All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  “Can’t a guy just do an old friend a favor?”

  A hearty, smoke-filled laugh erupted from behind the desk. “Assuming that we are friends,” Frankie took a final drag on his cigarette before tamping it out in a marble ashtray, “what’s in it for you?”

  “One hand washes the other. Isn’t that how the saying goes?” When Frankie didn’t respond, George continued: “I need a little help with a union problem.”

  “And your buddy in Washington?”

  “He can’t make people disappear, just federal investigations.”

  “I don’t know what you heard, Georgie, but I’m not in that kind of business.” Frankie pushed himself away from his desk and stood up.

  “I think you misunderstood.” He motioned for Frankie to take his seat again. “I’m not talking about a permanent solution. Just something that’ll bring a man down a peg or two. Something that might put him away for ten-to-twenty.”

  “And what man needs to learn this lesson?” Frankie sat down.

  “Stanley Adamski. That lousy excuse for a lawyer is stirring things up at the mine, and I want him stopped.”

  “Stopped how?”

  “I thought he might get himself tangled up in something that would complicate his life. Get him out of the way for a while.”

  “You don’t need me for that. Hire yourself an investigator. Dig up some dirt.”

  “I put a tail on him awhile back.” It was George’s turn to stand up. He walked the length of the office and circled behind the club chair. “The son of a bitch is clean as a whistle.”

  “Goes to the whorehouse pretty regular.”

  “Who doesn’t?” George laughed. “Shit, I even ran into Babe Ruth in the Alleys. I would’ve asked for an autograph too, if I hadn’t been so hell-bent on getting inside myself. No, I need something big.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  George returned to his chair, leaned forward, and steepled his fingers, pointing them at Frankie. “Use your connections. Set him up. I don’t care how. Take him down. Hard.”

  Frankie rose again, and this time there was no question that the meeting was over. “Afraid I can’t help you out.”

  “Think about it. That’s all I ask.” George got to his feet and extended his hand.

  Just at that moment, Gino came lumbering up the steps. “Mr. Sherman, your foreman’s downstairs. Said he saw your car out front. He’s been looking for you.”

  “Now what?” George pulled his hand back and walked past the folding chairs to the stairs.

  “Trouble at the mine, sir. Something about picketers and a rock through Mrs. Sherman’s windshield. There’s been a wreck.”

  “Lily! Is she hurt?” The intimacy of her given name conspired with the urgency in Frankie’s voice. His heart had been exposed. “Mrs. Sherman,” he corrected too late.

  “My wife.” George gave each word equal weight. “How is she?”

  “Bruised up a bit, but nothing too serious. He says the sister’s worse off.”

  “What about the car?” George asked. “Had her painted Yale blue for my alma mater, just like my LaSalle.” He nodded toward the window.

  “He didn’t mention the car. His concern seemed to be for Mrs. Sherman.”

  George thanked Gino for the message and waited for him to go back downstairs before turning to Frankie. “That son of a bitch Stanley did this. You and I both know it.”

  Frankie nodded but said nothing.

  “Give it some thought.” George started down the steps, pausing to call back, “I know it would mean a lot to Lily. Adamski never did pay for abandoning her sister and that little girl.”

  THE HYGIENE OF MENSTRUATION

  Cold tub baths . . . as well as ocean and river bathing are best avoided during the period; at least during the first two days. I do not give this as an absolute rule; I know women who bathe and swim in the ocean during their menstrual periods without any injury to themselves, but they are exceptionally robust women; advice in books is for the average person, and it is always best to be on the safe side.

  —Woman: Her Sex and Love Life,

  William J. Robinson, MD, 1929

  Something like this was bound to happen. We’re just glad it wasn’t worse. Cracked ribs and a concussion are nothing to sneeze at, but Violet Davies should thank her lucky stars the good Lord had His eye on her. And that sister of hers.

  Not that we’re saying this was all Lily Sherman’s fault, but when you gallivant around town in a brand-new car like you’re Mrs. Gotrocks while everyone else is living hand-to-mouth, well, God is bound to notice.

