Why wait any longer? I’ll be forced to do it in the end, anyway, she reasoned as she placed her borrowed textbooks on the school secretary’s desk. Mama looked ready to pop with this baby. Grace couldn’t screw her face up and look away every morning when Mama turned pleading eyes on her, begging her to help. There’s no way out.
Did I do wrong? Grace pondered the question as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, swept out the bedrooms, and fluffed the pillows. She remembered Mr. Kinner’s lively voice talking about metaphors and similes as she fed the chickens, milked Bessie, and boiled spaghetti for supper. She pulled the ticks off the family dog, squashing them with her thumb on the rocks and thinking about Paulie Giorgi sticking up for her with the lice incident last fall. Grace mended clothes and baked bread and rounded up junk to sell to the peddler who came on Wednesdays while the memory of Mrs. Kinner’s kindnesses replayed in her mind. The geranium plant stood on her window sill yet, the last thing Grace saw before her weary eyes closed for the night.
Finally, two weeks after her argument with Paulie, Grace found that she had an hour or so of spare time on her hands. She’d emptied the mending pile, and supper waited on the back of the stove for whenever Cliff and Papa decided to tramp inside the house, bringing more mud for Grace to sweep up. For Papa still took his meals at home regularly. I guess, for all her charms, Gertrude doesn’t know how to cook, and diners get expensive.
One hand on the doorframe, Mama rubbed at her lower back. Her belly stuck out like a July watermelon, ripe and hard and tight against her faded print housecoat. Several sizes too large, the garment slouched off one of Mama’s shoulders, revealing her worn doughy flesh. Her hair stuck in damp, snarly tendrils that wormed their way down her neck, despite the chilly March weather. “Think I’ll go lay down for a while, Grace,” she murmured.
“Alright, Mama,” Grace answered. “Want some water?”
Mama shook her head. “No, I’m just tired. Wish this baby would come.” She rested a hand over her enormous belly and winced.
Grace frowned. Mama wasn’t one to show pain unless it really mattered. “You alright, Mama? Is… Is the baby coming?” Grace remembered when Mama had delivered Evelyn; she’d been just four years old and scared nearly witless by Mama’s screams. Papa had shuffled her off to a neighbor’s house to wait out the delivery.
Now Grace was sixteen. I’m old enough to handle it, I bet. She raised her chin, wanting Mama to see how strong and capable she was. Of course, Mama would need a midwife, too. “You want me to get Mrs. Bailey?” she asked. The old Irishwoman played midwife whenever called upon by her impoverished neighbors, enjoying the extra gin she could purchase with the small payment for her services.
But Mama wasn’t paying any attention to how tough her middle daughter was. She just shook her head. “No. Not yet, Grace. The baby hasn’t dropped. I’ll be alright. I just have to lie down.” She hobbled off into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open. Grace heard the mattress groan heavily as Mama settled on it.
Grace had read only a page of her book when she heard a soft rap on the kitchen door. Surprised, she waited a moment to make sure that she’d heard right. The knock came again, a little louder this time.
Dog-earing her page, Grace glanced at the driveway through the kitchen window. She hadn’t heard anyone drive up, and sure enough, no car loitered in the driveway. Aunt Mary Evelyn would bring her car. A sliver of hope leaped into her heart. Maybe it’s Ben! What she wouldn’t give to see her big brother now.
Her hand was already on the knob when she realized, Ben wouldn’t knock. The hope vanished, but her curiosity grew. “Who is it?” she asked through the closed door, unwilling to open it to an unknown person when she and Mama were alone in the house.
“Grace? It’s Mrs. Kinner,” the familiar voice answered, a little muffled by the wooden barrier.
Grace’s heart jolted with sudden happiness. Mrs. Kinner stood just on the other side of the portal. Then it plummeted to her knees. What will she think of me dropping out of school? Her hand remained paralyzed on the knob.
She realized she’d waited too long to open the door when Mrs. Kinner called hesitantly, “Grace, couldn’t I come in? For just a moment?”
Grace swallowed hard and turned the knob. She opened the door enough to reveal herself. Mrs. Kinner stood on the top step, giving Grace her lovely, cidery smile. Grace could see concern in her friend’s eyes.
