Chapter seventeen
“SHE WENT DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT,” Tommy said of Daisy. “I think all the wedding excitement tired her out.”
Violet looked around the parlor—the Davies’s parlor—her parlor now too. She spied the two cowhide suitcases Tommy had carried over the night before last, when she had finished packing her belongings. They’d now seen her through two journeys—to Philadelphia and to the house next door. Violet would unpack them in the morning and put the suitcases away for Daisy to use someday.
Tommy patted the spot next to him on the couch. “Although I did have to promise you’d wake her to say good night.” His mouth lifted into a half-smile. “Ma’s asleep as well.”
“I’m sorry,” Violet said, setting the package from her mother on a sideboard and glancing around the room again. “It took some time to get Father settled.”
Everything around her was at once familiar and strange. Since her mother and Louise Davies were best friends, Violet had spent a good portion of her childhood in this house. She knew it well: The gray, almost lavender wallpaper. The dresser-sized Heatrola in the corner. The scars on the wood floor from the casket stand where Tommy’s father Graham had been laid out. Violet had been only four, but it was the first time she’d seen a dead body, so she still remembered. The day after the funeral, eight-year-old Tommy donned his father’s denim trousers, cut down and cinched with a rope belt, and went to work in the breaker. That’s how it was. When a man died in the mine, his eldest son took his father’s place or the family lost their house. Tommy hadn’t had a choice in the matter, but all these years later, Violet had never once heard him complain about his lot. That’s a good man, she reminded herself, and sat down beside him. “I should have been here sooner,” she said, nervously tugging on the scalloped edge of an afghan draped over the back of the couch.
“My mother’s handiwork.” Tommy traced a length of the blanket’s zigzag pattern before moving his hand to Violet’s cheek. He turned her face to him. His fingers traveled along the curve of her chin, the length of her neck, before finding refuge in the soft flesh of her throat. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He allowed his hand to journey back up, toward her lips, so soft, so tempting. Violet shivered. Without a word, he outlined each feature—her lips, nose, each eye, the worry spot between her brows—memorizing her face, its contours. And in that moment, looking at such beauty, he wished his cracked and calloused hands were those of an artist instead of a miner, if just for one hour, so he could sculpt this vision for all to admire.
Violet closed her eyes and lifted her chin, allowing her lips to part. Tommy leaned in and felt the heat of her breath on his face. He shut his eyes, inhaling the scent of lilac on her skin and rose water in her hair.
The kiss landed softly, his lips brushing up against hers like feathers. He pulled back and saw that her eyes were still closed. “I promised Daisy you’d be in to say good night.”
Violet opened her eyes slowly. “Daisy,” she whispered but remained seated.
Tommy stood up, took Violet’s trembling hands in his, and lifted her to her feet. “I’ll be waiting.” Feeling a little embarrassed, he simply nodded toward the bedroom before disappearing down the hall.
* * *
“Sweet dreams, doll baby.” Violet kissed Daisy’s forehead, and the little girl looked up at her with blue eyes so reminiscent of the first Daisy’s that Violet had to hold in a moan.
“Is Daddy Tommy my real daddy?” the little girl asked. “He’s your real daddy now and that’s all that matters in the world. Remember that, my doll baby.”
“I will . . .” Daisy’s lids closed as she drifted off to sleep.
Violet kissed the child’s forehead again and tiptoed toward the bathroom. Tommy and a buddy of his who worked for Sears Roebuck had put indoor plumbing in after Tommy’s first year of failed attempts to court Violet. Tommy later told Violet that if he ever married, his mother would insist the couple make the family home their own. A fair deal, since it was Tommy’s pay that had kept a roof over their heads all these years. And it was Tommy’s sweat that had allowed his younger brothers to stay in school. Now, two out of three Davies boys had high school diplomas, families, and homes of their own. Not the perfect record his mother had hoped for, but a respectable one for a family from Spring Street.
Violet hid the Fels-Naptha underneath the skirted sink, unfolded the negligee, and shook it out. A true work of art, she thought to herself. She undressed, then slipped it over her head and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She pinched a little color into her cheeks.
