A/N: Happy November! I'm excited to spend this NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) focusing on this story! If you want to track my progress, check out the button on my Tumblr or find me on the NaNoWriMo website. My username is Lingeringlilies.

Thanks so much to JJ for her support, editing, and encouragement.


Chapter 7: Latte e Miel


When Santana came back from tending to the customer at the front of the store, there was a hushed playfulness that nestled into the corners of her lips and eyes. It excited me; we both loved kissing each other so, we would have been content to sit there kissing until the sun had set and it was unsafe for me to walk home alone.

And yet there was some distant fear that our kisses were as unquenchable as a thirst borne of the saltwater ocean that had brought me to her. I could kiss her for as many days and nights as I'd been tossed around in the belly of the Giuseppe Verdi and still thirst for her. Her kisses left me woozy and unbalanced, yet my stomach soared instead of dropped.

Kissing Santana had made the entire voyage worth it.

In order to not appear so thirsty or desperate for her lips as I was, I kept my shoulder facing her as she sat down again. Half-heartedly, I asked if she wanted to continue sewing the dress we'd begun piecing together for her. She murmured a reply, placing her foot on the treadle as the warmth of her body pressed into my side. My hands had only just begun feeding the fabric through the machine when I felt the soft weight of her head on my shoulder, the hair from her head tickling my neck. I felt myself settle and calm, as though there were no place more right in the world than in the sewing nook with her head resting on my shoulder. I knew God was with me in that moment. And because I knew God was with me and because I wanted to be ever thankful to Him, I turned my head and placed a kiss in Santana's hair, right along where it parted. I felt and heard her sigh at my touch, and a moment later her hand slipped behind my back, resting on my hip as we continued to sew.

Never had I been more sure that the Holy Spirit would catch in my stitches.

It was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. When Santana and I spoke, it was in voices just loud enough to be heard over the soft grind of the sewing machine and the gentle rush of the rain outside. The rain acted as a blanket for the usual racket of the Bowery. Though I knew the mud and chaos outside only made life harder for the people running to and fro, it felt like peace had come to wrap us all in the life-giving power of the rain.

When the bells tolled seven o'clock, Santana sighed and extracted her hand from behind me. I missed it instantly; it was as though I had taken off a shoe or shawl or even something as essential as my shirtwaist in the middle of a street.

"I should like to do this every day," Santana said, her voice weighted with knowing we had to say goodbye.

"We can," I said. "So long as there is work for me to do."

Santana nodded. "I'll try to ensure there is always work for you to do." Then she rose reluctantly and walked to the front of the store.

I followed.

Santana's hands seemed unsure as she opened the cash register and counted out my pay. She seemed apologetic as she handed me a fold of bills. As soon as I took it and slipped it into my corset, she brushed her hand off on her skirt.

It was a curious thing, taking money from Santana after we had kissed. I knew that to be paid for such things was considered indecent, but she was paying me for my sewing, not for my kisses. Perhaps Santana felt guilty for the coincidence of the two.

Wanting her to know that her money was always appreciated no matter what had transpired between us, I said, "Mamma will be glad for that."

Santana nodded. "Do give her my best wishes," she said. "Tell her I put her in my prayers every night."

The image of Santana with her hands clasped in prayer brought a smile to my face. It was such a beautiful, serene image. I should very much have liked to pray with her. I was certain it would be as intimate as kissing.

"I shall," I said.

"Buona serra," I said.

"Buona serra," she replied.

And with that, I left her shop and entered the fray of the Bowery streets during a summer shower.

It was a muddy dash, and I was soaked almost to the bone when I got home. But I was grateful for one thing - the rain kept the boys who had taunted me indoors so I could walk without fear of being bothered by them.

When I arrived home, Mamma was already there, sitting at the table. Her hands were clasped, her rosary dangling from them like a pendulum. I walked in as quietly as I could, taking off my boots as to not track mud inside.

But after a moment I realized that Mamma wasn't praying, she was crying. Tears fell from her eyes as water dripped from my dress onto the floor.

It was strange to see Mamma cry so often. I had seen her cry more in the few weeks we'd been in New York than I had in my entire life. She seemed so fragile and sad here, as though her inner fiber were suddenly thin and brittle, despite the roundedness of her belly. I wanted nothing more than to fortify her.

Knowing that I oughtn't call attention to her tears, I pulled the chair out from the place across from her. I sat down facing her, feeling my body settle from my dash through the streets and struggle up the stairs. I reached up for her hands, drawing them toward me so I could clasp each own in my own. Her rosary came to rest on the table, its beads laying in a pattern that ran like a creek across the di Salvo's tablecloth. Mamma kept her head bent and said nothing.

Audibly, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through puckered lips. Mamma took my lead and did the same, and I saw her body settle from its tense crying.

