All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  The owner, a German fellow named Gus, eyed Stanley all around as if measuring him for a suit. “Are you certain, Mr. Adamski?”

  “Never been more certain in my life.”

  Gus nodded as if he understood but hesitated a moment longer. “How’s about a bowl of Mrs. Hunold’s stew? Been cooking it all day.”

  Stanley nudged his glass a little ways down the bar. “Whiskey. Neat.” He added that second word in case Gus got it into his head to start watering his drinks.

  “And a beer.” A lanky man in a three-piece glen plaid suit held out his hand. “Name’s Woodberry,” he said to Stanley, his arm still extended. “Judson Woodberry. Judd to my friends.” He waited a moment before running his unacknowledged hand through a few longs hairs on his mostly bald head. “Mind if I take a load off?”

  “It’s a free country,” Stanley answered, watching Gus take a little longer than necessary to wipe up a spill behind the bar.

  “I know it’s been a tough day for you,” Gus finally said, his tone sharp, “but don’t nobody question how I serve my whiskey.” He pulled a bottle out of a crate stamped Jack Daniel’s No. 7 and refilled Stanley’s glass.

  “Won’t happen again,” Stanley said, raising his right hand, staring straight ahead.

  “Don’t expect it will.” The edges of Gus’s words were sanded down some. He set the bottle on a shelf behind him before walking to the other end of the bar toward the tap.

  “Broads are the worst,” Judd said, as if participating in the give-and-take of an ongoing conversation.

  Stanley cocked his head toward the stranger but didn’t say a word. The man stretched his thin lips into a smile too big for his face.

  Stanley turned back to his drink. At the other end of the bar, Gus used his index finger to slice the foam off the top of a beer and pushed it down the length of the wooden surface.

  “Assuming that’s what’s troubling you tonight.” Judd caught the glass, tipped it to his mouth, and took a timid sip. “More trouble than they’re worth.”

  Gus made his way back to the two men and pointed a thumb at Stanley. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “I knew it,” Judd said. “Can always tell a man brought down by a woman. Looks as if he’s had all the air sucked outta him.”

  Gus glanced at Stanley and nodded. “Ain’t that the God honest truth.”

  “Must be a real looker considering his state.” Judd twisted his head back and forth between Gus and Stanley as if both men were engaged in the conversation.

  Stanley swirled his whiskey and followed its path around the glass. The oaky aroma reassured him. Another drink or two, and he’d forget his troubles, if only for a few hours.

  “Good looking?” Judd asked.

  Gus cocked his head and shrugged. “I ain’t never seen her myself, but when a woman’s been around the block as many times as Violet Morgan . . .”

  Stanley reached across the bar and grabbed Gus by the front of his shirt. “Say her name again,” he pulled Gus closer, “and I’ll kill you!”

  Gus threw his arms into the air. “I didn’t mean no harm,” he said.

  Stanley held his grip a moment before letting go and dropping down on his stool. “As long as we’re clear.”

  Both men leaned back, taking in the silence. After about a minute, Judd finally said to Stanley, “I hear tell you’re defending the miners from the Von Storch. About sixty workers fired in total.”

  “So that’s it.” Stanley turned and eyed the man for the first time. “Policeman or reporter?”

  “I’m with the Scranton Times. Trying to put together a story on those firebrands from the UAM. So what’s your strategy?”

  Stanley stood up, dug in his pocket, and found three one-dollar bills. “Keep the change,” he said to Gus. “You want a story? Come by the Sherman Mine the day after tomorrow. Men striking for a fair wage and decent working conditions. There’s your story.”

  “I need a new story,” Judd said, pulling out a notepad. “Something readers will care about.”

  “Make them care.” Stanley drained his glass. “That’s your job,” he said, and he headed upstairs.

