The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1)

by Ruggieri, Alicia G.

  Whereas, Gertrude…

  Charlie tossed more rubbish into the barrel, feeling the heat on his fingertips. Well, last night was a good example of the difference in the way Gertrude and Sarah treated him. Right after supper, Charlie had run down to that snug little cottage he’d fixed up for her. Gertrude had met him at the door – thrown the door open actually and pulled him inside. She’d smelled like fresh-cut roses; the scent lingered in her hair, washed over her petal-soft skin, wafted through her ready-made clothes. Her lips had met his, and he’d tasted mint on her mouth, covering up her cigarette habit. Now that was how a woman ought to prepare herself for her man!

  In that husky - some mistakenly called it hoarse - voice, she’d murmured right into his ear, “Here’s my handsome, hard-working man. I’ve been waiting for you, Chuckie.”

  Handsome. As if he was a young man of twenty again, vigorous with the spirit and good looks of youth. She’d captured him in an embrace, and he had no desire to resist her. “I can’t stay tonight,” he’d protested, weak as a toddler in her soft arms. She’d changed into a silky robe and had taken her hair down from its pinned-up style. “Sarah ain’t happy with me…”

  She’d laughed the way she might laugh at a silly, roly-poly puppy, and he’d stiffened, insulted. A man had his dignity, after all. But then she’d drawn herself against him again. She’d whispered, “Now, you just tell me, why Chuckie Picoletti minds what that old-woman-in-a-shoe thinks? Let her stew her life away in misery; it’s none of our concern.” She’d kissed his cheek, gentle as a spring breeze through the lilac bushes. “Come…”

  The very memory of Gertrude’s fingers – smooth and light as butter made from Bessie’s fresh milk – tracking through his hair made shivers run down Charlie’s arms now. He poked at the fire, anxious for it to burn down so that he could let his feet run over the field beyond the barn, out to the cottage at the back of his property.

  Grace swallowed hard, staring up at the night sky. She’d not glanced over the expanse from the house to the barn, but she knew Papa stood out there, tending to his barrel-fire. All during Grace’s growing-up years, Papa had burned a fire nearly every evening. When she’d been young, no more than five or six, she clasped Papa’s finger, big and meaty, in her whole hand, and he’d led her out into the yard to help him tend the burning trash and wood stuff.

  Standing here now on the back steps, Grace remembered what it had been like when she was a little girl, tiny and innocent, knowing hardly anything at all about Mama and Papa’s problems. Mama had cried from time-to-time, had peered out the curtains when the hour was late and Papa had not returned for supper, had whispered quietly in a worried voice with Aunt Mary at the kitchen table over coffee. But nothing that much disturbed the simple sweetness of a five-year-old’s natural trust in her papa or love for her mama. How Grace longed for those times back again now, nearly a decade later!

  In the darkness of nights like this, standing here on the back step, Grace recognized the real reason that nobody but Ben and Aunt Mary dared bring up the festering wounds so blatant to the rest of the world: Grace – and Mama and Nancy and Lou, even Evelyn – they were all afraid that voicing the terrible possibilities might award them breath and life. That acknowledging the ghosts might give them leave to walk the earth.

  But Grace found she could be silent no longer. Not with Mama beginning to swell with her seventh baby; not with a strange, permed woman living in the cottage beyond the barn; not with Ben running off after knocking Papa’s tooth out – so he said; Grace hadn’t seen the hole yet, and Ben sometimes exaggerated.

  Papa’s tooth aside, the questions burned in Grace’s heart, and she feared they’d consume her without her consent. Thus, here she stood on the back step, willing courage into her chest as she thought about approaching Papa, burning at his trash barrel.

  “Mary, Mother of Jesus, help me,” she begged aloud, barely moving her lips, afraid her papa would see and think her crazy for talking to herself. “Mary, Mother of sweet Jesus, answer my prayer.” Grace knew she would have better luck trying Mary than directing her prayer straight to God, like the Protestants did. Mary was, after all, a woman like Grace and hopefully would sympathize with her human weaknesses.