And because I knew it would be more powerful than anything I could think to say in my own words, I started reciting the Our Father. After a few lines, Mamma joined in, her words low and warm as they blended into the rain and racket of the tenement. When we finished, I started again, and Mamma continued with me. We said the verse through three times before I saw her tears stop. Then we just sat for a long, quiet moment, her eyes closed, my eyes switching between her and the path of rosary on the tablecloth. Then the noise of the rain outside slowly gentled and a new peace settled around us. Mamma opened her eyes and gave me a watery smile.

"Bless you, Brittany," she said. "You are a true child of God."

I squeezed her hands, then brought each one to my lips, pressing a kiss into her worn and weathered skin that smelled of sweat and cotton.

"Go rest while I prepare dinner," I said. "Luca will be home soon."

Mamma nodded and lifted her belly up from the chair, trudging into the bedroom where her body creaked and groaned in chorus with the metal of the bed as she lay down. I prepared dinner in the somber quiet of the kitchen, and when Luca and the di Salvos returned home, they seemed to understand that our apartment was to be a place of quiet and nourishment. The only words spoken were those of gratitude for our food and safety in the new land.

The next day I arose and instantly knew the rain had stopped. I didn't know how I knew, but there was a dreadful, hot weight on the day. It was more humid than it had ever been, and the heat seemed to steam up from my body. Mamma and Luca seemed bogged down by it too as we got ready for the day. And while the weather usually had great impact on my temperament, I found that I was in a good mood despite the heat, for I knew I was going to Santana's shop where I would get to spend most of my waking hours in her company. Hopefully some of that time would be spent lips to lips.

As I made my way through the muddy and bright streets, it seemed as though all the urchins and haunts the rain had chased away had re-emerged with the sun, caked in mud. Children's clothing appeared even more tattered, carts more rickety, elders more stooped and weary. Dirt was tracked everywhere and warm puddles of stench clung to sidewalks and streets and nestled into every crevice they could find. Everything seemed louder and wearier.

I was halfway to Santana's laundry when I heard the voices of the gang of boys who had taunted me a few days before. I felt a cold clenching in my belly, then a rush at my back as I stooped and walked closer to the windows of the shops. Their voices grew closer, and I tried not to shiver with fear. They hurled insults, calling me a simp and a jinx and a cripple.

And then one boy made a reach for me, and I feared he would hurt me. But another boy held him back.

"Easy, mate," he said. "In a few years she'll be down by the docks, and you can do whatever you like with her for a few cents."

The boys snickered at his coarse words but stopped following me.

As tears pooled in my eyes, I prayed for God to protect me. He ensured I made it to the doorstep of the laundry without injury.

Santana looked up from behind the counter, smile fading when she saw me.

"What happened?" she asked.

She knew without me telling her that something was wrong.

"Is your mother okay?" she asked.

I nodded and wiped my face, stepping inside quickly and pulling the door closed to block out the noise of the street where the boys were looming. I was eager to shake off any trace of fear or shame they boys had thrust upon me. And yet the tear tracks on my face betrayed my discomfort. As I stepped behind the counter to make my way to the sewing nook without any further inquiry from Santana, she caught my elbow.

"Brittany," she whispered. "Dimmi."

I swallowed, trying to regain composure. But the words of the boys were too awful to repeat. I loved God too much to sin in the way the boys had implied I would.

I thought of what I'd said to her the day before when we'd sat upon the floor looking at my bruised leg. What I'd said then was true and enduring, so I repeated it. "People are not usually kind to me."

Santana's hand tensed on my elbow. "Who?" she asked.

I shook my head, eager to be rid of the memory. "A group of boys."

Santana's hand gripped tighter still. "Young boys? Or a group of punch-drunk crumbs who think they're men?"

I didn't know what it meant, but I mumbled back, "Crumbs."

Santana gritted her teeth and I thought I heard her growl, though with the noise from the street outside I couldn't be sure. Then she guided me forcefully behind the curtain and pulled it closed behind her. The lamp was already lit, so I could see her face. She studied me with urgent concern for a moment and the silence of the laundry pressed into me, making me ashamed of my crying.

But then Santana darted forward, kissing my cheeks where my tears had been falling, cupping my jaw with her hands. She drew back and paused for only long enough to look me in the eye before pressing her lips to mine.

At her touch, all my sadness and fear and shame rushed out of me like dishwater from a sink when the plug is pulled. I leaned forward, eager to feel her pressed to me, eager to show her how much joy I took from her lips. With her, I was shielded from the world outside, and shielded further still from any wickedness that may have tried to seed itself inside me.

Santana pulled back before I was done kissing her. "I can walk with you," she said, looking at me with a look that pleaded me to accept.

