All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “A very happy day.” Violet looked in the vanity’s oval mirror and practiced her smile. Thirty years old. At this age, she thought, she should be embracing spinsterhood, not marriage. “Just nerves,” she said again.

  “Make me pretty.” Daisy held up the hairpin, now bent out of shape like wire legs from a pigeon-toed insect.

  “You’re already the prettiest girl in town,” Violet said, taking a brush to Daisy’s long curls. “You have your mother’s . . .” She set the brush in her lap and cupped Daisy’s plump cheeks in her hands. “You have Morgan features. Morgan eyes.” Violet turned and faced the mirror. Same dark hair, same nose, same smile. They looked enough alike to keep gossip to a minimum.

  “Blue, like Aunt Lily’s.” Daisy tossed the hairpin back into the pile and stared at her own reflection. “Grandma says so.”

  “Yes, doll baby.” Violet pressed her lips into thin lines and gripped the handle of the brush. “And like your Aunt Daisy before her. Does Grandma tell you that?”

  “God rest her soul,” the child said, reminding her mother of the words that were always recited at the mention of Aunt Daisy’s name.

  “God rest her soul,” Violet repeated, her lips loosening into a smile. “You’re Mama’s good girl.”

  Daisy scooted off the bench, stretched out her arms, and spun around the room in her bare feet. The hem of her nightgown caught the air, opening like a bell.

  “Be careful,” Violet said as she watched the reflection of her daughter’s dance. Daisy whirled past the open closet door where a mauve A-line dress hung from a bar. Violet had originally intended to borrow Lily’s white crepe silk, the very dress she’d worn that past November to marry George Sherman Jr., but Violet’s mother had thought mauve would be a better choice, “given the circumstances.”

  Violet hated that saying. Circumstances had a way of entering a room before her. Unwed mother. No husband. A disgrace to her family. People shunned her because of her circumstances.

  “I’ll never forgive you,” Stanley had said the afternoon she’d stepped off the train with a baby in her arms. She’d wanted to tell him the truth. Maybe she would have if he had stopped yelling long enough to give her the chance. And maybe not.

  Of course, some folks treated her with kindness, but Violet suspected her “circumstances” prompted what they thought of as good Christian behavior. Tommy Davies seemed to be the only friend she could depend on besides the widow Lankowski.

  Dizzy and winded, Daisy staggered to the bench and draped her upper body over the tapestry-covered seat next to her mother. “It’s wedding day!”

  “And when Reverend Sheets says, I now pronounce you man and wife,” Violet prodded, hoping Daisy would remember what they’d practiced, “what do you say?”

  Daisy peeled herself off the seat and stood for a moment in thought. Finally, she blurted, “I love you, Daddy Tommy!” and threw her arms straight up in the air.

  “Just Daddy,” Violet corrected as she pulled the little girl in for a hug.

  “I love you Just Daddy,” Daisy said solemnly.

  * * *

  Covered in coal dust, Tommy Davies headed up Spring Street toward the only home he’d ever lived in. Like all the other company houses in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, it had originally belonged to George Sherman Sr., owner of the Sherman Mine. Seven years earlier, Sherman had started selling off his properties, a trend among fellow coal barons. While Tommy had a mother to support, he’d been single longer than most, and without a wife and children to feed, he’d been able to scrimp, even on a miner’s wage. His family home had gone up for sale a year before the crash. The banks were still in the business of lending, and he’d been able to put enough money down to get a mortgage. He wished Violet’s father could have done the same when, a few years later, Sherman put the Morgans’ house up for sale, but banks weren’t making loans by then. No one was buying either, thank goodness, so Sherman allowed the Morgans to stay on as renters, even after miner’s asthma forced Owen to give up his job inside the mine. “Once a man, twice a boy,” Owen used to say, along with all the men before him who’d been sent back to work in the breaker, where they’d started out as small boys, sorting coal from slate by hand. Sherman uncharacteristically continued to give Owen a miner’s salary because George Jr. had insisted they help his father-in-law. When he married Lily, he told her Owen would get his full pay whether he put in his time or not. That had been a godsend, especially in the last few months when her father couldn’t work at all. Owen had strong opinions about charity, so the idea never set well with him, but what choice did he have? As hard as things were six years after the crash, the man was lucky to be collecting a paycheck.