“He’s a good man,” she murmured to herself, before crossing the hallway to the bedroom.
* * *
Tommy sat on top of the yellow chenille bedspread in the flicker of a single candle. After serious deliberation, he’d removed his suit coat, tie, suspenders, and shoes, but remained dressed in his shirt and trousers, out of respect for his bride. This would not be his first time, of course. At thirty-four, Tommy had drunk his share of whiskey, tried his hand at cards, and indulged in carnal delights when urged on by alcohol, his friends, and the “ladies” they met in “the Alleys” downtown. Those encounters had thrilled him in the moment, but they always disgusted him in the morning, so he’d given all that up before his thirtieth birthday.
Violet stepped into the room, and for a moment Tommy couldn’t breathe. She stood in the doorway, unable or unwilling to move. Tommy knew he should get up, take her by the hand, and lead her to their marriage bed, but he sat a moment longer, taking in her beauty. The dressing gown dipped just below the neckline, revealing the tops of her breasts. It flowed down the length of her body, slowing at each bend like a country stream.
She waited another moment, then took one tentative step, and another, until she stood at the edge of the bed. Rather clumsily, Tommy tugged the spread and sheet out from under him and draped them over his lap to hide his excitement. He slid across the mattress, making room for Violet, and lifted the bedding, inviting her to sit next to him. She slipped in, immediately covering herself with the bedspread, and stared straight ahead.
That close, Tommy shut his eyes and breathed her in again, inhaled her delicious fragrance.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “for loving me. For loving Daisy.”
He opened his eyes and looked into hers. “I’ll always love you,” he whispered back, and kissed her gently. After Violet returned the kiss, he fumbled under the covers, and soon his shirt, trousers, socks, and summer union suit tumbled to the floor. He sidled up next to her, their bare arms pressing together, his naked thigh against her silk-covered one. He reached for her hand and turned his face toward her cheek. “I love you.”
Violet tilted her ear toward his voice, and he inhaled the perfume in her curls. She lifted her head and met his face with her shivering mouth. She kissed him hard this time, as if to still those lips. Emboldened, Tommy wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down on top of him, making sure to keep the covers over her. He ran his hands hungrily across her silky back, occasionally daring to cup the bounty of flesh at her bottom. Both shivering against each other, Tommy rolled over with Violet in his arms. That luscious hair fanned out behind her, redolent of rose water, wild and untamed. On top now, he needed to be a part of her, inside of her. He reached for the gown and yanked it up to her hips. He grabbed her hands and pushed against them as he tried to enter her. She continued to tremble, and her body resisted his efforts. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear, and thrust again, this time more forcefully. With every muscle tensed, he squeezed inside of her just in time to explode, then collapsed on top of her, rolled onto his back, and shut his eyes. “You’ve made me a happy man, Violet Davies. A very happy man.”
In order to keep Tommy from discovering her secret, Violet knew she had to tend to her stained gown, but she couldn’t slip out until she was sure he’d fallen asleep. There she lay in what was now and would forever be their marriage bed, making no movement, try
ing to quiet her breathing. She hardly knew what to make of what had just happened. She was no fool. At thirty, she had some sense of what should be expected on the wedding night, the mechanics of things, at least. Given that Lily had been married for the better part of a year, she’d proved helpful with information. But somehow Violet felt let down. When she’d overheard some of the women at the Good Shepherd talking about “the deed,” they’d spoken of it as a pleasure. Violet had no way of knowing if she’d take delight in such amorous pursuits, but she had hoped intimacy would spark the kind of love she’d only ever felt toward Stanley. That breathless, stirring, starry-eyed love.