Even though I would have loved to keep her company for that much longer every day, I shook my head. I didn't want her to hear the things the boys said to me, nor be the inadvertent target of a thrown apple core or piece of trash.

"I'm okay," I mumbled.

Santana studied my face for a moment longer, then nodded as though she wanted to believe me but didn't. Then she leaned forward, kissing me more gently than the first time, and I melted into her.

As her lips moved with mine and my body warmed, I lifted my arms to wrap around her, to bring her closer. My hands rested on the small of her waist, then slid around to meet behind her back. She hummed into me, as though the feel of my hands on her back were as pleasant as I'd found her arm around me the day before as we sewed at the machine. We kissed further, until my tongue wanted to sweep out and taste her. As it did, she made a shaky intake of breath followed by a small noise that sounded grateful but also afraid.

I didn't want her to be afraid, so I withdrew, though I kept my arms around her.

I realized, as she stood there quivering against me, that I hadn't asked her how she was feeling that morning. I hadn't even been so polite as to say good morning before I had tried to dart behind the curtain to begin my work. How strange, that taunts could rob me of my manners like that and make it seem as though I wasn't overjoyed to be in her company.

"How are you?" I asked.

She trembled a little and brought her hands to rest on my shoulders. I suddenly felt strong, as though I was holding her up. I had never felt so strong before.

"I'm well," she replied.

"Did you sleep well?" I asked.

She gave an unsteady nod, eyes fixed on my lips. She leaned forward and captured them again, and it felt for a moment like she wanted to draw me into her mouth. But she released me quickly, and I felt a flurry of whatever unsteadiness had inhabited her quiver through me.

And, not knowing where it came from, I felt myself start to giggle. It bubbled up through me and echoed loud in the small space between our faces. She smiled and leaned forward again, pressing our lips together briefly before she pulled back and giggled too.

"I should like to do that all day," she said, sighing.

I nodded and leaned forward for one more kiss before I dropped my hands from behind her back. We knew we couldn't stand behind the curtain kissing all day. Even though the shop was curiously devoid of customers most of the time, she had commissioned a dress, and I would have been ashamed to not finish it as quickly as she expected.

"Will you sew with me?" I asked, hopeful.

Santana let out another sigh. "For a short while," she said. "I've got some work to do at the counter."

Curious what her work was but knowing it wasn't my place to ask, I nodded. I was grateful for whatever time she could spend with me at the machine.

She took my hand and led me carefully through the passage between the many boxes and crates that cluttered the back of the laundry. As she did, she looked back several times to make sure I was steady and able to navigate the narrow path. I hadn't seen anyone so concerned for my legs other than Mamma and Papà and Luca. Even Isa, my dearest friend, sometimes pretended my legs weren't different.

We settled into the sewing nook and picked up right where we'd left off sewing. As Santana's head settled on my shoulder, I felt as though we'd only left the safety of the laundry briefly, and the hours that had been spent apart were but a passing moment to be forgotten. The laundry was insulated, and we were grateful for that.

But all too soon, the front door clanged open and Santana had to rise and leave my side. I heard her speaking in her nervous, ungrounded voice to a man in their Sicilian dialect. He wasn't gruff or threatening, his tone businesslike and efficient. Santana fetched his laundry front just outside the sewing nook, bidding him a good day before I heard the shop door close behind him. She remained at the front of the laundry until the shop door opened once more, and another man with a Sicilian accent asked for his laundry as well. Santana was polite and proper, thanking him for his business before the door closed behind him as well.

Then I heard Santana's pointed, delicate boots clack up the stairs that led to her quarters. She remained up there, scuffling along the floor above me for some time. I heard her speaking in a low voice, but I couldn't make out what she was saying or to whom.

Meanwhile, Santana's dress was taking shape in my hands. We'd sewn together the lion's share of the skirt the day before, the seams easy and flawless with the efficiency of the machine. Without Santana to pump the treadle, I was forced to stitch the bodice by hand. I thought that perhaps that was for the best, since the seams needed to be more precise and Santana and I were still learning to operate the machine together. There was something sentimental about stitching the pieces that would cover Santana's heart by hand. I wanted her to feel cloaked in my affection and good wishes for her, so I thought of her generosity and kind spirit as I pieced the bodice together.

Shortly after the bells tolled noon, Santana came downstairs with two plates of food. I grinned at her, happy we were to finally have our midday meal together. She moved her crate so we could face each other, and I cleared the sewing table to make space for the food and ensure her dress wouldn't be soiled if we were to spill.

I looked at the tray and saw Santana had served pickles, as usual, but had also served fresh bread with honey dripped onto it. I had only had honey a few times in my life; sweets were such a delicacy, I'd only had them after weddings and communions and on a few of my Saint's Days. I didn't know if it was commonplace for honey to be served so casually in America.

