All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “You and me both,” Gus said.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it yet.” Judd smiled. “Best opening statement I ever witnessed. Do you want to tell it,” he said to Stanley, “or should I?”

  Stanley drained his beer, pushed it forward, and, in spite of his best effort, cracked half a smile and shook his head. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “I do,” Judd said. “That damn judge started sleeping the moment you opened your mouth. Not much of a union man, I’m afraid.” Judd hopped up on his stool. “Stanley begins by explaining how the rights of sixty men from the Von Storch are being trampled. Just then, the judge leans back like this,” Judd demonstrated as he spoke, “crosses his arms, and closes his eyes. That doesn’t stop Stanley.” Judd’s eyes widened. “He talks about the families and how they’re suffering with their daddies in jail, breadwinners, all of them. He tells the jury these men deserve to be back home in time for the holiday.”

  “And I meant it. It’s already the eighteenth,” Stanley said, holding up his empty glass for a refill and nodding for Gus to get Judd a drink as well. “Thanksgiving is only . . .” He stopped to figure.

  “Ten days away,” Gus said, delivering the beers.

  “That’s right.” Stanley took a sip and shook his head. “It’s a disgrace what they’re doing to the workingman.”

  “Get to the good part,” Ruby said.

  “A few minutes in, the judge, he’s still not listening to a word.” Judd stopped to take a sip. “So what does this fool do?” He points to Stanley. “He starts in on the chorus of some old labor song.”

  “Joe Hill’s ‘There Is Power in a Union,’” Stanley said.

  “That’s it.” Judd started singing to the tune of the old hymn “There Is a Power in the Blood”:

  There is pow’r, there is pow’r

  In a band of workingmen.

  When they stand hand in hand.

  Stanley joined in and harmonized with Judd:

  That’s a pow’r, that’s a pow’r

  That must rule in every land—

  One Industrial Union Grand . . .

  The two men slapped each other on the back, drained their drinks, and flagged Gus down for two more.

  “What did the judge do?” Ruby reached under her skirt and started to roll down one of her stockings.

  “Opened his eyes,” Stanley said.

  “And threatened to charge him with contempt of court.” Judd laughed. “Said a night in jail might do his voice some good.”

  “Can you imagine?” Ruby straightened up. “You in the hoosegow instead of me? What is this world coming to?” She started rolling the other stocking. “How ’bout you unionize all us ‘sporting girls’?” she said. “Fair wages for skilled workers.”

  “You’re skilled all right,” Stanley gave Ruby a pat on the behind.

  “And I will be tomorrow,” Ruby smiled, “when I go back to work.” She stood up, pecked Stanley on the cheek, picked up her drink, and moved to an empty table a few feet away.

  “I don’t know what Violet ever saw in you,” George said as walked up behind Stanley to get to the bar.

  Stanley didn’t bother to turn around. “I’m sure her sister would be interested in hearing all about your night out,” Stanley said, sitting back down on his stool.

  “And I’m sure Violet would like to know all about your little friend.” George nodded toward Ruby. “Oh, that’s right, she’s married now.” He peeled a dollar off the top of several bills and laid it down. “To someone else,” he said, grabbing his drinks and heading back to Janetta.

  “What the hell . . .” Judd started, but Stanley cut him off.

  “Tomorrow’s a big day. I’m going to finish this beer in peace, then head up to bed.”

  Judd nodded and moved a few stools down the bar.

  Stanley closed his eyes and tried to quiet all the thoughts suddenly competing for his attention. The judge. George Sherman. Ruby. The craving for whiskey.

  And Violet.

  He’d thought of her nonstop in the five weeks since the accident. His Babcia had noticed. She’d told him to forget about Violet. She reminded him that she was married now. Everyone reminded him of this as if they thought he might forget. And yet, he did forget for a moment. He’d held her in his arms, thinking she was dead, and all of it slipped away. The marriage. Her infidelity. Wiped clean. He loved her and he always would.

  Stanley opened his eyes, finished his drink, and motioned for another, just as a rather stout customer entered the bar, took off his coat, and sat down next to Judd.

