All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “I have a daughter?”

  “No,” she said, her tone somehow apologetic and emphatic at the same time. “Violet has a daughter. That won’t change.”

  “Just as well,” he said, pulling the chair toward her and dropping into it. “This is no life for a child.”

  They sat without speaking for several minutes, only the buzz from a dangling lightbulb disturbing the silence.

  “The husband,” he said at last, “is he a good man?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he makes a decent living? She shouldn’t want for anything.”

  “She’ll never want for love.”

  Frankie leaned forward and took Lily’s hand in both of his. “And what about you? Do you want for love?”

  She pulled her hand back and began to pick at a knotted piece of yarn on the quilt. Her fingers were still too shaky to take hold of it. “Is he really dead?”

  “Who? Oh, yes. He can’t hurt anyone now.”

  Tears welled up in Lily’s eyes. “I never knew it would be my only chance.”

  “At what?”

  “I didn’t even know enough to grieve.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “He took everything away from me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  Frankie looked at Lily and smiled. “I remember holding you in my arms after the hayride. I think of that day often.” After a lengthy pause, he found his courage: “Do you?”

  “No.”

  Silence filled the widening gap between them.

  “George is probably looking for you by now,” Frankie finally said, standing up to leave. “He must be worried.”

  Lily closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she said, “I don’t like to think about those days. I was in such a hurry to grow up, and now, look at the mess I’ve made. What I wouldn’t give to go back and do it all differently.”

  “We can’t change the past.” Frankie sat down on the side of the bed and pushed wisps of hair off Lily’s face. “But we can do something about the future.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “George doesn’t deserve someone as beautiful as you.”

  “George doesn’t even know I’m alive.” Lily reached for her whiskey and drank it down.

  “Leave him.” Frankie kissed her on the lips this time. “I have money. As much as George Sherman. Maybe more. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  “I want a baby,” she said, finishing the whiskey in Frankie’s glass.

  “We don’t need babies.” He pulled Lily into his arms and whispered in her ear, “Just each other.”

  “People would talk,” Lily said, curling into Frankie’s embrace, allowing him to bear her weight.

  “Let them.” He dropped down on the bed, pulling her with him, and kissed her again, lingering this time. “I don’t give a damn.”

  “I do.”

  “I know,” Frankie said, the flush of color draining from his face.

  A minute of silence passed, and then Lily kissed Frankie’s cheek. “Take me away, Frankie. Far away.”

  “Sure. Where to?” He ran his finger along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. “Coney Island? Atlantic City?”

  “I mean for good, Frankie. There’s nothing left for me here.”

  “For good?” He looked at her in his arms and saw the tears starting again. “Sure,” he said. “Anything you want.” His face lit up. “I have an uncle in California. Says it’s different out there. Everyone has a past and no one asks questions.” He kissed her neck, unbuttoned the top of her dress, and slipped his hand inside. “I’d have to work my way up again,” his voice became a whisper, “but with you in my arms, I can do anything.” He pulled her dress up past her gartered thigh. “Anything to make you happy.”

  Lily stared at the ceiling, neither resisting nor engaging Frankie’s advances. “I’ll never be happy again.”

  “Sure you will.” This time he didn’t notice the tears as he thumbed the flesh at the top of her thigh where the stocking ended. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I can’t go, Frankie.” Lily shook her head and pushed him away. “I can’t go. I need to be close to Daisy.”

  “Then we’ll take her with us,” Frankie said. “Whatever you want. We’ll even get married.”

  Lily froze, as much from the horror of the idea as the possibility. Her tears stopped flowing and for an instant she forgot to breathe. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to Violet.”

  “She’s your kid. Your sister knows that.” He kissed her again, slid his hand back inside the dress, and caressed her breast.

  Lily tried to object but the words refused to pass her lips.

  Who may and may not marry

  “[T]he only way to guard the race against pollution with feebleminded stock is either to segregate or to sterilize them. Society could have no objection against the feebleminded marrying or indulging in sexual relations, provided it could be assured that they will not bring any feebleminded stock into the world.”