  Stanley’s room above Hunold’s was larger than the one he’d rented in Philadelphia—four windows instead of two, and a small alcove for a table and chairs. He even had a closet where he kept the artificial hand so people wouldn’t have to look at it if they came by. Not that he’d ever invited anyone up. In spite of its size, this room, like all the others he’d lived in, had the same feel. Rumpled. Cluttered. Detached. A few law books and a copy of John Reed’s Ten Days That Shook the World lay scattered across his desk. A notebook peeked out from under the pile with the words Von Storch Defense scrawled across it. The miners had been arrested as much for striking as for joining the United Anthracite Miners, a rogue union, against the wishes of the United Mine Workers of America, a useful enough group in its day, but more and more they kowtowed to the pressures of politics. Thanks to a clause in the National Recovery Act giving miners the right “to organize and bargain collectively,” Stanley felt sure he’d win the case, but not before the men lost a couple months of wages languishing in jail awaiting their trial. Which had been the point all along, of course. To threaten legal action in order to deliver a financial blow to the upstarts. Make sure the men paid a real price for joining the wrong union.

  Stanley thought about the dangers of the coal industry. As a young boy, he’d worked bent over in the breaker, twelve hours a day, sorting coal from slate. A grueling job for anyone, but especially for a child. After a few punishing months, he thought he’d improved his lot when they’d brought him down into the mine as a nipper, where he had to open the shaft doors as mine cars came through, but he soon lost his hand—and almost his life—trying to stop an out-of-control car. Fortunately, the widow had nursed him back to health and taken him in, because the mine owners never bothered about their newly crippled workers. Unwilling to abide such callousness, Stanley vowed to fight for the rights of miners till his dying day.

  He sat down at his desk and pulled out the notebook, but he didn’t have it in him. It would take another drink or two to get Stanley to where he needed to be tonight. With no whiskey in his room and no interest in returning to Hunold’s, he glanced out the window and hit on an idea. He’d go to Catherine Blair’s, the yellow whorehouse with the red front door across the alley at the end of the block.

  Catherine ran a respectable place, if such a thing was possible. Clean house, and clean girls thanks to yearly visits from the doctor. Reasonable rates, a dollar a throw, though she did charge extra for peculiarities. A few years back she covered all the windows in chicken wire to prevent men from sneaking in and out of the bedrooms without paying. Catherine said it was her way of keeping honest men honest. For her part, she paid the constable to keep away from her customers and her girls when he was in uniform. Off-duty, he was extended the same courtesies as every other man. Catherine liked Stanley. He was good to her girls and had defended them in court on a few occasions. She’d be glad to sell him a little whiskey. And if he was lucky, Stanley thought as he headed down the stairs, Ruby might make a little time for her favorite customer.

  Chapter nineteen

  SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, Tommy waited for the coffee to percolate. He’d known Violet all her life, and in that time, he’d only ever seen her drink tea, but now, as he looked forward to their first breakfast together as man and wife, he doubted himself. Did she like coffee? He couldn’t say for sure. Just in case, he’d made a full pot, knowing his mother would have something to say if a drop of it went to waste. “Times are tight,” she’d scold. Well, he’d drink the whole damn pot before he’d let her say her piece, this morning of all mornings. And in front of his new bride, no less. Just let his mother try.

  Tommy went to the stove with one of the cups and saucers that had been laid out. His mother always set the breakfast table the night before, and glancing back, he noticed the four place settings for th
e first time. Guilt replaced the annoyance he’d managed to conjure. She’d wanted Violet and Daisy to feel at home.

  What’s got into me? He poured his coffee, shuffled across the room, and propped open the back door. The earthy smell of night lingered in the predawn air, refreshing his stale lungs. Sunday. His body couldn’t tell the difference between a day of rest and one of labor. Although he couldn’t see the Morgans’ kitchen from where he stood, he knew that Owen, as sick as he was, would also be awake. Like the constant trickle of water on stone, routine eventually cut a groove into a man.

  Fortunately, Tommy had come to appreciate the solitude before the day broke on Sunday mornings. It gave him time to sort his own thoughts before folks tried to fill his head with theirs. Church in a few hours—that was the most immediate worry. It would be Violet’s first time back at regular service since she’d come home with Daisy. Please, Lord. Let her get through this day without a fuss. She never lets on, but just the same, I know it would mean the world to her.

