"Don't run off," said the woman. She picked up two more pastries and handed us each one. "If your family joins, then when someone gets sick, we'll help out. And when someone dies, we'll pay the funeral costs. Tell your mother that."

"I will," said Gaetano.

"Or, better, let me tell her." A little girl yanked on the woman's skirt. The woman picked her up without turning her eyes from us. "Where do you live?" One hand caressed the little girl's head. Mamma used to do that to me all the time. "I can bring your mother soup," said the woman, her hand on the child's cheek.

"We have to go." Gaetano put down his cup and took my hand. "We're late."

"See you next week," said the woman.

Gaetano pulled me outside and we ate our pastries. "Next week I'll go to a different one."

"A different what?" I asked, forcing away the picture of the woman's hand on the child's cheek. "Are there always parties after church?"

"It's not a party-it's a meeting of a mutual aid society. There are lots of them around here. Don't they have them in the Bronx?"

I shrugged. "What dialect were you talking with her?"

"Milanese. It's from the north of Italy."

"Do you speak every Italian dialect?" I asked.

"Nah. Only the useful ones. To tell the truth, I hardly speak Milanese at all. Just enough to keep out of trouble for sneaking in."

"Why don't you go to a mutual aid society for people from Napoli?"

Gaetano laughed. "There aren't any. It costs fifty cents a month to be a member. None of the southern Italians can afford that. And the northerners wouldn't let us join theirs anyway, even if we had the money."

"Why not?"

"They look down on us. And we don't care. Who needs them? Look. It's like this, Dom. You're Napoletano. I'm Napoletano. We're our own group. We stick together. But the next best guy is someone from the south-except for Sicilia. Don't ever trust a Siciliano. But the Calabresi aren't too bad. There's lots of them on Mulberry Street. And the ones from Basilicata-they're dirt poor and they know nothing, but they're okay. And then, after that, there's northern Italians. The Piemontesi and Lombardi. They live west of Broadway."

"Then who?"

"No one. After the Italians, there's no one you can trust."

"What else do these societies do beside help with funerals and take care of the sick?"

"Sometimes they get jobs for people. And if they can't find anything in New York, they'll pay your fare to the coal mines in Pennsylvania or West Virginia. Or, if you want to go farther, Colorado, or Wyoming, or Montana. But then you have to work with Slavs and Welshmen. Still, the mines will always hire Italians first."

Tonino had a job in a coal mine. He must be off in one of those places. "That's what you should do when you're older, Gaetano, start a mutual aid society for southern Italians, not some stupid bank."

"People who run mutual aid societies don't get rich. Bankers get rich."

Everything he said came out like the gospel of that priest-like a truth no one could argue with. "How do you know everything, Gaetano?"

"I pay attention."

"No one pays attention that well," I said.

He grinned. "They would if they got paid for it."

"You get paid for paying attention?"

"I see something someone would want to know-I hear something someone would want to know-and I sell the information." Gaetano sat down on the steps of a building and stretched his legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He leaned his elbows back on a higher step.

"How can you figure out what someone would want to know?"

"People need information. All kinds of information. They pay me for the craziest things. You wouldn't believe it. And don't get any ideas about sticking around here andstealing my job. You'd never survive. You don't understand anything you see."

"Sticking around here is the last thing I want to do." I sat beside him. Gaetano really did understand everything he saw. People wouldn't pay him for information if he couldn't be trusted. "Want another job, Gaetano?"

"Who's offering? You? You've got nothing to pay with."

It killed me to say it-but what else did I have? "My shoes."

Gaetano sat up. "What's the job?"

"Get me onto the ship that's down at the wharves. The Bolivia."

"You want to go on a ship? Where?"

"Napoli."

Gaetano stared at me. Then he gasped. "You're not from the Bronx at all. You're fresh off the boat, aren't you? You're really lost." He slapped one fist into the other palm. "I should have known it."

"Why? How could you have known?"

He flushed. "If you had a mother, she'd have come storming down here by now." His temples pulsed. His jaw tightened.

"Is your mother really sick, like you told that woman?"

"That's none of your business."

"Do you have a mother?" I asked.

