A Bandit's Tale Page 12

  “No one would be crazy enough,” Mr. Hallanan assured her. “Even in New York City.”

  It was hard to imagine the city at a standstill. Usually morning was the busiest time. Newsboys plied their wares, shouting out the headlines. In Little Italy and the crowded neighborhood of Five Points, every corner was jammed with vegetable carts, peddlers, and women doing their shopping. Near Wall Street, men made their way to the banks, messengers delivered bags full of money, and pickpockets like Tony and Carlo started planning the day’s actions.

  And usually there were horses everywhere. Milk wagons began their rounds before dawn. Horses hauled crowded streetcars and omnibuses, and carts rumbled along, piled high with building supplies or produce. Little boys barely visible under the huge loads of laundry they were delivering tried to race across the streets out of the way of hooves.

  None of that would happen today.

  —

  “Is your ankle any better, Da?” Mary touched it gently. It was black-and-blue with awful yellow blotches. It looked puffy and swollen.

  “Hurts some,” he admitted. “I don’t think it’s broken, though. I hope not. I don’t like being laid up, not when there’s work to do.”

  He took a sip of steaming coffee and looked over the rim of his cup at me. I could guess what he was about to ask.

  “So, tell me, Rocco,” he said casually, “what kind of work does your father do?”

  Well, I may as well tell you now that in the next twelve minutes I told at least that many lies. I’d tried to think up a story the night before, when I lay grateful for a warm bed out of the storm. My eyes had closed before I’d gotten very far.

  At least, I wasn’t wearing that telltale jacket. Tim, the stableboy, kept a small stash of extra clothes in a crate by his cot. He was probably just a little taller than me, because the pants and sweater fit almost perfectly. I’d dried my House of Refuge coat in front of the small coal stove, then stuffed it under the blanket on Tim’s cot.

  It had been dark last night. Maybe Mr. Hallanan hadn’t really recognized the House of Refuge coat. It would definitely be a good idea to keep it out of sight until I left in a day or two.

  “My father’s dead, two years now,” I said. Lie number one. I took a bite of the porridge Mary had made. “My mother died when I was born. After my father died, I came over from Italy to live with my uncle.”

  Two more lies. Three already, and that was only in answer to one question.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, lad,” said Mary’s father. “Your English is rather good. How’d that happen, that you learned the language so quickly?”

  I picked up my spoon, put it down again. This part of the story would be harder to pull off. “Well, my uncle ran a little grocery. He believed in education. So he sent me to school for a year, and I worked in the store in the afternoons.”

  This sounds believable, I thought, remembering the fellow with the sausage I’d met that first day who said he’d gone to Italian school.

  I glanced out the window for more inspiration. “Then my uncle and my aunt decided to go back. He missed home—couldn’t stand the cold winters here, and the snow.”

  Let’s see, at least three more lies there, but it was getting hard to keep count. I plunged on, warming to my tale. “That was just a few weeks ago. I’ll be thirteen come summer, so I decided to stay, get a place in a boardinghouse, and make my own way. I’m strong for my age. There are lots of jobs for day laborers.”

  At least one thing was true: I would be thirteen in August.

  Mr. Hallanan glanced out the window and nodded. “I expect there’ll be a call for Italian laborers to shovel this snow once it stops. The city will need thousands of men to dig us out. You’re such a scrawny thing I wouldn’t think you’d have much chance at those jobs.”

  He took a few more bites of porridge. I said nothing, moving my own porridge around my bowl. I’d lost my appetite.

  Then, just as casually as he’d begun, he commented, “Nasty little scar on your lip, Rocco.”

  Behind me, where Mary was washing up in the sink, I heard a pan drop. Before I could stop myself, my hand flew to the spot. Most people outside of Little Italy didn’t seem to know about the way the padroni marked the street musicians. Even the judge who sentenced me hadn’t mentioned it.

  Mr. Hallanan might be different. He might be the kind of man who saw a lot of what went on around him—with horses and people. The kind of man people talked to, confided in. A man who knew things and, just like Tony, had his ear to the ground.

