Mama turned sharp eyes on her, straightening up her short, hen-like body and folding her arms tightly across her middle. “Don’t go telling me what Ben said,” she informed Grace. “Ben talked to me ‘bout this singing choir, and I told him what I thought ‘bout it then.” She shook her head. “Well, I ain’t changed my mind, Grace. I think it’s a waste of time. Yours and mine.”
Desperation overtook Grace. “But, Mama,” she stammered. In her heart, she’d been sure that Mama’s love for Ben would win out. “I - I thought…”
“I know what you think, girl,” said Mama, staring at Grace with those weary, drained eyes. “You think you’re gonna join this special choir, and everybody’s gonna make a big fuss ‘bout how pretty your voice is.”
Grace flushed. How did Mama know what had been in her thoughts since the day she’d heard about Mr. Kinner’s choir? Her forefinger found its way to her mouth, and she began to gnaw the cuticle, sweetly distracted by the sting. She wished she’d never asked Mama.
“And then, somehow, you’ll get a solo part. Some big whig’ll notice you and put you in a Hollywood movie or on some fancy stage in New York City. You’ll be famous and rich and beautiful. That’s what you think, ain’t it, Grace?”
Embarrassed at the truth of Mama’s words, Grace twisted her toe into the floorboard. She finally uttered, low and soft, “I just… I just want to do something, Mama. It’s only one day a week, Fridays.” She ran her tongue over her dry lips and glanced at the cuckoo-clock hanging on the wall over her parents’ bed. She was impossibly late for school.
Mama unfolded her arms and picked up the patchwork quilt that she always placed at the foot of the bed. Her hands busied themselves with folding it neatly. “Yeah, well, I was young once, too, and not so long ago,” she replied, her tone softening just a little. “It’ll do you no good indulging in those silly daydreams, Grace. ‘Sides,” Mama’s voice returned to its usual brusqueness, “I need you here after school, what with Evelyn going to live with Aunt Mary and Ben gone for good.” She laid the quilt at the foot of the bed.
Mama had made up her mind, then. Grace knew better than to argue; doing so would only irritate Mama and put her into a silent, foul mood for days. She pushed down the protest that wanted to spring from her mouth. “See you after school, Mama,” Grace choked out, picking up her lunch pail from the dressing table.
She was almost out the bedroom door when Mama replied, “Mind you shut the screen door tight. I don’t want any flies coming in.”
Grace nodded and escaped.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sarah finished straightening up the bedroom, accompanied by the tick-tick-tick of the cuckoo-clock. She glanced over at the glossy wooden timekeeper. Nearly nine o’clock. Time to get the bread dough mixed and set out to rise. She’d bake this afternoon when the noon heat of the September day had died away. No ready-sliced, store-bought bread for Sarah; she baked hers from a sourdough starter. Fact was, the bread that Sarah baked descended from her mama’s bread starter. When Sarah’d married Charlie Picoletti – What? Twenty years ago now? Only fools and young lovers kept track of such dates – her mama had given her a cupful of bubbly yellow flour and water, ripe with the scent of yeast. Since then, twice a week, Sarah had made all her bread from that starter.
Glad to be left alone on her baking days, Sarah often used the silent hours to remember her own mama, gone now for more than a decade. Her mama had birthed many children, even more than Sarah had: Four sisters and five brothers made their homes throughout the Northeast and the Midwest. One brother had even moved out to Canada. Quebec, Sarah thought, but she hadn’t heard from that brother since 1924, a year after their mama’s death.
Passing the dusty dressing table with barely a glance, Sarah moved with heavy steps into the kitchen. Good thing is, my bedroom’s downstairs. No long steps to climb. Though only in her fourth month, Sarah didn’t feel like trudging up a steep flight of wooden stairs.
Funny. When had she begun to refer to the bedroom which she and Charlie shared as “hers?” Used to be “ours.” She shook her head as her hands reached for the flour canister that sat ready on the kitchen counter. And when had her hands become so wrinkled? So full of brown spots from hours spent plucking chickens on the back step and hanging out wet laundry on the line?