  Of course, we can’t blame a girl like Lily for trying to live above her station. She must’ve thought she’d died and gone to heaven when she married one of the Sherman boys. And you can’t fault George Jr., Lily always knew how to turn heads.

  We do have to wonder what Abigail Silkman was thinking when she invited Lily to that luncheon, though. Abigail’s had a fine upbringing and should know better than to hobnob with someone of Lily’s low birth. Next thing, she’ll be inviting colored women to join the Eastern Star.

  Not that it’s any of our business. Live and let live is what we always say. God will get around to judging us all in His own good time.

  Chapter twenty-two

  AFTER GATHERING MOST OF THE INGREDIENTS for her potato leek soup, Violet sat at the kitchen table to rest. It had been four weeks since the accident and her ribs had not yet healed completely. She adjusted the compression binder under her dress. The pain had lessened somewhat, but deep breaths and sudden movement still brought on a stabbing, almost unbearable sensation, and she tired so easily. Another month, maybe more, Doc Rodham had said. The ribs would heal, but not soon enough for Violet, with a five-year-old to care for and a house to keep; still, they would mend. But what about the longing she’d felt since waking up in Stanley’s arms? How many weeks or months or years would it take to cure that? She closed her eyes and shivered, remembering her body cradled in his, the embrace sparking old feelings she’d all but forgotten.

  A knock at the back door roused Violet from her daydream.

  “Are you up to a little company?” the widow Lankowski called out from the threshold, her arthritic fingers already turning the knob.

  “Come in.” Violet stood up and turned too quickly. She held her breath through the twinge. “I was just going to make some tea,” she finally managed.

  “You sit.” The widow grabbed the kettle from the stove and filled it with water. Even at seventy, the six-foot-tall woman had a formidable presence. “I didn’t come over to be waited on,” she said. “Are you any better?”

  “Some.”

  “Not from where I’m standing.” With the kettle on the stove, the widow took a seat and looked around. “Anyone home?”

  “It’s Mother Davies’s day to visit the shut-ins, and I insisted she go. I sent Daisy next door for leeks so I can start a pot of soup.”

  “Good. Then tell me what’s really going on with you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Violet said, but tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Stanley is brooding more than ever.” The widow patted Violet’s hand. “Every time I come over here, you look like you lost your best friend. And it’s all since that accident.”

  “Something’s wrong with Stanley?” Violet asked, her voice an octave higher, her body rigid.

  “So that’s it.”

  When Violet didn’t answer, the widow continued, “I’m not sure what’s in that head of yours, but for what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice with Tommy.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Violet pointed at the widow. “You’re the one who always said Stanley and I were meant to be together.”

  “And I was wrong.” The widow took Violet’s hand. “I love Stanley. I’d die for that boy if it would make a difference. But he has enough of his father in him to worry me. I see that now, and no amount of love will change it.”


  “He’s nothing like his father.” Violet shook her head. “Stanley doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

  “But he does give himself over to the drink,” the widow said. “And that makes for a very unhappy life.”

  “I can’t bear to think of him unhappy.” Violet dropped her head into her hands.

  “He’s not your problem to solve. Do you hear me?” The widow lifted Violet’s chin and looked her in the eye. “You married a good man. You and Tommy are well-suited and that means everything in the long run.”

  Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plunk. Violet wiped her eyes at the sound of Daisy hopscotching up the steps, across the porch, and through the back door. “Grandma says if you need more, send me back over.” The little girl handed her mother a bouquet of two large leeks, sniffed her now empty palm, and grimaced.

  Violet smelled her daughter’s hand and crinkled her nose. “Stinky.”

  Daisy laughed. “Aunt Lily told me to tell you to wash my hands.”

  “She did now.” Violet paused, trying to decide if she should be annoyed or worried. “What was Aunt Lily doing at Grandma’s?”

  “Babcia!” the little girl yelled when she noticed the widow.

