Violet grabbed Stanley by the collar and pulled him down behind a cracker barrel to the right of the china. She pointed and mouthed, “The widow.” Without a word between them, they agreed to wait the woman out.
“We Catholics are just as eager to meet Billy Sunday,” the widow Lankowski was explaining to Mrs. Murray. She straightened her fingers as far as her swollen knuckles would allow and raised her right hand. “God as my witness.”
Mrs. Murray nodded while she cut several yards of black muslin from a bolt on the table. “Glad to hear it,” she said, turning to wrap the fabric in a sheet of brown paper.
“We’re all God’s children, are we not?” the widow said.
“Ain’t that the truth.” Mrs. Murray cut a length of string, tied it around the package, and handed it to her customer. “That’ll be one dollar even.”
“And a bottle of Lydia Pinkum’s.”
Mrs. Murray motioned the widow to follow her to the right side of the store. “For what ails you,” she said, pointing to an assortment of bottles stacked on the shelves behind her, all promising to cure any number of female ailments.
“I’m fit as a fiddle,” the widow said. “An ounce of prevention is all.”
Mrs. Murray ran her finger across a ledge in search of the tonic. “There’s more in back. Just be a minute.”
The widow glanced around the store before turning to the counter, where she pulled out a small red book and pencil, and recorded her purchases.
Stanley saw his chance and yanked Violet left around the barrel. “Move,” he whispered, keeping hold of her hand. Both pairs of feet scurried toward the door, but their eyes remained fixed on the widow’s giant frame. As they reached the front of the store, Stanley finally breathed and smiled, “I thought we were in for it.”
The screen door yawned, the cowbell rang, and the children collided with Myrtle Evans just as she crossed the threshold.
“What in the world?” Myrtle placed a hand on the head of each child and pushed them backward into the store. “Mrs. Murray?” she shouted. “Come here this minute.”
“She’s in the storeroom,” the widow Lankowski called out, moving toward the entrance. She eyed the prey trying to wriggle free of Myrtle’s talon grip. “And what do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Probably trying to rob her blind,” Myrtle offered as she dug her nails in a little deeper. “Mrs. Murray?” she called again.
“Where are your manners?” the widow asked, looking at Violet and Stanley. “Apologize to Myrtle Evans.”
Violet willed her lips to move. “Sorry,” she managed a beat before Stanley. Their apologies overlapped like songs sung in rounds.
“Now if you’d waited for me at the counter like I told you, none of this would have happened.”
The children’s eyes sprang up and their mouths popped open as they pivoted toward the widow.
“They’re with you?” Myrtle asked, relaxing but not abandoning her hold.
“I asked the children if they wouldn’t mind helping me this afternoon. Gout’s acting up.”
“That so,” Myrtle said. “For someone who’s afflicted, you move real good.”
The widow allowed her left leg to slacken under her long skirt, as she leaned against a table of bed linens. “I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t think to ask their folks first. I’d be much obliged if we could keep this matter between us.” When Myrtle didn’t answer, the widow added, “We both know Grace doesn’t need bothering now.” She glanced in Stanley’s direction. “And who knows what his father would do. Beat the daylights out of him, I suppose.”
Stanley reared up, but Violet grabbed his wrist and squeezed.
Myrtle Evans said nothing, her lips pulled tight like a drawstring purse.
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you if that was your Evan I saw pushing over poor Mr. Bonser’s outhouse on Thursday night. Sure looked like him, but I couldn’t say for certain. Eyes are about as bad as my gout.” She stood up straight and waited.
“Apology accepted.” Myrtle dropped her hands to her sides. “Consider the matter forgotten. You’ll not hear a word about it from me.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Myrtle. The children and I are sure grateful.”
Mrs. Murray came back out, carrying a bottle of Lydia Pinkum’s. “One dollar and sixty-three cents, all together.”
The widow Lankowski paid Mrs. Murray, entered the price of the tonic in her red book, and handed the bottle to Violet and the muslin to Stanley. She said, “Good day,” as she ushered the two out through the screen door.