  I laughed a little. “Happened when I was a baby, at least that’s what my m—papa told me.”

  Mr. Hallanan held my gaze and nodded. “I see. You’ve got to watch babies. My Mary was always getting into trouble as a babe.”

  “Oh, Da, you’ve said I was a good baby,” she said quietly. Turning to me, she added, “Ma died of consumption when I was little. Da has raised me himself. I should’ve been a boy, though, so I could take over the blacksmith business.”

  Her father shook his porridge spoon at her. “None of that, Mary. I can train any man to shoe a horse. With all your schooling and your head for numbers, you’ll be able to run the whole business someday. Hire your own smith and stableboys.

  “That’s America for you, Rocco. A poor blacksmith from an Irish village can make a name for himself, and a bright girl like Mary can get an education.”

  The compliment made Mary blush. I glanced around the neat kitchen, with its shiny pots and pans, and the storeroom stocked with potatoes and onions and jars of flour and oats. She kept house for her father and helped with the stable too. Mary must be like Anna, I thought. Good at everything she does.

  Mr. Hallanan picked up his cup again and drained it. “Well, Rocco, I don’t know what they’ll be paying the men who get hired to shovel snow, probably a dollar a day. And you might prefer to do that.

  “But I have a proposition for you. I can’t get by without a stableboy, especially laid up with a bad ankle. I doubt Tim will be able to make it in for a few days, if this storm keeps up. Mary’s good with the horses, but it’s too much for one person. So how about I give you a dollar a day, plus room and board for every day you stay with us?”

  Mr. Hallanan didn’t ask where I had been heading last night, or anything about the boardinghouse I’d mentioned. He didn’t ask because, I thought, he had guessed the truth: I had no other place to go.

  For a pickpocket like me, a dollar for a full day of work was nothing. Why, I could get that in a matter of minutes.

  Still, it beat freezing in a snowdrift. The more I thought about it, the better I felt.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. This time I meant it.

  CHAPTER 22

  A day to be forever known as Blizzard Monday

  At first, we didn’t hear it over the fierce howling wind and the incessant rat tat tat of snow beating against the windowpane.

  Plus, Mary hadn’t stopped talking. She was telling me how sad she was about Mr. Bergh being on his deathbed, and how much he had done for animals in the city.

  “I’m glad we went, except of course for Da’s getting hurt,” she said. “Just think, those two lovely mares might have frozen to death on the street. And now you’re here to help. It’s amazing that you were walking by. Where were you going, anyway? You must know what to do with animals—the currycomb seemed to be part of your hand. Have you worked in a stable before?”

  “Shh,” Mr. Hallanan said suddenly, to my relief. With any luck, Mary would forget what she’d asked me. “Someone’s at the door. Go see to it, lad, will you?”

  I ran down the hall to open the door. A round, snow-covered figure of a man stumbled inside, but not before the full force of the biting cold and blowing snow exploded into the hallway.

  “Hallo there,” he said, beating his arms to get more snow off. “Where’s the boss? Mick, are you here?”

  “Max? Are you crazy?” Mr. Hallanan called. He came into the hall from the kitchen, holding on
to the wall for support. “Max Fischel! Why in heaven’s name are you out in this?”

  “It’s a story—and I’m a reporter!” He pulled off his cap and shook snow from his curly brown hair, making a small puddle on the floor.

  A reporter? So Max was someone who wrote the stories for newspapers. I looked at him curiously. He seemed to be in his midtwenties, with broad shoulders and twinkling dark eyes that peered out like live coals above an ice-encrusted scarf. He was almost entirely covered in snow, but that didn’t seem to bother him.

  “Foolish as it sounds, I really did start out to work this morning. How was I to know it was no ordinary snowstorm?”

  “For goodness’ sake, come in and get warm,” urged Mary’s father.

  “Ah, well, that’s not possible.” Max’s voice became serious. “Turns out I wasn’t the only fool out in this nightmare. That’s why I’ve come.”