  In the past few months, twenty men had been laid off at the Taylor Mine, and sixty workers from the Von Storch had been fired outright, though it could be said that they’d brought it on themselves. Earlier that year they’d joined the United Anthracite Miners, a group of hotheads who’d broken away from the United Mine Workers of America after accusing them of siding with the owners on wages, hours, and safety issues one too many times. In September the insurgent union had staged a spate of strikes throughout the region. Picketers and miners exchanged their fair share of punches before state troopers stepped in to restore the peace with billy clubs.

  And now there was talk of a UAM strike at the Sherman Mine first thing Monday morning. Stirring up that kind of trouble made no sense to Tommy. While Sherman Sr. was no saint, he always paid a fair wage for an honest day’s work. The same could not be said for many of the mine owners up the line.

  Since only a handful of the men in Providence had been fool enough to join up with the UAM, Tommy felt no obligation to picket. The Sherman Mine still had enough work for a full crew, and in such dire economic times, fighting for better working conditions seemed indulgent. A family man needed to have a dependable income, and by day’s end, Tommy would have a wife and daughter to support.

  Tommy smiled at his good fortune, setting flecks of loosened coal dust adrift in the warm breeze. He’d provide for Violet and her daughter. His daughter, soon. And if he could just keep working, in another eight years he’d own his house outright, giving them a permanent place to call their own.

  He walked up his front steps, crossed the porch, and ran his palm up and down the seat of his porch swing. The varnish still shone like a new penny. A good effort, he thought. He’d started building that swing the same morning he’d decided to try his hand at courting Violet. Being inexpert on both fronts, he soon discovered the virtue of forbearance. Five weeks to build a swing, five years to win the heart of the girl next door.

  Glancing up, Tommy hoped to catch sight of his bride-to-be. All the shades were drawn against him. She knew he’d be looking and wouldn’t want him to see her before the wedding.

  Two more hours, Tommy thought, checking his pocket watch. He’d been glad to only work half a shift, unusual for a Saturday, but lucky for him. He’d have plenty of time to clean up before heading to the church. Violet had wanted to get married at Providence Christian. She held no malice toward the congregation in spite of the fact they’d excommunicated her when she’d returned to Scranton with Daisy. “They did what they saw fit,” she’d said. Tommy had not been as forgiving, but he knew enough to keep quiet, especially since the elders had recently voted to bring Violet back into the fold “for the sake of the child.” And for the sake of the collection plate, Tommy thought. Lily had convinced George Jr. to use his financial influence to get his sister-in-law reinstated on the rolls. Lily and Violet didn’t seem to agree on much most days, but they were both desperate to have Daisy raised in the church.

  He’d even held his tongue when nosey Mrs. Evans, whose backyard butted up against the Morgans’, remarked to Violet about Tommy making an honest woman of her. Such talk infuriated him, and had she spoken to him that way, he would have told her so. Violet was the most honest woman he’d ever known. And who was Myrtle Evans to sit in judgment? If he could for
give Violet’s indiscretion, why couldn’t Myrtle? Why couldn’t the whole town, for that matter? Wasn’t that the Lord’s way? Frankly, it was Stanley’s behavior that infuriated him. How could he not do right by Violet? It was obvious to Tommy that Stanley had seduced her with promises of marriage and financial security, and then discarded her as damaged goods. This was Stanley’s fault, and why the people in the Providence area couldn’t see that was beyond him. It did take some getting used to—no question—when Violet came home with Daisy, but he’d grown to love the child, and the woman who so bravely shouldered the town’s scorn. Violet was a good woman who sacrificed her needs for those of others. Especially when it came to her daughter. This made her virtuous in his book. Violet once told Tommy that Stanley refused to hear her out when she first returned to town. Well, Tommy didn’t need to hear her out. He knew her true nature. She was sorry for her sins. Christians were supposed to forgive. Hypocrites, the whole lot of them.