  He closed his eyes, remembering how right she felt in his arms when she’d finally fallen asleep. After he’d unraveled the secret of Daisy, they’d talked for a considerable part of the night. He understood why she’d claimed the child, though he felt her actions had far exceeded the limits of sacrifice. And while he admired her decision, he also despised it, but he couldn’t explain why; not fully. Perhaps he hated to see her paying for someone else’s sin.

  The matter had been resolved, so why did he still feel out of sorts? Tommy stood shivering at the door. Last night’s chilled air had carried into morning. The day would warm up, but with October almost half over, he knew to appreciate the last of the temperate weather. Soon enough, the cold would have its way.

  “You’ll catch your death.” Violet cinched the corded belt on her gray wool robe, covering the cotton gown underneath.

  Startled, Tommy shut the door a little harder than necessary, spilling his coffee. “Damnit!”

  “Sorry.” She grabbed a towel from the sink and handed it over.

  “No, no. It’s my fault.” He blotted his shirt. “I didn’t hear you come in.” His eyes settled on the whisper of cleavage at the top of her robe. Red-faced, he dropped his gaze. “How’d you sleep?” He brushed past her, lingering a moment to take in the scent of her hair before pouring a fresh cup of coffee.

  Violet clutched the fabric at her neckline, using her hand like a brooch to pin both sides together. “Fine,” she said, filling the kettle. A moment of silence passed before she looked over at Tommy, now seated at the table. “And you?”

  “The same.” Then brighter, he said, “Slept like a log.” Though he’d tossed for some time, and he knew she knew it.

  “Give me your shirt,” she said, and reached toward him. “I’ll soak it.”

  “After breakfast.” Tommy thought to kiss her hand but hesitated just long enough for her to turn away.

  “It’s a comfort to know my way around this kitchen,” Violet said, reaching behind the cast-iron stove for the coal pail.

  “Let me.” Tommy jumped up, shoveled coal into the stove, opened the drafts, and stoked the flame. “I’m afraid we’re not very modern around here.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with a gas stove,” Violet said, scooting around him to put the kettle on to boil. “This one will do me just fine.”

  The sun broke outside and pressed its nose against the kitchen window. They’d both grown shy in the morning light. The possibility of touching her now, stroking that hair, kissing those lips, like he’d done so freely last night, seemed as unthinkable as it had when they’d started courting. He recalled their first real date, the first time she’d said yes to him after her return to Scranton. He’d taken her to the pictures to see All Quiet on the Western Front, and afterward they’d gone back to pick up Daisy for ice cream. Daisy had been the key to winning Violet’s heart.

  Tommy watched as Violet steeped her tea at the sink. He felt unsettled, but was uncertain why. Perhaps because, until last night, he’d never thought to ask her for her story. Instead, he’d readily accepted the town gossip and prided himself for being the kind of man who could love a sinner in spite of her sin. What arrogance! He was no better than Stanley Adamski, who’d refused to hear her out.

  “Should I start breakfast?” Violet opened the cupboard, then turned back to Tommy. “What is it you like to eat?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, standing up and taking Violet’s hands in his. “I should have asked you about Daisy when you first came home.”

  “That’s water over the dam,” Violet said, touching her lips to his cheek.

  “But if I had asked,” Tommy lifted her chin, “I mean, before last night, if I had asked, you would have told me, right? It’s because I didn’t ask.”

  Tears filled Violet’s eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I made a promise . . . to Lily.”

  That single, barely audible No resounded in Tommy’s ears.

  * * *

  “Swing me again!” Daisy’s arms shot into the air. Violet and Tommy each took a hand, lifted Daisy off the ground, and propelled her a few feet forward. A high-pitched “Weeeee” erupted from the trio. “Again!”

  Violet mindlessly repeated the game as they headed up North Main Avenue, toward Providence Christian Church on the square. Occasionally, she’d sneak a glance at Tommy, trying to read his expression. When she finally caught his eye, she managed an uneasy, close-lipped smile. “What are you thinking?”

