All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  Several minutes later, Mr. Widenor returned from the back room with a bright red hatbox, exclusive to his store. “I tied it good and tight,” he said, handing it over. “With a sister like you, she’s a lucky girl. God bless, miss.”

  Violet forced a smile and a “Thank you,” but they didn’t match up. She threaded her fingers through the string and headed for the door.

  As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, a nearby mill whistled its workers back from lunch. It was a familiar sound. The Lace Works, a factory in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, used the same method. On weekdays, Lace Works employees and schoolchildren within earshot eagerly awaited the first whistle, a signal for lunch. An hour later, the whistle would sound again, urging everyone back to their duties.

  Since Violet had left the asylum at half past twelve, she knew that must have been the one o’clock whistle. She was surprised at how quickly she’d managed her errand. The suitcases must have slowed her the last time she’d walked these streets. No one expected her back before two o’clock, so she decided to savor her solitude. Violet settled herself on a nearby bench to watch the bustle of the large city. For the first time in the two weeks since her arrival, she noticed the gray air. The smoke, expelled from countless trains and automobiles, hung in front of her like gossamer curtains. Pedestrians hurried through the haze, eyes downcast, coats drawn up toward their faces. Tracks cut through the middle of the street, where fast-moving cars and crowded trolleys shared the road. Across the way, arched windows and Gothic spires graced the massive train station.

  Violet wondered if she could ever make a life in such a place. One of Stanley’s letters had suggested getting married in Philadelphia. What if he decided to move them here? She found the anonymity of a big city inviting. If she were sitting alone on a bench in Scranton, half the congregation of the Providence Christian Church would know about it, and what’s more, have shared their opinions on it before she ever made it back to her own front porch. And a predicament like Lily’s wouldn’t be tolerated back home, though Violet hoped never to be compromised by such troubles again.

  Yet, there was also comfort to be had in a place like Scranton. Last winter, when Mr. Harris was laid up with the gout, the men on Spring Street took turns cleaning the ashes out of his furnace and spreading them on the icy sidewalks. And when Susie Hopkins lost her husband in that mine fire, the ladies of Providence stepped in, providing enough staples and canned goods to feed Susie and her three children through the winter.

  A sudden gust of March air stirred the dust, and Violet’s hands flew to her eyes. An instant later, when the wind subsided, she saw the red hatbox tumbling toward the trolley tracks. Without thinking, she ran into the street and snatched Lily’s present just as a streetcar approached. Violet looked up, and for a moment time faltered, unable or unwilling to move along.

  Stanley stood in the middle of the overcrowded trolley, gripping a leather handhold, facing the motorman up front. Reason demanded that Violet run away, but Stanley’s sudden presence pinned her in place. She studied his profile, his lips, his nose, and found solace in the familiar. It was as if she’d been in foreign lands for untold years and awakened one day to the sound of her native tongue. She was home.

  Time lurched forward. Violet’s fingers started throbbing from the too-tight string on the hatbox. The hat. Lily!

  She lingered another second, not long at all, yet long enough for Stanley to turn and glance out the window as the streetcar passed by her. Uncertainty seemed to tug at the corners of his eyes as he yelled, “Stop!” either to her or the conductor.

  Fear propelled Violet in the opposite direction, away from the trolley, away from the man she loved.

  Chapter eight

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL DAY?” Lily asked when Violet walked into the dining room for supper. “With that baby, I suppose. I’ll never understand why you care more about that stray than you do your own sister.”

  “Not now,” Violet whispered. She took the empty seat on Lily’s right and bowed her head just as Sister Immaculata started the blessing.

  Lily waited, open-eyed, for the moment when the Catholics would start crossing themselves, her signal that the prayer was almost over.

  “In the name of the Father . . .”

  All of the women except for the Morgan girls lifted their right hands to their foreheads.

  “Do you even know what today is?” Lily couldn’t contain herself.

  Violet tipped her bowed head in her sister’s direction, opened one eye, and glared. “Amen.”