  “Name’s Woodberry,” the reporter said. “Judson Woodberry, but my friends call me Judd.”

  “Nice to meet you, Judd.” The man extended his hand. “Scranton sure seems like a friendly town.”

  “Your first time here?” Judd pushed his seat back a bit, away from the man’s girth.

  “It is,” the man said, stroking his beard and looking around at the crowd. “I hear tell that it’s an easy place for a man to find a little . . .” he paused for the right word, “companionship?”

  “Over a hundred cathouses at last count.” Judd smiled. “If it’s companionship you want, you’ve come to the right town.”

  “Any recommendations? Someplace clean.”

  “I’d say Catherine Blair’s place, but Ruby over there,” Judd pointed toward her table, “said they’re closed for the night. Something about a police raid.”

  “I certainly don’t need to get caught up in that.” The man turned around, looked Ruby up and down, and nodded. “What are you drinking?” he called over to her.

  Ruby looked at the man and dropped her eyes. “I’m drinking alone,” she said and turned her back to him.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” he coaxed. “I have a lovely room at the Mayfair. No chance of a raid there.”

  “Another time,” Ruby said, propping her chin on her hand, as if to shield her face. “I’ll hang my shingle out tomorrow night.”

  The man got down from his stool with his drink in one hand and his coat in the other, and walked over to Ruby’s table. “I won’t be here tomorrow.” He sat down uninvited. “I’m passing through tonight and in need of some affection.”

  “Like I said,” Ruby kept her back to him and eyed the door, “another time.”

  The man held Ruby’s glass up so Gus could see. “We’ll take one of these.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Ruby said, “but I was just leaving.”

  “Stay,” the man said. “If nothing else, I could use a little conversation.” He pulled out a five-spot and tucked it into Ruby’s curled palm.

  “That’s a lot of cabbage for a little chitchat,” Ruby said, tucking the bill between her breasts. “So what do you want to talk about?” She kept her chair turned so he could only catch her profile.

  Gus delivered the old-fashioned to the table and stood uncertainly for a moment. “You let me know if you need anything,” he said to Ruby and finally walked back behind the bar.

  “How long have you been in this game?” the man asked.

  Ruby counted on her fingers. “Almost five years.”

  “And what put you on this path?”

  Ruby laughed. “I was born on this path. Like my mother before me, or so I’m told. It’s in the blood.”

  “What are you, a cop or a Bible thumper?” Stanley called out from his seat at the bar.

  “Neither one,” Ruby said to Stanley as if she had some personal insight. “I can tell you that.”

  “Thank you,” the man said. “I’ve always been an inquisitive sort. Helps with my vocation.” When Ruby didn’t ask the question, the man added, “I spend a good deal of my time on research.” He wrapped his foot around the front leg of Ruby’s chair, turned her toward him, and leered at her generous bosom. “You’re certainly built for this profession.”

  Now face-to-face, Ruby stared into the man’s eyes for several seconds before sliding sideways out of the chair. �
��I’m calling it a day, Gus.” She waved to the barkeep. “And Stanley,” she flashed a smile, “you’re still my favorite.”

  The man from the table grabbed hold of Ruby’s arm from behind. “Where do you think you’re going?” He pulled her back. “I haven’t gotten my money’s worth.”

  “Let me go,” Ruby replied calmly but firmly, “or I’ll break that hand.”

  Stanley stood up and took a few steps, but he stopped short when Ruby said, “Don’t worry. I know how to take care of bullies.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, more to Stanley than to Ruby. “Where I come from it’s the men who are particular, not the whores.” He released his hold on Ruby by pushing her forward a step or two.

  “Then maybe you should go back to where you come from,” Ruby said, rubbing her arm.

  “I’ve known my share of women,” the man laughed as he bent to pick up his coat, “but I have to hand it to you. Scranton prostitutes are some of the most highfalutin I’ve ever encountered.” He came up alongside Ruby and eyed the five-dollar bill in her cleavage.

