All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  Sniffing the air, Evan remarked, “You can still smell the perfume.” He snickered. “I’d say she’s sweet on you.”

  “Stay out of it. I’m warning you.”

  “Whoa! I’m just the messenger.” He pivoted his foot as if to leave but continued facing forward. “Of course, I have to wonder what her parents would think if they found out.”

  Stanley shot up from his chair and the letter fell to the floor. He pinned Evan against the wall with his handless arm and gripped his throat with the good one. The fact that Evan stood a head taller made no difference. “Tell anyone about this,” Stanley paused to give his words weight, “and, swear to God, I’ll kill you.” He held Evan a moment longer before letting go.

  Evan smoothed his shirt, adjusted his collar, and finger-combed his hair. “Nice way to treat an old friend,” he said.

  “We were never friends.” Stanley picked up the letter and sat down on his bed. “Now get the hell out.”

  “I won’t forget this,” Evan said, and he skulked out of the room.

  Fifteen minutes passed before Stanley finally began to simmer down. He held the envelope the whole time, but chose not to open it in his agitated state. Violet deserved his full attention.

  Threat or no threat, by Monday morning, Evan Evans would have a letter in the mail to his mother Myrtle who would claim it was her Christian duty to call on Violet’s mother, Grace.

  The news would upset Mrs. Morgan, but it probably wouldn’t shock her, or Owen. They’d spent a considerable amount of time over the years trying to thwart the most steadfast kind of love—that which is rooted in friendship. Stanley and Violet had been playmates in childhood, fishing up at Leggett’s Creek, calling birds in the woods alongside the dairy. But when adolescence struck, society’s mores and a newfound self-consciousness created a natural distance between them. Mrs. Morgan seized her chance, nudging Violet toward more feminine pursuits such as painting, needlework, and Bible study with the girls from Sunday school. On the occasions when Stanley did stop by, Mr. Morgan would say, “It’s too nice a day to be cooped up inside,” or, “Go have fun with your buddies,” before sending him on his way.

  Fortunately for Stanley and Violet, the widow Lankowski favored romance over practicality. “You were destined to be together,” she often said when recounting her part in their courtship. “I knew it the day I caught the pair of you playing hooky down at Murray’s store. You couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. There you both were, trembling in your boots over getting caught. But neither one of you turned against the other. You faced what you had coming together. God’s hand is in that kind of love.” Just to be sure, the widow had explained, she decided to put her hand in as well.

  “I hear Violet’s been working over at Walsh’s,” she said on the Saturday Stanley returned home from his freshman year in college. When he didn’t bite, she added, “The studio,” then another pause, “on Lackawanna Avenue.”

  “I know where it is.” When had Violet taken an interest in photography? For some reason this irritated Stanley.

  “She’s coloring the portraits.”

  At least that part made sense. Violet had always had a steady hand. “I know what you’re doing, Babcia.” He called her grandmother in Polish. Although the widow wasn’t related to Stanley by blood, he’d started using the name soon after she’d taken him in. It seemed fitting, given her age and importance in his life.

  “I’m telling you about an old friend. That’s what I’m doing,” she’d said, peeling a lace tablecloth off a pile of linens and handing one corner to Stanley. “An old friend.” She searched the outstretched lace for the portion in need of repair. “With a new job.”

  “There.” Stanley used his stump to point to a small tear near the center of the fabric.

  “Who works most Saturdays.” The widow sat down in a chair next to her sewing table and draped the cloth across her lap. “Perfect for an unmarried girl.” She examined several spools of thread before selecting the closest match. “Almost as good as lace work.”

  Stanley ignored the widow’s obvious attempt at matchmaking. For one thing, he had no interest in courting Violet. And for another, he’d purposely taken the early train back from school so he’d be home in time to see the debut of Queenie the baby elephant up at Nay Aug Zoo. Queenie, Scranton’s first elephant, had been purchased with donations from children all over the city. Stanley had always had a soft spot for animals. As a boy, he’d even had a pet mule named Sophie. A beautiful creature, white as snow. She’d met her maker some years earlier, but every time Stanley passed the Harrises’ barn where he’d kept her, he liked to pretend she was still inside, sleeping or munching on an apple.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he called out to the widow. June 14, 1924—a day so beautiful, he decided to walk the four miles to Nay Aug. It would give him a chance to clear his head.

