“Signorina,” she said, “do you know anyone who will buy my marriage spread?”

Anna Giordani had raised her eyebrows in surprise and then glanced over at that bright image of some lost and beautiful world of fruits and flowers. “Why, yes, yes . . . yes, I might know someone. There is a Quaker lady I know, very refined and cultured, who has traveled to Italy and collects things of this rustic nature as well as fine things. She has bought shawls and embroideries and things of that kind from Italian immigrants over here. I think she will buy your spread. But why do you want to sell it?”

“To get out—to go to Cato.”

“Don’t you have anything else?” She knew what the spread meant to Umbertina; she also knew it was her duty to help Umbertina make this sacrifice in order to better her lot.

“Nothing,” said Umbertina. But then, perversely, she seemed to retract the offer. “Why would a lady want a spread such as mine, the spread of a poor woman?” she asked Anna. “She could buy better ones. This one was made for me by Nelda in my village.” The words rushed out harshly, in anger.

“It is very beautiful, signora,” said Anna. “It is all hand-done on hand-loomed fabric. You cannot find something like this in the cities, and no tourist goes to places like your village. This is a unique spread, an individual spread not made in batches for the shops.”

Umbertina felt a momentary shame at her attachment to the spread. Yes, it was hers, made only for her by Nelda, but if that was the price of their getting out, she would pay it. How could she say to Anna Giordani that she wanted her children’s health, the price of train tickets to Cato, and still be allowed to keep her spread? The poor could not have so much.

“Ah, America!” said Umbertina, taking the spread from the bed and folding it carefully, caressingly, passing her hands over its richness to smooth it and feel it, as if to impress forever into her memory the raised embroidery of its design. She gave the spread to Anna Giordani.

Later that night, lying sleepless in the stifling room listening to the baby’s whimper and the punctuating roar of the Elevated, she wondered about the woman who would buy the belongings of the poor. It seemed indecent—worse than the greed of Baron Mancuso, whose stomach all of Castagna had fed with its labor; worse than the indifference of Don Antonio and the bishop. For they had taken the work and obedience of the poor but never the things from a poor man’s home. What were Americans, she wondered, that they had so few feelings?

Umbertina forgot courtesy and gratitude as she voiced this to Anna Giordani, who came to bring her the money from the sale of the spread. “Come along, signora,” Anna had answered shortly, put out by the question, “you were lucky to have a buyer when you needed one. This is a place where you can buy and sell anything. You needed the money more than the spread and you simply made a trade. That is how you have to look at it.”