  Sister Immaculata gave a nod, and napkins snapped open, some spread across laps and bellies, others tucked under chins. Ladles clanked against pressed-glass tureens as a hearty stew made its way around four long tables. Lily wrinkled up her nose as Violet filled their bowls.

  “This doesn’t look anything like Mother’s.” Lily poked at chunks of gray meat swimming among the potatoes and carrots in the thick brown broth.

  “That’s because it’s mutton,” Violet said, “not beef. Now be grateful. Plenty of mouths are going unfed tonight.” She took two pieces of hard-crusted bread and handed the plate past Lily to the woman seated on her left. “Here,” she said to her sister, tearing one of the slices into small chunks and scattering them in her bowl.

  “Mother always makes dumplings,” Lily said, stirring the bread pieces to soak up the gravy.

  Violet lifted her spoon to her mouth and held it there. “Mother rarely makes anything,” she mumbled, “and certainly not dumplings.” She licked the spoon clean and set it alongside her bowl. “And if it’s dumplings you like, you have me to thank.” She picked up her slice of bread and pointed it at her sister. “And while you’re at it,” her was tone slightly elevated, but controlled, “you can thank me for ironing your dresses, plaiting your hair, teaching you how to skate . . .” She paused, the bread still aloft, thumbing through her mind’s catalog. Getting Lily’s breakfast. Reading her stories. Tucking her into bed. “And checking your sums every night,” she blurted out, as if she hadn’t thought about that one for a long time, “the year you had Miss Philips in grammar school!” Violet closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. She took her spoon and pushed it around in the bowl. “Onions are cooked down,” she finally said, “the way you like.”

  Without looking up, Lily leaned toward the stew and started eating. “First Muriel leaves me.” She reached for the saltcellar near the tip of her knife, threw a few pinches into her bowl, and stirred. “And then you forget what day it is,” she said, pulling another slice of bread from the plate.

  Violet’s head snapped up. “Is there any word on Muriel?”

  Lily pointed to a girl across the table, thin strands of blond hair skirting her eyes. “Carol says Sadie’s still in with her.”

  Carol nodded and pushed back her bangs. “According to Ann, anyways.”

  They all turned to Ann Lehman at the next table, her stomach so swollen that she balanced her stew on top of it. “Saw Sadie my own self this afternoon,” she said wearily. “Says I’m not ready yet. Says I must be carrying an eleven-month baby since my dear husband passed ten months ago.”

  Carol howled. “Your nose is growing, Annie.”

  “Hand to God.” Ann’s fingers flew to her heart, spilling the contents of her bowl. “Now look what you done.”

  Sister Immaculata lumbered over with a handful of napkins. “Enough,” she said to both girls. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you.” She sopped up the mess on Ann’s stomach and led her out of the room.

  “An eleven-month baby,” Carol laughed as soon as Ann and the nun disappeared single file through the doorway. “Ain’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”

  When supper was finished, the Reverend Mother stepped into the dining room and rang a small bell. “We’ll be saying the Rosary in fifteen minutes,” she said and walked back out the door.

  Violet stood to leave.

  “Where are you off to now?�
�� Lily pushed herself away from the table. “You’re always going somewhere.”

  “Not everything is about you, Lily Morgan.” When girls at the table stopped their conversations to listen, Violet lowered her voice. “There’s others with troubles. It’s high time you learned that.”

  “And what’s so special about that baby, anyway?”

  “Keep it up and you won’t get your gift.”

  Lily clapped her hands. “I knew you wouldn’t forget!”

  “I have half a mind to go back downtown and return it.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” When Violet didn’t answer, Lily offered up her sweetest smile. “You’re so good to me.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Don’t get excited,” Violet said, too late. “It’s not much. Meet me in the nursery after chapel.”

  Lily stood up and kissed her sister’s cheek. “Sorry for being cross with you.” She clapped her hands again. “I should have known I could count on you. You always do right by me.”

  No matter how dear the price, Violet thought as she pictured Stanley, framed inside that streetcar, looking straight at her.