Nothing turned out the way it was supposed to. Retrieving her mixing bowl from the cupboard, Sarah added a splash of starter, then shook a good heaping of flour into it. She’d always scorned the use of a measuring cup. And she’d always mocked – once upon a time, long, long ago – the idea that her Charlie – laughing and sparkling-eyed – would cheat on her like this.
Blinking back the tears threatening to march to the front of her vision, Sarah rummaged around for her long wooden spoon to stir up the mixture into smooth, sticky dough. She found it and plunged it into the bowl, remembering how her own mama used to remind her to scrape the sides.
Mama had liked Charlie when Sarah had brought him home with her a few years before the Great War. From that first evening he’d sat in their kitchen, complimenting Sarah’s mama on her chewy cookies and drinking two full glasses of milk, Charlie had seemed like he just… belonged in their family. And Sarah… Well, seventeen-year-old Sarah had felt like she’d belonged to Charlie. That he’d protect her. Stick by her. Especially since her first love – actually, her first fiancé - hadn’t. But, well, that was best left forgotten, stashed away like her wedding dress deep in an attic trunk.
And the early years with Charlie hadn’t been bad. They had their arguments, but all couples did. And the babies came one after another. Sarah remembered the pride etched in Charlie’s face when the midwife had presented him with their firstborn son, a fiery boy they’d named after Charlie’s own grandfather Benjamin. And Lou and Nancy soon followed, twins whose appearance heralded a strain on the family finances. Sarah made reductions in her food budget to help scrape by and had exclusively breastfed the twins until they passed their first birthday, despite the stress to her own body.
Lucky I did, too, thought Sarah, sprinkling more flour across the wooden table surface. Otherwise, I would have had another one even sooner. As it was, she’d become pregnant again before she could catch her breath. Charlie’d seemed a bit uneasy about it, though he said he was glad. Work at the lumber mill that employed him had increased, but the owners kept hiring more immigrant workers who would accept lower wages. That cut into Charlie’s hours some. So Sarah tightened the financial belt even further to make up for the lost pay.
Despite his decreased hours, Charlie wasn’t home much. “Looking for work,” he always told her as he pushed his cap over his golden curls each morning and headed out the door. But his steps were unsteady when he arrived home at night and his pockets even emptier than when he’d left that morning. Sarah would sigh and cut the bread a little thinner for hungry-eyed Ben and the two toddling twins. At least they had their own cow for milk and cream. Secretly, Sarah had begun to sell some of the butter and soft cheese which she made, thanking the Sweet Mother of Jesus that she had customers for it.
Remembering it, Sarah couldn’t bring a blush to her cheeks when she thought of her own relief at losing that third pregnancy. True, the doctor had put her on bed-rest for two weeks because she’d lost so much blood. She couldn’t keep down more than a mouthful of chicken soup sent over by a kindly neighbor. But Sarah had paid Doctor Philips no mind in the end. So weak that she could feel her legs shaking together, she’d gotten out of bed in four-days’ time. Even today, more than fifteen years later, Sarah couldn’t suppress a mirthless laugh from escaping her lips. Stay in bed for half of a month? With a three-year-old boy running around the house and two one-and-a-half-year-olds? Sure, her mama had come to help out. Sarah’d only been in her early twenties, after all. But Sarah told Mama that she could handle everything herself, that she’d be fine on her own. Really, though, she hadn’t wanted her mama to see what kind of a man her sweet Charlie had shaped out to be.
She’d thought it w
ouldn’t get any worse. But then Sarah had peered out the front window one day, pulling the bleached curtains to the side to let in a little sunlight during that tired winter. She’d been waddling around with Cliff in her belly then; Grace was just a very little girl, barely wobbling around on her unsteady legs. Sarah had put lemon squares in the oven, Charlie’s favorite dessert, and the sharp citrusy-scent brightened up the day considerably.
Through the rain slamming against the old panes, she’d seen Charlie’s car chug up the road. It’d been a black Ford, she remembered now as her hands massaged the dough. Sarah had wondered at her Charlie arriving home so early in the afternoon. Must’ve been cut… again!
Funny, when they were first married, his early arrival home would have brought a leap of joy into her young heart. But now Sarah felt nothing but anxiety at the sight of Charlie’s familiar form behind the steering wheel: Would his measly paycheck cover their bills? How would she ever save enough money for shoes for Ben? He needed them for school! Never mind Sarah’s hair, which hadn’t been styled for months and grew around her neck like an untended brambly bush.
