All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, why hold Lily responsible for her behavior when you can play the martyr? You’ve sacrificed everything for that child. It’s what you do. First Lily, now Daisy. Look at Violet Morgan,” he singsonged, “putting everyone else’s needs before her own.”

  “Davies.” Her back and her tone stiffened.

  “Yes, Davies.” He pushed his words through gritted teeth. “Leave it to you to marry the only other living saint in Scranton.”

  “I’m going.” Violet stood up and buttoned her coat.

  “Wait. I’m sorry.” Stanley lowered his voice: “I just want to make you happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Violet remained standing but didn’t move. “We don’t always get what we want.”

  “Not always, but sometimes. You just can’t see it. You’re too busy punishing yourself like you always do. And we both know why.”

  Violet’s hands flew to her ears. “Stop it right now.”

  “You’ve spent your whole life trying to make up for your sister’s death, but it wasn’t your fault.” Stanley stood up and circled the floor as he spoke. “You have nothing to make up for. For God’s sake, stop paying for other people’s sins. Follow your heart for once in your life.”

  “Daisy is my heart.” Violet glared at Stanley.

  “That can’t be enough.”

  “So I should wash my hands of her? Give her back to Lily?” Violet’s voice rose in pitch. “Here you go.” She lifted her hands as if tossing something in the air.

  “You don’t have the right to get angry!” Stanley was shouting now. “I’m the one who never knew the truth!”

  Violet continued her own conversation: “I’m off to follow my heart.”

  “You threw everything away and for what?” Stanley said, glancing sidelong at the bottle of whiskey.

  “Or better yet, maybe I can turn back time and leave her at the Good Shepherd. That way you and Lily and everyone else in town can pretend she was never born. Wash away the sin, or at least hide it in another city. That would certainly make life easier for everyone, wouldn’t it?” When Stanley didn’t answer, Violet pressed: “Well, wouldn’t it? Be honest. It’s what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone thinks. Life would be a cinch if Daisy weren’t here. Love would be easy. Just say it. Say it!”

  “Yes.”

  Any pity Violet might have felt for Stanley evaporated. She knew she’d wrung that syllable out of him, but he’d uttered it nonetheless, and that was his doing. “So that’s how you feel.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You listen to me, Stanley Adamski. Taking a drink is easy. Paying a . . .” Muriel’s face flashed in Violet’s head, and the word whore dried up and blew away. “Paying someone like Ruby is easy. Love is not easy. Love is patience and sacrifice. Love is taking another man’s child into your heart with a fierceness that can’t be contained. It’s worshipping a woman, in spite of the fact that the whole town calls her a sinner. It’s standing up to people every single day without regard for your own reputation. It’s . . .” Violet hesitated. “It’s Tommy.” Astounded by that truth, she took a few steps back and leaned against the wall.

  It was Tommy who loved Daisy without question, and Violet without judgment. Tommy, who always put their needs first. Who built a porch swing in the hopes of courting her, long before she’d ever thought of saying yes. Who carried Daisy on his shoulders every night so she could be closer to the stars. Who shoveled the coal and took out the ashes from his own cellar and the one next door when her father could no longer do it for himself. Who woke her with a single kiss. Who trembled in front of her nakedness. Who considered himself to be the luckiest man in Scranton, long before he knew the real the circumstances of Daisy’s birth.

  All at once Violet knew: she loved Tommy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Stanley. She wanted to run out of there and into the arms of her husband. She had to tell him that she loved him, and that this truth mattered more than any other. The courthouse clock rang out half past five. “I have to get home to Tommy,” she said, and walked out the door.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  WHEN THE DOCTOR CONCLUDED HIS LECTURE, Irene Silkman pushed herself up and led the audience in a final round of applause. “Dr. Peters will be returning to his hotel room shortly. He has another speaking engagement later this evening and needs his rest. If you’d like to offer your personal thanks for his edifying message, he’s agreed to spend a few minutes greeting people out in the vestibule.”