  Violet. Although he was no longer interested in her, he did find it funny that she was working for an Irishman, a Catholic no less. What would her father think of that? I suppose he has no qualms about Catholic money, Stanley thought, just Catholic suitors.

  He walked over to Providence Square and continued down North Main Avenue, toward town. But Stanley liked Owen. He’d always been kind to him. They just happened to disagree about what was best for Violet. Not that it mattered now. Yes, Stanley had carried a torch for her in high school, but he’d moved on. He’d taken Lorraine Day to the St. Valentine’s Day formal. Hadn’t seen her since, but Violet certainly didn’t figure into that.

  Stanley walked on, past Scranton Central High School, their alma mater. For a moment he remembered standing outside the boys’ entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of Violet as she entered on the girls’ side.

  Instead of turning up Vine Street to get to Nay Aug, he headed toward town. Toward Lackawanna Avenue. Was there a law against a fellow stopping by to say hello to an old friend? For that’s what she was, an old friend. He continued this line of reasoning as he passed the post office, the courthouse, and another block of storefronts.

  He stopped and looked across the street at a moss-green awning proclaiming, Walsh’s Portrait Studio, in bright white letters. Stanley considered his greeting. Keep it cheerful, he thought, as you would with any friend. So good to see you. No need to fawn over her. Wouldn’t want to give the girl the wrong idea.

  He glanced at his reflection in a shoemaker’s window, pushed down a cowlick at the part in his hair, and crossed the intersection. Maybe he’d tell her how well she looked. To do less would be impolite.

  As soon as he arrived on the other side of the street, his heart fell. A sign, posted on the front door, read, Closed early. Tacked next to it, a newspaper clipping announced, “See Queenie, the Kiddies’ Own Elephant, All Day Saturday.” Someone, Mr. Walsh most likely, had also put a basket of peanuts out for anyone heading up to the zoo.

  Well, if that didn’t take the cake. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but he was annoyed with her just the same. And with Babcia for wasting his time. And with himself for behaving so foolishly. He grabbed a peanut out of the basket, cracked the shell with one hand, and popped its contents into his mouth.

  The door swung open. “They’re for the elephant.” Violet laughed, stepping outside.

  “I thought you . . .” Stanley’s cheeks burned.

  She pulled the door shut, locked it, and turned toward him. “What a wonderful surprise.” She squeezed his arm and stepped back to look at him. “College suits you.”

  Stunned, Stanley stood in silence another moment before saying, “You’re still . . .” he paused to gaze, “so beautiful.” As soon as he said the words, an awkwardness settled over them, the sort of awkwardness that comes when two people suddenly and simultaneously understand the stakes.

  “Queenie awaits,” Violet finally said, looping her arm through Stanley’s handless one and pulling him toward Nay Aug.

  * * *

  Thousands of people turned out for a chance to see a rea
l elephant, so the line stretched beyond the limits of the zoo, into the picnic grove.

  “All waiting is long,” Violet said after they’d been standing for half an hour.

  Stanley could be impatient at times, even stubborn, but not today, not with Violet so near, so beautiful. “Didn’t your mother used to say that?” He studied her dress, that face, those eyes, committing all of it to memory.

  She nodded. “And her mother before her.”

  “All depends on who you’re waiting with, I say.” He smiled and thought for a moment he might kiss her.

  “Get your souvenirs here!” a vendor called out from behind a wheeled cart. He stopped alongside Stanley and motioned to a herd of button-eyed elephants with colorful chintz hides. “A remembrance for the lady?”

  Coins changed hands before Violet could object. Stanley studied the pile and selected the floppy-legged version whose loaf-shaped body suggested a permanent state of repose. “Violets,” he said, pointing out the delicate flowers on the fabric. He handed her the keepsake, adding, “For you.”