She’d been about to let the curtain fall back into place when she realized that Charlie hadn’t slowed down so that he could take an easy turn into their curving driveway. Curiously, she looked at his moving car closely as it approached the house, traveling along the lazy side road. She could make out a figure in the passenger side. A woman.
They had driven on by the house, surely never thinking that child-saddled Sarah would be peeking out at the rain-sodden world. But she had been. And that was the first in a long series of similarly-rooted events that choked what was left of Sarah and Charlie’s marriage.
But that was 1921. This was 1934, and Sarah had bread dough to put on the windowsill, allowing the sunshiny lumps to rise in the warmth.
Wish Grace was at the age to quit school, she thought. Having someone with whom to share the household chores would certainly help, especially when the new baby came. Come to think of it, Grace’ll have to stay out of school once February comes so that she can help me with the baby.
A little pang of guilt struck Sarah, but she pushed aside the feeling. It’s not my fault Grace can’t finish school. I need her here. Lou and Nancy are no help with the house, too hoity-toity for it. And Evelyn’s going to live with Mary. Sarah tied on a fresh apron with unnecessary firmness. Grace’s pleading face appeared in her memory: her middle daughter’s wide eyes begging to join that foolish singing group. “Practices are only on Fridays,” Grace had said, the hope practically spilling out of her mouth along with the words. “Ben said…”
In the empty house, Sarah let out a snort. “Ben said!” As if that should make a difference! Sarah’s eldest son, who lived from day-to-day on the odd mix of gambling earnings and fairly-earned wages at a horseracing track, of all places! And he thought he could get his mama to change her mind…
Yet, he almost had done it. Grace would never know that Sarah hadn’t made her final decision until her daughter actually had asked for her permission. Well. Good thing Sarah had thrown out all cotton-candy feelings, all warm remembrances of her own youthful yearnings in the face of Grace’s supplication. Only an unloving mother would allow such nonsense to fill up her children’s heads. Better that Grace learn early that the world was a hard, cruel place which would ruthlessly crush any dreams she might possess.
“Hi, Grace.”
The cheerful male voice broke into Grace’s near-stupor. She’d been sitting at her desk in Mr. Kinner’s class, just moments after the last bell rang. Startled by the interruption of her thoughts, she raised her eyes to see who addressed her.
It was Paulie Giorgi, Mr. Perfect-Score. He stood, inclining his head a little bit so that his warm maple-syrup eyes could look into Grace’s face. “You look like you’re deep in thought,” he smiled, bringing out those beautiful dimples again.
“Uh, yeah,” she stammered. “I was just… thinking.” Truth was, she’d been sitting there trying to figure out a way to tell Mr. Kinner that she wouldn’t join his special choir after all. A way, that is, in which she wouldn’t have to admit she’d fudged Mama’s signature.
“Well, don’t sit there thinking too long,” he grinned, all-out friendly. Grace felt like the sun had just spread its warm beams on her, despite the drizzle that pattered outside the classroom windows. “I heard you’re joining Mr. K.’s after-school chorus,” he continued.
Now where did he hear that? Grace wondered. “I… I…” she trailed off, not knowing whether to nod or shake her head. After all, she wasn’t joining now. Mama had refused to let her. But she didn’t want to get into that with Paulie Giorgi. She didn’t even know him!
“Teddy Bulger told me,” Paulie went on, not seeming to notice Grace’s sudden-onset speech impediment.
Well, that made sense. Teddy chummed around with Ruth Ann’s brother, and Grace had let the news slip to her school friend. Boy, Ruth Ann can’t keep her mouth shut to save her life, can she? Not that I asked her to keep it a secret, but for Pete’s sake! Grace nodded to show that she understood.
“What part do you sing?” Paulie asked, and Grace wished he would just go away. Her stomach hurt with him standing there, smiling down at her.
She swallowed and managed to mumble out, “Soprano, I think.” Her hands twisted themselves into knots beneath her desk.
“Mr. K. tested your voice?” Paulie questioned, not looking like he planned on moving until she did.