  Mary reappeared with a towel. Thanking her, Max began rubbing his head with it vigorously, all the while talking a mile a minute.

  “I came upon a deliveryman who’d abandoned two horses and a cart. He was almost frozen solid, poor fellow. Like me, he’d started out before he knew what he was in for,” explained Max. “Told me he feared for his life if he didn’t get to shelter. So he left the cart and the horses behind. It’s not far, just a few blocks down on Houston and Seventh.”

  “I knew it!” Mary’s eyes widened. “I knew there would be horses out there.”

  “I promised I’d find help,” Max added, still rubbing his hair until it stood up like grass on top of his head. “Mary’s got me so well trained I couldn’t face her knowing I’d left the beasts to die. I don’t know anything myself about horses or harnesses, but I came thinking Tim could be sent to bring them back.”

  He leaned forward a little to peer at me. “Hallo. You’re not Tim. And now I see you’re limping, Mick. What’s happened here?”

  Mary spoke first. “Last night, we had to save two mares in the freezing rain. That’s when Da slipped on the ice and hurt his ankle.

  “This is Rocco. He helped us. He can speak Italian and English,” Mary went on, as though this was some great accomplishment. “The storm has kept Tim at home. Rocco and I can go get these two. He’s good with animals.”

  “Oh, no…,” began Mr. Hallanan.

  Mary begged, “Oh, please don’t forbid me, Da. We can do it. You know it will take two—and Rocco can’t do it alone.”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest that,” the blacksmith said calmly. “I can’t let either of you go, Mary. And, Max, you should stay here too. You’re not dressed for snow and you’re already soaked through.”

  Now, back home, if Papa had forbidden me to do something, I would never have dared to question him. So I was surprised by what Mary did next.

  She went to her father, looped her arm in his, and said softly, “Oh, Da, I know you worry. But you’ve raised me to be as strong as a boy. Seventh Avenue is wide—we can’t get lost following it. It’s no more than a few blocks—not nearly so long a trek as last night. And this time we can dress warm. It won’t be like yesterday, when the storm caught us by surprise.”

  Mr. Hallanan’s face turned red. Before he could explode, Max held up his hand. “This is my fault. Tell you what, Mick. Give me a change of clothes and I’ll go with them.”

  Mary shot Max a grateful look, then disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Rocco, in the stable you’ll find some extra boots and an overcoat to wear. And bring the other coat on the rack too,” the blacksmith instructed. “My big coat will fit Max.”

  As I turned to go, I heard him tell Max, “She’s stubborn, like her mother. And she’s all riled up, what with her hero, Henry Bergh, lying on his deathbed.”

  “Well, no doubt the Great Meddler would be proud,” declared Max.

  —

  We were ready in ten minutes. I was bundled in more clothes than I’d ever had on at one time. Mary had brought me three pairs of socks, including one that came up to my knees, along with two long-sleeved shirts, a heavy wool sweater, and Tim’s overcoat on top of that. I had gloves and a thick cap to pull down over my eyes. I could barely move.

  Mary’s father said he would ready the stable for our return.

  “Da, please, go sit down. I laid everything out this morning,” said Mary, reaching up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I just knew we’d be needed for another rescue.”

  She used her fingers to check off all she’d done. “I put out towels to get them dry; we’ll have to walk them until they get warm. I’ve got the currycombs ready, as well as picks to clean ice from their hooves. I put extra straw in a few empty stalls too.

  “And Rocco did great last night.” She smiled and tugged on her braid. “You don’t have to worry, Da.”

  “She could run the place without me,” said Mr. Hallanan with a shake of his head. He sighed. “Just be careful.”

  “So, you’ve spent time around horses, Rocco?” Max asked.

  “Not horses,” I told them. “Donkeys.”

  —

  Mr. Hallanan gave me one more chance to back out. “I’m afraid this is more than you bargained for when you met us. Sure you’re willing to go?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m glad to be of help.”

  It was true. It had been a long time since what I did actually meant something to someone.

