All Waiting Is Long
Page 1
Table of Contents
___________________
Part 1
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part 2
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
From Woman: Her Sex and Love Life
Acknowledgments
E-Book Extras
Excerpt from Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night
A Note from the Author
Discussion Guide
About Barbara J. Taylor
Copyright & Credits
About Kaylie Jones Books
About Akashic Books
For Alice, my sister, my friend
Echoes of mercy,
Whispers of love.
—Fanny J. Crosby
Part I
All are agreed . . . it is important that the boy be given some sex instruction . . . No such agreement exists concerning sex knowledge for the girl . . . Some say that such instruction . . . is unnecessary, because the sex instinct awakens in girls comparatively late, and it is time enough for them to learn about such matters after they are married.
—Woman: Her Sex and Love Life,
William J. Robinson, MD, 1929
When Izzy passed on, it seemed fitting to christen ourselves the Isabelle Lumley Bible Class. After all, she was the one who came up with the idea for our Wednesday women’s scripture meetings. At least that’s how she told it. Those of us who were there from the beginning remember different, but no sense beating that drum again. Let the dead rest is what we say. Besides, Izzy left enough money to Providence Christian Church to erase any hard feelings and repair the crumbling steeple.
A Bible verse or two and a potluck lunch make for an edifying afternoon. And a much needed one, given the moral decline we see today. Gambling. Joyriding. Bootlegging. Not to mention the goings-on in “the Alleys” downtown. A regular red-light district. Our very own Sodom and Gomorrah right here in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Surely we’re glimpsing the end times.
That’s why it’s so comforting to have a man like Reverend Sheets in the pulpit. An optimist through and through. Somehow he always manages to come back around to Noah’s ark and that rainbow promise. An uplifting sentiment, though it wouldn’t hurt to hear a different Bible lesson from time to time. Maybe something from the New Testament.
Why, just the other day we were studying that verse in Matthew about pointing out a speck in your brother’s eye while ignoring the beam in your own. There’s folks in our congregation who could benefit from such wisdom. Hattie Goodfellow, for one, or should we say Hattie Goodfellow Hatton. Always looking down her nose at us, but who’s the real sinner? Marrying that fellow from her boarding house and traipsing off to Buffalo at her age. Here we thought she ran a respectable place. And now we’re told that her nieces, Violet and Lily, are headed north to help her. Can’t say why, but something doesn’t ring true about that story. If Hattie needs help setting up house, maybe she’s too old to be a newlywed.
Not that it’s any of our affair. Who are we to judge? Just wish she’d asked our opinion before leaping. Now that the deed is done, God bless and good luck. And if the marriage comes to ruin, as we fear it might, we’ll welcome Hattie back with open arms.
That’s the Christian way.
Chapter one
VIOLET AND LILY TRUDGED TO THE REAR of the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum and entered through the kitchen. According to the widow Lankowski, who’d made the arrangements, only benefactors, adoptive couples, physicians, and members of the clergy were allowed to use the front door. The Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary instituted this practice years earlier in order to protect the identities of the expectant mothers they served.
“Don’t let the door slam!” a fireplug of a girl yelled from across the room.
Lily pressed her hand against the oak panel and eased it shut. A stripe of fresh snow spanned the length of the threshold.
“The latch catches.” The girl stood at the sink with her back to the newcomers. A tangle of red curls settled just beyond her shoulders. “Don’t want to lock out all of our gentlemen callers,” she laughed, throaty and low. “Names?”
“Violet Morgan. And my sister Lily.” Violet stepped onto a rag rug and stomped her boots. Lily remained on the bare linoleum; water puddled at her feet.
“The Protestants are here!” the girl called out as she washed the last plate in the dishpan and dried her hands. “No rest for the wicked.” She turned and smiled at the pair, exposing her swollen belly. “So which one of you is in the puddin’ club?” she asked. Her eyes darted across their stomachs.
“That will be all, Muriel.” A tall woman robed in dark blue serge glided into the room. “If you hurry, you’ll just make confession.” Her brittle voice cracked on the word confession, as if failing to hit a note out of range.
Embarrassment ignited the girl’s cheeks as she started for the doorway. “You can’t tell, is all.”
“Our mother carried small,” Violet explained.
“Confession,” the nun repeated, patting a gold crucifix that hung from a chain around her neck.
Muriel winked at Lily from behind the nun, crossed one swollen ankle behind the other, grabbed the sides of her dress, and bowed.
Without looking back, the nun added, “You might want to save that curtsy for His Holiness should he visit us here in Philadelphia.”
Muriel slinked out of the room.
“I’m Mother Mary Joseph.” The woman took a step forward, and the rosary beads at her waist rattled in time. “Reverend Mother. You must be the young ladies from Scranton.”