"I like honey," I said, trying not to sound too strange.

"Me too," Santana said. Then, suddenly, she said, "Oh, I forgot!"

She rose and rushed upstairs, scuffling around some more before descending with two cups in her hands.

She set mine down on the sewing table. I looked at it and saw that rather than being filled with clear water, it was filled with delicious, frothy milk.

My mouth watered; it looked so good and I knew it would fill my belly and give me strength for the rest of the day. When I'd been young, a doctor had suggested my legs were twisted due to poor nourishment, and that if I were to drink more milk, my legs would straighten out. So Mamma and Papà had scrimped and saved whatever pennies they could, Mamma venturing to the store every day to get me a bottle of fresh, cold milk to have with my supper. And though it did wonders for my constitution, it didn't make my legs stronger.

I thought of Papà, and how he'd always been so eager to make a better life for Mamma and Luca and me. When he decided to move our family to America, he had promised us all the delicacies we were too poor to afford in Napoli.

"Papà said there would be milk and honey everywhere here," I said, looking down at my plate. I realized, speaking to Santana, how foolish we all had been to have followed such rumors halfway across the world. "I suppose I was a naive to believe such a thing."

Santana had finished chewing, but she didn't take another bite. Instead, she set down her food and looked at me for a moment.

"I don't think it's foolish to hope for a better life. I pray for a better life every day."

I looked up, wondering what more Santana wanted for. I knew she wasn't rich beyond measure, but she had more comforts and securities than anyone I knew. The milk she'd retrieved from above was cold, which meant she had a refrigerator, something Mamma dreamed about the same way I had once dreamed of having a sewing machine.

But I knew very little about Santana's life outside the laundry.

"Some nights as I fall asleep I fantasize about running away to somewhere where no one knows me."

"A fresh start," I said, nodding. "That's why we came here."

Santana nodded. "It's not a foolish thing to want."

Less embarrassed at Santana's understanding, I took another bite. But Santana sat still, looking at me in a curious way.

"Perhaps the milk and honey isn't quite what you expected," she offered. "But I do hope you've found things here that are new and good."

Then she ducked her head and took a bite of her food, stuffing her mouth to fill whatever silence remained.

I knew she was asking of my affection for her. I thought it had been clear about how I was never keen to leave at the end of the day, how I had been so delighted with each new task she gave me, and most of all, the way I clung to her lips whenever she offered them to me.

But perhaps her interpretation of my behavior was different; perhaps she thought I was never keen to go home because the streets frightened me, and that I was delighted with each task she presented me because it meant further employment and more money to bring home to Mamma and Luca, or that I responded to her lips because I was an obedient and obliging employee. Seeing her timid expression of hope, I knew I had to make myself more clear.

"I have indeed."

I gazed at her, hoping she would look up and meet my eyes and know without a doubt what I was speaking of. But she didn't. Her skittishness rendered her immersed in her food.

So I placed my hand on the side of her leg and said, "The Bowery may be a coarse part of the city, but it has its hidden delights."

A smile wavered across Santana's face and I knew she had received my message as I had meant it.

"Have you been to the nickelodeon yet?" she asked.

I shook my head. I knew what she was speaking of: the small theater with the calliope music wafting down the street from its doors. I had seen school children and young men and women come and go from it, but given the prevalence of pickpockets in the neighborhood, I made a point never to carry money unless I was going to a shop or walking home from work. Besides, I couldn't justify spending money on something so trivial when we didn't know when Papà would find us.

"That's a delight of the neighborhood," she said. Then, looking down at my plate, she said, "Finish your food and we'll go."

I was startled at her suggestion; we'd never ventured out of the shop together, nor had we ever spent time occupied with anything but sewing and tidying.

And now l wasn't sure she had understood what I meant when I had said the Bowery had its hidden delights; no nickelodeon could compare to the joy and novelty that was Santana.

Once we had finished our meal and Santana had stashed our plates under the front counter - I had to be sure to remind her to clear them later, lest the bugs come and start inhabiting the laundry - she took a few coins out of the cash register and gestured toward the door. I was hesitant. While I was delighted to venture out with the safeguard of another person's company, I had never walked any distance in Santana's company. She had never seen the true impact of my gait, as the confines of the shop had apparently concealed it for days. And what if the boys who taunted me were to spot us and Santana were to hear the coarse things they said to me? Surely her presence would magnify my shame.

But I couldn't let my fear prevent me from partaking in Santana's abundant generosity. And I was curious about the nickelodeon; what was inside that captivated people so? What hidden delights would I discover?

And so we ventured out into the muddy fray.