"Shut up. I mean it. Don't ever ask about my family."

I raised my hands in surrender, to calm him down. Then I leaned toward him. "Get me onto that ship and these shoes are yours."

"I don't go down to the wharves. You know that." Gae-tano shook his head at me now. "You're alone. You don'teven have a padrone. Now I get it. The way you act so much older than you are. That's all it takes-a few days alone, and you grow up just like that. What else could you do? I've seen it before. Kids like you, acting so big."

"You don't have to talk to anyone in English out there," I said. "Just come with me to the wharves-come and listen and watch. Figure out a way to get me on the ship. Please. I want to go home."

Gaetano looked away. I knew by now that that was what he did when he was trying to make up his mind. I squeezed my hands together.

He turned back to me. "I'm not promising a thing. But I'll see what I can find out. When's this ship sailing?"

"I don't know, but it's got to be soon."

"Meet you back here at suppertime." He got up and walked down Mulberry. "And don't follow me," he called over his shoulder.

So I went the other way, up Mulberry. No one talked to me. No one looked at me.

Mulberry ran into another street at an angle. If I kept going in the same general direction, there was no way I could get lost. The only thing I needed to know was where to angle off on the way back. I counted the number of streets I crossed. At the fifth corner, my street angled again. Well, okay, I could keep track of that. At the fifth corner, this street angled, too. That was easy to remember-five and five. I was at the edge of a park.

The street sign said PARK, with the little letters A-V- E in the upper right corner. I knew park. It was the one word of English I could read. And suddenly I made the connection-the Italian word parco and the English wordpark-they must mean the same thing. English wasn't such a hard language, after all.

Could this possibly be the same Park Street that ran into Chatham Square? Just in case it wasn't, I counted blocks again. I walked along looking around at the tall buildings, the passing carriages, the people. Stores were closed and shuttered, but I looked at the carvings in the stone over doorways and the huge, feathered hats that the ladies wore. Most of the women held on to the arm of a man. One woman strode by me with a frilly white blouse and a skirt with a wide waistband. Two rows of buttons ran down the front of her blouse. She wasn't pretty, but she caught the eye. Mamma would have been beautiful in those clothes.

I lost count of the blocks somewhere after twenty, because I looked up and my breath was taken away. A giant building loomed ahead. There were three levels of windows. I walked along one side counting the cupolas. Behind the building was a large train shed. Oh, it was a railway station.

I went inside. Men in white straw hats with black bands around the center and broad brims stood in groups. Some carried canes, though they weren't old. They wore ties and vests under their jackets and spoke English.

But then I saw men with curly black hair and mustaches and bow ties. They spoke Napoletano and they bought tickets to Bronxville. Eight cents for a twenty-minute ride. They complained about the high fare, but that was what it cost to visit the relatives on Sunday.

I went out to the train platforms. A gleaming steam engine pulled in. I watched people and trains for hours. When I got too hungry to stay still, I left, passing an areawhere they kept baggage. A penny to check your belongings overnight.

A penny for this, a penny for that. Life in New York was measured out in pennies.

It was hours yet till suppertime. So I let myself wander. After all, I could say "park" and anyone could point me back to the right road.

Within a couple of blocks I wound up on a broad street. I followed it a long way and came to the countryside. Look at that. Manhattan wasn't such a big place after all. I'd walked the whole length of it. Where there was country, there were farms-and where there were farms, there was food.

A family sprawled on tablecloths spread out on the grass, finishing a meal. The smell of strange spices hung in the air. Fancy food. And these people looked fancy-not at all like farmers. They wore their Sunday best.

I hid behind a tree and watched. A few children took handfuls of leftovers and ran toward a pond. Three huge waterbirds, white things with long necks, swam at the edge. They looked toward the children expectantly. One of them got out of the water and waddled up.

The children screamed and laughed and threw food at the birds. Perfectly good food.

I ran out and grabbed a handful. It looked like a pastry with something green in the middle. Spinach?

Honk! A big bird charged me, flapping giant wings. Honk honk honk! I clutched the food and ran. The bird ran faster. It bit the back of my pant leg, its huge bill clamping onto my flesh. I threw the pastry at it. The bird let go andswallowed it whole, then honked at me. But I was already running again. The bird went back to the water.