  He tipped his head in Daisy’s direction. “Not now.”

  Tommy’s tone lacked reproach. His instinct was to protect her child. Both good signs, Violet decided.

  Up ahead, old Myrtle Evans and her sister Mildred played their own game. First they’d take turns looking back at Violet and her little family, and then they’d whisper in each other’s ears. Violet was used to such behavior. She hoped they’d accidentally bang their hatted heads together as they gossiped.

  “Here comes your sister.” Tommy scowled. Behind them, an automobile ground its gears as it climbed the hill.

  “It’s your Aunt Lily,” Violet said to Daisy.

  Tommy shook his head as if to throw off his displeasure. He lifted the child onto his shoulders to give her a better view of the LaSalle.

  “How can you tell without looking?” Daisy asked as she flung her arms around Tommy’s neck.

  “A lucky guess.” He looked at the little girl and his countenance brightened.

  Lily beeped the horn as she approached and veered in their direction.

  “Keep your eyes on the road!” Violet shouted.

  When Lily waved, Owen leaned across from the passenger side and took her splayed fingers and moved them back to the steering wheel. In the backseat, Louise and Grace dropped their heads into their hands. With one more toot of the horn, the car continued up the hill.

  A few minutes later, Violet followed Tommy and Daisy single file past the LaSalle, which Lily had parked on the sidewalk in front of the church. Tommy turned around, annoyed.

  “She’s my sister,” Violet murmured, hoping to pacify him.

  “Don’t I know it,” was all Tommy said.

  Once all three made it up the steps, Tommy lowered Daisy from his shoulders, smoothed her dress, and took her hand. When he looked up and saw Myrtle and Mildred lingering outside the heavy wooden doors, he grabbed Violet’s hand as well.

  Reverend Sheets pushed past the sisters and extended his arm. “Glad to see you, Tommy.” He nodded toward Violet. “Mrs. Davies. On behalf of your church family, I’d just like to say, welcome back.”

  Violet took in the scene—the warmth of the redbrick building, a perfect circle of stained glass over the entrance. “It’s good to be home,” she said. No matter what happened in life, she’d always been able to find consolation inside the church. Her church. Now, more than ever, she needed to feel that sense of peace again.

  Myrtle and Mildred harrumphed in tandem and stormed into the sanctuary.

  “W
ell, I suppose we’re obligated to join them.” The minister chuckled as he opened the door and waved the trio inside. Daisy pulled Tommy forward, so Violet was the last one through. As she passed, Reverend Sheets stopped her and said, “You’re one of God’s children. Enter His house with your head held high.”

  Violet smiled, both grateful and relieved, but only a few steps in, she heard a muffled “Jezebel” slip past Mr. Jenkins’s hand-covered mouth. Mrs. Jenkins, her expression unchanging, thumped her husband’s chest with her pleated fan. Violet faltered, but Reverend Sheets came up behind and whispered, “Head high,” and nudged her forward.

  She continued down the aisle while the preacher lagged back, reminding Mr. Jenkins about the perils of casting stones. Once Violet reached her parents, she stopped to kiss them, then walked up one more row to the Davies’s pew where Tommy stood waiting to let her in.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It will be.”

  Tommy gripped her hand. “I love you,” he whispered. Violet gave his hand a squeeze and smiled.

  Louise slid across the seat to make room. “I’m so proud I could burst,” she said.

  Violet sat down next to her mother-in-law, followed by Daisy and Tommy. Once they were all settled, she turned around to her father. “Mother’s right.” Her worried expression belied her enthusiastic tone. “Your color’s good.”

  “I feel good,” he said, but they both knew it was a lie.

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep him down.” Grace draped a flannel blanket over Owen’s legs and tucked in the sides.

  “Stop your fussing.” He feebly swatted her hand away. “One person makes a remark to my daughter . . .” His cough started up, but he seemed determined to will it away. A moment later, and to everyone’s surprise, he said with more strength than he’d mustered in some time, “. . . and they’ll have me to deal with.”