Dumbfounded, the children accompanied the widow in silence over and up to Spring Street. When they arrived at her back porch, she took both packages and held up a finger as a signal to wait. The pair exchanged glances, but stayed put. Stanley stared through the open door, as Violet nervously glanced around the yard. Her eyes settled on a statue of Jesus, similar in size to the one of Mary out front. Orange marigolds circled the stone savior, while gold and purple pansies flanked His outstretched arms.
A minute later, the widow returned to the door with an oatmeal cookie in each hand. “A little thank you for your time. I’m making molasses taffy Saturday night. Come around after church on Sunday.”
Both children nodded, still unable to speak.
The widow peered at Violet. “Remember me to your mother.” She turned her attention to Stanley. “If you’d like to accompany me to Mass this week, I’d be much obliged. Haven’t seen your father since long before your matka passed, God rest her soul, but that’s no reason for you to stay away. Eight o’clock. No later.”
“Yes ma’am,” Stanley managed as he backed down the steps.
Violet finally found her voice when they crossed over to her house. “I didn’t know you were a Catholic.”
“Neither did I.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
OWEN SAT IN FRONT OF BURKE’S, where he rented a furnished room by the week, balancing his beer-filled growler on one knee. He could see the pink edges of daybreak above the black culm banks as he watched for Tommy Davies. In the month since he’d left home, he’d started meeting the boy at the square, so they could walk to work together.
Owen had started carrying beer in his lunch pail, but only so he’d have something to drink at the end of his shift, when the pain became unbearable. He knew the mine held countless dangers and alcohol only added to them. No telling how a man might meet his end. Burned, suffocated, drowned, buried under tons of coal. Roof squeezes happened often enough. Sometimes a man miscalculated the number of pillars needed to support the ceiling in a gangway or chamber. Other times, a roof fell in spite of the properly spaced columns of coal. The odds of a squeeze always increased when their bosses ordered them to “rob the pillars” after a mine had been worked to its limit. Countless times, Owen had been sent to some back chamber to take as much coal from the pillars as possible. Like all the other miners, he knew the practice was illegal and could cause a collapse, but he also knew that speaking up would get him fired.
The stories of fallen miners always made several passes through town, offering information to satisfy each listener. The women usually focused on the tragic loss. He was someone’s husband, son, or brother. The miners pored over the grisly details. Was he intact? Did he have all his limbs? Was the face recognizable? That’s why they wore those round metal tags each time they stepped foot in a mine. Often, a man could only be identified by the number pressed into the center of the oversized coin.
Everyone who heard the stories listened for a mention of last words. Such remarks seemed to bring comfort to the listener. They suggested the miner had not died alone.
“Morning,” Tommy said as he crossed the street.
Owen nodded his greeting as he stood. “How’s everything next door? Grace still letting you fill the coal pails for her?”
“Yes sir.” Tommy studied his feet as he spoke. “Most days.”
Owen could hear discomfort in the boy’s voice. His moth
er, Louise, had surely sided with Grace, as well she should. She’d probably instructed her son not to answer any questions Owen might ask about his wife and daughter. Let him come home and find out for himself, he could hear her saying. Nonetheless, Tommy was his only connection to Grace at the moment, so he continued: “And you’re tending to the ashes?”
“As best I can. Don’t see her around much, though,” he added in anticipation of Owen’s next question, the same questions every day.
“And Violet?”
“Don’t see much of her, either. Probably inside with Mrs. Morgan,” he reasoned.
“I trust you’ll tell me if something needs doing around the place.”
“Yes sir.”
Owen decided not to press the boy further. The two turned the corner in silence and plodded toward the colliery.
