“If you won’t be needing anything else . . .” Violet said, as she set the cup and saucer on the table next to her mother’s bed.
“Watch!” Grace snapped, snatching a framed photograph, the one taken of Daisy and her friends on the day disaster struck. In the picture, Daisy stood on the far end of the second row, her long hair pulled up in a bow, her white baptism dress illuminated by the sun. While the other six girls stared straight into the camera, Daisy glanced beyond it, her mind seemingly running ahead, her body leaning out, poised to follow. Grace pored over the smile, the laughing eyes. You couldn’t know, my pet, what the day would bring. Of course not, she thought with some relief. She studied the other girls—Flo, Ruth, Marion in the first row, Janie and Susie in the second. No signs, no indications of what was to come. And then, as impossible as it seemed after two months, Grace noticed Violet for the first time. Somehow she’d managed to squeeze into the photograph. Her closed right hand covered most of her mouth; her left clung to the skirt of Daisy’s dress. Violet had been worried about spoiling the picture. She knew she didn’t belong.
“I best be on my way,” Violet said uncertainly. In that instant, the sour smell of vomit reached her nose and choked her. “Been sick again this morning, I see.” Violet held her breath, walked over to the chamber pot, and lifted the container with both hands. Emptying it would delay her another five minutes.
When she finally got out the door, Violet found Stanley waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, holding two fishing poles.
“Ever play hooky?”
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE TIME THEY GOT TO LEGGETT’S CREEK, one of the better fishing spots in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, and cast their lines, Violet had discovered that Stanley was anything but stupid. He could do numbers in his head, even his times tables up to eight. He could name at least forty of the forty-eight states, including Arizona and New Mexico, which had only been added the year before in 1912. And he could call birds better than the birds themselves.
“Shush,” Stanley said. “Hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That blue jay,” Stanley whispered as he pointed across the creek toward a thick line of hemlocks.
“I can’t see anything.” Violet stood up and stretched on her toes to see what Stanley saw.
“Listen.”
Violet sat down, closed her eyes, and focused on the bird’s triple-noted whistle, a high-pitched twee-dle-dee, twee-dle-dee, like the old nursery rhyme. The song repeated several times, and then a nearby blue jay, too near for Violet’s comfort, returned the call. Violet leaped up with arms flailing in an attempt to shoo the bird. She’d heard from her neighbor Tommy Davies that blue jays would peck a soul to death. No need to take chances.
Stanley sat at the edge of the creek, doubled over in laughter. “That was me, you silly goose.” He blew into his cupped hands, and the bird sang again. He straightened right up when he saw Violet’s red face. “Aw, come on. I’ll teach you if you like.”
Violet stood, arms folded, mouth turned down, until Stanley had apologized half a dozen times. She thought six an adequate number of “I’m sorrys,” especially since she really did want to learn how to call birds.
“We’ll start with the sparrow. He’s an easy one. Think of your mother when you’ve let her down.”
Violet’s eyes flashed with tears.
“Or a teacher when you’ve made her real mad,” he added quickly. “That’s a better one.” He raced on: “You know, when she makes that tsk, tsk sound with her tongue on the roof of her mouth.” He fired off a series of eight or twelve trilled tsks, too quick to be counted.
Much to Violet’s surprise, a sparrow immediately returned the song. “How’d you learn to call so good?”
“Mama. She had what Pa calls a gift.”
Had. Violet paused to digest so small a word.
“Rheumatic fever,” Stanley added, in answer to her unasked question. “It’ll be a year next month.”
So that explained it, Violet thought. No mother to make him go to school. She glanced at Stanley’s dirty face and clothes. No mother to make him wash behind his ears or change his britches. She pulled in her line, rethreaded the half-dead worm on the hook, and cast back into the water.
“You’re not doing it right,” Stanley said, flinging his line out twice as far as hers. “It’s in the wrist.”
“Who made you boss?”
“I’m older,” he said. “Been fishing longer.” The tip of his pole bent toward the creek. “See?” He smiled broadly as a mud-colored sucker with a hook in its cheek broke the surface of the water. “Biggest one yet.”