  Several women stood up, but they didn’t dare exit their rows until Mrs. Silkman, Mrs. Trethaway, and the good doctor passed through. It’s like a wedding procession, thought Lily.

  Once the dignitaries reached the door, women poured up the aisle.

  Lily remained seated long after Mrs. Jordan and the other ladies from the second row had vacated their chairs. She didn’t know if she could trust her legs. Her whole body had gone to jelly. He couldn’t have. It wasn’t possible. For one thing, that sort of procedure was against the law. For another, Mother Mary Joseph would never have allowed it to happen under her roof. She was strict, yes, but she loved her girls. And she never judged them. That was God’s business, not hers.

  And yet . . . Lily recalled a year’s worth of monthly heartaches. What natural reason could there be? She was certainly capable of conceiving a child. Daisy was proof of that. Had Dr. Peters taken matters into his own hands? She closed her eyes and recalled the day she’d given birth. He’d numbed her after she’d delivered Daisy, not before. And she smelled something burning when he was supposed to be cleaning her up. She needs a few stitches, he’d said to Violet and Sadie. You two run along and tend to the baby.

  When Lily’s legs finally calmed down, she walked up the aisle and found Dr. Peters, still in the vestibule, surrounded by several ladies. A cornered grandfather clock struck the four o’clock hour. She slipped past the little group, out the door, and into George’s LaSalle. Much to her surprise, the motor turned over on her first try.

  Lily pulled out and drove down Jefferson Avenue. When she reached the corner, she pointed the car toward the Mayfair Hotel.

  * * *

  Lily parked the LaSalle in front, so she’d be able to see Dr. Peters when he arrived.

  What if it’s true?

  It’s true.

  Sterilization—as soon as she’d digested the word, her life seemed to end. She slid across the seat, pulled George’s pistol out of the glove compartment, tucked it into her purse, and shuddered. The clock at the courthouse chimed the quarter hour. Lily looked around and noted that there weren’t as many people out as one might expect. Just as well, she thought, though she really wasn’t worried. A reasonable woman would have been concerned, one who had everything to lose. What might Lily lose? A man who didn’t love her? Children she could never conceive?

  Waiting. She was never very good at it. Every month she’d wait, and every month the blood flowed, and she’d have to wait again. A thought struck her. She glanced across the street at the Electric City Lunch to see if Little Frankie was around. A couple of policemen stood at the entrance, trading stories. No matter. She was beyond help now, even the kind of help Frankie could offer. She thought back to that fall afternoon on the blanket in the woods. As much as she regretted her actions, it suddenly occurred to her that George never really loved her. Not even at the beginning. Frankie was her protector, always Frankie. If only she could have fallen for him.

  Enough if only’s. They never got a person anywhere, and besides, she needed to give her full attention to the Mayfair.

  Just as she turned back, Dr. Peters entered the hotel.

  Lily got out of the car and trailed behind the doctor. She watched as he lumbered across the lobby and entered the elevator. The operator asked him for his floor, but she couldn’t hear the answer. As soon as the doors closed, she stepped forward to watch the brass arrow sweeping across the numbers. It stopped on 3. She
took the stairs, and arrived on the third floor just as Dr. Peters turned the key and entered his room. She pressed herself against the wall to find her breath. Dear Lord, she started, but when couldn’t think what to ask for, she abandoned the prayer. It took Lily another couple of minutes to gather her courage, and then she knocked at room 315.

  “The door’s unlocked,” Dr. Peters called out. “Money’s on the bed.” His back was to Lily as he poured himself a drink. “Catherine promised me her best girl.” He wore only an undershirt and trousers with a pair of suspenders. “Would you like a snort?” he asked, and turned. Lily noticed that his fly was open. “I beg your pardon,” he said, grabbing his shirt from the bed. “I was expecting . . .” He paused and turned his back to fasten his pants. “May I help you?”

  Lily remained in the doorway, waiting for him to face her again, wondering what she would say.

