All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

“I’ll apologize,” George said evenly.

  Lily looked up, and pointed at Frankie with the bottle. “You brought me here for him?” She turned to George. “This wasn’t a . . .” she stopped to think of the word and giggled at her momentary lapse, “coincidence?”

  “I’m taking you home,” Frankie said. When Lily didn’t budge, he added, “You don’t need him. He looked down at his shoes. “A girl like you could have her pick of guys.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” George squinted up. “The Guinea’s in love.” He slapped his leg. “That deserves a drink.” He pushed Lily’s beer to her mouth again. They both laughed and the foam dribbled down her chin.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said to Frankie. “George is trying to make up with me.”

  George draped his arm around Lily and pulled her into his chest. “Get outta here,” he said to Frankie. “I like to say my sorrys in private.” He winked and tossed the flask to him. “Compliments of the house.” He leaned into Lily and nuzzled her neck. “Now go find Janetta before she comes back,” he said to the boy, “and keep her company for a while.” He winked again.

  “You’re too good for him.” Frankie stretched his arm toward Lily once more. She put down her beer and waved him away as George pulled her in for a kiss.

  Frankie stood for a moment longer, watching as George lowered Lily onto the blanket, their lips locked throughout the descent. “Son of a bitch,” Frankie mumbled. He unscrewed the flask, poured its contents down his throat, tossed the empty container aside, and walked away.

  George stretched toward one of the bottles and placed it in Lily’s open hand.

  Lily caught her breath and half sat up. “I need to say something.”

  “Sure,” George replied, taking a swig from the beer she held. His fingers trailed the length of her neck, lingering at the top curve of her breast. He pushed her back down, rolled on top of her, and kissed her hard.

  She shivered underneath his weight. “I’m scared,” she said weakly.

  “That’s how love feels.”

  “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you, baby.”

  She pushed his head back a little so she could see into his eyes. “Who else do you love?”

  “Nobody. Just you. Just my beautiful baby.”

  “I’ll baby you.” Janetta stepped onto the blanket and threw a napkin filled with doughnuts at George’s head.

  George jumped up, shaking powered sugar out of his hair.

  “Send me on a wild goose chase!” She kicked over a half-empty bottle. “For Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over there?” Her foot landed in George’s shin and he buckled slightly. “Nothing but a dirty two-timer, that’s what you are.”

  Lily sat up, pulled herself over to a tree, and leaned against it, a safe distance from the scuffle.

  George took Janetta’s arm and leaned in close. “Let me explain.” He looked at Lily again. “Later.”

  “Never you mind, George Sherman.” Janetta wriggled out of his grip. “You told me I was your girl.” She spit in Lily’s direction. “Just remember,” she leaned in close to George and lowered her voice, “she’ll never do for you like I done. We both know it.” Janetta kicked over the second bottle of beer and stormed away.

  As soon as Janetta had disappeared into the trees, George turned back to Lily and sat down. “Now where were we?” His pressed his palm against her thigh and circled the flesh with his thumb.

  “Everything’s ruined!” Lily burst into tears. “It’s not supposed to be this way.” She pushed his hand away and pulled her legs up to her chest.

  George inhaled deeply. “Come on, baby.”

  “You said you loved me!”

  “And I do, baby. I do.” He dabbed Lily’s tears with sleeve. “Only you,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face. “She’s nobody. I brought her here to make you jealous.” He dropped his eyes and kicked at the ground with the toe of his shoe. “Stupid, I know, but I get crazy when it comes to you.”

  Lily’s shoulders relaxed, and she stretched her legs out.

  “All the other girls give me what I want.” George reached up and stroked Lily’s cheek. “But not you.” He looked at her straight on as if seeing her for the first time. “I’ve never known anyone like you.”

  She rested her head inside his palm. Pulling himself closer, George slid his free hand between Lily’s calves, slicing his way past her knees to her trembling thighs.

  “Stop,” Lily said, pushing his hand away. “I can’t think.”

  “Don’t think. Just trust me, baby.” His hand found its way to her thigh again. “I love you.”