  Twenty minutes later they took their turn in front of Queenie, a footnote now in Stanley’s memory. His wait with Violet, her sunburned nose, her licorice breath, was what remained indelible in his mind.

  They were holding hands by the time they left the zoo. The kiss took another two days and a good deal of courage on both their parts. When Stanley finally asked if that had been her first, Violet simply said, “It’s the only one that matters.” She’d meant to reassure him, he was convinced, but her words rankled him. Someone else had tasted those lips. Tommy Davies, most likely, though Violet refused to discuss the matter. She didn’t have to. Stanley had seen the way Tommy looked at her.

  * * *

  Stanley lifted the letter to his face, savoring the scent of lilacs. Violet had waited long enough. Come graduation, he was going to marry her. He wouldn’t even unpack his bag. He’d go over to her house and ask her father for her hand, as a gesture of respect. If Mr. Morgan said no, he’d take Violet and leave as planned. He knew of a justice of the peace in Philadelphia who would marry them, and before the end of May, they’d be Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Adamski.

  Chapter five

  “FOLLOW ME.” Muriel signaled for Lily to grab her coat from the hall closet and head toward the kitchen where the two workmen, who had finished painting the last room that morning, were cleaning their brushes and packing up for good. “Say it ain’t so, Joe.” Muriel winked at a stocky fellow, wiping excess paint off a can.

  “Yes, kid,” he said, picking up on her reference to the Shoeless Joe Jackson scandal and playing along, “I’m afraid it is.”

  “No more foxes in the henhouse,” the other man chimed in, either unaware of the baseball banter or unable to add to it.

  “We’ll miss you, boys.” Muriel linked arms with Lily and the two girls slipped sideways out the back door.

  “Where are we going?” Lily asked, trying to button her coat one-handed.

  “You’ll see.” Muriel let go of Lily’s arm and the two walked single file along the chapel side of the building.

  “What if we get caught?” It had only been three days since Lily’s arrival, yet she found herself struggling with the button at her belly.

  “I haven’t gotten caught yet.” Muriel pulled Lily into a natural alcove behind some overgrown forsythia bushes that ran the length of the wall. “Anyhow, Mother Mary Joseph is meeting with some of the benefactors. She’ll never miss us.”

  “But what if Sister Immaculata . . . ?”

  Muriel silenced Lily with her eyes. “We can go back in as soon as I have a smoke.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a matchbook. “I don’t know about you,” Muriel said, “but I’m in no hurry to get back. Who needs lessons in needlepoint, anyway?”

  “I embroidered two pillowcases once, and Mother put them in my hope chest. Her hope chest, really, but she said it’ll be mine someday.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all.” Muriel cocked her head and laughed. “Are you rich or something?”

  “Hardly.”

  Muriel glanced at Lily’s threadbare coat. “You don’t look rich,” Muriel said, “but you sound it. Hope chest. That’s almost as funny as foyer.”

  “I’m going to be rich,” Lily said, as confidently as if she’d said, I’m going to the store, or, I’m going to have a birthday.

  “Hope chest.” Muriel shook her head and laughed again. Just as she was about to strike a match, a maroon Model T started up the driveway and stopped at the foot of the main entrance. Instinctively, she stepped farther into the bushes, pressed her back against the wall, and put a finger to her lips. Both girls watched as the driver emerged from the car, feet and head first, unfolding himself to a height of six and a half feet. “Jack Barrett,” Muriel whispered. “A benefactor.” With legs almost as long as the car was wide, the man climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and entered the building in under ten seconds.

  Lily broke out in a fit of giggles. “I don’t think you’ll be winning at hide-and-seek anytime soon.” She glanced at Muriel’s stomach poking through the branches, and they both started laughing.

  “That was a close call,” Muriel finally said, still smiling as she struck the match and lit her cigarette.

  Lily sobered and pointed to the passenger side of the car where a pudgy woman stared straight ahead and fidgeted with her uncombed hair. What do we do? Lily mouthed.