  “Come over here and give me a hug.” The widow leaned down, opened her arms, and pulled Daisy in. “And what do you have in there?” she asked, nodding to a lump under the child’s coat.

  Daisy undid the first two buttons and pulled out a stuffed elephant. “Ta-da!”

  “Where did you . . .” Violet’s heart skipped a beat, as if Stanley himself had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. Of all the silliness, she thought, as she took the animal and examined it—the shoe-button eyes, the floppy limbs. The chintz hide covered in tiny flowers. Stanley had thought them to be violets, but it was clear to her even then they were roses. She hadn’t corrected him, and now she tried to remember why.

  “What’s his name?” Daisy finished taking off her coat. “I found him at Grandma’s. She said I could have him if you don’t want him. Aunt Lily said you’re too old for him.”

  Violet put on a smile and handed the toy back to Daisy. “Her name. And it’s Queenie.”

  “Who’s Queenie?”

  “An elephant at the Nay Aug Zoo,” the widow said, handing Violet a cup of tea.

  “Can we go and see her?” Daisy lifted the trunk and pointed it at the leeks. “Stinky.” She laughed.

  “No, doll baby.” Violet leaned over and patted the elephant’s head. “Queenie died a few months ago.”

  “Like Aunt Daisy, God rest her soul?”

  Violet smiled. “Yes, my sweet girl, like Aunt Daisy.”

  “I think they play zoo together in heaven.” Daisy climbed up on the widow’s lap.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Violet said. “Your Aunt Daisy loved animals.”

  Daisy’s face lit up with an idea. “I want to see a real elephant.”

  In spite of herself, Violet thought about that day. The peanuts. The crowds. The long line in which they’d waited.

  “I’ll bet your father would take you to the zoo if you asked him,” the widow said, wiping Daisy’s hand with a wet cloth.

  “Yes,” Violet said, “we’ll ask Daddy.”

  “You’re a lucky little girl to have such a nice father,” the widow said.

  “I love Daddy Tommy.” Daisy swung Queenie by her front legs.

  “So do I, doll baby.” Violet’s answer sounded hollow. She tried again: “So do I.”

  “But Queenie’s in heaven,” Daisy said.

  “They have a new elephant,” Violet explained, “named Tillie.”

  Daisy whispered into the elephant’s ear. “Do you like Tillie?” She held the trunk up and listened. “Queenie says yes.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Violet got up slowly, walked over to the sink, and started cutting potatoes. “And Tillie has a friend.”

  “Who’s that?” Daisy asked.

  “Joshua the donkey.” Violet handed Daisy a small, raw, peeled potato to eat. “They came to the zoo together.”

  “A donkey and an elephant? That’s silly.”

  “It’s sweet,” the widow said. “They have each other.”

  “They’re different.” Daisy took a bite out of her potato. “They don’t belong together.”

  “Why not?” And in that instant, Violet could hear her father say, Unevenly yoked. “I think it’s good to have all kinds of friends. Remember that.”

  “I will,” Daisy said, hugging Queenie.

  The widow listened but said nothing.

  * * *

  Lily had gotten greedy. When her monthly time didn’t arrive five days earlier as it should have, hope swelled inside her breasts and belly. Finally, someone to soothe the ache she felt every time she saw Daisy. A baby of her very own to love. When she’d visited her mother and father that morning and found Daisy at the house with that silly elephant, Lily was happy to see the child, but not as a secret daughter for once, rather as a niece who would grow up with the cousin that Lily was carrying. She’d indulged herself with that fantasy until just after dinner, but when she stood up to see George off to yet another meeting, she knew.

  Bent over the bathroom sink, Lily added more ammonia to the salted water, then pressed her palms against her eyes to staunch the tears. All that was left now of the bright red blood was a rust-colored outline near the inside seam of her peach silk bloomers. Another soak, scrub, and rinse might eliminate the stain altogether. She’d stand at the basin all night if that was what it took to erase such a glaring reminder of another failure.