“Hello, Grace,” Mrs. Kinner said. “May I come in?”
Grace nodded and stepped back to let Mrs. Kinner enter. She smelled the familiar powdery perfume Mrs. Kinner wore as she stepped past Grace and moved into the kitchen.
“I brought this for your family,” Mrs. Kinner explained, holding out a rectangular loaf wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a little red ribbon. “I always bake too much for just me and Mr. Kinner. It’s cranberry nut bread.”
“Th-Thank you,” Grace stumbled over her words as she reached for the bread. It was so awkward, this meeting between her and the woman whom she loved best in the world. She busied herself with placing the loaf just so on the table.
“Grace,” Mrs. Kinner began, once Grace had arranged the bread thoroughly.
Grace felt her entire body tense. She knew what was coming. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and swallowed. I should offer her some coffee, she thought desperately and moved over to the kitchen counter, avoiding Mrs. Kinner’s gaze. “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked, the grown-up phrase feeling too big on her voice.
“Coffee would be nice,” came the soft reply. Grace took her time setting up the coffee pot and measuring out the coffee.
As the inviting smell drifted through the room, she realized that Mrs. Kinner still stood with her purse in hand, hat pinned to her head, and coat in place. “Oh, I forgot. Please, sit down. Let me take your coat,” Grace flustered.
As Grace hung the coat on the peg near the door, Mrs. Kinner sat down. She paused just a moment before speaking again. “Grace, I came to ask why you haven’t been to see us lately. I miss having your help with my geraniums, you know. And I know Paulie misses your company while he does his homework in the evenings.”
Grace stayed silent out of necessity. Her throat filled with tears she wouldn’t – couldn’t – liberate. She’d finished hanging up the coat but stayed right where she was, in front of the pegs, her back to Mrs. Kinner.
“And Mr. Kinner says you’ve not been to school,” Mrs. Kinner continued, her voice undemanding. Just gentle and a little sad. Her words and voice broke Grace’s heart to hear.
Finally, she turned and faced Mrs. Kinner. “I dropped out.” There. She’d said it.
Mrs. Kinner scrunched her eyebrows, obviously perplexed. “Why, Grace? I thought you liked – I thought you loved school.”
“I do. I did.” She forced herself to meet Mrs. Kinner’s gaze. She would tell her the plain truth without the situation between her and Paulie clouding things. “My mama, she’s near having her baby. She needs my help around the house now.”
Grace couldn’t encounter those kind eyes any more. She moved toward the coffee pot. Surely, it had finished brewing by now! “Seeing I didn’t have homework, there was no point in going to your house anymore, I guess.” She selected the least-chipped mug from the cupboard and poured out the dark brew. “Did you want cream, ma’am?” Grace knew there was no sugar in the house. Thanks to Bessie, there was cream, though.
Mrs. Kinner shook her head. “No, black is fine. Thank you.” She accepted the steaming mug carefully. “But I thought you came over to my house for more than homework, Grace. You’ve become quite a friend to me over the past few months.”
Despite the tenseness, Grace felt a blush of pleasure rise to her cheeks. Mrs. Kinner counted her, Grace Picoletti, as a friend?
“Certainly, I understand that you must help your parents and do as they bid you. And I am sorry that you must drop out of school. But couldn’t you come over to our house from time-to-time even without needing to
work on homework?” Mrs. Kinner coaxed, her hands clasping the mug. “It’s nearly springtime, and I’ll be starting my garden and hanging the geraniums again soon. I would love your help with that, if your mother could spare you for just a while, every so often.”
Grace couldn’t help but smile just a little. After all, what harm could there be in helping Mrs. Kinner with her garden? Just once in a while? She slowly nodded. “Well, I…”
“And Mr. Kinner would be more than glad to lend you books from our library so that you could continue your studies at home, if you’d like,” Mrs. Kinner added, taking a little sip of coffee.
The notion tempted Grace sorely. Just because she didn’t belong to the same sort of people as Paulie didn’t mean she couldn’t educate herself, did it? She wouldn’t pretend to be like them, headed off for high things, but she could learn for her own pleasure, couldn’t she?
“And Paulie would love to see you again,” Mrs. Kinner continued. “He keeps mentioning that he misses your help with his mathematics.”