  —Woman: Her Sex and Love Life,

  William J. Robinson, MD, 1929

  Last Sunday’s luncheon went off without a hitch. Roast pork, cranberry sauce, root vegetables, and apple pie. We like to send the men off on the “every member canvass” with full stomachs as a thank you for their efforts. Visiting every congregant on the rolls in a week’s time is hard work, but we need to collect those pledge cards so we know what we can count on for expenses and benevolences in the coming year.

  The committee will give its report during next week’s service. Of course, with so much belt tightening, we may fall short, but no sense dwelling on that. Folks can’t give what they don’t have. And one way or another, the Lord always provides.

  Take those miners from the Von Storch Colliery. We thought they were out of work for sure, but all sixty men have been reinstated thanks to Stanley Adamski. And we’re happy for them, though with so many owners cutting back, we can’t help wondering how long those jobs will last. Now there’s talk of layoffs at the Sherman Mine. Such a shame. And hard to understand, given that people will always need coal. Still, we’re happy Stanley won his case. Now if he’d only stop his drinking.

  Chapter thirty

  STIFF SLICES OF TWO-DAY-OLD BREAD LANDED among the dried biscuits, broken crackers, and cast-off crusts from Daisy’s lunches. Violet plunged her hands into the bowl and worked its contents between her palms. With Christmas only five weeks out, she was already behind on her plum puddings. Adequate aging took a good two months, but she’d make do. The accident had put her behind this year. Even now, it hurt to breathe when she exerted herself. “Another couple of weeks,” Doc Rodham had said, but at least he’d given her permission to remove the binder. It made moving easier, she thought, as she combed through the crumbs for errant chunks. Finding none, she set the dish aside.

  A gray sky broke above the slag horizon—another biting November morning. Violet pushed the kitchen window’s curtain down the length of the rod, so she could easily look up from her task and judge the time of day. Mother Davies and Daisy would be asleep for another two hours, giving Violet enough time to ready her ingredients. She’d hold off on the final mixing, so they could each take a turn at making a wish while stirring the batter, but that meant she’d be steaming her puddings well past noon. Her previous day’s trip into town had put her behind on chores, but once she’d gotten over the shock of seeing Muriel in Stanley’s arms, the outing had turned out to be a blessing.

  She’d finally realized she’d fallen in love with Tommy. Violet’s cheeks flushed as if he were standing before her, listening to her say those words for the first time all over again. “I love you.”

  She walked over to the cupboard. Flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. She measured and sifted each ingredient into a second, much larger bowl.

  Recognizing her feelings had turned out to be the easy part. Telling him about them, saying those three simple words, took all of her ne
rve. The memory raised bumps on her forearms. She’d stood alongside the bed, wearing that nightgown again. Aware of her modesty, Tommy had reached to turn out the light, but Violet took his hand. She’d wanted him to see her face.

  Now Violet picked up a butter knife and slipped it into the jar of dates, coaxing the sticky skins away from the glass. She turned the container upside down and thumped its bottom with the heel of her hand. The clumped fruit belched into a waiting colander.

  It shouldn’t have been so difficult. He was her husband, after all, the man she’d promised to love, honor, and cherish. Only she hadn’t loved him then. Not the way a bride was supposed to love her groom. There were things she’d loved about him. He was a man of integrity like her father. Someone who lived the best parts of his faith—compassion, generosity, forgiveness. And, of course, he loved Daisy. And could protect her. Though Violet was ashamed to admit it, once Lily had married George, Violet lived in fear he’d find out about Daisy and try to claim her. Daisy needed a protector, and Violet could think of no one better than Tommy Davies.

  At the sink, she rinsed the dates and peeled them apart with her fingers. The walnuts came next. Tommy had cracked every one and scooped out their meats the previous night, to lighten her load. She tossed them into a sack, tied it off, and ran her rolling pin over it to break the nuts into pieces.