“Yes ma’am.” Violet let go of the two suitcases she’d carried from the train station and pulled her younger sister Lily onto the rug. Even with nine years between them, the Morgan girls shared a strong likeness. Fair Welsh complexions, small even teeth, dimpled left cheeks. Yet in spite of their similarities, people often referred to Lily as “the pretty one.” Her large round eyes were blue instead of brown; her features soft, not angular like Violet’s; and Lily’s hair, a warm chocolate, not that unforgiving pitch. It was as if an artist had sketched the same face twice, opting for a lighter hand the second time.
“It’s most unusual for us to house both a charge and her sister.” The nun poked her hand out from a fan of sleeve and motioned the visitors forward, past a pallet stacked with brushes, paint cans, and thinner. “But Father Zarnowski from St. Stanislaus
in Scranton requested the arrangement.” Mother Mary Joseph sat down at the head of a table in the center of the room and nodded for Violet and Lily to each take a chair on either side of her. “And then, when your friend Mrs. Lankowski made her generous donation to the Good Shepherd,” the nun waved toward a freshly painted wall, “well, how could we say no?” She pressed her lips into a thin smile and reached for a small brass bell on the table. “Have you had your supper?”
“On the train.” Twenty-five-year-old Violet noted the absence of wrinkles on the woman’s pale skin and wondered about her age. Under the dark veil, a starched band of white fabric stretched around her forehead and another one framed her cheeks and neck. A large bib-like collar circled her chest and shoulders in that same stiff white material. This woman possessed a confidence suggestive of age, but Violet could not see it on her face.
“A cup of tea, then,” the nun said, ringing the bell. “To take the chill off.”
“Thank you.” Violet kicked Lily’s foot under the table. Lily, head bowed, fingers tracing the tablecloth’s blue and red roses, seemed not to notice.
Muriel appeared in the doorway. “Everyone’s at chapel.”
“Not everyone,” Mother Mary Joseph sighed. “Make yourself useful then, and put on the kettle.”
The girl scurried halfway across the room before she seemed to remember herself and her ungainly body. She stopped for a moment, caught her breath, and took measured steps toward the sink.
“Let’s see, now.” The nun began pulling items from the folds of her garment: a pair of eyeglasses, which she positioned halfway down her nose; a small ledger, leather-bound in black; several pencils, newly sharpened; and two handkerchiefs embroidered with the letters I.H.M. She opened the ledger to the day’s date, Saturday, February 22, 1930, licked the tip of the closest pencil, and pushed a handkerchief toward Lily. “How old are you, child?”
“Sixteen.” Lily’s gaze remained fixed on the tablecloth. “One week from today.”
“Look at me when I speak to you.” Mother Mary Joseph lifted the girl’s chin and studied her swollen eyes. “That’s better.” She offered another flattened smile and made a notation. “It’s my understanding that your confinement should be for a period of three months.”
Lily glanced across the table at her sister, then back at the nun. “Yes ma’am.” Her lower lip quivered.
“You’re absolutely certain?” The Reverend Mother pulled back Lily’s coat and studied her belly. “Six months along?”
“As near as I can figure.”
Under the table, Violet pressed her right pinky against her leg. When counting off, she always started with the pinky. March. April. May. Her index finger and thumb remained aloft, aimed in Lily’s direction.
“I’ve ruined everything!” Lily reached for the handkerchief and burst into tears.
Air charged from Violet’s nostrils. Lily had ruined everything. Violet was a forgiving person, goodness knows she had to be, but enough was enough. Lily never considered the consequences of her behavior. She only thought of herself. Had she even wondered what her delicate condition would do to their nervous mother? Had she ever weighed the cost of hiding it from their ailing father? And what about the widow Lankowski? How humiliating it had been when Violet’s mother dragged the woman into what should have been a family matter. The widow had practically raised Violet, but Violet was embarrassed all the same. And then there was the matter of her promise to marry Stanley, a secret only the widow was privy to. Violet would probably still be at the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum long after Stanley returned home to Scranton, and hand to God, that was Lily Morgan’s fault.
“Don’t be cross with me.” Lily blew her nose into the handkerchief and refolded it.
“Not now,” Violet pushed both words through gritted teeth.
“Stanley will wait,” Lily continued, dabbing her eyes with a dry corner of linen. “You’ll see.”
“Stanley?” Mother Mary Joseph tugged off her glasses and pursed her lips.
“Hush.” Violet glared at Lily. “Don’t drag him into this.”
“The widow Lankowski’s son,” Lily explained. “Adopted.”
“More of a son than most.” Violet dug her fingernails into her thigh.
The nun picked up her glasses, curled the wires around her ears, and started to write. “So this Stanley . . .” She looked up at Lily. “He’s responsible for your trouble?”
“No!” the pair responded in unison.
“He’s Violet’s intended,” Lily said, as if she had an intended of her own.
Violet slapped her palms on top of the table. “You knew?” she whispered, as if saying the words too loudly would make them true.
“Stop yelling at me.” Lily looked over at the Reverend Mother. “She’s always yelling at me.”
