of constantly toiling for a subsistence!” he exclaimed. “How does one ever have a moment to discover his path in the forest if one is always scrounging a penny or two for his next meal?”
“Immigrants don’t have the luxury of paths in forests,” Gina said. “They’re too busy working.”
“But I’m not an immigrant.”
She didn’t want to remind him he was also without luxuries.
The train ride was too long.
She would prefer not to be cold.
She would prefer not to have to work so long, so hard, so late that when she fell into bed she was too tired for dreams, for nightmares, for love.
Though in some ways raw exhaustion was preferable to having time to sit and think when the trains were stalled and the miseries multiplied.
Blessedly the train began moving. She would try again tonight. Everything had changed. He had to know that.
Three
GINA DIDN’T GET BACK to Lawrence until after nine and walked with her eyes averted past the establishment that used to be her brother’s dream, where the crowds used to mob him for lunch because he made the most delicious pizza in town. She kept her eyes to the ground and rushed the mile across Haverhill, past the Common, to Summer Street, a mile back to Mimoo’s small folk Victorian home they had been renting since 1899.
Braced for questions about her late arrival, she climbed the porch stairs and opened the door. Harry was sitting at the kitchen table with his back to her, papers and maps in front of him, huddled over them with Angela, Joe and Arturo. He turned his head to her, smiled absent-mindedly, distant intimacy in his eyes, and turned back to the table. Indeed there were loud words, but they weren’t for her. The four of them were animatedly discussing something problematic. But they always animatedly discussed something problematic.
“What is more important?” Arturo asked. “Freedom or equality?”
“Why can’t we have both?” said Harry. “Why do we have to choose? I don’t want to choose. And I want the people of Lawrence to have both. I want them to be free, to live in harmony, to be selfless and happy, and I want them to have economic, material equality. Not one or the other. First Lawrence, then everywhere. Right, Gia?” Harry wore a flannel shirt untucked and had a four-day growth on his face, there since Friday. His sandy hair was long, almost long enough to tie back. No one had hair like that, she kept telling him. That’s why I like it, he told her. There is no one like me. His clear gray eyes were as lovely as ever, his voice strong, calm, droll.
She bent to kiss his cheek. “Right, tesoro.”
Lightly he leaned his head into hers. “You’re home late. Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry. Salvo was working and Phyllis didn’t get the baby until after seven.”
“Did you talk to Salvo, Gia?” Angela asked. “About Christmas?”
Gina hung up her coat and hat, put down her small purse. She took off her shoes, put on her slippers. She went to the cast-iron stove and lit the kettle. Then she spoke. “I did talk to him,” she said. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”
But they were buried in the labor laws of Massachusetts. No one replied. She made one for Mimoo, and when it was steeped and sugared, she walked past the round table at which the radical knights sat, plotting and planning, and headed upstairs to her mother’s bedroom.
“Arturo says he’ll come for Christmas,” said Angela, her hand over his.
“I’ll come too,” Joe said. “If I’m invited.”
“Of course, Joe,” said Harry. “The more the merrier. Gina, you’re all right with Joe coming for Christmas dinner?”
“If he brings the turkey, why not?”
“Is your wife joking?” she heard Joe say. “Where am I going to get a turkey?”
“She’s joking,” said Harry. “She fancies herself as a bit of a comedienne.”
Mimoo was lying on the bed, still in her street clothes. She was salt and pepper gray now, heavier than when she had first come to America, but no quieter.
“About time you came to see your mother after being gone all day. How is he?”
“Why don’t you get under the covers, Mimoo?” Gina said, setting the cup of tea by the bedside.
“I’ll get under the covers when I’m good and ready. What did he say?”
“Who? Joe?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. What do I care what that fool has to say about anything? What did my son say?”
Gina sighed.
Mimoo turned away.
They sat for a few moments while downstairs boisterous voices planned unrest and street action.
“Help me get ready for bed,” Mimoo said. “I’m tired.”
Gina helped her mother up. “Don’t worry,” she said. “1912 will be better.”
“You sure about that?”
“I am.”
Mimoo laughed. “Do you not hear what’s going on in your very own kitchen? What are they conspiring about? Mark my words, it will be the worst year yet.”
“What are they always conspiring about? Strikes. Demonstrations. Petitions for better wages. It’s all talk, don’t worry.” She squeezed her mother’s hand. “I only know what I know. It’ll be a good year. You’ll see.”
“You know what would make next year a better year? If my son and that no-good husband of yours made amends, put the past behind them, sat down at the same table.”
“I’m working on that.” Gina unhooked Mimoo’s dress and underskirts, took off her stockings. She slipped the nightgown over her head and brought her a basin filled with water. When her mother was in bed, Gina laid Salvo’s money on the nightstand beside the cup of tea.
“He thinks money is going to make up for it?” Mimoo said. “Tell him I don’t want his money.”
“We tried that,” Gina said. “He didn’t speak to us for a year. He had a baby and didn’t tell us.”
“The way your brother gets around, how do you know he had just the one?”
“Mimoo!” Gina covered up her mother and kissed her.
Mimoo took her daughter’s hand, looked her over, touched her pale face, pushed the strands of her dark curls behind her ears.
“I’m good,” Gina whispered. “Don’t worry.