Santana walked cautiously beside me, unsure what pace I'd be able to keep. I walked as best I could, looking straight ahead as though we both had normal legs and had ventured out many times together. And while I felt some of the constant shame I had about my legs with her looking on for the first time as I walked down the sidewalk with her, I also felt a determination to show her that I didn't let my shortcomings stop me from doing things I wanted to do. If I could demonstrate perseverance, perhaps she would be distracted from my disability.

Perhaps because it was natural to do so, or perhaps to assure herself everything was alright, Santana began talking.

"I've lived on this street most of my life," she said. "Not much has changed."

"Oh?" I asked, encouraged by the conversational tone of her musing.

"The faces change," she said, as though it were the exception to her statement. "Many people who came here looking for milk and honey return home when they don't find the form they were looking for."

I thought of the return ticket that had pressed against my breast for the whole voyage from Napoli, and how, in recent weeks, it had become less of a threat and more of a possible relief. Returning to Napoli, where the heat and noise couldn't find me and the streets were more familiar and kind, was a thought I sometimes entertained when I wasn't in Santana's company.

"Sometimes I wish I had a home to return to," Santana said, sounding sad for a moment. "But I've only ever known the Bowery."

I took her hand to reassure her the same way I'd reassured Mamma the night before. I squeezed and said, "Until a few weeks ago I'd only ever known my neighborhood in Napoli."

Santana nodded, squeezing my hand back before she let go so I could use my arms to help me balance as I walked. "I suppose another time and place wouldn't necessarily be kinder."

I gave her a sad smile of agreement, thinking of the way Papà had made it sound as though all our troubles would be over when we got to New York. He had hung his every hope on it. But knowing what I knew of New York now, I wondered if perhaps his fantasy had been more of running away and less of the destination we were running too.

"It's nice to dream, though," I said. "Even if the dream ends up a disappointment."

Santana walked quietly next to me for a few moments, as though deep in thought. As we rounded a corner, we spotted a mangy dog rummaging through a pile of trash for food. The neighborhood had several such dogs, and while their skeletal frames and the fleas that clung to them were unsightly, I supposed they did a service of consuming some of the trash thrown out on the streets.

I knew Santana saw the dog too, and I almost heard her whimper in pity for the starved animal. The dog was indeed a sorry sight. I could tell from her sagging underbelly that she had birthed at least one litter. Yet none of her puppies were anywhere to be seen. I hoped they hadn't suffered like she did.

As soon as we had passed the dog, Santana asked, "Does your family have enough to eat?"

I felt an odd combination of relief and shame at her question. On the one hand, she cared enough to ask. But on the other, she knew my family was not so far from the likes of the dog we had just passed. While we'd never had to resort to rummaging through trash or sleeping in the streets, there had been hard times in Napoli when we'd had to ration our food in such a way that my belly ached for more.

"We do now," I assured her. "Thanks in part to your generosity."

Santana walked on, biting her lip.

Before she could relay her thoughts, I heard the sound of the nickelodeon grow louder over the racket of the street. As we approached, Santana's pensive expression gave way to one of delight. She took my hand and led me to the entrance, taking care not to pull me faster than my legs could walk.

The nickelodeon was louder and brighter than I remembered from when I'd passed by it once before while attempting to locate a butcher. Santana paid our admission, and I felt as though I ought to be paying my own way, even if we were visiting during my usual working hours. But Santana seemed happy to be introducing me to the nickelodeon. Perhaps if I had any extra material from what she'd purchased for her dress I could make her a nice set of napkins on my own time as thanks.

We walked inside, leaving the bright light of early August behind us. The noise grew louder as we drew toward the source: a calliope.

The music coming from the calliope hopped and whined at an insufferable volume, such that I wanted to cover my ears as we approached it. Santana seemed to think nothing of it, though she stopped when she realized I had never seen a calliope up close.

As I examined it, I noted that the keys were moving without being pressed, as though it were bewitched or being played by an unholy ghost. I gasped and stepped back, but Santana put her hand on my arm. "There are parts inside that make it move," she said. "Gears just like inside your sewing machine."

If I had been less taken aback by the bewitched machine, I might have paused to correct her attribution of the sewing machine to me rather than her. But as it was, I was too intent to figure out how such a machine could work without a human at least pumping a treadle or cranking a handle.

"It's wound up here," she said, pointing to a handle on the side. "And then it runs for some time on its own. Like a clock or pocket watch."

Relieved, I nodded. I had never held a pocket watch, nor did my family own a clock, but I understood that they were not the product of evil sorcery or dwelling places of unholy ghosts. Still, the noise the calliope made was so loud, it frightened me.