  Stanley stepped around Ruby and faced the outsider. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

  “Defectives and degenerates,” the man said, glancing at Stanley’s stump, then back at Ruby. “Abominations, the pair of you.”

  Stanley swung for the man’s jaw, misjudged, and caught him in the eye instead. The man, whose bulk kept him on his feet despite the surprise slug, fingered his socket, smiled, and said, “We’ll rid the world of your kind yet.”

  “Next time I’ll kill you!” Stanley yelled as the man walked toward the door.

  Chapter twenty-four

  LILY PARKED IN FRONT OF THE CENTURY CLUB on Jefferson Avenue. The night before, she’d arranged to borrow George’s LaSalle since hers was still at the garage for repairs. She had no intention of taking the streetcar, and for once, George had agreed with her. Being able to drive distinguished her from other women, and they both liked that. She scanned the invitation once more before slipping it into her purse.

  Christian Ladies’ Society Lecture Series

  Century Club of Scranton

  Tuesday, November 19, 1935

  Three O’clock

  According to Abigail, the talk was open to all married women whether or not they were associated with the Christian Ladies’ Society. Abigail had promised the speaker a full house, so she’d asked Lily to invite her mother-in-law to come along. “See if you can use your influence,” Abigail had said. “We’d love to have her join our little group.” Lily agreed to try, but she knew it would be for naught. Her mother-in-law was not a joiner. Mother Sherman only participated in groups she’d either founded or headed.

  The Century Club—what a thrill, Lily thought as she climbed the front steps of the brick and limestone building, an example of Colonial Revival architecture, as Abigail had explained. Although Lily was not yet a member of this particular women’s group, she hoped to soon be asked. Meantime, since the Christian Ladies’ Society had rented out the ballroom for the afternoon talk, she would momentarily experience the pleasure of belonging.

  Lily stepped inside and paused, slack-jawed at the beauty of the reception area. Crystal chandeliers, elaborate crown moldings, a winding staircase, huge vases overflowing with flowers in November. And the mirror, an octagonal beauty with beveled glass inside a black and silver frame trimmed with gilt. Her mother-in-law had tried to describe it to Lily days earlier, but nothing could prepare her for such splendor. According to Mother Sherman, the mirror had once hung in a French castle, and seeing it now, Lily believed it.

  “Welcome,” a gloved girl said, taking Lily’s coat and handing her a program. “Enjoy the presentation.” Lily thanked her and stepped into the ballroom, another breathtaking sight with its polished wood floors and impossibly high ceilings. A colored man finished setting up the last line of white folding chairs along the back and excused himself as he stepped around Lily.

  Abigail needn’t have worried, Lily thought as she made her way up the center aisle to an empty seat in the middle of the second row. The ballroom was already three-quarters full, and women were still milling about in the foyer. Once settled, Lily looked around and examined the fashions. Nothing made a woman feel worse about herself than standing out for the wrong reasons. Lily noted with relief that her jade silk jacket dress seemed appropriate for the occasion, stylish but simple. According to the salesclerk who’d waited on her a few days earlier at the Globe Store, simplicity suggested an understated confidence, and Lily needed any kind of confidence she could muster in this new moneyed world. The clerk had also suggested a simple felt hat with a short high-line brim to complete the outfit. Looking around at all the heads, Lily realized the woman had been right. Only a few ladies had something large and fussy on their heads, and they looked out of place compared to the simpler styles most of the women wore.

  Directly in front, Irene Silkman, Abigail’s mother, stood behind the podium, frantically scribbling notes and occasionally glancing at the empty speaker’s chair. Lily hadn’t seen Mrs. Silkman for some time, and noticed she’d added at least twenty more pounds to her already taxed five-foot frame. Lily’s father had always said, “Look at the mother if you want to know how the daughter will turn out.” Lily wondered if that would be true for Abigail. She started to pity the girl, then thought of her own mother, fairly fit for a woman her age. Better Abigail than me, Lily concluded.

