Rapture's Rendezvous

But she knew that Alberto had taken more charge than she had, taking it upon himself to remove money from the jar whenever he chose to do so, so he could go to Ruby's, which Alberto confessed to frequenting to Maria. “But not for the pleasures of a whore,” he had said. Alberto had explained that there was an upper room at Ruby's house that was used only for gambling. .. that the finest-dressed gents from all over the area made it their habit to visit Ruby's house .. . both for card playing and whoring about.

Even though Maria had made a brief acquaintance with Ruby and had even decided to like her, the thought o

f Alberto's being a part of Ruby's house had disgusted her. It seemed to her that his personality continued to change. He had become a person with a warped mind. Hadn't she seen the way his eyes raked over her as of late? Hadn't she seen him lurking in the darkness when she made trips to the privy?

“Alberto, Alberto,” she whispered, rushing to her bedroom. “I don't even know you anymore, Alberto.” She lifted the corner of the mattress of her bed, hiding the jar of coins in the depths of the springs. “If it's not your gambling I'm worried about, it's something else,” she added. “Why can't it be as it was when we were in Italy? Why have you had to change so?”

The rattling of the paned glass window beside her bed reminded Maria of the type of day it was. She went to the window and stood cross-armed, staring outward into a beautiful windy day of March. It now seemed ages since the frozen water pipes of winter had sent her daily rituals of scrubbing, cleaning, and cooking into a tailspin.

The community water faucet had only dripped one continuing icicle, growing each day, it seemed, until the icicle had reached the ground and had formed what looked like mounds upon mounds of cut glass sparkling beneath the dull rays of the winter after-noon's sun.

Many trips with the horse and wagon had been made into the town of Creal Springs by Alberto, to buy small barrels of water, draining even more from the Lazzaro family account. They had used the water sparingly, as though it were an expensive champagne.

But, finally, the sun had begun to lean its velvet rays of gold closer to the small town of Hawkinsville and the warmer breezes had begun to blow, until the daily trips to the community water faucet had been made possible once again.

“But, now what shall I do?” Maria fretted aloud. “I have the water I so prayed for, but I do not have the money I need.” She watched the freedom flights of the birds outside her window, envious of them. “I cannot confess to Papa that I haven't enough money to last until his next paycheck. To tell Papa this would be the same as tattling on Alberto,” she whispered, turning to stare at the drabness of the house that continually encroached itself upon her. She hated this house. So far, she hated America. It had handed nothing her way except for the grief of the drudgeries of her everyday existence, and the heartache when she would let her thoughts wander to Michael, who had traveled on away from her to some strange name of a city called Saint Louis.

Tears brimmed her eyes, as she remembered Michael's gentle smile … the blueness of his eyes … the blonde waves of his hair. At first glance she had fallen madly in love with him. She had loved his difference in appearance, so light-skinned, nothing at all like the Italian men she had grown so used to seeing on Pordenone's streets. She had never hungered for any of her countrymen's touches. Only Michael had stirred the embers inside her to a burning inferno.

“But, I shall never see you again, Michael,” she said, flipping her hair to hang down in dark waves to her waist. “I must forget you. I must.” She reached upward and pulled the tarnished chain free from beneath the bodice of her dress. She turned it in her fingers until she found the clasp, then unfastened it, letting the chain and the key that hung loosely from it ripple down onto the palm of her hand. When she would feel the loneli-ness eating away at her insides, she would remove her violin from its case and let her instrument speak to her in its soft, gentle voice as she pulled the bow across its strings.

She lifted the skirt of her dress up as she stooped to reach beneath her bed. She pulled the violin case outward and lifted it atop her bed, then unlocked it, remembering how it had pleasured her to play on the street corners of Pordenone—the only audience she had ever known.

Touching the strings, plucking them one by one, a thought seized her, making her pulsebeat increase. She had played her violin on the streets of Pordenone for . .. money. . . . Why couldn't she do it in the town of Creal Springs? Her Papa and Alberto would never need know. She would play only during the hours that they were in the bowels of the earth. And choosing to play on the streets of Creal Springs instead of this Italian community was much wiser, since the people of Creal Springs would most surely have coins to share with the less fortunate.

“Yes,” she said aloud. “That's what I shall do. That could be the answer to many things.” Tremors of excitement raced through her, as she thought that playing in front of an audience once again was so close at hand. Why hadn't she thought of it earlier? She wouldn't only be finally having some pleasure from life, but bringing home some coins at the same time.

“Now what shall I wear?” she said, looking down at her flimsy attire of a thinning, threadbare cotton dress. As she held the skirt out from her body, she could even see herself through it. No. That would not be appropriate to wear where people would be watching her.

She rushed to the wardrobe, pulling out the dress her aunt Helena had given her. Its sleekness of satin shone back at her in shimmering colors of greens and the velveteen bows and white trimmings of lace made her heart pound against her ribs. She wanted so to wear this, to look like one of the rich women who lived in the magnificent houses at Creal Springs.