What foolishness. One of the most decent men in the world lay next to her, and instead of being grateful, she was brooding. And thinking of another man. A man who’d shunned her. A man who had taken one look at her at the train station with a baby in her arms and without a moment’s hesitation accused her of the most wicked behavior, and worse. Accused her of never loving him at all. Yes, she had lied to him, but for good reason. She had tried to speak her truth to Stanley, and for that split second he’d actually stopped yelling. There had been no time for hesitation, and she should have seized the moment to answer him. But what had she done with that briefest of windows? She’d looked over at Lily, dissolved in shame, tears streaming down her face. So lost, begging silently with those blue eyes. The baby’s eyes. And Daisy’s before her. And the moment passed. Stanley stormed off, but not before vowing to never speak to Violet again.
Next to her, a light wheezing sound worked its way into a full-blown snore. With Tommy finally asleep, Violet slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. She stood naked in front of the mirror, scrubbing at the stain with the bar of soap, soaking the gown in cold water, and scrubbing it again. Patience, she thought. That’s all it would take. Wait awhile and the love will come. She hung the gown on the back of the door to dry and put on a cotton one she’d retrieved from her suitcase. If Tommy asked about the change of clothes in the morning, she’d tell him she’d wanted to sleep comfortably. A lie begets a lie. The last one, she thought. No more.
Violet tiptoed back down the hall, taking great pains not to wake Mother Davies or Daisy along the way. When she arrived at her door, she gingerly opened it and found Tommy sitting up in bed, holding the still-lit candle, staring at the bloodstained sheet.
Chapter eighteen
THE WAXING MOON CURLED AGAINST THE SKY like a shaving of pinewood. For as much light as it threw, there may as well have been no moon at all, but it made no difference to Lily. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark night a minute or two after she’d gone out on the balcony. Violet’s wedding that afternoon had been especially taxing, and the day unseasonably warm. Lily welcomed the bite in the evening air. This immediate discomfort demanded her attention, forcing all her cares to fall in line behind it. On the other side of the French doors, George’s half of the turned-down bed remained empty.
Concentrate on the cold.
A beam of light pierced the night like a shot. Lily leaned over the railing to discover its source: the study. Mother Sherman always read by that lamp near the window. Poor woman, an insomniac. Lily assumed the lack of sleep had something to do with her mother-in-law’s sour temperament. The woman lacked for nothing, living in this relatively large house with a husband, two sons still at home, and servants to tend to her every need.
As Lily straightened, she noticed how the lamplight bounced off the front fender of her LaSalle Coupe. A “split chrome fender” the sales specialist had called it, pointing out what separated the ’34 from earlier models. He’d also mentioned the long, V’d radiator grill, the bullet-shaped headlights, and the torpedo hood ornament, as if Lily knew enough about automobiles to appreciate such improvements. Up until she and George met, Lily had spent very little time riding in cars, let alone driving, but according to her husband, she’d turned out to be a quick study, considering her gender. The LaSalle had been a wedding present from George. “Lily blue,” he’d called the customized paint color, in reference to her eyes. She actually wanted the yellow convertible they’d seen in the motor company’s showroom, but George didn’t approve. He found yellow too showy for such hard economic times and advised her on the pitfalls of flaunting their wealth. Instead, he’d ordered the coupe in what she thought of as sapphire, and a nearly identical-looking sedan, save for the greater length and two extra doors, in that very same color. “We’ll need the extra room,” he’d said of the five-seater he’d bought for himself, “when the babies start coming.”
Lily turned, stealing a glance inside at the stately bed with its hand-carved headboards, and was annoyed at her husband’s absence. If he’d wanted her to give him children, he should be here.
Concentrate.
The cool breeze stung her eyes and chilled her forearms. Where did he go when he left the house, sometimes before they’d even had supper? Oh, she’d believed him at first, the stories about board meetings and Masonic business. At least in the initial months of their marriage, he’d always returned home by midnight, smothering her with kisses when she’d cry over being left alone. And in those early days, he’d always make it up to her with some little present, a bag of sweets from Cali’s Confections; a pair of stockings from the Globe Store; and once, after a particularly unbridled episode of tears, a silver brooch from Levy’s Jewelers.