“Sing in the morning,” Violet warned, “cry at night.”
“How’s that?” Stanley asked, just as the line snapped. They both watched wide-eyed as the sucker disappeared downstream.
“Don’t count your fishes until they’re caught.” She stifled a giggle before handing him her pole to share.
* * *
“You’re going to catch hell when you get home,” Stanley said as they admired two suckers and a chub strung by the mouth and gills on a piece of rope.
Violet knew truth when she heard it, and marveled at Stanley’s ability to express it so effectively. Not only had she skipped a whole afternoon of school, but she’d skipped a whole afternoon on the first day of third grade.
On their way home, they tried to think of an excuse, not that Stanley had any particular need for one, but he wanted to help Violet, especially since fishing was his idea in the first place.
“You best take them all home,” Violet said, eyeing the chub she’d caught not an hour before. “If I walk in the house with a fish,” she paused to consider her words, “I’ll catch hell.”
* * *
Grace plodded into the kitchen, clamped the meat grinder onto one end of the table, and started in on a supper of ffagod, Owen’s favorite Welsh dish. She minced the pig’s liver and onions before folding them into a bowl of suet and breadcrumbs, seasoned with a light hand. It had been weeks since Grace felt well enough to tend to a meal, and she hoped Owen would notice her effort. After flouring her hands, she started rolling the mixture into egg-sized portions. Not having added any coal to the stove since morning, Grace looked over at the bucket alongside it. Three-quarters full, more than enough to keep the oven going.
She pulled her eyes straight back, ignoring the lightly bruised wall where a few of the blueberries had landed that day. Ignoring the purple pinpricks that would inevitably bleed through this latest coat of paint. Not today. Not now.
Not again.
July 4, 1913. Just two months ago.
Grace had been so happy, full of hope for the first time since she’d buried Rose nine months earlier. Daisy would be baptized that morning. Since baptism could only be performed after a profession of faith, the elders saw fit to limit the practice to those nine years and older. With the girls only eleven months apart, they probably would have accepted Violet’s profession of faith as well, but Grace thought it best for each girl to have her own special day.
Grace had even put on the new straw bonnet that her sister Hattie had ordered from Montgomery Ward’s summer catalog. She’d never worn so fancy a thing before. A band of moss-green silk circled the bell-shaped crown. A single quill shot out from three crimped rosettes, nestled in the seam of the brim. Topped with such beauty, Grace dared to walk a little taller that morning, not in a prideful way, not that she could see, just a little taller.
But Myrtle Evans had to have her say even before the service started. “A bit fussy for the Lord’s house. Some might even say improper.”
“Jesus must have liked fine things,” Grace replied with a smile. “The Bible tells us they cast lots for His garments.”
After church, Grace stomped through her kitchen, yanking flour off the shelf, slamming lard onto the table. Although Myrtle’s remark had irritated her, the fact that she took satisfaction in her own response bothered her even more. �
�Lord, I know full well that pride goeth before a fall,” Grace said aloud, working the lard into the flour with a sprinkle of cold water. “I’m heartily sorry for my sinful ways. Amen.”
She’d decided to make a huckleberry pie for Daisy. Why not indulge her? After all, it was her baptism day, and later they’d be going to the Providence Christian Church’s annual picnic, one of the rare days the mines shut down in Scranton.
She looked up to see Daisy stroll into the kitchen. She twirled once, the air opening the pleats on her store-bought dress, a one-time indulgence.
“When did you become old enough to be taken into the church?” Grace’s eyes locked on her daughter. “So grown up. My pet. Be marrying you off before we know.” She pushed a colander of huckleberries in Daisy’s direction.
“Never,” Daisy laughed. “Though I expect I’ll be promoted to the Junior Choir, seeing I’m a member now.” She picked through the berries, tossing the green and the spoiled into a bowl.
“More than likely.” Grace dropped the ball of dough into the bowl to rest and turned to adjust the damper on the stove.