Although men had been working this part of the Sherman for better than fifteen years, folks still referred to it as the “new mine.” Long before George Sherman was born, his father Oskar had opened a slope mine on the land. Men blasted and picked their way through eight chambers in about as many years before exhausting most of the resources. Engineers knew that rich veins of anthracite lay far below the mine’s floor, and by then, excavation methods had improved enough to get at them. Oskar Sherman had two choices: convert the existing mine into a vertical one with multiple underground levels, or dig a companion mine adjacent to the old one. Since the slope mine still had about a year’s worth of anthracite left in its walls, he instructed his engineers to blast alongside the existing operation. His decision proved to be a lucrative one. Between mining the walls and robbing the pillars, his men had enough work to see them through the colliery’s expansion, and they brought in enough money to pay for it.
Tommy stopped at the above-ground stable. “Be needing some salve for one of the mules. His harness keeps chafing.”
Owen nodded goodbye and continued on to the mine’s entrance.
A dozen men stepped into the cage and, after a signal of two whistles, were lowered into the mine to begin a twelve-hour shift. Owen pegged in with the fire boss where he received his assignment: continue driving the new gangway on the fourth level. After adjusting the flame in his lamp, he fingered for luck the numbers 1-9-4 on his metal tag and waited for the other men to pass by. Like every morning these days, Owen walked the rail alone, and remembered.
* * *
He knew he should have stepped inside the moment he heard the squabble in the kitchen, but he’d figured Grace could handle it this one time. After all, she seemed to be in better spirits lately, and a man deserved an hour of leisure now and again. Owen required no other holiday than a pipe, a copy of the Scranton Truth newspaper, and his rocker on the porch. Unlike most folks, he reveled in the scorching Fourth of July sun. He liked weather in all its forms. Hot, cold, rain, snow, no matter. Variety. Outdoors. Life. The coal mine was another story. Stagnant air, sunless hours, a constant temperature of fifty degrees. An underground womb stripped of its soul. Owen thought himself fortunate to have had daughters. The mine might support his children, but it would not claim them.
He stood up and called through the front door, “Everything all right in there?” Silence after a ruckus always alarmed him. Owen stepped into the kitchen and found Grace sprawled on the floor in a huckleberry puddle. He eyed each girl to determine the course of events. Daisy stood not two feet away, her white dress speckled in purple. Violet hung near the door.
“Now look what you’ve done,” he directed at Daisy for no other reason than proximity. He squatted down next to Grace, pushed errant wisps of hair in the direction of her bun, and lifted her off the floor. “And don’t think you’re excused,” he said to Violet. “This has your hand all over it. Moping all morning. Nothing more disappointing than a jealous child.”
“Hooligans, the pair of you.” Grace twisted the back of her long skirt around front to inspect the damage. “Ruined.”
“It’s her fault.” Daisy pointed at her sister. “She started it.”
“Not another word, young lady.” Owen scooped the berries into the dustbin. “I expected more out of you. Your mother working so hard to make the day nice, and what do you do? Ungrateful, that’s what I say.”
Tears welled in Daisy’s eyes, and Owen immediately regretted his impatience. Words of apology circled his mouth, but reprimand fell into line ahead of them. “Outside, both of you, while you still can.”
That was the moment he couldn’t bear. The shame of it consumed him. The last time he’d ever see his daughter whole, and he’d turned away from her to tend to Grace. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” was all he’d said as he guided his wife toward their bedroom.
* * *
Up ahead in the mine, Owen heard Davyd Leas, one of the elders from Providence Christian, leading some of the men in prayer as he did every morning before they started their shift in earnest.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .”
Owen walked past the men and onto the gangway, refusing to acknowledge any God who would take his child.
CHAPTER NINE
THE FIRST WEEK OF OCTOBER, Stanley suggested they go downtown. He liked to spend time over at the Wholesale District on lower Lackawanna Avenue, where men of all sorts, Welsh, Irish, Italian, Pole, Negro, even the Turks, loaded up their wagons with the produce, meats, and dry goods they’d sell in their own neighborhood stores. It always thrilled him to meander through the maze of vendors whose accents were as thick as their cigars.
Halfway to their destination, Stanley paused in front of a large white sign, lettered in black. “Do your part to lead souls to Christ,” he read aloud. “I wonder what that’s about.”