But her brows furrowed. There were two reasons she could not wear such a dress. She did not want to reveal the curves of her body to men, knowing that to do so, especially while standing on a street corner on display, could possibly cause one to do her harm. She also knew that to wear such a fancy, expensive dress would be to defeat her purpose of wishing to look the part of a waif who did indeed need coins tossed at her feet.

“Then what shall I wear?” she murmured, placing the dress back inside the wardrobe. Her gaze settled on her chimney sweep outfit. It hung from a hanger, clean and crisp, yet it gave her such an empty feeling inside, thinking to have to wear it again. She hated its absolute drabness. She hated the breeches. But when she had taken it to the stove to burn it, as she had so longed to do while on the long journey from Italy, her Papa had stopped her, saying that it was a waste to destroy any clothes that still could have a possible use some day.

“Did he know that more would be needed besides coal mining to keep this family in money?” she wondered aloud. Had he thought she might even try her skills at chimney sweeping while here in America? A loathing made her face become all shadows. But she knew that today this outfit was the best thing that she could wear. It would make her look the role of a person in need, and it could be used to hide the fact that she was a female. She had mostly succeeded at doing this while on the ship and train. With her hair hidden beneath the confines of the hat, she knew that she could indeed play the role of a male once again. For her Papa? Anything! Hadn't she even refrained from returning to Ruby's because of her Papa . . . and what he might think of her for associating with her kind? Yes, for her Papa . . . anything. He came first. Now. Always.

With trembling fingers, she hurriedly changed from her dress to her black breeches and jacket. “Papa will never know,” she said, sweeping her hair up atop her head, pinning it, then placing the cap snugly over it. “And the money I shall make will be spent for groceries. He'll just think I'm using the money he has earned. Only Alberto will know the difference, because it is he who is spending Papa's hard-earned money as well as his own. But Alberto can just go jump in the lake if he doesn't like what I'm doing. To tell Papa would be the same as telling on himself.”

Maria stepped into her high-topped shoes and laced them, then placed her violin in its case and snapped the lid shut. Taking a deep breath, she hurried outside, glad to know that Alberto had decided to leave the horse and wagon at her disposal for use any time of the day for shopping or in case of an emergency. “Well, this is an emergency,” she said softly, smiling, now anxious to carry this plan out.

She placed the violin in the back of the wagon, then pulled herself up onto the seat. The horse was stamping its feet restlessly, also anxious, it seemed, to get away from its drab surroundings. Maria lifted the reins and gave them a slap, looking quickly around her, seeing if anyone was watching her escape from her day of drudgery. Excitement was building inside her. She had grown so tired of her days of labor. She hadn't even been able to take her daily walks because of the cold, damp weather. She had wanted to return to Ruby's, but hadn't, knowing the disappointment it would cause her Papa.

She wondered now if Ruby would even remember her. Several months had passed since the day they had met, the day Maria had seen another way of life that she had only up to that time read about in novels. “A house of whores,” she thought to herself, guiding the carriage out onto the narrow street, moving away from the row after row of shacks, on through the small town of Hawkinsville, and onto a country road of dried, muddy ruts. She stiffened, feeling her body being tossed about on the seat. But she was determined to move onward. She had only a few hours, then she would have to return before her Papa and Alberto would get home. She had to keep this from her Papa. At all costs.

When she reached the outskirts of Creal Springs, she stopped and pulled her billed hat lower on her forehead, hoping her eyes wouldn't be so noticeable. She knew that most males didn't have lashes to match her own. That alone could give her identity away. She had to be sure that no one discovered that she was a female. She would stand . . . mute . . . playing .. . then bowing a silent thanks if coins were tossed at her feet.

Slouching a bit, Maria urged her horse onward, now looking from side to side, seeing the nicely painted white-framed houses lining both sides of the town's streets. Each house was of a different design, and they had lawns of mowed green grass, and flower beds in shades of yellows, reds and purples.

Maria sighed, longing to live in such a way. Everything in this town seemed so fresh … so clean. And the houses appeared to have been built so that no cracks could possibly be found in the walls. She could envision a family living in luxury behind these walls … a family that probably hadn't ever had to want for food … for warmth. . . .

Determination made Maria slap the reins even more fiercely. She would get some coins tossed to her this day. She had to.

When she reached the outskirts of the business district, she eyed the buildings with awe. They were mainly of red brick and had huge windows of paned glass, in which could be seen displays of women's apparel, furniture, and many other items that made Maria's eyes widen, and her heart pound at a faster rate of speed. Pordenone wasn't anything like this. This town in America showed such a variety of wealth.

She guided her horse down a street that had even been made of laid red bricks. This street then led onto another street that formed a square around a magnificent building that displayed a huge, grand clock at the top. It showed its face and hands on four sides, so that no matter which street you were on, you could still look upward and see what time it was.

When chimes began to count out the hour of ten, Maria moved onward, looking for a corner that would be best for her to do her… entertaining … which she knew in truth would be called begging by the wealthier of the townspeople who might see her. But she didn't care. She was doing what she had to do, and she would enjoy it no matter what she might be called while doing it.