  “I need time,” she said, and drew her legs up to her chest once more.

  “Time?” He tried to rest his hand on Lily’s knee, but she pushed him away. “Don’t make me beg.”

  “I mean it,” she said, and twisted away from him.

  George stood up, slammed his foot into the trunk of the tree, walked over to the blanket, and knocked over the third quart of beer. “Janetta!” he yelled as he started to sprint. “Wait up!”

  * * *

  Frankie came back and found Lily sitting on the blanket, crying.

  “He said I’m not grown up enough for him.”

  “A girl like you deserves better.” Frankie knelt on the ground and handed her his hankie.

  She blew her nose and wiped her face. “He’d rather spend his time with girls like Janetta.”

  Frankie reached over for the last quart of beer, peeled back the newspaper, and took a long swig. “Janetta can’t hold a candle to you.”

  “You’re sweet, Frankie.” Lily grabbed the beer and sipped. “Why can’t George be sweet like you?” She started crying again.

  “He’s a damn fool.” Frankie scooted in next to Lily and held her in his arms. “You’re the most beautiful girl in Scranton,” he said, caressing her cheek.

  “You really think so?” Lily looked up at him. Dizzy, she fell back onto the blanket, pulling Frankie on top of her. They bumped noses hard as they landed, setting off a fit of tears and giggles. And kisses. Awkward at first, but rhythmic in short time, and soon enough, Lily gave herself over to him, thinking of George and Janetta. She lifted her hips as Frankie fumbled with his trousers, groped for her bloomers, and pressed his body into hers.

  * * *

  Lily felt the baby kick again, just as Sister Immaculata charged through the door and turned on the first light. “This is the day that the Lord hath made.” She stopped as she did every morning and waited for the women to respond from their beds.

  “Let us rejoice,” Lily said, blinking tears from her eyes, “and be glad in it.” She turned her head toward Violet’s bed and saw that it hadn’t been slept in. “Must be down with that baby again,” she whispered to her belly. She turned back toward Muriel’s bed. It too was empty. Lily rolled onto her side and dropped her feet to the floor before standing. “Birthdays are supposed to be happy,” she mumbled on her way to the washroom.

  Chapter seven

  STANDING AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW, Violet watched the breaking sun lap up the last edges of the night. In the next half hour, all the girls at the Good Shepherd, including Lily, would be congregating in the dining room for a breakfast of creamed wheat topped with a little butter and sugar. Violet closed her eyes and imagined pice ar y maen, the little currant-filled Welsh cakes her mother would have made had they been home for Lily’s birthday. Whatever troubles her mother had, she always tried to make their birthdays special, and Violet would do the same, though she doubted the Reverend Mother would approve.

  On top of the stove, an open glass bottle shivered inside a small pot of water. Violet grabbed the bottle, stretched a rubber nipple over its mouth, and tipped it onto her left wrist. The temperature was right, but a sour smell invaded Violet’s nose. Buttermilk. Extra nourishment for the harelipped infant now called Michael.

  Mother Mary Joseph had named him. All of the asylum’s abandoned babies were named for saints. The day after the
baby arrived, the Reverend Mother had asked Sister Immaculata to check her records.

  “We haven’t had a Michael for some time,” the rotund nun had said without looking up from her paperwork.

  Mother Mary Joseph had examined the child, bottom to top, holding her gaze on his crooked expression. “After the archangel. The great prince which standeth for the children.”

  Violet carried the bottle back to the infant nursery and took Michael out of the crib. The Reverend Mother had been right about the buttermilk. Michael felt heavier in just a week’s time. After ten minutes, Violet draped a clean diaper over her shoulder and patted the baby’s back to coax a burp. He obliged almost immediately, with a sound usually reserved for bullfrogs. “Well, excuse me,” she said, her eyelids widening in feigned shock.

  “He’s taken to you,” the Reverend Mother said, walking into the room and lifting the child from Violet’s lap. The nun gently placed the baby onto the white-enameled platform of an old spring scale that hung from the ceiling. A local grocer, who’d once used the device for cuts of meat, had donated it to the Good Shepherd after buying a newer model. “Weighs about . . .” Mother Mary Joseph waited for the needle on the dial to settle, “six and three-quarters. Up a pound and a half.” She handed the infant back to Violet. “Thanks be to God.”