Santana led me further inside, to a room that contained several strange boxes with people stooped over them, peering into eyepieces that rested on top. Santana led me to one, gesturing me to lean over and look inside. I did, and saw illuminated before me, a drawing of a man on a bicycle. But then, Santana leaned over and cranked a handle, and the man came to life, pumping his legs on the pedals, making the wheels spin. The picture moved as though it had been bewitched in the most delightful way. I leapt back and let out a noise of delight. But I quickly leaned back down, transfixed with the image before me. How had the picture come to move? Given that men had figured out how to make calliopes play alone and how to make a machine of iron and wood sew seams finer than any sewn by a person's hand, I knew it was possible, but I had no idea how. Santana smiled at my delight and continued turning the handle on the machine for some time until I realized there were many machines around the room with other images. Santana indulged my fascination as I watched a runner jump over hurdles, a horse running along a track, and a couple waltz through the air inside more of the curious boxes. I was so delighted with the images before me, I was surprised when Santana ushered me away from the image of a dog leaping into the air.

As a stream of people came out from behind a set of doors, I realized that a showing had just finished and that Santana and I were to see one of the moving pictures Luca had told me about.

Inside there were rows of fancy chairs covered in velvet. The seats were worn, and as I looked around at the gold paint and peeling ceiling, it seemed as though the building needed a bit of cleaning and touching up. But it was still a fine room, and the music was lively and excited me. Santana led me to seats directly in front of a large velvet curtain, and I sat down, eager to see what was so intriguing about the nickelodeon.

After more people came to sit down, the lights in the room were extinguished and we were in total blackness for a moment until a strange, square, gray light shone on the red curtains. It was glaring, but the curtains opened quickly as a crackling sounded throughout the room. As music started, the grey light flickered and wavered, then came to life as English words flashed on the screen, wobbling against the screen onto which they were project.

Santana leaned into me and whispered, "It says The Face on the Barroom Floor."

I nodded, grateful for her translation. It hadn't occurred to me that there would be words in the picture, and that they would be in English. More words appeared, and she translated them too.

Then the light faded before coming to life again, this time with a wavering, flickering picture not unlike the ones in the boxes I'd just been peering into. But these pictures weren't drawn, they were real photographs of real people! They moved just as the drawings had. And although little spots and flecks of light dotted the screen from time to time, and although there were of course no colors, it seemed as though I was peering through a window into a real bar, where men stood drinking along the counter.

"That's Charlie Chaplin," Santana said in an excited whisper. "He's in many nickelodeons. I love when he plays the tramp." She giggled, and I looked at her face, noticing how excited she was to be at the pictures.

I watched in fascination as a tramp spun stories to the men at the bar. Then, without warning, we were transported to his painting studio where he was painting a wealthy gentleman. Scene after scene played out, with the tramp growing more outlandish and sad as the tale wove on. When there were English words, Santana would lean over and whisper to me what they read. My ear would tickle with her warm breath, and though the picture before me was captivating, I found Santana's presence occupied my attention more. People laughed around us, and when I took moments to look at Santana, I saw in the light of the screen that her face was split in a smile, her chest trembling with laughter. And while the tramp was entertaining, and I'd never seen anything like it before, her face captivated me like no moving picture ever could.

Santana's hidden delight may have been the nickelodeon, but mine was Santana.

When the film finished and the music stopped crackling and the lights came back on, Santana looked at me expectantly.

"Did you like it?"

"Very much," I said.

Then she stood, helping me to my feet so we could walk out of the theater. As we passed the machines with the moving pictures, she asked if I wanted to look again, but I shook my head. In truth, the film had been so loud and so much to take in, I was overwhelmed. As we passed the calliope, I was glad we were heading out to the streets where at least I could see the sun. Shortly, we were back at the laundry.

Before we stepped inside, I realized I'd forgotten to thank her for paying my fare. "Thank you," I mumbled. "That truly was delightful."

"We should go often," Santana said as she unlocked the door. "They're not long, and it was nice to have someone to sit with."

She let out a nervous laugh, and I felt sad for her. There was no reason for her not to have friends. Her legs were normal, and she was kind to everyone.

"I'd like that," I said. "So long as I can still finish my work."

Santana nodded again, shutting the door behind me. She stowed her keys under the counter, and I remembered that she'd stashed our plates there in our rush to get to the nickelodeon.

"Don't forget our plates," I said. "I wouldn't want bugs to come."

Santana took the plates out from under the counter.

"I have to go upstairs for a bit, but when I come back down we can sew together."

"Do you want me to help with the plates?" I offered, seeing her try to balance the cups on the two plates.

"No, no," she said. "I can manage."

I nodded and watched her disappear behind the tapestry that contained the stairs before going back to my sewing nook.

I sewed for some time, finishing the bodice of the undertunic. Above me I heard footsteps and muted words, not nothing more. The shop was quiet and the fabric did as I wanted it to.