  When she’d finally said the words, he pulled her into his arms and whispered, “I’ve always loved you.” Standing in the kitchen now, she shivered all over again at the memory.

  She clamped the meat grinder to the table and fed strips of suet into its mouth. Each crank of the handle sucked the slices into the hopper, past the blades, and through the plate. Once the fat had been ground, she added the dates, nuts, and bread crumbs to the bowl and stirred them through. The baking soda and buttermilk still had to be added to make a batter, but she’d wait until the others woke up. She washed the few dishes she’d dirtied, and made herself some tea.

  As she stood at the stove, Violet couldn’t help but think about last night. How she’d craved her husband’s touch, the gentle touch he’d come to understand would bring her pleasure.

  Go and be happy—her father’s words. She’d finally done just that.

  The sun sat up higher in the sky, as if trying for a better impression. Maybe the frost would burn off after all. Violet put her cup on the table and pulled out a chair. A pair of shoe-button eyes stared up at her from the caned seat. Queenie. How had Daisy gone to sleep the night before without her? Noticing a torn ear, Violet set the elephant on the table and went in search of her sewing basket.

  When she returned, she found Lily sitting at the table.

  “What’s wrong?” Violet grabbed the back of a chair for balance. “Is it Father?”

  Lily mumbled her words into a handkerchief: “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Is it George?” Violet sat down across from Lily and lowered her voice. “Does he know about Daisy?” All the air emptied from her lungs, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

  “What?” Lily screwed up her eyes and shook her head. “He’s dead.”

  Violet’s hand flew to her chest. “George?”

  “Dr. Peters.”

  It took a moment for confusion to overtake Violet’s fear. “Dr. Peters?” She scanned the kitchen, making sure they were still alone. “From the Good Shepherd?”

  Lily’s hands started to tremble; she picked up the elephant to steady them. “I was there—in his room.”

  “What room? Where?” Violet eyed her sister and noticed her rumpled dress, the mussed hair. “What happened to you?”

  Like a churning river after a sudden thaw, Lily’s story spewed forth in a flood of anger and heartache. The Century Club. Sterilization. The Mayfair. George’s gun. Muriel’s arrival. Swelling, spilling, surging out of her. All of it.

  Everything except Frankie.

  “What about George?” Violet asked when Lily’s sobs faded into whimpers.

  “I haven’t been home.” Lily tucked Queenie under her arm, went to the sink, and washed her face.

  “I don’t understand,” was all Violet managed to say before Daisy pounded down the steps and into the kitchen. “Where did you find her?” she squealed as she pulled Queenie from Lily’s hold.

  Lily dried her face, turned around, and stretched out her arms. “There’s my girl.”

  “I thought I lost her for good this time.” Daisy squeezed her elephant with one hand and her aunt’s neck with the other.

  Violet put her finger to her lips in an effort to quiet the child. “Grandma Davies,” she whispered.

  “Wide awake,” Mother Davies called out from upstairs. “I’ll be down as soon as I’m decent.”

  “Show Aunt Lily what a big girl you are,” Violet said, “and get yourself dressed while I make breakfast.”

  “Are you here to stir the pudding?” Daisy surveyed all the ingredients on the table.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Lily said.

  “Good.” Daisy gave her aunt another hug and headed for the stairs.

  “There’s more to this story,” Violet said when the two women were alone again. “What aren’t you telling me?” She stood up, grabbed the kettle off the stove, and started to fill it at the sink.

  Lily said nothing.

  “Have you talked to the police?” She struck a match and lit the burner. “What are you going to say to George?”

  Mother Davies started down the stairs. “Company at this hour?”

  “Lily came by to stir the pudding.” Violet put on a smile and looked through to the parlor at her mother-in-law.

  “Not Lily.” Mother Davies pointed to the front door just as someone started knocking. “Mrs. Lankowski,” she said as she opened the door. “You’ll catch your death of cold out there.”