  For almost an hour, the Reverend Mother and Violet fed, bathed, and dressed twelve babies, one for each ivory-colored crib in the room. At five minutes to seven, the nun looked up at the clock. “Time for Mass.” She laid Judith Dennick’s infant in his crib, rubbed his belly, and turned to Violet. “I had hoped Sadie would be in to help you,” she said, glancing at the clock a second time. “But not today. I trust you’ll be fine without us this morning.”

  Violet looked up and down three rows of cribs, four deep, with just enough space in between for one person to pass. “I’ll manage.” She tacked a smile onto her words, hoping to cover at least some of the indignation in her voice. Violet was annoyed with the nun for being so presumptuous with her time, but then again, she liked not having to go to Mass. All of that kneeling and bowing seemed undignified somehow. Protestants kneeled too, but in the privacy of their own homes.

  “We’ll be offering up a prayer for the Hartwell girl.”

  Violet looked up. “Muriel?”

  “Started her pains in the middle of the night.”

  Picturing the midwife’s hands, Violet asked, “Did someone go for the doctor?”

  “No need for that. Sadie Hope is in with her.” Mother Mary Joseph stopped at the doorway and plucked a set of silver rosary beads from a nail on the wall. “Trust in the Lord and let nature take its course,” she said and walked out of the room.

  Alone, with only infant witnesses, Violet dropped to her knees and prayed.

  * * *

  Mother Mary Joseph returned to the nursery at half past eleven.

  “Any word on Muriel?” Violet asked.

  “No change, but that’s not unusual.” The Reverend Mother walked across the room, pushed back the curtains over three identical windows, and peered out at the cheerless March day. “I had hoped for a little sun this afternoon . . .” She turned to the closest crib and scooped a baby girl into her arms. “Let’s get the little ones bundled up.”

  The Reverend Mother believed in fresh air, no matter the weather. Each afternoon, the babies were swaddled in thick blankets, paired off in carriages, and placed on the front porch for two-hour naps. Mother Mary Joseph claimed that time outdoors kept children healthy—good advice, considering how robust her charges seemed to be.

  “I need to run an errand,” Violet said. “I’ll wait till the children are napping.” She placed a bundled Michael into a wicker buggy, stepped over to the next crib, and started dressing a two-month-old named Bernadette. When Mother Mary Joseph didn’t respond, Violet added, “It’s Lily’s birthday, I’d like her to have something to open.”

  “We don’t allow the girls—”

  “With all due respect,” Violet interrupted, “I’m not one of the girls.”

  The nun paused, as if to consider the point. “Well, we still have to dress the toddlers.” She nodded toward the room next door. “Sister Teresa is still in bed with a cold.”

  “Yes,” Violet said, “but after that.”

  “If you think it’s wise to reward her.” The Reverend Mother pushed a carriage to the doorway, and a waiting nun pulled it out of the room and onto the front porch. “Personally . . .”

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise,” Violet said, her curt tone putting an end to the discussion.

  * * *

  Once all of the children were dressed and in their carriages, Violet left through the kitchen door and headed around front. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned back, examining the grounds in the daylight. A tall iron fence lined the tar-and-chip driveway leading up to the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum. Short but wide, the road stayed to the right, where a redbrick chapel stood, low and broad. According to Sadie, who loved a good story, the church had been erected in 1880 and was the first structure on the property. The adjoining three-story convent had been added a decade later, at the urging of Bishop McGoff, who thought a contingent of nuns would bolster the flagging morality of the women in Philadelphia. The convent appeared so grand with its tiled arches and rounded windows that the workmen added a twenty-foot steeple to the unadorned chapel free of charge. Almost immediately, and much to the bishop’s dismay, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary started sheltering unmarried women who found themselves in the family way. By the turn of the century, the nuns had raised enough money to add a small maternity hospital onto the left side of the convent, where the women could be delivered within the walls of the Good Shepherd.