  “You’re the woman from the lecture,” he finally said when he’d finished dressing. “Please, excuse my appearance. I was just going to retire for a bit.” He motioned for Lily to take a seat but she stayed standing. “Is there something I can help you with? A donation for your ladies’ group?” He picked the five-dollar bill off the bed and offered it to her.

  “I don’t want your money,” she said.

  His expression hardened. “Then what is it you want?” He sat down in a chair near the window and took a sip of his drink.

  “You don’t recognize me?”

  He tipped his head and squinted at the face before lingering over her body. “I’m afraid not.”

  A fist of boiling pain shot up from Lily’s stomach and landed in her throat. “You ruined my life,” she said, “and you don’t even know my name?”

  Dr. Peters stood up, squeezed past Lily, and shut the door. “I’m sorry, Miss . . .” He waited for her to offer a name.

  “Mrs. Mrs. Sherman.”

  “And exactly how did I ruin your life, Mrs. Sherman?”

  “Five years ago. The Good Shepherd.”

  “Ah.” He smirked. “I’ll need more to go on than that. Lots of girls passed through those doors. In any case,” he pulled at the skirt of her dress and fingered the fabric, “your situation seems to have improved.” He walked over to the bed but remained standing. “I’m surprised. That rarely happens. Were you a Sherman back then?”

  “Morgan,” she said. “Lily Morgan.”

  He pinched his forehead, seemingly on the verge of something. “You brought that sister of yours with you. Of course. An unusual arrangement. How could I forget?”

  “Is it true?”

  He laughed. “When I think about it now, it was rather reckless of me, with her always hovering. It’s a wonder I didn’t get caught.”

  Lily unclasped the buckle on the front of her purse and slid her right hand inside. The gun’s metal barrel was cool and refreshing to her touch. She cradled the wooden handle in her palm and looped her index finger onto the trigger. “So it’s true.”

  “Honestly, I wasn’t sure that particular method would be effective. It’s still somewhat experimental.” He eyed Lily. “But you’re here. That tells me what I need to know.”

  “Who are you to play God?”

  Dr. Peters laughed. “Come now. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s nothing. Such a small procedure, really. And no one’s the wiser. Well,” he said, stroking his beard, “almost no one.”

  “I’ll have you arrested.”

  “An interesting choice. And legally, you have every right. But tell me, Mrs. Sherman, does Mr. Sherman know you gave birth to a bastard?”

  “Say one more word about my daughter and I’ll kill you.” Lily pulled the pistol out of her purse and pointed it at the doctor. She cupped her left hand under her right for a steadier aim.

  “People rarely surprise me, Mrs. Sherman, but you,” he took a step back and raised his hands, “twice in one day.”

  “Do you really think you can get away with it?” Lily’s hands started to shake.

  “Truthfully, yes.” He lowered his arms and smiled.

  Tears ran down Lily’s face but the gun remained fixed on her target. “You monster.”

  “Blame me if you must,” he took a step forward, holding his arms out as if to comfort her, “but if you’d remained pure—” Dr. Peters lunged forward, pulled the pistol from Lily’s hand, and tossed it on the floor.

  She tried to run, but he grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the bed, facedown. He yanked up the skirt of her dress and held her in place with his knee. “Stupid slut,” he snarled as he unbuttoned his pants. Lily bucked up, trying to throw him off, but the weight of him proved too much. “Still think you can kill me?”

  Behind them, a shot rang out, and Dr. Peters collapsed on top of her.

  “Try to roll him off,” a woman urged. “I’ll pull.”

  A moment later, Lily broke free.

  Muriel Hartwell stood over her with George’s pistol in her hand.

  Chapter twenty-nine

  LILY FOLLOWED MURIEL DOWN A STAIRCASE at the end of the hallway that led out to an alley behind the Mayfair’s laundry room. A last bit of sun clung to the rooftops before letting go to make room for the dark. How long had she been gone? Lily wondered. She and Muriel pressed into the shadows as a paperboy walked by, his bag bulging with the evening edition. It couldn’t be much past five o’clock. Two hours. That’s all it had taken for the most unimaginable combination of people and events to destroy her life—and save her, she thought as she glanced at Muriel Hartwell.