  Mrs. Silkman glanced once more at the empty chair in front of the room before resting her hefty arms on top of the podium and clearing her throat. “Good afternoon.” She waited for a few seconds, allowing a couple of stragglers to take seats in the last row. When everyone had settled, she continued: “Welcome to this month’s lecture presentation,” she squinted at her program, “entitled, ‘Social Hygiene: Worthy Women and Their Health.’”

  Lily looked around for her own program and realized it had dropped under the seat in front. With the rows squeezed so closely together, she decided she’d wait and retrieve it at the end. “Unfortunately, our guest speaker has been unavoidably detained,” she glimpsed her notes, “so we’ll adjust the schedule accordingly. First, I’d like to introduce Mrs. Trethaway, secretary for the Christian Ladies’ Society. She was my right hand in organizing this event. Mrs. Trethaway.”

  When a rather tall woman stood up in the front row and bowed her head slightly, the audience applauded.

  “Fortunately, Mrs. Trethaway is a trained pianist and has agreed to lead us in a hymn-sing until our guest arrives.”

  Mrs. Trethaway stepped over to a piano at the front of the room, smoothed her dress, adjusted her feathered hat, and sat down on the bench. Mrs. Silkman remained at the podium and announced the first song, “The Old Rugged Cross.”

  At Mrs. Silkman’s direction, everyone waited until Mrs. Trethaway played the refrain as an introduction. As soon as she finished, the singing began: “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, an emblem of suffering and shame . . .”

  This was such a familiar song that the whole crowd joined in. Their voices rose, many holding to the melody, while the trained among them broke off into complementary harmonies.

  Just as Mrs. Trethaway launched into the second verse, the door at the back of the room slowly opened. A bearded man with a bruised left eye quietly stepped into the room. He folded his hands across his broad stomach and waited. Relief washed over Mrs. Silkman’s face, and she signaled Mrs. Trethway to finish up after that verse. As soon as the singing ended, the gentleman addressed the crowd from the back of the ballroom, startling more than a few of the women who hadn’t noticed him enter. “Don’t stop on my account, ladies. You sing like angels.”

  Lily craned her neck at the familiar voice and watched in horror as Dr. Peters headed toward the front of the room.

  Chapter twenty-five

  AS THE NOON WHISTLE SOUNDED at the Lace Works, Violet pinned her last shirt to the clothesline. In less time than it would take for the wash to dry, she coul
d get to town on the streetcar and back again. In another hour it would be Daisy’s nap time, so it wouldn’t put Mother Davies out too much to watch the child. And if it did, there was always her own mother, though if Violet asked her to mind Daisy, she might suggest they all go to town together, and that would not do. God forgive her, but Violet didn’t have the patience for her mother’s bad legs or her daughter’s penchant for standing outside the Globe Store’s windows, admiring every item on display. Violet had spent the last five weeks recovering from the accident with everyone buzzing around her, and though her ribs were still tender, she wanted to be on her own this afternoon.

  And it had nothing to do with the fact that Stanley worked and lived downtown. Violet could easily steer clear of the courthouse and the room he rented, and she intended to do just that. She had no interest in such distractions. She’d even turned down Lily’s invitation to the Century Club. Any other time, she would have been eager to see such a grand building, but not today. She’d been grappling with guilt ever since she’d had marital relations with Tommy a week earlier, and she needed to be alone to sort out her feelings.

  Violet stood in the yard thinking about that night. Because of her ribs Tommy had been careful with her. Attentive. Deliberate. “Does this hurt?” he’d asked at first, gently caressing her breasts with his calloused fingers. When she shivered her response, he continued his unhurried exploration at the nape of her neck, the crook of her arm, the inside of her thighs. The lips in between. After a while, he stopped asking questions and heeded her body as it rose and fell, shuddering with a fire she’d never known before. Just at the moment when she thought she might get lost forever in the delicious blur of euphoria and pain, he pulled her on top, guiding her hips as she drew him inside, deeper and deeper, until they both exploded into brilliant flames.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, when Daisy came into the kitchen carrying Stanley’s elephant, that Violet was struck with an ugly truth: she’d encouraged Tommy to stoke a fire ignited by another man.