The Queen of the Big Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

impatiently.
    “Sorry,” I tell her, picking up my pace. Assunta is particularly peevish because she doesn’t want to go to work. She’d rather come from a family that could provide a proper dowry. “Wish we could take the trolley.”
    Assunta stops, turns, and looks at me. “All you do is dream. Get your head out of the clouds. We can’t afford the trolley and we never will. Wishing doesn’t help the situation.”
    “Sorry.”
    “And stop saying you’re sorry. You say it so much I know you don’t mean it.”
    I stay quiet and follow Assunta the rest of the way. “This is Division Street,” she says matter-of-factly. “It separates Roseto from Bangor. People in Bangor don’t like the Italians, so don’t talk to them. You’ll soon understand who the Johnny Bulls are.”
    Papa explained to us about the Johnny Bulls; they’re Welsh businessmen who came over from England, bought up the slate quarries, and hired Italians at a pittance to work in them. Last year, when the rain ruined our corn, Papa worked all summer in the quarry. Usually, though, Papa takes extra work in the winter, when there are only the cows and horse to tend to. It’s backbreaking work, and two of our cousins have died in the quarry. Most miners die from falls into the pit or injuries they get when dynamiting the slate walls. “Will there be Johnny Bulls in school?” I ask.
    “Probably. Just be aware. Don’t pay them any mind.”
    Assunta never seemed concerned about my safety before, so her tone surprises me. Maybe there is a little patch of pink velvet on her black heart, maybe she isn’t all bad.
    Garibaldi Avenue springs to life as the sun peeks over the Blue Mountains. As we walk down the wide avenue and pass the houses, I hear children laughing and talking while their mothers cook breakfast. Lights twinkle in front windows. I can see inside most houses and their well-appointed front rooms. We just got electricity at the farm, but in town, they’ve had it for almost ten years. We still have an outhouse, but here they have indoor bathrooms.
    I wonder what it would be like to take a bath in a deep white enamel tub where the water tumbles out of the spigot without having to pump it or carry it from the springhouse. Imagine not bathing in the old tin tub set in the middle of the kitchen near the stove where it is warm. Imagine soap shaped like roses instead of the slab of lye we use. Imagine taking a bath in a room with the door closed! Imagine fluffy towels like they advertise in the Sears catalog instead of big squares of flannel Mama hemmed by hand. Imagine having your ownbathwater that you haven’t shared with your sisters! It must be heavenly to have your own batch of hot water.
    Assunta stops in front of Marcella’s bakery. “Wait here,” she tells me. She goes inside. I look at a wedding cake in the window, a series of perfect round layers stacked on top of one another, separated by Greek columns of spun sugar. The cake is covered in white butter-cream frosting. Whimsical marzipan cherubs dance up the sides. At the very top are a tiny bride and groom; their ceramic hands hold a lace heart between them. I study the cake and memorize every detail, from the silver lace doily on the pedestal that holds it, to the rococo ruffle edges of tinted lavender frosting that support the cherubs as they climb up the cake. I hear the bells on the door as Assunta pushes it open.
    “Here.” She hands me a small box. “Papa wanted you to have a cream puff with your lunch.”
    “Thank you,” I say as I tuck it carefully into my lunch pail. Dear Papa. He wants me to have a special first day of school, and I feel bad because there must not have been enough money to buy Assunta a cream puff on her first day of work. “Look at the cake,” I say. “You and Alessandro should have one just like it!”
    Assunta smiles. “Maybe we will.”
    My sister walks me to the front door of the Columbus School, a large, square brick building that sits