  Tommy took one last peek at Violet’s house, knowing that a glimpse of her would soothe him. Just as he was about to go inside, the curtains on the parlor’s side window split open, and Daisy stood at the glass, blowing a kiss. He touched his hand to his heart before returning her kiss again and again.

  * * *

  Violet arrived at the church on foot, with her mother and daughter in tow. Unable to catch a decent breath, her father had stayed home in his chair in the parlor. Lily, who after her own wedding had gone to live with her moneyed in-laws in the Green Ridge neighborhood, drove up to the church in an automobile. “Of all the silliness,” Grace said of her youngest daughter. “A woman at the wheel.”

  Louise Davies, Tommy’s mother, was the only other guest. Violet had invited the widow, but in the end she’d decided not to come. “You know I couldn’t love you more if you were my own,” she’d said when she’d stopped over that morning to give Violet a handmade lace tablecloth. “But Stanley needs me today.” She stared down at her gnarled fingers and rubbed the swollen joints. “No question, this is all his doing. Still, he’s tore up inside, and . . .” Her words trailed off. Relief swiftly displaced Violet’s disappointment. Even though Tommy had never said a word on the matter, the widow was the closest thing Stanley had to a mother, and there was no question that her presence at Violet’s wedding would have discomfited him.

  * * *

  After the “I dos,” Grace invited everyone back to the house so Owen could be part of the festivities. Her pot roast was just starting to catch on one side when they walked through the door. “Something wrong with your nose?” she yelled to Owen as she passed into the kitchen. Water hissed while she poured it into the cast-iron pot.

  Owen flared his nostrils as if taking in a lungful of air. “Smells fine to me,” he said and stretched out his arms for Daisy to climb into his lap. “Just the way I like it.”

  “Just the way I like it,” Daisy mimicked from her perch.

  Violet bent down and kissed the top of her father’s balding head. With Daisy settled on his lap, Owen took Violet’s hand and kissed it. “Where’s that son of mine?” Tommy stepped forward. Owen took Tommy’s hand, placed it on top of Violet’s, and laid his own hands on theirs. “A Welsh blessing,” he said. “Wishing you a house full of sunshine, hearts full of cheer, and love that grows deeper each day of the year.” He kissed their hands. “Love,” he glanced into the kitchen at Grace, “so much love.”

  Lily stood in the archway between the parlor and the hallway to the bedrooms, taking in the scene.

  Grace worked in the kitchen, grumbling about the pot roast out of habit, not anger, while Louise helped her with last-minute preparations. In the parlor, Tommy set up a table they’d borrowed from the church. The words Providence Christian were scrawled on its underside. Violet spread a cloth on top, opened the nearby folding chairs, and set seven places. She added a couple of Montgomery Ward catalogs on the seat next to hers, so Daisy would be able to reach her plate.

  “Get to the table!” Louise yelled, placing a butter-topped bowl of mashed potatoes next to a steamy dish of rutabaga. Even with Violet’s assistance, Owen moved slowly across the room, giving the others enough time to stand and admire the meal before them.

  “You outdid yourself, Mrs. Morgan,” Tommy said, pulling out her chair.

  “Mother,” Grace said. “You’re family now.”

  Lily cleared her throat at this and took her seat.

  Tommy blushed. “Thank you, Mother Morgan.” He swung Daisy up and set her on her chair. “Best food in Providence.”

  Louise glanced sidelong at her son, snapped her linen napkin open, and draped it over her lap. “Had I known you felt that way, I would have sent you over here for supper all these years.” She turned to Grace. “Looks lovely.”

  “Almost as grand as my wedding supper.” Lily pinched her lips into a smile. She reached over and laid Daisy’s napkin on her lap. “I still can’t believe how generous George’s people were.”

  Violet took Daisy’s napkin and tucked it into the neckline of her dress.

  Since no one seemed to be listening, Lily turned to Daisy, as if the conversation had been intended for her all along. “The Mayfair Hotel, of all places.” She pushed Daisy’s long hair behind her ears. “The most special day of my life.”

  In the eleven months since her wedding, Lily had shown no signs of expecting—a surprise to everyone—and, to Violet’s great concern, she was suddenly giving a lot of attention to little Daisy.