When Santana came back downstairs, she seemed as though all the joy she'd been filled with in the nickelodeon had been drained. She sat down next to me, heavy on the crate, and leaned onto my shoulder with new heaviness. I knew, without her telling me, that Santana needed as much strength as Mamma and I needed.

So rather than start to sew, I turned to her, taking her hands in mine as I had with Mamma the night before.

"I keep you in my prayers always," I said.

Santana smiled.

"And I keep you in mine," she replied.

There was a moment of quiet before she admitted, "Sometimes I feel my prayers aren't enough, though. Like I have to do more than pray to be deserving of God's love."

I nodded, understanding somewhat, but mostly to encourage Santana to keep speaking.

"I find that charity makes me feel closer to God than prayer." Her eyes darted around and then back to me, nervous to see how I'd respond to her admission that she didn't rely on prayer alone.

I wanted to reassure her that I didn't think her unfaithful. "When I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a nun," I said, remembering my conversation with Father Manzi. "It seemed the only way to be fully protected."

Santana nodded. "We're to be servants of God even if we don't commit ourselves to a convent. Sometimes..." Her eyes darted around nervously, as though she wanted to finish her thought out loud. "Sometimes I feel people forget to keep God in their actions in addition to their prayers."

And in that moment I knew that Santana was just as God-loving and salvation-seeking as anyone that passed through the Cathedral doors with consistency. I knew many who, despite regular attendance at Mass, forgot to treat others as though they were children of God.

Santana suddenly seemed full of wisdom and virtue. I felt, by being close to her, that I was closer to God.

"What kind of charity do you do?" I asked. I wanted to know as much about the work Santana did for the Lord as I wanted to know anything else about her.

"Nothing formal," Santana said. "I pay my employees well and make sure they are fed. I don't fault them absences for their health or to care for an ill family member. God would surely want me to have basic compassion."

I nodded, my heart warming at the knowledge that Santana cared deeply for not only me and Mamma and Luca, but also for the Hebrews with whom she had had but a few words in common. She was charitable even to those who worshipped a different god than the one we knew to be true.

"I always feel I should do more," Santana said. "Especially since I'm not consistent with attending Mass."

"Soon you'll have a beautiful dress to wear," I said, hoping to encourage her.

Santana bit her lip and looked away. "I meant greater charity work."

I nodded, wondering what else a laundress without endless money could do to help those in need.

Suddenly, I recalled the young mother who lived below me and Mamma and Luca and her frantic questions about her husband and her fear she would run out of bread. In my mind I saw the creases setting into the corners of her eyes and the line etched across her forehead, though she was but a few years older than me.

"There's a woman in my building in need of help," I said.

I was hesitant to assume Santana would offer her charity without at least a day's work in exchange. Santana's eyes met mine and I couldn't read her expression. But the image of the fear on the young mother's face urged me to continue.

"She has four children, all of them small. Her husband disappeared a few days ago and she has no income. She said she was almost out of bread."

Santana's face shifted into a look of pained worry. She didn't ask about the woman's husband, no doubt because it was all too common an occurrence in the Bowery.

"We should help her," Santana said.

Eager to relieve any bit of the woman's suffering, I nodded, though I didn't know what Santana had in mind.

"She didn't accept my offer when I told her Mamma and I would be happy to share our bread."

"Some people have difficulty accepting charity, I suppose," Santana said.

We sat quietly for a moment and I didn't know what to say.

Then, as though she'd decided on the right course of action, Santana stood. She stepped away from the sewing nook and I heard her rummaging through something in a dark corner of the laundry. Then she reappeared, a large basket hooked over her arm. "Perhaps the solution is to not give her a choice," she said. "Let's deliver a basket of bread and eggs and other supplies to her door and leave before she answers."

Grinning at Santana's determined generosity, I stood, willing to follow on whatever charitable mission Santana had in mind.

Before we reached the front of the laundry, Santana stopped. "I have some clothing that no one has claimed in quite a long time," she said. "I've been meaning to donate it to the church, but perhaps I could give some of it to...?"

"Teresa," I said.

Santana set the basket on the counter and disappeared into the back of the laundry.

"Do you know her measurements?" she asked.

"She's about my size," I said. "A bit wider in the hips."

Santana was quiet and a few minutes later she emerged with a well-kept shirtwaist, an apron, a pair of bloomers, and a pair of shoes. They weren't made of the finest materials or without evidence of wear, but they would no doubt be welcome to a woman who feared she would soon have nothing.

Then, as though thinking of something else, Santana asked, "How old are her children?"

I wasn't certain. The bambini below us seemed more of a collective of noise rather than individual people. But I'd glimpsed a boy about four, twin girls around two, and an infant always on the mother's hip. I told Santana as much, and she disappeared into the back of the laundry, only to emerge with the small pair of trousers she'd had me mend a few days earlier.