To hear other people tell it, they should still be in the honeymoon stage after only eleven months, but George seemed to tire of Lily not long after their wedding, especially when she didn’t immediately conceive. Ironic, of course, since she’d gotten pregnant the first time she’d ever had relations—with Frankie Colangelo, no less. What a scandal that would have been, if it hadn’t all worked out. George would never have married her. As he had explained the night he proposed, he wanted to marry a virtuous woman. The joke’s on you, George. She looked back at the empty bed. And me.
Now Violet was married to Tommy, a man who loved not only her, but her illegitimate daughter as well. How could someone as decent as Tommy love a woman with a past? Not that Lily wanted Tommy Davies or any man of his sort. Lily deserved better than a life of want and sacrifice. She’d seen her mother go off to church in the very same dress every Sunday morning for the better part of a year. A miner’s wife would not be Lily’s lot in life. Yet Tommy’s devotion to Violet and Daisy rankled her. If anyone deserved to have the kind of man who loved her beyond reason, it was Lily.
* * *
A block away from home, George pulled up alongside a streetlamp and fished in his pocket for a few Sen-Sens, something to take care of the vodka on his breath. If only it were that easy to mask the smell of Janetta’s cheap perfume. Perhaps he’d buy her a bottle of Shalimar so Lily would think it was her own scent clinging to his clothes. He unrolled his shirtsleeves, folded back the cuffs, and threaded a pair of cuff links through the openings. At each of his wrists, a fourteen-carat gold sea nymph reclined against a gilded wave. Lily hated them. George ran his thumb across a naked torso, remembering the day his father had taken him to the jeweler downtown.
“This is between us,” his father had said with a wink. An awestruck George accepted the cuff links, sure that his thirteenth birthday would be the best one by far. His father had trusted him with a secret, and a bawdy one at that.
“He’s all boy,” the jeweler had said, watching as George gingerly touched the golden breasts.
“We’re about to find out,” his father had laughed, leading George Jr. out of the store and three blocks over to Lawrence’s, one of the better whorehouses on Penn Avenue. His father sat in a velvet chair as George Jr. followed a woman in a burgundy silk robe up to the second floor. A woman to a thirteen-year-old, but when George thought about it now, she was probably only sixteen, eighteen at the most. As soon as they entered the room, she slipped off her robe and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Call me Baby.” George had never seen a naked woman, and he stood in front of her, awed and terrified. “You look just like your daddy,” Ba
by said sweetly, in an almost motherly tone. “Don’t worry,” she laughed, “this won’t take no time at all.”
Later, when it was George’s turn to wait in the velvet chair, he heard Baby say, “A chip off the old block,” as she led his father upstairs.
George popped another Sen-Sen in his mouth, put on his sport coat, and peeked around to see if anyone might be looking out at this late hour. He could appease Lily if he had to, but if his mother got wind of his antics, he’d never hear the end of it. Janetta had been hounding him again about getting a divorce, so he’d left her apartment before he’d finished dressing.
George started the engine and glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes after two. A little late, even for him, but hopefully everyone would be sound asleep. He loved Lily, but the last thing he needed tonight was another go around with her, especially after his fight with Janetta.
The blue coupe sat in the driveway just ahead of him, so George pulled up and parked next to it. Just before he cut the engine, he noticed how the headlights lit up the front of the house, illuminating Lily on the balcony.
* * *
Stanley pushed his glass toward the barkeep, who picked up the whiskey and poured. Hunold’s Beer Garden had become Stanley’s regular haunt when he’d moved into one of their upstairs rooms four years earlier. His accommodations lacked the warmth of the widow’s house, but at least he didn’t run the risk of seeing Violet every time he stepped out his front door. Downtown may have only been a few miles away from Providence, but people in Scranton stayed close to their own neighborhoods, a fact that gave Stanley a modicum of comfort, tonight of all nights. No chance of running into the just married Mrs. Davies.
Violet Davies.
That would take some getting used to.
“Another dead soldier,” Stanley said, hearing the clank of an empty bottle as it landed in the garbage tin near the cash register. He gulped his drink and rapped his glass down on the bar. “Again.”
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