  Muriel started laughing again. “Jack Sprat could eat no fat,” she singsonged. “His wife could eat no lean.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Lily whispered as she eyed the wall to see if she could sneak back in, staying hidden behind the forsythia bushes.

  “And so betwixt them both, they licked the platter clean.” Muriel took a drag on her cigarette, and for that moment she was a study in contentment. “That’s just Mamie,” she said, blowing a smoke ring, then erasing it with her hand. “Crazy as a bed bug. Never says a word. Just stays put when her husband comes by.”

  “How sad.” The bushes were too thick farther up, so Lily decided to stay and wait the Barretts out.

  Muriel licked the ends of her thumb and index finger and extinguished her smoke. “For another day,” she said, her tone reverential, as she tucked the cigarette back into her pocket.

  Lily kept her eyes on the car.

  Muriel peered through the bushes for a better look. “I heard talk about how Mamie lost a baby girl and can’t have any more. Never been right since.”

  “That happened to my mother,” Lily said. “Had a nervous breakdown after she lost my other sister.” When Muriel didn’t say anything, Lily added, “That was a long time ago, before I was born.”

  “You just never know,” Muriel finally said. “Here I thought you had the perfect life.”

  “I do. I mean, she’s better now. I never knew her that way. She still has sad spells, now and again. Not often.”

  “How’d she get better?”

  “Me.” Lily stood straighter, momentarily prideful. “At least that’s what everyone says. I was a miracle baby, and that got her living again.”

  “I wonder if a baby could cure Mamie.” Muriel pulled back a few branches to get a better look. “Nah,” she said, watching the woman who was now as still as a statue, “she’s too far gone.” She let go of the branches and turned back. “So life is perfect.” Muriel noticed that Lily’s coat was unbuttoned at the belly. “Almost perfect.”

  “Everyone was always worried. They never let me out of their sight. It’s unnatural to be brought up that way. If they could’ve wrapped me in cotton and locked me in a room, they would have, just to keep me safe. What if something happened to me? That kind of love suffocates a person.”

  “I don’t know. I think I could use a little suffocating.” This time Muriel’s laugh sounded hollow. She stepped out of the bushes, pulling Lily along with her, and started back.

  “They always tell me I’m special, but if I’m so special, wh
y am I poor?” Lily turned to Muriel for an answer.

  “Don’t look at me. I’ve accepted my lot.” Muriel eyed Lily up and down. “But you? I see you in a mansion someday, high on a hill.”

  “Married to a benefactor,” Lily said. “A man who can afford to give his money away because there’s always more to be had.”

  “And I’ll swing by for a visit sometime, and we’ll needlepoint pillowcases all day long.” They both giggled now, and Muriel added, “You’re spoiled, but I don’t mind.”

  “I am spoiled,” Lily said, glancing at her disappearing waistline. Spoiled for George, she thought, but didn’t say it.

  * * *

  Mother Mary Joseph shared the couch with Thelma Powell, the railroad magnate’s wife, whose plumed hat molted as she spoke. “I truly believe the worst of it is behind us,” she said, fanning a feather away from her nose.

  In a chair opposite, Stephen Francis Poklemba looked more serious than usual. “Harder times are coming, I’m afraid.” As the business school dean at Villanova, his opinion usually carried weight.

  “I disagree,” Thelma said. “Did you read today’s paper?” She pulled the Public Ledger out of her handbag and read the headline. “Effects of the Stock Market Crash Have Disappeared. They wouldn’t print it if it weren’t true.” She scanned the article. “Says it’ll all be over,” she swatted another feather, “in thirty to sixty days.”

  “With all due respect . . .” Stephen began.

  Thelma handed the paper over to him. “Read it for yourself. They don’t make these things up.”

  As usual, throughout the meeting Jack Barrett stood behind a tapestry-covered chair, tipping it back and forth. He had energy to spare and could never sit for very long. “The point is,” he now interjected, “we’re all committed to the Good Shepherd, and whatever the future holds, we’ll continue to lend our financial support.”