No.
Grace shook her head. “No,” she murmured softly but firmly. “I can’t.” Her hands trembled in her lap, and she began to pick at the cuticles.
Now Mrs. Kinner was really puzzled; Grace could see that. “But…” she trailed off, shaking her head.
“I’m awfully busy,” Grace said. “Mama needs my help. I don’t really have the time to go over to your house anymore. I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Half of Papa’s face seemed on fire as he burst through the door. Staring at him, Grace dropped the plate that she was drying and gaped, not even hearing the china shatter. The top part of Papa’s countenance wore a mask of shining, blistering crimson. His eyes shut against the horror. Are his eyes even there anymore?
The smell of burning flesh – she knew she’d never forget the nauseating scent – preceded him. Papa stumbled forward, falling, hands feeling for the way into the kitchen.
Grace felt frozen to the spot where she stood near the sink, unable to move her hands from the dish towel or her feet toward Papa. He rolled on the floor in agony, hands clasping his head.
But Mama…! Barely had Papa fallen when Mama let the broom drop right where she’d been sweeping up the crumbs from the sandwiches they’d eaten for lunch. The broom fell with a crash, and Mama ran to Papa’s side, her huge stomach bouncing beneath her housecoat.
Mama’s reaction shocked Grace after the frigid separation between the two of them for so long, but there wasn’t much time for pondering it. Kneeling down, Mama grabbed Papa’s hands away from their scraping at his face and gripped them tightly in her own fists. All while struggling to tame Papa’s agonized flailing, Mama shouted out to Grace, “Get me a bowl of cold water!”
Mama’s sharp voice snapped through Grace’s immobile state. She grabbed a bowl from the cupboard above her head, letting the doors bang shut while she dashed to the sink. The cool water poured from the faucet, taking so long to fill the mixing bowl. Her eyes fastened on the stream of water, Grace’s ears took in the wild-animal groans coming from Papa. A glance over her shoulder showed that he still thrashed like a rabbit caught in a boy’s snare.
There! The water filled the bowl. Without bothering to turn off the faucet, Grace pulled the bowl out of the sink and hastened to Mama’s side, recoiling at the sight of Papa.
“Set it down there!” Mama commanded, not taking her eyes off Papa for a second. Grace’s hands trembled as she obeyed. “Get me a rag!” Mama directed, but then she saw the dish towel hanging from where Grace had tucked it into her skirt’s waistband.
“Never mind!” Mama let go of Papa’s hands and plucked the towel from Grace. She plunged it straight into the cold water and pulled it out, laying it sopping wet across the top of Papa’s head and face, leaving just his mouth uncovered so that he could breathe, Grace guessed.
Papa had stopped pawing at his face. He lay stiffly with his head in Mama’s lap, gasping and moaning. Tremors began to shake his body, so slowly at first that Grace could hardly discern them, then stronger and more pronounced. “Grace,” Mama breathed out the words quickly, “get the doctor. Run!”
Grace scrambled to her feet, tripping over the hem of her skirt, hearing it rip a gaping hole at the waistband seam. She glanced back just once before plunging out the screen door into the harsh evening air. Crouched there on the wooden floor, Mama held the soaking towel on Papa’s face, rocking back and forth from hip to hip. She stayed silent amid Papa’s moans.
Not daring to waste another moment, Grace clattered down the back steps. The dog rushed from the side yard, barking at her and wagging his tail, but Grace didn’t pause for a second. Toward the wooded path she ran like a young child, mindless of appearances, catching her hem on low branches. Unable to see clearly in the dusk, she fell in the mud-filled path twice, scraping open her knee on a tree root the first time and nearly twisting her ankle the second time. Get the doctor, Grace! Get the doctor! Mama’s words played in her mind to the pounding rhythm of Grace’s flying feet. The memory of Papa – her Papa – groaning and floundering across the floor boards joined the phrase and spurred her on to an even faster speed.
By the time she reached the almost-vacant Main Street, the March twilight had become night. From Main Street, it was just a short sprint to Doctor Philips’ tidy house-and-office. A lamp shone in the bay window, pink roses stenciled around its globe. Panting, Grace cut across the lawn. Her cold fingers fumbled to open the white-washed gate, fairly glowing in the darkness.
