I can't run off.”

“He beats you,” said Gaetano.

“My
padrone
paid for me to come over from Napoli,” said Tin Pan Alley. “I owe him.”

“How much did the ticket cost?” I asked.

“I don't know.”

“Well, I'll find out,” I said. “In the meantime, you'll come live with us. When you've earned enough, you can pay your
padrone
back, if you want.”

Tin Pan Alley's eyes darted around, as though he expected his
padrone
to come swooping down. “Where do you sleep?”

“What? You think we live worse than you?” Gaetano's voice shook. “Here we're ready to help, and you're insulting us.”

“I just want to know,” said Tin Pan Alley.

“We never lived as bad as you, even when Dom slept in a barrel,” said Gaetano. “Don't you get it? You're a slave. We're free, you mook.”

“I'm not a slave! You take that back.”

“We have a room,” I said, moving between them. “Real beds. And there's an extra one.” A bubble of laughter burst from me in realization. “It's just been sitting there, for you.”

“What if my
padrone
finds me? He'll beat me so bad, I won't be able to walk for days. He's done it to others.”

“See these clothes?” I said. “They're yours. You'll look different.”

“Clothes change nothing,” said Tin Pan Alley.

“We could get you girl clothes,” I said, my words coming fast. “Your
padrone
would never recognize you.”

Tin Pan Alley practically gagged.

“You're nuts.” Gaetano made a go-away gesture at me. “Look, Tin Pan Alley, it's not that hard,” he said. “You'll just have to stay off the streets till you grow enough that he can't recognize you.”

“Signora Esposito can cut his hair,” I said. “That'll make him look different.”

“You've got the worst ideas, Dom, do you know that?” Gaetano made that go-away gesture at me again, bigger this time. He turned to Tin Pan Alley. “I've got a barber friend. He'll cut your hair good.”

“And we'll feed you,” I said. “Signora Esposito cooks a lot. After a few weeks, you'll have so much flesh on your bones, he'll never guess it's you.”

“What if he comes up while I'm walking away with you now?”

I looked at Gaetano. He shook out the sheet. In an instant, Tin Pan Alley understood. He climbed into the cart and curled up on his side and we covered him entirely. Then we pushed him back to Grandinetti's.

“This is my friend Tin Pan Alley. Please, can he go in your storeroom and change clothes?” I asked.

Grandinetti was busy, so he waved us through the doorway. But a few seconds later, he came into the back to get another bushel of tomatoes. Tin Pan Alley's shirt was off. When Grandinetti saw the marks on Tin Pan Alley's back, he sucked in air through his teeth. He shook his head and went back out to his customer.

After the customer left, I asked Grandinetti, “Can he spend the day here, in your store, helping out?”

Grandinetti put his palm to his forehead and sighed. I
remembered how he'd once told Gaetano and me he'd never get mixed up with a
padrone
.

He came into the storeroom, rubbed his hands with his towel, and said to Tin Pan Alley, “I'm Francesco. What's your real name, boy?”

The question took me by surprise.
Tin Pan Alley
had become his real name to me, just as
Dom
had become my real name in a way. I waited, holding my breath.

“Pietro.”

“Pietro?” Grandinetti got a funny look on his face. He reached into a box, broke off a bunch of grapes, and handed them to Pietro. “You're going to have to eat a lot, if you want that flat belly to become round like the Church of San Pietro in Roma.”

Gaetano and Grandinetti and I laughed. Pietro stood there a second. Then he smiled and stuffed the whole bunch of grapes in his mouth, stems and all.

Gaetano and I sold the lunch sandwiches, our eyes darting around, searching for Pietro's
padrone
. He didn't show.

That night we brought Pietro back to Signora Espos-ito's. She took him in without a question, but her eyes were knowing. Don't ask. Don't ask. Everyone has a past that's bad. Don't pry.

The following morning the
padrone
was waiting on Pietro's corner when we set up across the street. He stood by that same lamppost I'd first seen him at, and straightened the brim of his hat and watched us. Even though Pietro was safely back at Signora Esposito's, I shivered. When I stared at the
padrone
, Gaetano pinched me hard and told me not to look at him. But Gaetano was nervous, too; he dropped one of the egg and potato sandwiches.

The
padrone
stayed there through our morning sales. He was back again at lunch. And for the evening sales. He never said a word.

The next day he didn't come. At one point someone tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped back with a yelp. But it was just a customer.

The
padrone
didn't come back. Days passed. After a while, I stopped expecting him. I was so happy, I needed to celebrate.

One night, after dinner, when we sat on our mattresses, I pulled out the package I'd hidden under my bed. “There's something for each of you in here. But they wrapped everything in one package. Who wants to open it?”

Gaetano looked away.

Pietro looked down.

“Come on. It's a surprise. Don't you like surprises?” No one answered. What was the matter with them? “It's a celebration. Because Pietro got away from his
padrone
.”

Gaetano took the package. “Then it's for you to open, Pietro.”

And I got it. I wished so much that I'd asked for two packages. Who knew when Gaetano had last had a surprise to open?

Pietro opened it carefully. He stared. And smiled.