  “The Mayfair Hotel,” Daisy repeated.

  “I know,” Lily said, patting the child’s hand. “I’ll take you there for lunch one day.”

  “Don’t put ideas into her head,” Violet said.

  “You’ll come with us, of course,” Lily replied, reaching for the platter of meat.

  “We haven’t said the blessing.” As hoarse as Owen’s voice had become, it retained its head-of-the-household authority. Lily pulled her arm back and folded her hands on her lap.

  “And where is that husband of yours?” Owen asked.

  “Your other son-in-law?” Lily said. “He’s helping his daddy. A mine doesn’t run itself. You of all people know that.”

  “Don’t tell me what I know.” Owen’s sharp tone set off a coughing spell.

  Grace hopped up from the table and rubbed his back while he spit into his napkin. “I’m right here,” she said. Everyone waited for the moment to pass, inhaling carefully and deeply as if trying to breathe for him.

  “Stop your fussing,” he finally said when his breath came back to him. “Son,” he turned to Tommy, “will you ask the blessing?”

  * * *

  Lily left as soon as the meal was over. “Don’t want my husband thinking I got lost.” She laughed a little and hugged her sister lightly. “I’m happy for you.” Her words sounded like those verses of scripture they’d been forced to recite as children. They came out in the right order, but lacked conviction.

  An hour or so later, with a little nudging from Louise, Daisy asked to see her new bedroom. Tommy offered to take her next door and his mother followed, anxious to show off the brightly patterned quilt she’d made for the child. Violet remained behind to help her mother with the dishes and ended up staying long enough to get her father settled for the night.

  “It’s your turn now,” Owen said from the edge of his bed where he sat to catch his breath.

  “My turn for what?” Violet fluffed three pillows and stacked them against the headboard.

  Owen swung one leg up and then the other and angled the pillows so his head would remain upright, allowing him to breathe easier through the night. “I love Lily. I love both my daughters.” He ran his thumb across Violet’s brow. “But Lily’s not as strong as you are. She could never do what you did.”

  “What I did?”

  “I may not be book smart, but I’m not a stupid man.” He glanced at a framed picture of Daisy on the night table. “She’s your daughter now. And it’s for the better.”

  “You knew?”
Tears filled Violet’s eyes.

  He nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “No reason to. And mark my words, I’ll not speak of it again. But I want you to know something.” He took Violet’s hand. “You can be good in this world and you can be happy. You don’t have to choose. Now . . . go and be happy.”

  Violet kissed her father and wiped the tears from both their faces before returning to the kitchen.

  * * *

  “I have a little something for you,” Grace said when Violet approached her at the sink.

  “I’m worried about him.” Violet cast a look toward her parents’ bedroom.

  “He’ll be fine.” Grace dried her hands on a dish towel, then handed Violet a present wrapped in blue tissue paper. “In fact,” she said, coating her words in a lighter tone, “I think his color was better today. Now take a quick peek,” she nodded toward the gift, “and then get yourself home to that husband of yours. We’ve kept him waiting long enough.” She let out a light laugh.

  Violet peeled back the paper. Inside was a lace-trimmed dressing gown the color of pearls. “It’s beautiful,” she said, too modest to examine the garment fully in front of her mother.

  “It’s supposed to look like this princess slip.” Grace handed her a page torn from a catalog. “Yours is ivory, not white,” she said, “but still, a good likeness, I think.”

  “A perfect likeness.” Violet sat for a long minute, running her fingers across the silky fabric. Finally she said, “I’m scared.”

  “Every woman is. But Tommy is a good man. A kind man. He’ll take the lead and nature will do the rest.”

  Nodding, Violet stood and folded the paper back over the gown. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.”

  Grace hesitated. “Wait.” She went to the sink and came back with an unopened bar of Fels-Naptha soap and tucked it inside the tissue paper. “It’s good for stains. After he’s asleep,” she said, “wash out the blood in cold water before it sets. He’ll never know.”

  Violet hugged her mother, harder than she remembered ever hugging her, picked up her gifts, and headed next door.