“I’ll be glad to go myself. I’ll be right back.”
He put his hand out. “Stay here. Serve the women. I’ll find him.”
Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely ladle out the beans into bowls. The gruel kept spilling from the sides, upsetting the women.
No sooner had Bill left than a dozen or so state troopers appeared out of the human sea to confront her at the cast-iron pot, telling her that if she didn’t want to be arrested for aiding and abetting the criminal elements out and about on the street, she’d better stop what she was doing, and head on home and out of trouble. Finding this to be eminently and blessedly sensible advice, Gina moved away, planning to rush through the back streets to Summer Street. But a hundred shouting women in front of her hot beans ordered her not to move, but to feed them as she had come to do, feed those who were fighting for her rights. The police again commanded her to leave.
Tempers got short, bodies inched closer.
Within moments it got so pulsing loud that Gina could scarcely think for the din of enraged noise. All she knew was she wanted out—not now, not later, but thirty minutes ago. She cursed the day Harry ever shook Big Bill’s hand. She cursed the day she took Angela to see Emma Goldman, the fateful day she introduced her to Arturo.
There was a wall of people between her and anywhere. Big Bill was nowhere to be seen. In the near distance, across Union Street near the red doors of the factory, Gina spotted Angela. She thought she heard Angela’s strident voice, frenzied above the rest. Helplessly Gina looked around for Harry. She wouldn’t be able to explain to him how she had ended up here, in the worst possible place at the worst possible time with cold faces and empty stomachs and flared rage all around. She tried to hide near the police, but most of the direct action was aimed at them. They were the frontline.
The iron pot was flipped over—by the police? By the protesters?—and hot beans dripped onto the wet slushy pavement, onto her boots and the police boots and the battered footwear of the strikers. There was nowhere for her to run, nowhere to move. No one was going to part the red irate crowd for her so she could run to safety through the alleys.
Someone grabbed her arm from behind, yanked her sideways. She spun around. It was Harry.
She started to cry.
“What are you doing?” he shouted because she wouldn’t have heard him otherwise, although he was standing in front of her. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you …”
“I want to go home!”
“Gina! God, why did you come here?” They were surrounded on all sides. The tent was shaking on its supports, any minute it was going to come down. He pulled her close for the briefest of moments, then yelled to her to crawl under the table. She saw Angela thirty heads away getting trampled, screaming, shoving, slapping somebody, in desperate trouble herself.
“Harry, look, Angela …”
“Can’t help her now,” he said, pulling Gina under the table.
“Angela!” Gina shouted, hoarse, out of breath. Angela didn’t hear.
Big Bill reappeared with great force. He pushed his way past the sticks of the police and confronted Harry. “Come with me,” he yelled, grabbing Harry’s arm. “We need your help.”
“I can’t, Bill,” Harry shouted back, pulling away. “My wife.”
Bill didn’t even glance at Gina. “She’ll be fine. She’s safer than the rest of us. Come quick. Vandalism in the grocery store—the coppers are about to arrest Arturo. I need your silver tongue. Come! Quick.”
Harry stared desperately at Gina. “Go, Harry,” she said. “Go with Bill. Go help Angie.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said—and was swallowed up by Big Bill and the mob.
Under the table she curled into a ball, covered her head and closed her eyes. She lay on the dead January grass in a fetal position, facing away from the mob, facing toward the church, praying it would help, that anything would. A gaggle of people caught in the clash barreled in under the table after her. The narrow table was knocked over, the legs broke apart, it fell on their heads, on Gina’s. There was only screaming.
Behind her there was the sound of assault, fists meeting faces, sticks meeting bodies, black panic, wild confusion. She imagined Milan, long ago, her revered brother Alessandro, hot-headed, impulsive, mule-stubborn, beautiful, dead, vile unrest, horses, policemen, stampede, a knife flying out, a life snuffed out, one life, then another. For who could live bearing the weight of your child’s last moment. Her father couldn’t.
Popping sounds. Shots? Everybody really screamed. She kept her head covered. More firecracker noise, perhaps return fire? Gina squeezed shut her eyes. Harry, Harry, come back to me, please. Legs, boots, feet, bottoms of coats whooshing by, people falling. She was shoved hard in the back by someone trying to get up, someone else stepped on her ankle trying to get away. Still in a fetal position, she put one hand on her head and the other on her stomach to protect the fragile life barely forming. Another boot landed on her head, on her knuckles. Man, woman? She couldn’t even stand up in her blind terror.
“Get your fucking head off the ground, lady! Or you’ll get your skull bashed in! Get off the ground!”
Harry, Harry?
It wasn’t Harry. She was yanked into a standing position by a man. People running everywhere. Tent stakes violently pulled from the ground. People tripping over them, heavy gray canvas falling on their heads. The man who helped her up looked down at the ground at her feet and said, “Lady, are you shot? You’re bleeding!” The last thing she thought before fainting was that Harry was going to be so upset she hadn’t stayed under the table.
Seven
WHEN SHE CAME TO, she was in her bed. No Harry, no Arturo, no Joe, no Angela. Only her mother sitting by her side, silently crying. Her mother and Salvo!
“Salvo?” Gina was so happy for a moment. She raised her hand to reach for him.
“Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?” Mimoo said, sobbing into her rosary beads. Her arthritis and tears prevented her from counting them properly. She kept rolling them around between her barely mobile fingers.
“How are you feeling, sorella?” Salvo said, the hat in his hands twitching.
“Where’s Harry?” Gina reached down to touch her stomach. “Is he all right? What’s happened?”
Salvo got up and left the bedroom before Mimoo could speak.
Mimoo shook her head. “He’s not all right,” she said. “Things are as bad as can be, child. Harry, Arturo, Joe have all been arrested. Along with dozens of others.” She sobbed in a prayer. “They’re about to be charged with murder.”
“Murder? What murder? Harry too?”
Mimoo cried louder. “Our precious angel, Angela. Your cousin. Like your sister. Gone. Struck down. Stray bullet. Right to the heart. Oh!”
Santa Maria, prega per noi peccattori.
Gina tried to stand up.
“Stop it, lie down,” Mimoo said. “You’re still bleeding, it’s not safe for you, you’re sick, lie down.”
She would not lie down. “Bleeding, why?”
Her mother wouldn’t answer her.
“Mimoo? Salvo!”
“Don’t call him. He can’t speak to you.”
“Salvo!”
“You lost your baby, Gia, my child. Nessuna