  “You can’t be seen with me,” Muriel said, watching for the alley to clear. “Cops’ll be here any minute.” Lily shuddered, as if throwing off the weight of the man who lay dead in a room three floors above them. She took Muriel’s hand and pulled her toward the street. “I know someone who can help,” she said, blending in with the passersby as they crossed over to the Electric City Lunch.

  * * *

  The tabletop cigarette lighter on Frankie’s desk was shiny, solid, its smooth surface an untroubled lake. For a moment, Lily lost herself in the lamplight reflected along the gold-plated side. Whatever nerve had prompted her to seek out Frankie had slipped away. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said after she’d filled him in on the main details—from the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum to Dr. Peters’s death. She curled her legs up onto the club chair and shivered.

  Frankie bent down and lifted her chin. “You did the right thing.” He turned and looked at Muriel, who had posted herself near the window. “You’re one of Catherine’s girls.”

  Muriel nodded and lifted a slat in the blinds. Across the street, two officers dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post in front of the hotel. A beat cop guarded the main entrance as a black police car made its way through the crowd toward the scene.

  “Can you take care of this?” Muriel pulled the pistol from inside her blouse and passed it to Frankie.

  Lily looked at the gun. She turned her right palm up and tried to remember the heft of it, how powerful it had made her feel. But that strength was gone now—like everything else. “It’s George’s,” she said.

  “Not anymore,” Muriel said.

  Frankie set the gun on the desk. “First,” he turned to Muriel as he walked to a safe in the corner of the room and opened the heavy door, “we have to get you out of town.” He reached inside, retrieved a string-tied bundle of cash, and shuffled through it with his thumb. “Did anybody see you?”

  “No,” Muriel said.

  They both looked at Lily, but she gave no indication of whether or not she’d been seen going into the hotel.

  Frankie passed the money to Muriel. “Just to be safe, Gino is going to drive you to the train station in Reading. Too many cops here.” He glanced at the window but resisted the urge to peek through. “You have more than enough dough to get you to Florida. Set yourself up in a little apartment. All the oranges you can eat.” He tried for a smile.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Muriel said.

 
; “Consider it payment for a job well done.” Frankie glanced at Lily. “I just wish I’d pulled that trigger myself.”

  Muriel finally tucked the bills inside the waistband of her skirt. Gino appeared in the doorway, his stained apron stretched across his stomach. “Car’s ready out back, boss.”

  Muriel gave Lily a light hug. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said.

  Lily reached into her purse, pulled out the cash she had in a pouch, and folded it into Muriel’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.

  Muriel looked at Frankie. “Take good care of her,” she said, and walked out of the office.

  “I will.” Frankie’s half-smile slipped from his face. “Muriel,” he called out when she was halfway across the gambling parlor, “how long ago were you and Lily at the Good Shepherd?”

  “More than five years, now,” Muriel answered, flattening her palms against her belly.

  Frankie turned back to Lily, confusion registering on his face. “Did you have a baby?”

  “Violet has a baby.” Lily leaned forward and pressed the square button on the side of the lighter. The top slid open, igniting the wick. “I don’t have babies,” Lily said, running her finger back and forth through the flame. “Not anymore.”

  Frankie pushed the lighter back, the kind of automatic gesture used around children. He knelt down and took her in his arms just as she broke into sobs.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Frankie lowered Lily onto a bed in the room adjacent to his office. Her trembling body sank into the mattress. He grabbed a feathered quilt from a caned chair, draped it over her, and poured them both a generous drink from a bottle of whiskey on the night table. “Here,” he said, lifting her head and holding the glass to her lips.

  Now that Lily’s crying had subsided, she took a good sip. When the whiskey burned its way through her, she pushed herself up and leaned against the oak headboard. Without meeting Frankie’s eyes, she said, “I had a baby. We had a baby. A girl.”