  The widow stepped inside, her face ashen in spite of the frigid air.

  “What’s wrong?” Violet asked, glancing back and forth between the widow and Lily.

  “It’s Stanley,” the widow said. “He’s been arrested for murder.”

  Chapter thirty-one

  THE WIDOW PERCHED HERSELF at the edge of a high-backed chair offered to her by Tommy’s mother. “Warm yourself,” Mother Davies said, rubbing her hands together before the Heatrola, as if demonstrating how to get started.

  The widow ignored the advice and turned to Violet. “Stanley’s in trouble.” Her voice broke. “They took him away this morning. Dragged him to the police station like a common thief. Said he killed a man. A Dr. Peters from Philadelphia. Can you imagine? He has his faults, my Stanley, but he’s not a murderer.”

  Violet gasped. How had Stanley gotten caught up in Lily’s mess? Violet cast a glance toward her sister who stood on the other side of the doorframe between the kitchen and the parlor, her head cocked to better hear the conversation. Violet turned back to the widow. “Tell me everything.”

  “Myrtle Evans dialed me up not half an hour ago,” the widow said.

  “Myrtle Evans?” Mother Davies patted the widow’s leg. “And you believed her? I wouldn’t give a plug nickel for anything that passed through that woman’s lips.”

  “Neither would I,” the widow said, “which is why I called police headquarters as soon as I hung up.”

  “And?” Violet’s question sounded high-pitched to her own ear.

  “He’s down there now. And Lord knows what they’re doing to him while we’re sitting here.” The widow pushed herself up, pulled a babushka out of her pocket, and tied it around her head. “I need you, Violet. Stanley needs you.”

  “I’m not sure what help she’ll be at a police station.” Mother Davies nodded toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Daisy’s feet pattered over their heads. “And besides,” she said to Violet, “you’re needed here.”

  “Wait.” Violet clasped her hands together and faced the widow. “Just give me a minute,” she said and walked into the kitchen.

  “You can’t go with her.”
Lily’s words may have been whispered, but that did not dilute the gravity of her message.

  Violet pulled her sister into the farthest corner of the room. “How’d Stanley get involved in this?” she fired back, her voice hushed as well.

  “I mean it. You’ll ruin everything.”

  “He’s trying to spare Muriel. Is that it? Does he know what she did?”

  “Frankie said to stay away from this mess.” Lily paused for a moment to get the wording right. “Not to incriminate myself,” she said at last.

  “Stanley shouldn’t have to pay for . . .” Bafflement twisted Violet’s expression. “Frankie? Frankie who?”

  Lily immediately realized her mistake. Since she couldn’t take back what she’d said, she lifted her chin and dressed her response in bravado. “Never you mind. I don’t have to answer to you or anyone else for that matter.” She tried to push past her sister, but Violet refused to budge.

  “Little Frankie? He’s bad news, Lily. Tell me you’re not tied up with him.”

  From the other room, the widow called out, “I have to go.”

  Violet raised her finger and pointed it in Lily’s face. She looked toward the parlor. “Coming!” Turning back to Lily she said, “Tell me.”

  “I’m not tied up with him.” Lily dropped into a seat at the table and folded her arms across her chest. “Just forget it.”

  “Stay here till I get back,” Violet said. “Do you hear me?”

  Lily shrugged.

  “And watch after Daisy.”

  “No.” Lily shook her head rapidly. “I can’t.” Tears filled her eyes. “I shouldn’t be alone with her.” She paused for a moment as if searching for a reason. “My nerves. It’s all I can do not to run into the street screaming.”

  Violet kissed the top of Lily’s head. “Then take her next door. Mother can watch her. And she can keep an eye on you too.”

  Lily nodded but said nothing.

  Violet walked back into the parlor and grabbed her coat from the closet. “I have to go,” she said to Mother Davies, “Stanley needs me.” And then she added as much for herself as for her mother-in-law, “He’s a brother to me. Tommy will understand.”