  Violet gave the asylum one last look before heading toward the millinery on the corner of Market and Broad, across the street from the train station. She’d noticed the shop the night she and Lily arrived. Considering Lily’s burgeoning form, a hat would make a sensible gift. Nothing too fussy, Violet thought. Nothing that would draw unwanted attention. She looked up at a street sign to get her bearings, and after a moment she turned left onto Market Street and followed it for six more blocks.

  Gold letters on the store’s red sign announced, Widenor’s Hats. James Widenor, Proprietor. Violet eyed the merchandise in the window, wondering if Mr. Widenor would be willing to barter. She reached into her coat pocket and fingered the gold medallion awarded to her at graduation. The raised letters on front read:

  Scranton Central High School

  Valedictorian

  Class of 1923

  Violet’s parents had been so proud of her when she’d received the medal and delivered the valedictory address. She’d been honored with a scholarship to Bloomsburg Teacher’s College, and she might have gone too, if Lily had been a little older. Lily was only nine, and given their mother’s nervous episodes, Violet felt obligated to stay.

  “I’m sorry,” was all her father had said. But the morning after graduation, she watched unseen as he placed the scholarship letter between the gilded pages of the family Bible.

  Now Violet entered the milliner’s shop. Inside, she zigzagged around hat-covered trees in search of the shopkeeper or one of his assistants. At the rear of the store, she discovered a high counter with a cash register and silver desk bell. A note alongside the bell read, Ring once for service. Violet tapped the bell on top, releasing a tinny note.

  “Be there in a minute!” a man called out.

  “I’m in no hurry.” Violet meandered through a forest of tams, berets, and Panamas, in search of something quiet and sensible. Instead, she found herself staring at one of those modern, felt, creased-crown hats, trimmed with a periwinkle ribbon and matching silk forget-me-nots.

  “A lovely choice.”

  Violet jumped.

  A pudgy gentleman was standing behind her. “What can I do you for?” He reached past Violet to the hat. “I own the place.” He took the hat and evened out the
crease before placing it on her head.

  “It’s not for me.” She snatched the hat and hung it on the bare limb before her. “I’m here to buy a present for my sister.”

  “Just the same.” Mr. Widenor pulled a handheld mirror from a nearby shelf. “Indulge me.” He took the hat once again and pushed it down over her curls. “Lovely.” He handed her the mirror.

  She looked at her reflection and fingered the periwinkle ribbon. “My favorite color.” She smiled, surprised that such a daring headpiece would flatter her face.

  “Wear that and you’ll not want for suitors.”

  “I haven’t any money.”

  “I’m sorry, miss.” Mr. Widenor took the hat back and placed it on the tree. “I wish I could help you, but I have five mouths to feed at home, and a sixth on the way.” He fluffed a beret at the top of the stand. “We’re hoping for a girl this time.” He turned back, smiling sheepishly.

  Violet pulled the medallion out of her pocket and felt the weight of it in her palm. Lay up not for yourselves treasures upon earth, she reminded herself, and handed it to the proprietor. “I thought we might barter.”

  He flipped it over and read its message. “You?”

  She nodded.

  “I can’t take this.” He tried to return the award. “You earned it.”

  And it wasn’t easy, she thought. If only their mother hadn’t taken to her bed so often in the years following Daisy’s death.

  Violet slipped her empty hand into her coat pocket. “What can I get for it?” she asked.

  Mr. Widenor bit down on the medallion. “Gold-plated.” He tipped it to the light. “Ten carat, no more.”

  Violet didn’t budge.

  “Wait here.” A minute or two later he returned with something sturdy but unremarkable, the kind of straw bonnet every miner’s wife in Scranton owned.

  Violet tried it on. Her face fell.

  “Best I can do,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He offered the medallion back to her. “Just as well. A person should hold onto something this special.”

  Violet shook her head at the coin and handed the straw hat over to the shop owner. “This one will have to do. Box it for me, please.” She walked to the front of the store, took a seat in a straight-backed chair, and waited.