The latch seemed stuck, and she jerked it toward and away from her, desperate to open it. Mother of Jesus, help me! With a final yank the latch gave way. Grace let the gate rattle shut behind her and dashed up the brick pathway to the doctor’s neat front porch. Doctor Philips won’t be in his office now; he’ll be in his house, finishing supper.
Her fist slammed into the ornate door, not paying mind to the brass door-knocker hanging just above her eye-level. She pictured the doctor pausing over his supper, raising his eyebrows at his syrupy-as-candied-sweet-potatoes wife, and rising to get the door. “I’ll answer it, Dolores, dear,” he’d say, dabbing at his mouth. He’d put aside his napkin and…
Grace’s eyes swung from their roving back to the door as the knob turned. She opened her mouth, ready to ask the doctor to come with her. To beg, if necessary.
But the doctor’s wife, not the doctor himself, waited on the other side. “Yes?” she inquired, her silvery head tilted to one side. A look of slight irritation spread across her face when she glanced down to see Grace’s muddy shoes dirtying her pristine porch. Known to be a fastidious housekeeper, Mrs. Philips always reminded Grace of one of those fancy house finches.
“Please, ma’am, I need Doctor Philips to come with me right away,” Grace pleaded, her breath emerging in faint white puffs.
The doctor’s wife smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. Doctor Philips is away this weekend at a medical conference in Boston.” She emphasized the last phrase, as if to impress and intimidate Grace with Doctor Philips’ importance.
Get the doctor! “But…” Grace trailed off, panic setting in.
The woman began to shut the door until there was just a crack left open. “If you need medical assistance, you can visit Doctor Kelver in Smithfield. He’ll be happy to help, I’m sure.” She smiled again to close the conversation and inched the door shut.
But Grace stopped her from closing it with a desperate hand. “Please! It’s an emergency, ma’am! My father burned himself – I don’t know how – and we don’t have a way to get him over to Smithfield – and-”
“Well, then, you’ll have to call the ambulance if it’s a real emergency, dear. I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help. Goodnight.” The door clicked shut decisively, and Grace let her hand fall to her side.
There was no money to pay a hospital bill; Grace knew that. We can’t call the ambulance. Doctor Philips would have accept
ed milk and butter, maybe some eggs, in exchange for his services, whether his wife liked it or not. The hospital, on the other hand, didn’t accept that last relic of the barter system. Its cold white halls demanded cash money, which the Picolettis did not have. And neither Mama nor Papa would beg for charity, even for an emergency such as this.
Who can help us? Who? From the corner of her eye, Grace saw the curtain move; the doctor’s wife waited for her to leave the clean-swept porch. Her heart thudded in her chest as Grace made her way down the steps. Where can I go? Who will help us?
The bells of First Baptist rang out sharp and clear in the night, announcing the hour. The notes touched Grace’s ears even as the chill wind brushed her hot cheeks. And she knew to whom she would go.
Paulie.
Paulie Giorgi’s father was a doctor. She would go to him. Paulie had mentioned once that he lived on River Avenue, and Grace knew that she could find him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ten minutes later, Grace gasped up the even tidier path to the Giorgi house on the east side of town. She hadn’t even needed to knock on someone’s door to ask which house belonged to the Giorgi’s; Doctor Giorgi had engraved his last name on a stone pillar at the beginning of their long driveway. Pruned-back rose bushes lined the walkway, and they bowed to her like commoners to a princess.
Some princess, Grace thought, slowing down as she reached the four marble steps ascending to the front entrance. A porch light illuminated the front area fairly well. Enough so that Grace could see how very dirty she’d gotten, falling through the muddy, slushy wooded pathway from her home to town. It can’t be helped… If something happens to Papa…
Gritting her teeth, Grace clambered up the four steps and pressed the doorbell hard. She heard it ring through the large rooms within the house, and she drew her dirt-smeared hands behind her back. Then, she caught sight of the hole yawning at her waistband and remembered how she’d stepped on her skirt in her hurry to get a doctor. Undecidedly, she pulled one hand from behind her back to cover the tear, then put it behind her back again…
The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) Page 22