"Those were left here some time ago?" I asked.

Santana nodded, then realized she'd had me repair them. "I figured - figured it would be poor form to give them to charity without patching them."

And though her reasoning made sense, I couldn't help but wonder, with a pleasant suspicion, if Santana had looked for things for me to mend in an effort to sustain my employment and companionship.

Santana and I ventured out of the laundry for the second time that day, armed with the basket on Santana's arm.

"Which way is your apartment?" she asked.

I hadn't realized that Santana would see my building when we brought food and supplies to Teresa and her children. I was suddenly ashamed; she would see the squalor I lived in, the peeling wallpaper in the dingy halls, the rickety stairs, and smell the foul odor of the toilets. She would realize just how poor I was, and perhaps afterwards she would think less of me.

But I couldn't let my pride get in the way of helping Teresa and her children. I pointed down the street toward my building and tried to walk at a pace that wasn't awkward. When we came to the grocery, Santana ducked inside, surveying the products. Then, with no prompting from me, she began to fill her basket with beans, potatoes, apples, a sack of flour, a jar of Karo syrup, and a bar of soap. Then she went to counter and asked for a dozen eggs and a bottle of milk.

My heart soared at the image of Teresa's small children each getting a belly full of milk before they went to sleep. They were so small and didn't deserve to feel hungry at night because their father was a crumb. I wanted to draw her to me and kiss her for being so wonderful and generous to strangers.

She paid, her arms straining under the weight of her generous offering meant for people she'd never met. I would have offered to carry it if I hadn't been worried about dropping it and scattering the contents across the street, breaking the eggs and spilling the milk. Instead I walked next to her as we approached the tenement.

When we reached the door, she stopped and asked, "What floor is her apartment?"

"The second," I said. She looked up, studying the windows.

"You don't have to go inside," I mumbled, hoping she wouldn't.

Santana looked at me, and then at the basket, then around us at the street.

"I was thinking I could leave it outside her door, knock, and then dash down the stairs so she doesn't see who it was. That way she can't refuse it."

Knowing Santana's plan was a good one, and knowing I wouldn't be able to dash down the stairs quick enough, I swallowed and nodded. Then I opened the door and led her into the lightless entryway, holding the door so it wouldn't slam and to let in as much light as possible.

Santana seemed taken aback at the squalor of the hallway. It was so dim and musty and unmaintained, she grew wary, clutching the basket closer to her. But she stepped forward, determined.

"Which door?" she whispered, looking above to where she could see two doors at the top of the stairs.

"The one right above us," I whispered back, knowing she couldn't see it from our place in the hall. "Number seven."

Santana nodded and ventured up the stairs cautiously, though with determination. Above us, I could hear Teresa scolding one of her children. When Santana reached the landing, she tiptoed across the creaking floor until I couldn't see her. There was quiet for a moment before I heard her knock loudly on the door three times before her shoes clattered across the floor and she appeared on the landing again before dashing down the stairs and toward me with a triumphant smile on her face.

"Quick, before she sees us!" Santana whispered as we heard the door of Teresa's apartment open.

I imagined Teresa's fearful eyes falling on the basket of food on her doorstep and felt my chest soar. Santana pulled me out the door before Teresa could grow curious and walk to where she could see us from the landing. Santana shut the door behind us, but her urgency didn't fade as she ushered me down the street, away from where Teresa could see us out the window if she peered down from her parlor.

Once we were far enough away that Santana didn't seem eager to move quickly, a kind of peace settled over us that felt just like the peace I'd felt in the cathedral in Napoli. Knowing there was good in Santana that extended beyond her generosity to me and to the other women in her employ was comforting.

When we returned to the laundry, I turned to Santana, taking her hand in mind.

"Do you feel closer to God?" I asked.

A serene smile graced Santana's face and she stepped closer to me, squeezing my hand. "I do."

I smiled back. "Me too."

And because it felt as earnest an act as prayer, I took Santana's hand and led her behind the curtain and placed a soft kiss on her lips. I didn't trust my words to convey the affection and reverence I had for her. So I pressed my gratitude into her mouth with mine, letting the soft slip of our lips fill me with joy. When I felt her smile against me, I knew she was joyful too. Soon our joy mounted into need, and I felt the same thirst that had frightened me overtake me. I pulled away, asking if Santana wanted to sew some more. She nodded and followed me into the sewing nook.

For the rest of the afternoon, Santana and I worked on her dress at the machine. A few customers came in for their wash, and Santana was less anxious than usual, even complimenting a woman on the color of her dress. When the bells tolled seven, we tied off a seam and kissed for a moment in the safety of the sewing nook, pressing peace and sweetness into our lips to last us through the night.