  “Bring my prayer before your Son, Mother of God,” she whispered. While Grace herself had no claim on the Son of God, surely Jesus would listen to His mother. “May it… may it all be alright,” she stammered, her tongue lame, then stopped, silent, trying to find the right words. Her heart and mind swarmed with so many thoughts that she couldn’t get a single one clear. “Help me,” she implored and hoped it would be enough. She was taking a chance, she knew, since she hadn’t gone to Confession since last week. But her prayer would have to do.

  Grace breathed deeply one more time and forced her feet down the steps. She kept her eyes on the dirt path through the prickly fall grass, not daring to raise them to see if her father saw her coming. The night air clamped coolly on her shoulders; she wished she’d worn a cardigan at least.

  But it was too late to turn back and retrieve one from inside the house now. Grace’s steps brought her right up to the burning barrel before she’d thought it possible.

  Papa glanced up, his dark eyes glowing amber from the firelight. He grunted, his way of greeting someone familiar, then gave his eyes back to the barrel’s contents.

  “Hi, Papa,” Grace swallowed. She found an ancient rotting log near the barrel and sat down, knowing her legs were ready to give way.

  Papa’s gaze shot up again, obviously surprised to see Grace sitting down, like she planned to stay awhile. He shifted his position, as if uncomfortable. “Milk the cow?” he finally said, probably as a way of finding something to talk about.

  “Yes, Papa,” Grace replied. She’d milked Bessie that afternoon, just before supper.

  “Fed her?” was the next question.

  “Yes, Papa,” Grace answered. “Bessie’s all set.”

  Papa grunted his approval, and silence fell again. But it was an uneasy silence, full of unexplained matters, brimming with questions that neither wanted to ask or answer. Grace perched there, feeling the cold wood underneath her goose-pimpled legs and the fire’s warmth brushing the front of her body. Heart so much afraid, she studied Papa beneath lowered eyelids.

  “Look,” Papa suddenly burst out, giving a vicious poke at the flames. Grace jumped. “I know Ben talked to you afore he left. Don’t know what he said, but it weren’t true. None of it.”

  Something lifted in Grace. Funny thing was, she recognized the falseness of Papa’s words, but, oh, they were so good to hear! They would be so nice to believe! She let herself play-act for a moment, buoyed up by what she knew was a phony hope. “Really, Papa?” she murmured. “None of it?” She raised her eyes to meet his, but he kept his own gaze on the fire.

  “Of course not,” Papa replied. “You’re fourteen, Grace, big enough to recognize a slur when you hear it.”

  Fourteen…

  And just like that, the breath pulsed out of her little cherished self-deceit. “I’m fifteen, Papa,” she stated quietly. “Turning sixteen in November.”

  “Of course you are. I know that…” Papa blushed red and blathered on, but Grace had stopped listening. She stared into the bright flames, waiting for the train of his words to chug to a halt.

  “Why did you bring that woman here, Papa?” The question came out baldly, ugly and harsh, even filtered through the soft autumn night.

  In the loud silence that ensued, Grace dared to glance up. Papa’s eyes fastened on her, expressionless. His long, blackened stick had frozen mid-poke; it, too, had been shocked by Grace’s audacity, by speaking out loud what no one else in the Picoletti household had dared.

  No. That wasn’t true. Ben had spoken it. Had hissed out his revulsion at his papa’s promiscuity and encouraged Mama to split the joint, dragging her kids with her. He’d spoken it, alright. And where was Ben now?

  Gone.

  Grace shuddered, then rub
bed her arms, pretending that the cold had made her shiver like that. She licked her lips, suddenly dry as a mitten left too long on the radiator, and dropped her eyes to the dirt.

  Silence. Grace counted out ten beats of her heart before letting her gaze flicker up again, timed to match the crack of moist wood in the barrel. Still Papa’s eyes lay on her, dark and burning cold. She opened her mouth, forcing out the lie. “I… I mean, why didn’t, uh, Gertrude-” Her tongue soured at the poisonous name. “Why didn’t she stay with Uncle Jack?” Hopefully, the question would tamp down Papa’s anger with Grace for meddling where she had no business. Her heart thudded painfully against her carved-out lungs.