  Back home, I’d helped Mama and Papa from the time I could walk. I fetched firewood, swept floors, shelled beans, and carried hoes and shovels down the narrow, winding streets to the fields below. I’d kept Signor Ferri’s stable as clean as this. In winter, Papa trusted me to help sharpen knives and repair buckets and tools.

  Everyone in Calvello worked together. I hadn’t really helped anyone since coming to America. Slipping the occasional roll or crust of bread to Luigi and Marco didn’t really count.

  At least, Padrone can’t send them out in a storm like this, I found myself thinking. I imagined all the street musicians huddling for warmth in the bitter cold of that dark cellar.

  Mr. Hallanan insisted we take extra precautions. Mary brought rope from the stable, which her father looped around our waists, with Max in front, Mary in the middle, and me last.

  When he was done, he nodded. “This way no one will get lost.”

  Mr. Hallanan kissed Mary and pulled open the door. We stepped out into a white, whirling nightmare. The first blast took my breath away. We’ll never get ten steps in this!

  Last night had been a battle against rain, sleet, and wind. Today was worse, the snow already so deep we plunged to our knees with every step.

  As we turned the first corner, Max stopped, bringing us together in a tight circle. Overhead, ice-encrusted telegraph wires looped like an intricate, thick spider-web. High drifts made heaps along the sidewalks; walking there was impossible.

  “It might be less windy if we walk on one side of the street, away from the middle,” shouted Max. We nodded and he moved into the road. The rope tightened, and we inched forward.

  I tried to count my steps: “One two three, one two three.” I couldn’t get past three without losing my concentration.

  I was amazed to realize we weren’t entirely alone. Occasionally I’d look up and see a dark shape in the white blur—the lone figure of a man once, another time two people stumbling toward us, heads bent. We came across an abandoned cart, but at least this driver had taken his animals home.

  A block later, we saw two dead horses, already almost buried by falling snow. Mary stopped short in front of me. But Max turned, shook his head, and pointed down the street. We weren’t there yet. When we did reach the horses, we found them still in harness, miserable, helpless, their heads bowed. Max fumbled with the rope to untie us so we could get to work. Mary stepped forward, pulling on my arm to follow her.

  She approached the first horse and grabbed the bridle. He seemed too numb to move and didn’t shy away from her. It took a long time to unhitch the pair, but Mary di
dn’t stop, though her movements were slow.

  Just as she handed the reins of one of the horses to me, I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye. I pointed and mouthed, “Look!”

  Max followed my gaze. A boy was stumbling toward us, his arms flailing as he tried to plow through the snow. All at once he tripped, plunging into a drift. His face and almost his entire head disappeared.

  “I’ll get him!” Max pushed through the snow, reached under the boy’s arms, and pulled him up.

  He could not have been more than ten. He wore no hat or muffler; his face was red and shiny, as though covered by a thin sheet of ice. His whole body shook with sobs. He struggled to talk.

  I managed to make out one word: “job.” He must have been on his way to work, afraid he would lose whatever job he had—probably sweeping a factory floor—if he didn’t show up.

  After talking to the boy for a few minutes, Max trudged back and put his mouth to my ear. “He doesn’t live far. But it’s in the opposite direction from Barrow Street,” he said. “He can’t make it alone. I don’t dare let him go by himself.”

  I shouted, “Take the rope. It might help him walk.”

  Mary had finished with the other horse by now. Max used his hands to tell her what he planned to do. She nodded, pointing to me and at herself, then up Seventh Avenue, the way we’d come. It was hard to talk—the wind snatched the words from our mouths before they were out. But we understood. Mary and I would go home alone.

  It didn’t seem to matter what direction we headed; the wind and snow came at us, battering, hammering, pounding us with furious, unrelenting gusts and shards of sharp, icy flakes.

  Snow had already half filled the footsteps we’d left on our way down the street, but we could still make them out enough to follow the trail. Sometimes having the body of the horse on one side of me gave a little protection. Mostly, I had to pull and coax the exhausted beast along behind me. In the deepest drifts, Mary and I took turns trudging ahead to break a path for the animals.