“Probably some message from the holy rollers.” Violet didn’t exactly know what a holy roller was, but she’d often heard her mother use the expression when discussing the “goings on” in other people’s churches. “Look!” she yelled, pointing to a sign on the next corner. “There’s another one.”
The pair ran to the end of the block, and Violet read this time. “How many persons are going to be steered to the straight and narrow path?”
“Twenty-nine!” Stanley hollered, and laughed at his own joke. When Violet looked at him annoyed, he added, “It’s as good a number as any.” Stanley stood back for a moment and examined the barren piece of property, a full city block in size. “They’re on all four corners.”
Violet nodded, and they headed to the third sign. “Future home of Scranton’s largest tabernacle,” she read out of turn.
“Holy rollers must be building a church,” Stanley said. “Hey, what is a holy—”
Violet ran toward the fourth corner before Stanley could finish his question.
“Wait up, so I can read!” Stanley sprinted and the two arrived together in front of the last sign. “Reverend William A. Sunday,” he paused a moment to catch his breath, “the world’s greatest evangelist, will begin his siege on Scranton, March 1, 1914. Will you join his army?” Stanley stood, amazed. “Well, isn’t that something?”
“What?”
“Billy Sunday.”
“Who’s he?” Violet asked.
“Only one of the best outfielders to ever play baseball.” Stanley shook his head. “Girls! Come on.” He tugged on Violet’s arm. “Let’s get to town while there’s still time.”
Once they arrived at the Wholesale District, Stanley looked at Violet and said, “I have a better idea.” He turned onto Wyoming Avenue.
“Not another one.” Violet winced but followed. “Do I need to remind you of what happened the last time you had an idea?”
Stanley stopped in the middle of the block, pointed to a sign, and grinned. “A minstrel show. Sounds promising.”
“How do you figure?” Violet knew better than to go inside Poli’s Theatre. To begin with, she didn’t have the money for a ticket any more than Stanley did. They’d have to sneak in. Just as important, according to the sign on the easel out front, danci
ng would be “the highlight of the performance.” Violet knew full well that Providence Christian Church did not tolerate dancing of any kind, and she was sure that included, the “Shim Sham Shimmy” and the “Buck-and-Wing,” whatever they were, and she told Stanley just that. “How about a game of Nipsey instead?” she suggested. “We can get sticks down by the creek. See who can hit them the farthest.”
“I think you’re yellow,” Stanley said. “Who woulda thunk it?”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Prove it.”
Violet pushed ahead of Stanley, held her breath, and slipped in the side door. After taking a moment for her eyes to adjust, she glanced up and screamed at the oddest-looking colored man she had ever seen. His dark face glistened like wet paint. Skin, the same color as her own, circled his eyes and bright red mouth. He stretched his arm forward and plucked a cowboy hat from a rack to the right of Violet.
“Watch where you’re going, kid.” He placed the hat on his head and disappeared through a door labeled, Backstage.
Violet turned to leave.
Stanley opened another door, this one marked, Theatre, and pushed her through. Both of them froze at the sights before them. Electric lights, velvet curtains, and signs pointing to indoor comfort stations, one for Ladies and one for Gentlemen. Neither of them had ever seen anything so fine in their lives, and they paused to take it in. Stanley pointed to the columns surrounding the stage decorated with garlands of plaster vines and flowers.
A burgundy-jacketed usher started toward them, his brazen buttons catching the reflection of the lights. Stanley yanked Violet by the arm, and into a curtained alcove. They watched as the usher made the turn away from them toward the Gentlemen’s arrow.
“I want to go home,” Violet muttered.
“Not a chance,” Stanley said, leading them toward two vacant seats.
As soon as the curtain opened, Violet closed her eyes. She may have been obligated to stay for Stanley’s sake, but she didn’t have to watch the show. Maybe if she kept her eyes shut, she could escape damnation. She imagined being at home, sitting in the kitchen by herself. She looked around and saw the stove, the table, the sink, and the motto hanging above it. Rules for Today. The needlepoint words hit her like the back of her mother’s hand.
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