“Uh, yeah.” The sound of shuffling books caught Grace’s attention. Mr. Kinner stacked and placed his books in his satchel up front. She had to tell him now that she would not be able to join the chorus, but Paulie’s solid body hemmed her in. She’d have to ask him to move, but the words wouldn’t come to her lips. Couldn’t he just go away? Why is he talking to me, anyway?
Mr. Kinner finished latching his satchel. Paulie said something about a song he hoped the choir would sing, but Grace was too preoccupied with Mr. Kinner’s actions and her fast-disappearing chance to explain the situation to the teacher privately. She heard none of Paulie’s words.
Realizing that, satchel in hand, Mr. Kinner approached the classroom exit, Grace began to glare at Paulie. He apparently didn’t notice her angry look, however, and kept on chattering. Mama would say he talks the hind leg off a mule! Never heard a boy blabber so much!
Grace’s frustration overcame her timidity at last. She rose to her feet, slipping from the seat worn smooth by hundreds of schoolchildren’s bottoms. Doing so forced Paulie to step back so that Grace didn’t bump right into him. Surprised, he finally stopped talking for just a moment, his eyes following her gaze, directed toward the classroom door.
But it was too late. Mr. Kinner disappeared into the corridor, and Grace had lost her chance to explain, to make everything right. Sort of.
“You needed to talk to Mr. K.?” came Paulie’s friendly query.
“Yeah.” Fleetingly, Grace noticed that even though Paulie abbreviated their teacher’s name, he attached a respectful title to it. She glanced at Paulie. “Guess it will have to wait,” she ended, filling with hopeless panic. Today was the first rehearsal. Mr. Kinner needed to know she wasn’t participating. Today.
“Hey, well, just talk to him at rehearsal,” suggested Paulie with an encouraging smile.
This time, Grace couldn’t refrain from letting her own lips respond by turning up tentatively.
“Here, can I carry your books for you?” Paulie offered, reaching out for the four-book stack piled on Grace’s desk. “The choir meets in the auditorium.”
Grace paused in the act of pulling her thin cardigan from the back of her chair. No boy had ever asked to carry her books before now! She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears with a trembling hand, her throat as dry as chalk. Should she let him carry them? But she wasn’t going to rehearsal!
She didn’t need to worry about giving Paulie a reply. When Grace didn’t give him an immediate, “no,” he picked the stack ri
ght up. “Is this all you have?” he asked.
Grace shook her head and opened the top of the desk, where she stored her pencil case, tablets, and a few other textbooks. She gathered them together in a neat little pile with the pencil case topping it all. Paulie added that accumulation to the stack in his arm. Then Grace reached beneath the desk chair and retrieved two more books. Paulie reached for these as well, but Grace hesitated. “These are my library books,” she explained, feeling a little more shy. She hid the emotion by tucking the two books under her arm quickly and looking Paulie straight in the face like she didn’t care what some boy thought about her being a bookworm.
No matter how charming his cheek indentations were.
But Paulie’s smile didn’t fade. In fact, it just grew wider. “Okay,” he said. He gestured toward the classroom door. “Shall we?”
She wasn’t scary at all. Paulie wondered why he’d never had the courage to talk to Ruth Ann’s friend Grace before today. Well, that wasn’t true. He and Grace had gone to the same school together for two years, so they must have said something to one another at some point. But, of course, Paulie meant really talk. Like he was doing now, walking down the school corridor at Grace’s side, letting his lips flap about who-knew-what.
She was certainly quiet; that much was obvious. Hurrying so they wouldn’t be late for rehearsal, he noticed how Grace kept her head bowed a little, not really looking where she was going. More staring at her feet than anything else. He wondered what went on inside her head, beneath that sweep of golden hair, every last strand combed into place. Except for that one lock that she continued to twist and tuck behind her small pink ear.
“So, what books are you reading?” he asked, smiling down at her from a full ten-inch advantage. He expected it would be some female-in-distress romance or a Nancy Drew – which would be worse. She is, after all, Ruth Ann’s friend.
She shot a glance up at him. “Tennyson,” she answered, almost defiantly. “Idylls of the King.”
The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) Page 9