“Shoes?” said Gaetano. He took the larger pair and turned them over in his hands. “I've never walked in shoes.”

Pietro already had his on and was circling the small room. “I have,” he said almost imperceptibly.

Gaetano pressed the leather with his thumb. “How'd you know the size?”

“I measured with my hand while you were sleeping.”

“Who needs shoes?” But Gaetano put them on as he spoke. “How do you tie them?”

So I showed him.

Gaetano stood up. “I can wiggle my toes inside them.”

Pietro laughed. “So can I.”

And I realized with dismay that I couldn't anymore. My toes were cramped. My feet had grown fast. I'd have to find a way to stretch these shoes, because I was determined to wear them when I went back to Napoli. “Let's go for a walk,” I said.

Pietro shook his head. “You think my
padrone
's given up. But he hasn't. I know him. I'm not leaving this room.”

“Then we can walk a hundred steps here,” I said. “We can march behind one another in a circle.”

“A thousand steps,” said Gaetano. “And I'm in front.”

After that, Gaetano wore his shoes every day. So did Pietro, though he still wouldn't leave the apartment, until one night Signora Esposito sat down on the bed beside him and slapped him on the knee and said, “Be a philosopher.”

We looked at her, dumb as rocks.

“Philosophers are the smartest people around,” she said, “and they don't give a fig about their appearance.”

This was a little hard to listen to from a woman who powdered her face white every day. But we all wanted to know where it was leading. So we kept our eyes on her.

She got up and went to the door.

“Wait,” said Pietro. “What are you talking about? I don't care what I look like.”

“Then dress like a girl.”

I cringed, but she didn't even look at me, so I don't think Pietro guessed that I'd told her my idea.

“Wait right there.” She left and came back a few minutes later with a skirt she'd made out of an old dress. She dropped it on his lap, and she put a checkered kerchief over his hair, tying it under the chin.

As soon as she left the room, Gaetano laughed like a hyena. Pietro ripped off the kerchief. But I jabbed Gaetano with my elbow and begged Pietro to put it back on—and to wear the skirt, too. This time both Gaetano and I managed to keep a straight face.

Pietro walked a half block behind us as we went to Grandinetti's, because he was afraid that if his padrone saw me or Gaetano, he'd recognize Pietro, even in the skirt and kerchief, even with shoes on.

Starting that day, Pietro helped Grandinetti run the produce store. The instant he arrived at the store, he ran into the storeroom and slipped off his skirt and kerchief. Then he worked hard. He was good with money, and he was honest.

And the amazing thing was that Pietro was like a different person working beside Grandinetti. He whistled constantly. He greeted the customers and made jokes with them. And, funniest of all, he danced. At closing time, when the store was empty, he'd push the bushels back and tap and twirl. When we asked who had taught him, he clicked his heels and spun away. Over the weeks his face grew fuller and his eyes lost their haunted look.

Pietro spent money a little more easily now. One morning, as Gaetano and I were turning from Bayard onto
Mulberry Street, a Chinese boy stopped us. He was holding a big sack, and I'd seen him selling cigars on that corner before.

“Want to buy something?” said the boy in English. “Cigars? Rock candy?”

“Get away,” said Gaetano in Napoletano, though there was no reason to expect the boy to understand it.

“I'll buy a piece,” I said to the boy in English. I gave him two pennies and took a piece. “What else you got?”

“Domino games.” The boy took out a small black box. “You play? I can teach you.”

“Never heard of it,” said Gaetano.

“I know how to play.” Pietro came up behind us in his skirt. “Is this the Chinese game?”

“Tien Gow is too hard. This game is easy.”

Pietro bought it.

When we walked on, Gaetano mumbled, “Bastardo.”

I stiffened. “He speaks good English.” Nothing I could say would irritate Gaetano more. “He never makes a mistake.” I held out the brown candy. “Have some.”

“Filth,” said Gaetano. “Probably laced with opium.”

The Chinese were known to have gambling houses where everyone smoked opium. Gaetano knew children didn't smoke it, though. He just said that sort of thing out of habit.

But even Gaetano's hatred of anyone who wasn't Italian couldn't stop him from loving dominoes. Pietro explained the game that night. We played a bunch of rounds, till one of us reached one hundred points. The low scorer was Gaetano. We played again. Gaetano won again.

“Whatever it is,” Pietro said to him, “your strategy's good.”

It was the first nice thing either one of them had ever said to the other.

We played almost every night after that.

After two months we felt sure that Pietro's
padrone
had given up looking for him. Another boy belonging to the same
padrone
was playing a triangle on that corner now.

The night when I told Pietro the other boy was on his corner, he stopped polishing his shoes and said, “What's he look like?” But before I could answer, he dropped his head. “No. Don't tell me.” With his eyes still on the floor, he said, “Put a dollar from my share of the money into his cup.”

“A dollar!” said Gaetano.

“Every day,” said Pietro. “Twenty cents toward what he has to earn. And the eighty that I would have earned if I hadn't run away.”

“It's your money.” Gaetano got up in a huff and went to the door. “You know what? You really are a mook.” He left the room.