Rapture's Rendezvous

Maria remembered having seen the more fancily attired women and men at the New York train depot entering other cars all along the line. She was anxious to know where they were going. She lifted her violin case and listened to Alberto groan when he lifted the trunk to his shoulder, then moved on behind him toward the door. When she moved next to the conductor, she stopped and said, “Sir? Where might the people on the rest of the train be going?”

“To Saint Louis, Missouri,” he said, then added, “But never you mind about them. You just move on out of this train and step aside so the train can get on its way. Like I said, Nathan Hawkins will have a representative to take care of your needs.”

Maria lifted her chin into the air, fluttering her lashes nervously. “My Papa will be here to meet me and my brother,” she said proudly. “We won't need the likes of a Mr. Nathan Hawkins.” Then she stopped and put her hand to her throat when she suddenly realized what this conductor had said … about. .. Saint Louis. . ..

Saint Louis was Michael's destination. She now remembered his having said this. She reached out and touched the conductor on the arm. “Did you say. .. Saint Louis .. . ? That this train was going to Saint Louis .. . ?”

“Your ears work pretty good, young lady,” he answered. “Saint Louis is indeed the destination.”

Maria felt a desperation seize her. Had Michael been on this train? Had he been there the whole time she had, and she hadn't been aware of it? She wanted to rush back through this car and to the next and the next, looking for him, to get a glimpse of him just one more time. But a familiar voice made her heart leap. She looked ahead and standing outside the train with arms outstretched was her Papa. Tears filled her eyes as she raced down the steps of the train, almost tripping, and fell into her Papa's arms. She placed her violin on the cobblestone street and then hugged him strongly. “Oh, Papa,” she murmured, over and over again, sobbing with delight.

Then as he pushed her away from him to hold her at arm's length, he said, “Maria. My Maria. Let me take a look at you.” His eyes raked over her, then he said, “My, oh, my. You've grown into a lady for sure.”

Through the blur of tears, Maria saw that he had changed. Giacomo Lazzaro had aged. He appeared much older now than his forty-nine years. He was no longer a strong-looking man. He even had a slight curve to his back. Maria wiped at her eyes, absorbing his presence even more, seeing that he looked more squatty and short than she remembered.

“Papa,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

His face was slightly distorted by the large dose of chewing tobacco he had tucked inside his cheek, and his hair had thinned to only thin wisps blowing in the gentle breeze.

Giacomo spat onto the street beside him and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He appeared to be quiet with worry and it showed in the depth of his dark brown eyes. “I have us a place to stay and a job for Alberto and me,” he said, forcing a smile. “What more could a body ask of the Americans?”

He turned to Alberto and reached his arms toward him. “And, son,” he said proudly. “I see you got Maria and yourself safely across that large body of water. This makes you a man. I'm proud of you.”

Alberto could contain himself no longer. He flung himself into his Papa's arms and hugged him tightly. “Papa. Oh, Papa, how glad I am to be with you.”

“Such a show of affection for your old Papa?” Giacomo chuckled, patting Alberto fondly on the back. “Does this old heart good, it does. I'm glad to have you . . . home . .. with me . . . son.” His gaze searched Alberto's face. “And whiskers? It makes you look even more to be a man.”

The train whistle blew shrilly, making Maria turn with a start. She had forgotten about Michael.. . about Saint Louis . .. but now she was keenly aware of the train cars that were moving slowly on by her. Craning her neck, she peered searchingly into each of the windows, wondering if Michael might at any moment be at one of those windows and see her. If so, what would she do? Run after the train and demand that it be stopped? Or stand and watch her heart being carried away from her once again?

But the faces that looked back at her were those of strangers . .. finely dressed ladies and gentlemen … but.. . strangers. Her heart ached when she saw the last car come into view. She looked even more closely into its windows, seeing that this car was quite different from any of the others. There were fewer windows and there were no people sitting beside them. These windows displayed the finest of green velveteen curtains, fringed on the edges, and behind these she could see only a slight movement of a person … a woman … with the reddest hair that Maria had ever seen … and attired … very … scantily….

Maria's face reddened, and she looked suddenly away, knowing that car had to be a special car to have so few passengers. Remembering how she had traveled, in the heat and smelly surroundings of the crowded car, made her cast her eyes downward, feeling even a bit humble. She had to wonder how it might feel to have wealth … beautiful clothes….

“Let's go home, children,” Giacomo said, fingers snapping his suspenders, turning, waddling away in a walk that was only his own, his head bobbing nervously on his shoulders.

“Do you mind calling America and this house you are now living in home, Papa?” Alberto said, looking at the way his Papa was dressed in loose-fitted, dark breeches and matching shirt. They were so wrinkled, Alberto knew that no iron had been set to them. His earlier worries were now crowding in on him—that his Papa hadn't found an easy life here after all; in fact, it appeared that whatever work he did each day had begun to make him into an old man much too soon.

“A home is what you make it, Alberto,” Giacomo answered, spitting into the wind.

“How much further until we reach it, Papa?” Maria asked breathlessly.

“Just down the road a piece,” Giacomo said. “Just a short piece and we'll be there.”

Maria glanced backwards just as the caboose of the train made a turn on the tracks in the far distance and disappeared from sight. A longing shot through her, and she wished to be on that train, just knowing that Michael possibly was. Hadn't he left the ship at nearly the same time she and Alberto had? Wouldn't he have probably been as anxious to get to his American home as she had been to get to hers? Wouldn't he have boarded the nearest train that left the earliest? Just the same as she and Alberto had done.

She lowered her eyes, blinking back a tear. “All those people at the depot,” she said, glancing backwards once again. “On the train, the conductor said some-thing about them having to be met by a representative of Nathan Hawkins. You know. The man you made brief mention of in your letter to Alberto and me. What does it mean, Papa? Why would all these people who have come from Italy like Alberto and myself even be wanting to see this Nathan Hawkins?”

Giacomo's shoulders slumped even more and his brow furrowed. He chewed angrily for a moment, then answered in a deep, thick tone of voice. “This man . . . Nathan Hawkins . .. pretty much owns us all,” he grumbled.

Alberto stepped in front of his Papa, glowering, reaching out to stop his father's pace. “What do you mean, Papa?” he stormed. “How could anyone own anyone? I do not understand.”

“Take a look at most of the people who stand waitin',” Giacomo said, turning, seeing the dark, drab clothes of those who waited still at the depot, and the desperation on their faces. “Most of these Italians— whom I know none of by name since they have come from all parts of our beloved country—have come to America to live in this town of Hawk

insville, which Nathan Hawkins settled and named after himself many years ago.”

“What's that got to do with it?” Maria asked, looking into the distance, seeing what was probably the town that her papa was speaking of. It looked bleak . . . cold….

“Nathan Hawkins bought and now owns all the houses in Hawkinsville,” Giacomo continued. “He even owns all the stores, which are few, and the coal mine where I and all the rest of the Italians work.”