Daisy began singing. “I come to the garden alone . . .”
“My favorite,” Grace said. “Get Violet to play the piano. I love to hear both my girls.”
Daisy stood up, took two steps toward the parlor, and called, “Vi-o-let!”
“If I’d wanted someone to stand in my kitchen and yell, I’d have done so myself.”
Daisy moved into the parlor and turned down the hall of their one-story house toward the bedrooms, Grace and Owen’s on the left, the girls’ on the right.
Grace picked up an empty milk bottle and began to roll out the crust. Two things she knew how to handle, piecrust and babies. And babies. She shook off the thought before it had a chance to take hold. “Lord, I’m grateful for the ones you let me keep. Amen.”
Two pairs of feet marched back into the kitchen, but Daisy pushed through the doorway first. “Tell Violet to listen to me.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Grace stirred the berries into a bath of butter and cinnamon sugar and poured the mixture into the pie shell.
“Daisy is telling me what to do again.” Uneven bangs framed Violet’s angry brown eyes, the cropped hair a reminder of a lice incident earlier in the summer.
“I’ll not have bickering today of all days.” Grace bore three finger holes in the middle of a second crust, lifted it on top of the pie, and pinched the two shells shut with thumbs and forefingers. “And you,” Grace nodded toward Daisy as her elbow landed in her sister’s side. “What kind of example are you setting?”
Daisy dropped her arm and stared at the floor. Grace lifted the pie and stepped toward the oven. She looked back briefly to see if the girls were behaving and caught sight of Violet shoving her hip into her sister’s side. Daisy teetered, and for a split-second, Grace thought Daisy might grab hold of the table and save herself. They both locked eyes as Daisy missed her chance, knocking into Grace and tumbling to the floor with her mother and the pie.
“Owen!” Grace yelled loud enough to be heard out on their front porch, and the front porches of the neighbors on both sides. “Take hold of your girls before I get my hands on them.”
* * *
Grace lined the ffagod on a plate wondering how she could have been so angry over a pie. If only I’d been more patient that day. If only I hadn’t taken Myrtle’s comments to heart. If only I’d worn my cloth hat to church. Sobbing, she wiped her hands on her apron and went back to her bedroom.
* * *
After fishing all afternoon with Stanley, Violet arrived home late to find uncooked ffagod on the table and her mother in bed. She wanted to feel relieved about the lies she wouldn’t have to tell, the day she wouldn’t have to explain, but fear kept tugging on her sleeve. She wondered about her father and the late hour, then set her attention to finishing supper.
CHAPTER FOUR
OWEN PUSHED TWO EMPTY GLASSES TOWARD THE BARKEEP. “Shot and a beer.”
“Ain’t nothing sold on credit.”
Owen reached into his pocket for a few more coins, found a greenback instead, and handed it over. He knew better than to stop at Burke’s Gin Mill on his way home from work, but he couldn’t help himself. A few men standing around a bar, each with one foot resting on the rail and the other planted on the sawdust-covered floor, made for a peaceful moment.
The door squeaked open behind him, and he turned to see Joey Lewis and his brother Bobby, both timbermen down at the Sherman Mine, regulars at the beer garden. He waved, turned toward the bar, and threw back his whiskey.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you was a teetotaler,” Joey said, slapping Owen on the back. “What are you drinking?”
Owen held up his hand. “This here’s my last.” He drained the beer, pocketed his change, and turned to leave. “Need to look in on Grace. And see about Violet’s first day.”
Joey and Bobby nodded solemnly. They were neglecting wives and children of their own. “One more,” Joey said, pulling out a handful of nickels.
Owen hesitated. The men were decent enough company, but he didn’t go to Burke’s for company.
“For the motherland,” Bobby added, and he started in on the first verse of “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau,” “Land of Our Fathers.”
Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri . . .
Joey and Owen couldn’t help but join in.
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mâd,
Tros ryddid gollasant eu gwaed.
Four whiskeys later, they started their national anthem again, this time in English.
