Jake jumped to his feet. He tried to run but tripped over the long robe and landed with a thud on the carpet. The man stepped on the hem of the robe, pinning him to the floor.
Jake thought fast. priests have to forgive you if you sin. That's the rule. "Forgive me, Father," he whined.
The big man began to laugh. "You take me for a priest, do you?" He lifted his foot off the bottom of the robe. "Then you don't belong around here, or you'd know I'm just the sexton. But you better get yourself into your own clothes and clear out before the father shows up for early Mass." He prodded Jake with his toe. "I mean it." He looked at the scattered wafers on the floor and the half-empty carafe of wine. "Hurry. Dress yourself. I got me work cut out for me here."
Jake stood up and let the robe drop to the floor. The man ignored his nakedness and concentrated on picking up the mess the boy had made. Giuliano's clothes were still damp, but it couldn't be helped. Jake put them on though they were clammy and just the touch of them pained his back and legs. If the sexton had seen the marks on the boy's body, he didn't mention them, but he did say, "If you need something to eat, boy, go to the back door of the rectory. My wife is the cook here. She'll give you a bite."
Tempted as Jake was by the mention of food, he thought it better not to hang around. No need to press his luck. He mumbled his thanks to the sexton and made his way out into the sanctuary and down the aisle. Just before he got to the huge wooden doors, he remembered the box where people dropped coins for the needy. Well, who was needier than he? The lock was flimsy and easily broken. The box was filled mostly with pennies, but he scooped up all the money and loaded it into his pockets. At least he'd eat for a few days.
Joe Ettor Comes to Town
It was Saturday morning, but the streets were quiet. By now, Jake was sure, if people were going to work, they would be up and stirring, even though the winter sun had not yet fully risen. He passed a grocer's shop with a dim light glowing. Inside, someone was sweeping the floor. He thought about going in, just to get out of the cold, but he'd been in that shop before and the owner had chased him away for stealing fruit. Even though he now had pennies jangling in his pocket, and he was freezing in his damp clothes, he didn't go in. Better to try someplace where he wasn't known. He headed on down Haverhill Street, past the wide common, where he often slept in summer. It was covered with an inch or so of dirty snow this morning. There should be something open on Jackson Street.
He found a baker and tried the door. It was locked, but there was a clerk inside, arranging loaves on the counter. Jake banged on the door, and the girl looked up, annoyed. "Not open yet!" she called. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three pennies. Nobody in this town was ever closed if there was money to be made. Sure enough, as soon as she saw the money, she came over and unlocked the door.
He pushed past her into the store. It wasn't very warm, but it was dry and out of the wind.
The girl let out some expletive in a foreign language.
"What?" Jake asked roughly.
"You're wet and ... and..."
"Bloody?"
She looked frightened.
"I was in the strike yesterday. I got beat by a cop."
She shook her head sympathetically. "Come in the back where the oven is. It's warm."
She got a bun from under the counter. Jake's stomach rumbled at the sight of it, but he made himself wait. Sometimes, if you were patient...
She led him to a room filled with the sweet smell of bread baking and pulled a chair up to a huge brick oven. "Sit down," she said, handing him the bun. "Would you like some coffee, too?"
"I can pay."
"Later," she said.
Polish, he decided. Although he could usually spot an Italian—working, as he did, with so many of them, and the Irish looked like nobody else—he had a hard time telling the rest of these foreigners apart. He stood up to drink his coffee and eat his bun, turning around so his backside could dry as well as his front. He would have been perfectly satisfied, warm room, fresh bread, except he knew how badly stained his borrowed garments still were, despite his attempts in the church. The girl had been kind, and the baker himself only grunted in his direction and kept on with his work. But he couldn't very well ask for soap and water and someplace where he could strip naked and try once more to wash out the rusty stains.
Then he realized that if the police excuse had worked so well on a stranger, it was sure to work on Angelo and his friends, who expected nothing better of cops who would turn fire hoses on strikers in the freezing cold of winter.
Now warm and dry, he thanked the girl for her kindness and left the bakery. He didn't offer to pay for the bun and coffee, but she hadn't asked, had she? No need to waste his little cache of pennies.
The tenement where Angelo lived was just off union Street. Jake climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Angelo answered. "Hey, Jake!" he said. "Where you been?" He pulled him into the apartment.
"Hey, Giuliano," he yelled through to the kitchen. "Your clothes are back."
Giuliano circled Jake suspiciously. "What the hell you do to my nice shirt?"
"I—I got beat."
"Those blasted cops! Beating a kid," Angelo said. "Come on, boys, it's late. We gotta go stop them scabs." The men jumped up from the kitchen table. "You stay here, Jake. Wash up. Get some rest."
"And get that blood outa my good shirt!"
When the apartment was empty, Jake found his own clothes, now dry, and exchanged them for Giuliano's stained ones. Like most of the tenement apartments, this one had the bedrooms at the front and back of the house, and the kitchen in the center. The men, having no families to feed, had money for coal, so the kitchen was warm. Jake lay down on the floor, close to the iron stove, and fell asleep. Let the others strike and carry on. He would take care of himself.