  But how could this keep happening? She’d put honey in her tea, lay with her husband during every full moon, and ingested countless spoonfuls of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound because, as the saying went, There’s a baby at the bottom of every bottle. God was punishing her. This was the price she was paying for abandoning Daisy.

  Lily glanced at her reflection in the mirror and fingered the half-inch scar above her right eyebrow, the only lasting trace of the recent car accident. In spite of the gash and no new dress, Abigail Silkman had invited Lily to join the Christian Ladies’ Society during their luncheon at the Hotel Jermyn the week after the crash. And since then, Abigail had asked her to attend a lecture they were sponsoring at the Century Club on November 19, eight days away. Lily had taken the invitations as a sign of good fortune. Maybe her penance was over. And then, when she was late, she dared to think her life was finally beginning. Her real life.

  So foolhardy, she thought, leaning against the bathroom sink, her hands raw from the salt and ammonia, scrubbing away her rust-colored shame.

  * * *

  When Violet drew her bath, she added a cup of hot milk to the water, her mother’s trick for soft skin. Tommy had insisted on putting Daisy to bed so Violet could take some time to “settle her nerves.” He’d broached the matter as delicately as possible. The accident had probably taken a far greater toll on her than she’d realized. “How could it not?” his mother had asked, as if on cue. Under normal circumstances, Violet would have put an immediate stop to such nonsense, but after talking with the widow that afternoon and seeing the stuffed elephant again, she decided to heed her husband’s advice.

  Violet turned down the wick on an oil lamp she’d carried in with her. Electrical lighting had its place, but the low flame soothed her in so small a space. She dropped her robe and stepped into the warm tub, grateful Tommy had installed a Pail-a-Day in the cellar, making hot water available on a moment’s notice. Such thoughtfulness. Violet’s comfort was always at the forefront of Tommy’s mind. She appreciated him for that and for so much more.

  As Violet sat down, she lifted her long hair, leaned back into the cool porcelain, and dropped her curls over the tub’s rolled rim. Stretching her legs forward, she pressed her feet against the opposite end, allowing her slightly bent knees to fall open. Ripples of milky water licked the edges of her body, until the motion dissolved into a quiet stillness. Violet closed her eyes
, absorbing the heat, savoring the ache inside her. When the silence threatened to consume her, she splashed water up over her breasts, onto her belly, and between her legs. The runnels trickled back down along the same fleshy paths, stoking the passion that Stanley had ignited in her.

  When Violet opened her eyes, she saw light spilling under the bathroom door. Tommy was awake, waiting for her across the hall. She stood up carefully, patted herself dry, slipped on the nightgown her mother had given her on her wedding night, and joined him in their marriage bed.

  Chapter twenty-three

  “THAT WAS SOME PERFORMANCE LAST WEEK.” Judson Woodberry applauded as Stanley entered Hunold’s. The reporter turned and faced Gus behind the bar. “How’s this for a headline?” He raised his hand and tapped each word as it hit the air. “Lawyer Brings Vaudeville to Courthouse.”

  “What’ll it be?” Gus asked Stanley as he sat down at the opposite end of the bar.

  “A whiskey on me.” Judd edged over to Stanley and pulled up a stool next to him.

  “A beer,” Stanley said. “Trial starts back up at nine o’clock tomorrow. Hoping to wrap it up in the next day or two.”

  “Well, if this week is as entertaining as the last one,” Judd started chuckling, “we’re in for a treat.”

  Stanley accepted his drink without a word and glanced around the dimly lit room at the Monday-night crowd, a dozen or so regulars, and George Sherman Jr. with that girlfriend of his. As he turned back, he saw Ruby emerge from the shadows and walk toward him at the bar.

  “Another old-fashioned, Gus.” She handed the glass across and sat down on a high stool.

  “I was just on my way to see you,” Stanley said.

  Ruby shrugged. “Have me a night off.”

  “How’s that?” Stanley said as he paid for her drink.

  “Got a tip about a raid tonight. Catherine told us all to clear out. Anyways,” she said, pointing her glass in Judd’s direction, “I want to hear this fella’s story.”