The land of my fathers, the land of my choice,
The land in which poets and minstrels rejoice;
The land whose stern warriors were true to the core,
While bleeding for freedom of yore.
The three men raised their glasses, “Iechyd da, for our beloved Wales,” putting Owen in mind of the last time he’d seen home.
Sixteen years earlier, his mam had packed the family Bible in his suitcase. “Always remember,” she had said, “sin will keep you from the Bible, but the Bible will keep you from sin.” Owen kissed her and headed for the train station with a leaflet in his pocket promising, High wages for skilled miners. He took one last look at his hometown of Aberdare, with its winding dirt roads and rolling green hills, and set off for New York by way of Liverpool. During the crossing, he met Graham Davies from the town of Flint in the northeast corner of Wales, and the two became fast friends. Once in New York, Owen and Graham continued by rail to Scranton, Pennsylvania, where according to the advertisements, Anthracite Is King. They were confident they’d find jobs in the coal mines.
The first year, they worked out of the Marvine Mine in the Hunky Patch, a Scranton neighborhood of mostly Poles, Lithuanians, and Hungarians. In late 1899, that operation shut down for a few months while the drillers went about finding new veins. Owen and Graham moved on to the Sherman Mine in the Providence section of the city, on the recommendation of Hattie Goodfellow, the widow who owned the boarding house. “Not one to take guff,” she said of the mine owner, “but he’s fair. No need to keep your eye on the scale,” she added, referring to the rumor that the Marvine superintendent underreported the weight of the miners’ coal cars, cheating them out of pay.
While prosperity seemed slow in finding them, Owen and Graham earned enough money to pay for their room and meals with a little left over to buy the beer that washed away the last of the coal dust at the end of the twelve-hour workday. Hattie overlooked the trips to the gin mill as long as her boarders didn’t try to carry drink onto the premises. Not known to take guff herself, the men obliged.
Of course, Owen’s drinking days had ended when he married Grace. “There’s no place for the demon alcohol in a Christian home,” she’d told him. As long as she promised to stay by his side, he would have agreed to any sacrifice.
* * *
“Anothe
r round,” Joey said as he flagged the barkeep.
“I’ve had my last pint, boys. I’m headed for home.” Owen staggered out the door well after one in the morning, wishing he had a full moon to light his way. Grace would be angry, and he couldn’t blame her. Nothing worse than a drunkard in her eyes. Thinking time might sober him up, he crossed Market Street and stared up at the redbrick church, anchoring the northwest corner of Providence Square. It featured twelve stained-glass windows and a white steeple that aspired toward heaven. Providence Christian Church, he thought, sitting down on the steps for a breather. The very place that had led him to Grace.
About two years after they’d arrived in Scranton, Owen and Graham took a stroll up to the square on the last Saturday in August. According to Hattie, it was Old Home Week, a time when residents past and present gathered to celebrate the founders of their neighborhood with parades; music; red, white, and blue buntings; and fireworks. American flags adorned porches and storefronts, and shop owners advertised their wares at special prices. Women sat at tables in front of their churches, selling a variety of foods; halupkies from the Poles, corned beef from the Irish, pickled herring and onions from the Jews—a taste of the old country, whichever one that might be.
As they approached the fair, Owen spied pice ar y maen, Welsh cakes, arranged three to a plate, and he smelled home for the first time since leaving Aberdare. For a moment, he remembered Mam working the lard and measuring the currants at the kitchen table. He said a silent prayer for her and meandered over to the Providence Christian Church’s table. Graham followed.
Owen froze at the sight of the two girls seated in front of him.
“May I help you?” asked the one on the left.
Owen simply stared at her, wishing he’d had a drink or two to loosen his tongue.
“Would you like to buy some Welsh cakes?” asked the one on the right. “A penny a piece, or three for two cents.” She smiled broadly, her teeth perfectly straight, her cheeks inexpertly rouged. Graham returned the smile. Owen remained transfixed on the first girl, with long brunette curls and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night Page 2