Bread and Roses, Too

"Why you need money so bad?" His voice was suddenly gentle.

"I have to buy a train ticket."

"To go home? We buy all the children ticket."

"I can't go back to Lawrence." And then, quite unexpectedly, he realized he was crying. He tried to hide it, but the sobs were shaking his whole body and he couldn't stop. Perhaps it was the relief that Mr. Gerbati wasn't going to call the police or the goons or anyone else. Perhaps it was the hard little man's surprising kindness—like his flowers blooming from the cold gray granite.

The kitchen door opened. Mr. Gerbati shook his head at his wife, and she closed it quickly.

"Go wash your face. Is nearly time to eat. You know Mrs. Gerbati don't like food get cold two time." He got up and knocked his pipe out in the big dish on the table beside his chair. "Later, you tell me. We see what to do, okay?"

Jake sniffed and nodded and hurried to wash up before either Rosa or Mrs. Gerbati could see that he'd been crying.

All through supper, Mrs. Gerbati apologized over the missed colazione. She didn't count the cake and coffee they'd shared with Mr. Broggi, or seem to remember that breakfast had been late and more than bountiful. "I promise to feed you childrens three good meal every day, and today only two. Eat, eat," she urged Rosa, who was picking at her food.

"I'm sorry. I just can't stop thinking about—"

"They be fine, Rosa. It don't help Mamma if you don't eat. See, Sal eat good. Make Mamma happy to see how good he eat."

The food tasted, if possible, better than ever to Jake. Mr. Gerbati wasn't going to call the police or anyone else on him. He sneaked a look in the old man's direction. The white head was bowed over his plate. Looking at him, you'd think he didn't even remember what had happened that morning. But he hadn't forgotten. When the meal was over, he quietly asked Jake to come with him to the parlor. "Now we finish our talk," he said.

Mr. Gerbati sat on the settee and waved Jake toward the rocker, but he chose the stool instead.

"Okay," said Mr. Gerbati. "Now we know you no Salvatore Serutti."

"No, sir."

"Tell me, then, who are you?"

"Jake Beale."

"What kind of name is that? Scotch? French? Irish? What?"

"I dunno. Just my name."

"Where is your papa?"

"Dead."

"That is true? No lie?"

"It's true."

"No mamma, neither?"

Jake shook his head. How much did he have to tell the man? Why was it any of his business any

how?

"So why you sneak and hide, eh? Make little girl take care for you?"

The way he said it made Jake both angry and, if he'd been more familiar with the feeling, ashamed.

"I told you, I was scared."

"Why you scared, boy? You do wrong?"

He nodded. He had done wrong. And before he could stop himself, the whole story poured out—getting the card from Mrs. Serutti to take home for Pa to sign, finding Pa in bed, waking up to discover that all night long, and for how much longer he did not know, Pa had been dead. The horror of it made him stop in the middle of the telling.