Violet parceled out her words quietly, evenly. “I’m . . . not . . . yelling.”
“You’re yelling at me in that low voice of yours.” When no one came to Lily’s defense, she continued: “Mother found out you were planning to run away with him.”
Violet started up from her chair and leaned toward her sister. “And just how did she find out?”
The nun patted Violet’s hand, encouraging her to take her seat.
Lily gulped and squeezed her eyes shut. When she finally spoke, her words charged forth on a single breath. “I heard you and the widow talking on Christmas Eve.”
Violet cursed herself for being so careless. “And you couldn’t wait to tell Mother.”
“She made me.”
“She didn’t know about it!” Violet stamped both feet, rattling the table. “How could she make you?”
Lily’s eyes popped open wide. “I didn’t want you running away with Stanley. I didn’t want to be left alone.”
“Well, you got your wish. We’re together now.”
“It was your idea to come with me.” Lily’s cheeks flushed. “I certainly don’t need a keeper.”
“You’ve done a fine job so far.”
“Oh, and you’re so perfect.” Lily turned to the nun. “Our parents don’t approve of Stanley, him being Catholic and all.” She cleared her throat conspiratorially. “Not to mention Polish. But that doesn’t seem to matter to her.” She tossed her head toward Violet.
Silence filled the room as the Reverend Mother considered the matter. When she finally spoke, her words lacked any trace of sentimentality. “Our Lord in Heaven commands us to honor thy father and thy mother.” The nun pushed the second handkerchief toward Violet. “And experience cautions us against mixed marriages.”
Experience? The word reverberated in Violet’s ear like a sour note at the piano. What experience might a nun have? How could someone married to Jesus understand real love? Violet twisted the hanky, as if wringing it out to dry. “I’ve honored my parents all my life,” she finally managed. “You’ll not find a more devoted daughter.” She shot a look at both Lily and the nun, daring either one to dispute her claim. Lily’s lips parted briefly, but without result.
“Tea’s ready,” Muriel said, breaking the silence. She placed the teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, and spoons next to three cups and saucers already on the tray, and carried them to the table. A fourth cup sat cooling on the stove behind her. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m not even here.”
Mother Mary Joseph emptied the tray and poured the tea. Muriel backed away from the table, hoisted herself onto a stool near the wall, and quietly sipped her drink.
“Now, in the matter of the child,” the nun warmed her hands over her cup, “we seek good Christian homes, and try to consider creed and appearance when making a match. For instance, a towheaded child in a family of Turks would cause a stir.” The Reverend Mother fixed her gaze on Lily, but cast her voice in Violet’s direction. “We find it best to keep them with their own kind.”
Though reeling from the nun’s comments, Violet couldn’t bring herself to argue. Truth be told, from the moment she knew Lily’s baby would be adopted o
ut, she pictured the child being raised by a family similar to her own. Welsh. Protestant. Fair-skinned. The father, a hardworking miner, and the mother, a dark-haired beauty. They’d probably be poor like most, but no matter, as long as they raised the child to fear God.
“But enough of that.” Mother Mary Joseph closed her notebook and slipped it into her pocket. “The two of you must be exhausted from your trip.”
“Yes ma’am,” Lily answered when Violet remained silent.
“Muriel, will you show the girls to their beds after they finish their tea?” The nun turned and stared at the girl. “Since you’re still so close at hand.”
Muriel’s cheeks reddened again, as she lowered herself from the stool. “Gladly.”
“Get some rest now,” the Reverend Mother said as she rose from the table. “Six thirty comes early.”
“Pardon?” Lily’s head snapped up.
“Mass begins promptly at seven.” Before Lily had a chance to object, the nun added, “And attendance is required. Here at the Good Shepherd, we’re all God’s children.”
Chapter two
“IT AIN’T SO BAD HERE.” Muriel led the pair out of the kitchen into a long, mahogany-paneled hallway. At the opposite end, a hand-carved staircase wound its way to the upper floors. “Dull as ditch water, though.” She nodded toward an open door on their right. “Feed hall. Food’s lousy,” she shrugged, “but there’s plenty of it. Something to be said for that.”
Violet let go of the suitcases to poke her head inside but grabbed them again when a door across from them squeaked open.
An ancient woman, whose wiry white hair started halfway back on her head, raised a trembling finger to her sunken lips. “Shush. You’ll wake the babies.”
Muriel dropped her voice. “Sorry, Sadie. This here’s the new girl, Lily, and her sister Violet.” Violet nodded. “And this here’s Sadie Hope.”
“A pleasure,” Sadie whispered, stepping out, pulling the door shut behind her. “We just now got the babies to sleep.” She motioned the girls farther down the hall, past the dining room and into the parlor. “This is better,” she said, dropping onto a rose-colored couch that sagged a good deal in the middle. “Sit down, Lily.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit. Sit,” she said to the other two, waving a shaky hand toward twin tapestry-covered chairs directly across from her.