  Papa stayed grim for just an instant longer, then relaxed. He turned his eyes away from Grace, and the stick began to thrash at the fire again. “Told you. She didn’t have no work. They’ve got too many mouths to feed over at Uncle Jack’s to keep her there with no pay.”

  Too many throats to pour beer down, more’s like. Grace’s thought surprised her. I’m thinking like Ben talks, she realized, with a little shame coloring her cheeks.

  Glad that the darkness shaded her face, Grace nodded her understanding. “She looking for work now?” Grace heard the question leap out of her mouth before she could stop it. She bit her bottom lip hard, wincing at the pain of the necessary action. That should stop her wayward tongue.

  Papa’s jaw pumped angrily, and his eyes flashed over to where Grace sat. She tried to look as innocent as possible while braving the aftermath of her query: slouched over her shoulders, hugged her knees with white-clenched hands. From experience, she knew that Papa’s mercy extended farther when his subject appeared submissive. “Mind your own business, Grace,” he finally barked, the ends of his words growling through the smoke. A moment more, then, “Dontcha have homework to do?”

  “Yeah, Papa. I got homework to do,” Grace replied, rising with shaking knees. Despite her fear, she let her gaze fall for a long moment on her papa, taking in his heavy but handsome jaw, the sweep of his golden hair, the deep-toned complexion that spoke of old Italian beaches and of long hours under a blistering Rhode Island sun.

  Drawing her eyes away, Grace started back to the house, feeling the fire’s heat fall from her body. She felt the moisture of sharp, unbidden tears but blinked hard to drive them back to where they belonged. Pity… and longing… and hurt… How can they all mix so in my heart? She shook her head, trying to make everything fall into place. I don’t know what to feel! Her feet quickened their pace, and Grace dashed into the house, past a surprised Mama, and clattered up the stairs, as if the devil himself nipped at her heels.

  Entering the dim bedroom, Grace shut the door, pressing her whole body against its old wood, comforted by the solidity. She remained there at the doorway for a good long while, waiting for her breathing to calm.

  Finally, Grace regained control. She moved away from the door and sat on the edge of her bed, tucking one leg underneath her. Nothing has happened that will change anything. Papa has… has had women before.

  Admitting what everyone knew brought an internal cringe but Grace forced herself to continue her quieting self-talk. The only difference is that this woman lives here with us now. Grace sighed. If the woman – Gertrude – kept to the cottage that Papa had prepared for her, well, then, Grace decided that she and the rest of the Picoletti kids – Mama, too – could cope. She couldn’t understand Papa, but maybe it wasn’t her business to do that.

  Clenching her jaw, Grace picked up her notebook and began her science homework. She had a quiz tomorrow; she was determined to get a perfect score.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There were only two left. Emmeline lifted first one and then the other from their hooks, feeling the packed weight of the baskets transfer to her hands. The brilliant scarlet flowers hadn’t faded at all in the crisp early autumn nights. Yet, Emmeline knew that their season in the sun had finished for the year. She didn’t want to risk losing the geraniums to a bad frost.

  In that September morning, she looked at the empty porch eves above her and at the red-petaled plants cradled in her arms. Despite the cheerful wren’s call from the nearby pine tree, Emmeline felt a heavy wistfulness draw its shroud around her heart. She forced a small smile onto her lips to combat it. Geoff would leave for school soon, and she didn’t want him to find her out here, despondent. She hadn’t told him about last night’s heavy bleeding. Or the continued cramping. Before Geoff had woken, Emmeline had drawn the bedcoverings over the stains, hiding them from him.

  Hoping against hope…

  She bent her head over the red flowers, looking into their clustered faces. “Come now,” she admonished the geraniums, “time for you to come inside for the winter.”

