We move to the town of Davidson. It is better, Mario says. New town. Bigger house. Mario works outside the mine. He does not go down in. It is because he plays the baseball. What an arm, says Senore Davidson.

There is a sign above the bridge in Davidson. Francesco reads it to me. American Coal Company. Man Hours Lost Due To Accident, 1909. Safety Is Our Motto. Beneath that, the numbers. They change the numbers every day. My babies go down in and I pray.

There is a priest in Davidson, a church. Our Lady of Victory. We live at Number Six. It is one mile to the church. I stop on my way to clean for Senore Davidson. My little baby Luigi is with me. Francesco, Antonio, Carmello go to school. I smell the incense in the church. It is like my mama’s scent. Our Lady of Victory. I light the candle every day. I leave the penny. I steal the penny from Mario.

At Easter we walk through the streets. My babies, their faces shine. We bear the relics, the bones, the blood, the images, all wrapped in gold. There are many priests; they wear red or white. They stop to sip wine. I go home and bake eggs in my bread, eggs whole in their shells.

Francesco comes home from the mines. He is so dirty. He bathes but his face is not clean. His eyes are dark all around, like the ones in the moving pictures. Here, bambino, I say. I dip the rag in turpentine and wipe the soft skin beneath his eyes. It burns, he says. He squeezes my hand.

Senore Davidson has hearths of marble. Like the big house my mama cleans in Palermo. Rosa, he says, you are my best maid. Better than in Philadelphia. He smiles. His face is round. His hair is gray, but his face is like a little boy.

He comes to see me here. Once.

He lives in Philadelphia sometimes. He lives here sometimes. His wife will not come. Dirty, she says. How can you stand these people? Come home. And he goes. But he comes back. I must run my business, he says. If I don’t look after my interests, who will? Eh, Rosa?

I wear my white chemise when I work for him. He stretches out his hand and touches the cutwork. So pretty, he says. Punto tagliato, I say. I do it myself.

Rosa, will you stitch the pillowcases? he says. Make them pretty.

The butterflies speak to me. Their mouths are very small, but still I hear them speak. Take care not to break the wings, they say. They sound like mama.

Mario plays the baseball. The grass smells sweet when it is cut. The ball runs through it like a snake. Home plate, they cry. Home plate.