  * * *

  An unusually fussy Michael squirmed in Violet’s arms when she rocked him. “It must be catching,” she said of her mood, and offered the child her finger to suck. His tiny fist flailed, landed, and pulled the finger greedily into his dented mouth. “Maybe Stanley didn’t see me,” she said to the baby. Violet looked at Michael as if he might concur. “At worst, he’ll think his eyes were playing tricks on him. The gray day. The swiftness of the trolley. The automobile exhaust.” She punctuated each reason with a nod, trying to convince her mind that her body knew the truth.

  The first note of a cry sounded from one of the cribs. Violet held her breath and peered across the dimly lit room. The Dennick baby stirred for a moment, then settled back to sleep. “We have to be quiet,” she whispered to Michael. His eyes held onto hers.

  The door flew open, and light from the hallway poured into the nursery ahead of Lily. “I’m here,” she announced.

  Across the room, Michael’s head popped up and Violet’s finger flew to her lips. The babies, she mouthed, motioning for Lily to shut the door and lower her voice.

  Once inside, Lily snaked her way through the rows of cribs, sweeping her fingers along the bars like a child with a stick on a picket fence. She counted twelve babies in all, including the one in Violet’s arms. “How many are girls?” she whispered.

  Violet lifted Michael to her shoulder and patted his back. “Seven, and they’ll be here a good bit. The boys go quicker, according to Sadie.”

  “Why’s that?” Lily pulled a second rocker over to Violet and sat down next to her.

  “Fathers want sons.” Violet nodded toward the baby. “Is he sleeping?”

  Lily leaned over, observed the infant’s half-shut eyes, and shook her head. “Almost.” She moved closer and inspected his marred face for the first time. She knew about the harelip, but seeing it up close made Lily shudder. A woman oughtn’t look at a crone or a cripple when she’s in the family way. Lily hugged her stomach briefly before remembering something. “The baby started kicking this morning.”

  Violet flattened her free palm against her sister’s belly, but when nothing happened, she pulled her hand back.

  “I’ll let you know if she does it again.”

  “So she’s a she,” Violet said.

  “More than likely.”

  “Why’s that?” Violet switched Michael to her other shoulder.

  “Mother only had girls, and her mother before that. Just seems natural.” Lily glanced back at the cribs.

  “What about the father’s people?” Violet tossed the question out, hoping to unearth some detail that would reveal who was responsible for Lily’s condition—George Sherman most likely, though Violet couldn’t be sure. “Do they have many girls?”

  Lily refused the bait. “So where’s my present?” She glanced around the room.

  “In a minute.” Violet carried a sleeping Michael over to the empty crib.

  Lily’s eyes settled on her sister. “You look good with a baby.” She checked to see if Michael’s face was turned away, and when she saw it was, she stood up and walked over to the pair. “It suits you somehow.”

  “You think so?” Violet cooed in the infant’s ear. “We’ll have trouble adopting him out with his disfigurement.”

  “We? We who?” Lily searched her sister’s eyes. “He’s not yours, you know.”

  “I know,” Violet said, but without conviction.

  “He can’t be. I mean it.” Lily watched as her sister placed the child in his crib. “Look at me. You can’t even think about it. You’ll ruin everything if you bring him home.”

  Violet walked the rows, tucking cast-off blankets around her sleeping charges. “I’m not taking anybody home but you,” she replied.

  Lily continued pleading as if Violet hadn’t said a word. “And what about Stanley? How could you ever explain a baby to him?

  “Stanley’s a good man. He’d understand.”

  “No man is that good. Not even Stanley Adamski. Besides, you swore you’d never tell him about this. You told me yourself: no good would come of his knowing. You even made the widow promise.”

  “I know I did,” Violet said. “And I don’t need you reminding me. The Reverend Mother is working hard to find him a good family. It’s just going to take some time.”

  “Do you mean it?” Lily made her way back to the rocker and sat down.

  “Of course I mean it.”