I watched from a safe distance. How could such beautiful birds be so nasty? I was sure they weren't as hungry as I was. They looked sleek and clean.

I was so dirty. And thirsty. That water looked pretty good. I circled the pond and went down to its edge farther up, far from the dangerous birds.

I drank and washed my face. Then I rolled up my pant legs and waded in. The bird had left two red marks on the back of my calf, but the skin wasn't broken.

My hair was clumped with filth, so I leaned forward and dunked my head and rubbed at my hair. It felt so good.

When I turned, a woman stood on the shore. She was from the family whose children had fed those birds. She waved and put a piece of paper on the ground with food on it. Then she walked away.

I waded out and grabbed the paper. I wolfed down a pastry: spinach with a sour white cheese. And there was eggplant with beef and a sauce. The sauce was white-oh, no. I licked it. It didn't taste like milk or cheese, so maybe it was white from flour. If that was so, the dish was kosher-no mixing of milk and meat. Should I risk it?

Chi nun risica nun roseca-He who doesn't risk, doesn't gain. One of Nonna's proverbs. But I'd never heard her say it about risking breaking kosher laws. Still ...

I nibbled. It was good. I ate all of it. Then there was a corner of sweet pastry with nuts and honey. What a feast. Not Italian food, but good food.

I wandered off to view the farms I expected to find pastthe next set of trees. There were only more trees, though, and more paths with more people. I came upon a throng of people. Out for a Sunday stroll in the sun. And here was a wide set of stairs with a big fountain and another pond. People took rides on little boats with awning tops. This wasn't the countryside at all. It was a colossal park. The atmosphere was like that at a saint festival; everyone was happy and talking and calling to their children. The women had parasols with lace at the edges. In Napoli rich women held them to keep the sun off their faces.

I could pick out English easily. But there were many other languages, too.

Bicyclists went past with white caps and numbers on their shirts. On another path, people rode by on horseback. How big was this park, anyway?

I went in a straight line until I hit a road on one side. Then I went in a straight line in the opposite direction until I hit a road on the other side. It was as far across this park as it was from my home in Napoli to the bottom of Via Toledo.

Now I walked along one edge to find out how long the park was north to south. But it was getting late and people were leaving, so I had to start back. I walked and walked and walked. It took more than an hour to get to the south end of the park. I ran. Stupid me. Gaetano would be waiting on the steps by now.

The street was empty of walkers and only the occasional carriage passed. I tried to flag one down. The driver yelled at me and sped up. The next one did the same.

I ran faster. I heard a train to my left. Good, that was where the depot was supposed to be. I ran a long way.

Then I turned and went two streets over. The streetlamps were lit now, and the sign said PARK. Everything was exactly how it was supposed to be, except that I was late. I couldn't run anymore. I was out of breath. And I got spooked by every shadow. The buildings were too tall here. Who knew what could jump out from between them, or fall from a window high up?

I walked in the street, at the edge so carriages wouldn't hit me. Finally, I came to the medium-size park and I ran by the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral to the mutual aid society.

It was night by now; what a fool I'd been to stay in the park so long.

No Gaetano.

I went to my barrel and slept.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Sandwiches.

On Monday the alley came alive with loud bangs long before dawn. I leapt out of my barrel and ran to the next street before I dared to look back. It was street cleaners, lugging trash out to a wagon and shouting in English. They took away the dead dog, and with it the stench that meant no one would come near my barrel.

Who cared, anyway? I was leaving on the Bolivia soon. Maybe that day.

Girls who were almost young ladies walked along the block toward me, arm in arm. They wore black skirts down to their ankles and white aprons and blouses with black bows at the neck. They had on black boots. I flattened myself against the wall as they passed, talking of someone named Maria Luisa, who had the good fortune to be getting married. Shewouldn't have to work anymore. Their voices were as-toundingly loud.

I looked around. No Gaetano. I might as well head for the wharf.

I got there in record time, running so hard I had to bend to wheeze on the last corner.

The Bolivia was gone.

Noooo. I ran into the nearest cafe. "What happened to the ship?" I asked.