  “Bringing the plants upstairs?” asked a deep voice. Sure enough, here was Geoff now, full satchel in one hand, lunch pail in the other. Dressed in the white button-down she’d ironed for him earlier that week, he looked to her as handsome as the day she’d met him as a young girl.

  Emmeline sighed despite her resolution to remain optimistic. “Yes, it’s time for them to come inside. I’m afraid of a frost.” She smiled at her husband and placed the hanging baskets down on the porch. “Here, wait a minute,” she said, moving toward him. “You forgot one.” She pulled off the tiny swatch of toilet paper he’d used to staunch the nick he must have gotten shaving this morning.

  Geoff dropped a kiss to her forehead and returned her smile. “What would I do without you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling from behind dark lashes.

  “You would have children.” The words slipped out without Emmeline thinking about them. She let her gaze fall back to the geraniums, embarrassed.

  “What?” He sounded incredulous.

  She forced herself to say it again. It was true, wasn’t it? “If you’d married someone else, you’d have had children of your own.” She fingered the red blossoms, smelling the plant’s spicy fragrance.

  Then Geoff’s hands gripped her shoulders. “Don’t say that, Emmeline. I would rather have you as my wife than have half-a-dozen children.” He kissed her forehead gently. “You are the Lord’s most precious gift to me.”

  A tear escaped the crack in her heart. “You’d better go to school,” she said softly, picking up the plants, clutching them for security.

  He kissed her cheek. “Have a good day, beloved. I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured.

  She watched as he trotted down the three steps to the sidewalk. More tears rose to her eyes, but as quickly as they came, Emmeline shook them away. She picked up the hanging baskets at her feet, checking for any stray spiders, and brought them inside the house. The screen door squeaked and banged shut behind her.

  “Mama.” Grace stood in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom, picking at her cuticles so hard it hurt.

  Her mother kept making the narrow double bed, as if she didn’t hear her middle child calling her name.

  “Mama,” Grace tried again, taking a step into the room.

  Mama glanced up this time, her grown-out hair falling all over her cheeks. “Oh, Grace. Didn’t see you there,” she said, tucking the bottom sheet underneath the mattress with those rough, capable hands. “Don’t you have to get to school?”

  “I got a couple of minutes,” she answered, shrugging her thin shoulders. Grace knew that she’d have to run all the way because she took the time for this brief conversation.

  She placed her lunch pail, battered from years of use, down on her mama’s antique dressing table and went to the bedside opposite her mother. She began tucking the sheet underneath the mattress, folding the top over it. All the while, her eyes kept going to Mama’s worn-out face, wondering how to ask the question she had to put forward.

  But Mama broached the subject first. “What is it, Grace?” she asked, her hands picking up the pillows to fluff them. None of the soft caring resided in Mama’s tones that Grace had heard in other mothers’ voices – Ruth Ann’s mother, for instance. Mama’s voice always wore a pr
actical, severe dress, uncompromising and somber enough for any occasion.

  Grace swallowed down the anxiety that kept creeping up her throat. “Mama,” she began, “there’s a special choir at school now. Mr. Kinner – you know, the English teacher – started it.”

  Mama didn’t say anything, just kept fluffing those full-of-goose-down rectangles.

  Grace picked up one of the other pillows to keep herself from picking at her nails again, but she felt too nervous to fluff it. She just clutched it and heard herself say, “Practices are only on Fridays.” Grace held her breath, hoping Mama would understand what she was asking. “Today is the first one.”

  “And?” Mama stepped into a patch of sunlight, let in by one of the windows. She picked up the bedspread from where it draped over Great-Grandma’s rocking chair and shook it, letting it unfurl over the bed.

  “I thought…” Grace hesitated, unsure of how to continue in a way that would guarantee a positive response. “I thought maybe I could join it?” She bit her lip after the last word, waiting for her mama’s answer.

  But Mama just sighed, quick and full, and kept smoothing out the bedspread, drawing it up and folding down the top edge.

  Grace unclenched her teeth from their hold on her lip. “Ben said-” she tried again, appealing to her mother’s love for her firstborn.