  “I just don’t want you ruining my reputation. Sometimes that’s all a girl has.”

  “Now I’ve heard it all. You’re worried that I’m going to ruin . . .” Violet paused, giving weight to her next word, “your reputation?”

  “You don’t understand. You never do.” The back of Lily’s hand flew to her forehead. “I can’t talk about this anymore. Not on my birthday.”

  A full minute of silence passed before Violet spoke again. “Worry about your own reputation, and stop looking for trouble where there’s none to be had.” When tears sprang to Lily’s eyes, Violet softened, “Especially on your birthday.”

  Lily dabbed her face and looked up expectantly. “Do I still get my present?”

  Instead of answering, Violet crossed the room and pulled the red hatbox out from behind two milk crates filled with empty bottles.

  “Well, we know it’s a hat.” Lily said, reaching for the box, balancing it sideways on her lap, and spinning it like a wheel. Her left hand landed on the crumpled section of cardboard. “What happened?”

  “Never you mind.” Violet leaned down and righted the package. “Now open it before I change my mind.” Pointing her nose toward the babies, she went to the cribs to determine which child had a soiled diaper. “And remember to keep your voice down,” she cast over her shoulder in a whisper.

  Lily untied the string, pried off the lid, peeled back the layers of tissue paper, and squealed in spite of Violet’s admonition. “It’s beautiful!”

  “You really like it?” Violet found the baby who needed changing, picked her up, and turned back to Lily. “I was so afraid you’d be . . .” Her tongue landed on the roof of her mouth, ready to push the first syllable of disappointed through her teeth, but the word dissolved when Lily lifted the present out of the box.

  Stunned, Violet watched as Lily ran the side of her hand over the knife-like crease on the crown of the hat—not the straw hat that Violet had purchased, but the modern felt one she’d so admired. But how? “I tied that string good and tight,” she’d heard Mr. Widenor say before she’d left the store. He’d wanted her to be surprised.

  Lily tipped the brim toward the dim lamplight and fingered the silk forget-me-nots and matching ribbon. “Periwinkle,” she said. “Why, Violet, that’s your favorite color, not mine.” She placed the hat on her head and admired herself in the faint reflection of the cl
osest window. “I love it, though.”

  “I’m not sure it suits you.” Violet regretted the words as soon as they slipped out. Jealously—a fine way to repay Mr. Widenor for his kindness, she thought, heading to the changing table.

  “Thank you.”

  Violet cleaned, powdered, and diapered the little girl before addressing Lily. “I’m happy if you’re happy.” She thought about her words as she returned the baby to her crib and decided that she mostly meant them.

  Lily pulled off the hat and placed it back in its tissue-paper nest. She set the hatbox alongside the windowsill and stretched her arms out so Violet could help her up. “I need to get to bed before Attila the Hun comes in with her clipboard.”

  The image of Attila the Hun in a wimple struck Violet as so funny, she was rendered useless for the better part of a minute. When she finally composed herself, she grabbed Lily’s hands and started to tug. Given Lily’s awkward body, the rocker’s natural movement, and the giggle fit that overcame them both, it took half a dozen tries to get her on her feet.

  Once the laughing subsided, Lily steadied herself and grabbed the hatbox. “I can’t wait to show Muriel!”

  The mention of Muriel’s name sobered both of them instantly.

  Violet watched the color drain from Lily’s face and immediately regretted her words. “I’m sure she’s fine,” she said, trying for a convincing tone.

  Lily burst into tears. “I’m so scared.”

  “Sadie’s taking good care of her.” Violet pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed her sister’s eyes, and walked her out to the hallway. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

  Lily dropped the hatbox on the floor and threw her arms around Violet’s neck. “I’m not brave like Muriel. I’m not brave at all.”

  A gust of cold air blew past the pair as the front door swung open at the end of the hallway. Both sisters looked up as Dr. Peters crossed the threshold and stood still for a moment, eyeing them in the distance. The pocket doors on his left split open, and Sadie Hope stepped out.