Free Sofia's Tune by Cindy Thomson Page A

if I am late to work.”
    She nodded. “Your papà has paid me for the week. Signor Russo appreciates that so long as I work as a nurse.” She lowered her gaze. “And not a healer.”
    As soon as Sofia shut the door, she noted Father Lucci and Papà in the sitting room. Joey stood looking out the window.
    “I must be going now.” The Father smiled tight-lipped. He turned to Papà. “I think it’s best. At least for a while. Perhaps later, Giuseppe, when Angelina is stronger, she will confront her sorrow.”
    Sofia raised her right hand to speak, aware of the chill creeping into her knuckles. “Won’t you stay for coffee, Father? It is nearly ready now.”
    He dipped his chin. “Thank you, Sofia. You are very kind. I have to return to my duties. There are confessions to be heard.”
    Papà saw him out. When he’d closed the door, he turned slowly to look at her.
    She could not wait for him to explain what they had discussed. “What did he mean, Papà? What is best? You are not sending Mamma away, are you? I know you paid Signora Russo to come—”
    He held up his hand. “You talk too much, Sofia. Bring me some coffee. Since you’ve already used most of what we have, and what I pay Signora Russo will mean we cannot buy more, I might as well drink it now.”
    As she stood stirring canned milk into a cup of the dark brew, a feeling of dread came over her. She worried Mamma might never get well. The priest had probably suggested Papà tell Sofia what she had done so long ago that had resulted in her twin’s death—unlocking forgotten memories. The truth was probably painful for Papà. As Father Lucci said, folks do not like to talk about sorrows. Papà would need the strong brew to work up the courage to tell her.
    When she brought Papà his cup, he set it aside. “The Father thinks it best if you don’t live here, Sofia.”
    “No,” Joey said. “Sofia belongs here with her family.”
    Papà held up his palm to silence his youngest son.
    Her knees refused to hold her up. She dropped to the sofa. “What do you mean? You are putting me out?”
    Her father rubbed his gnarled fingers over his face. “Of course not. You are my daughter. But, Sofia, you must see how you upset Mamma.”
    “It is not her fault,” Joey said, pounding his fists together. “She should not be made to pay.”
    Papà did not look at him. “This is not your concern, Joseph.”
    “ Mia famiglia is my concern, Papà.”
    “Silence!” Her father’s stern rebuke ended her brother’s protest. Joey stomped out the door.
    “But why, Papà? Won’t you tell me what I’ve done? I’ll go to confession right now.” Tears choked her voice.
    He wagged his head and stared at the crucifix on the wall. “None of us know why this has happened, Sofia. It is best if Mamma puts this out of her mind as soon as possible. I will find you a boarding house.” He grunted. “It will cost money. The healer costs me money. Uffa , what will we do?” He gazed at the ceiling, obviously more upset over that than the state of her mother’s mind and the living arrangements for his daughter. “But if we are to keep Mamma here, it is the best way. You will see.” He grabbed the newspaper from the table by his chair.
    It was decided then.
    Sofia glanced at the date on the back of the page Papà held in front of his face. Her birthday. No one had even mentioned it.
     

Chapter 7
    Antonio rose early on Sunday, for once not minding that he hadn’t had work the night before. The Roman Athenaeum had hired him on the spot to play for a performance lasting all next week, maybe even longer, if it went well. It seemed his crazy improvisation the other night had appealed not only to the singers he’d played for, but also to the manager of The Roman who had been at The Fourteenth as a paying customer. Why the man would spend his money on that vaudeville show Antonio didn’t know, but he was grateful he had.
    He had put off returning to The Bend. Today he was