“Hello, young lady,” Doc Rodham said to his patient.
“Hello,” Daisy answered.
“Thank you, Jesus.” Grace added speech to her list of blessings.
“Am I going to die?”
Her directness seemed to momentarily unnerve Doc Rodham, but reassurance of a kind quickly fixed itself on his expression. “Not on my watch.” He smiled. “Now, tell me where it hurts.”
“My feet,” she said. “They’re so cold.”
“Mrs. Harris!” Doc Rodham yelled loud enough to be heard in the kitchen.
A moment later she poked her head through the door, stole a glance at Daisy, and winced in spite of her best intentions.
“I’ll need hot water bottles.”
She nodded and ran off down the hall.
Grace found it strange that Alice Harris happened to be waiting for instructions and wondered who else might be milling about her house. The notion unsettled her. Had she even finished cleaning up the spilled pie? And could that have really just happened this morning? Concentrate, she thought, and scolded herself for thinking such things mattered.
“Any other pain?” the doctor asked as he removed the stopper from a bottle marked, Laudanum.
Daisy shook her head slightly.
“Thank God,” Owen said, “Thank God.”
“An ounce of prevention,” Doc Rodham said. “Open up.” He placed several drops of medicine onto her waiting tongue. “And four drops every two hours,” he said to Grace, who nodded.
“What about the hospital?” Owen asked.
Grace whirled around, looked directly at her husband, and said, “We’ll not go there again, Owen Morgan. Not after Rose. Not ever.” She turned back and looked to Doc Rodham for confirmation.
Doc Rodham shook his head. “No use,” he murmured, “she’d not survive the . . .” He glanced at his patient. “Home is the best place for her just now.”
Although most of Daisy’s clothing had either burned or fallen off, here and there, flecks of fabric cleaved to the skin. Had the doctor not treated his share of miners over the years, whose bodies were burned in explosions, he might have mistaken the remnants for seared flesh, but as he later explained, he could tell the difference between the two. Charred cotton curled up at the ends. Burned skin pursed beneath the surface. Doc Rodham soaked a piece of linen in saline solution, wiped the affected areas, and peeled the fabric off with tweezers.
“Now let’s see.” He worked at a particularly stubborn section on her torso. “How long have we known each other?”
“Nine years,” Daisy said.
“That so?” He picked the loosened material away.
“You delivered me,” she said, as if surprised he’d forgotten such an important fact. She eyed her father, but he was turned toward the window.
“You don’t say.” Doc Rodham spun around to his work table, palmed a syringe, and swung back toward his patient. “You sure have a good memory.” He pricked only the largest blisters, the ones stretched to the point of breaking.
Grace grimaced at the sight of the needle, but Daisy seemed not to notice. “Tell me a story.”
The doctor gently patted the pierced blisters with cotton batting, soaking up the fluid. “Which one would you like to hear?”
“About the day I was born,” she said.
“Now that’s a good story,” he replied, saturating several linen strips in carron oil. “March 1, 1904. Bet you thought I wouldn’t remember.” He placed the bandages on top of skin that was only burned, not broken. “You weren’t in any hurry to come. Kept your mother waiting all day. When you finally got here, we knew right away that you were special. Most babies squall when they’re born, but you came to us singing like an angel.” He turned, measured out a portion of boric acid, and mixed it into a jar of Vaseline.
“You’re teasing. Babies don’t sing.”
“My point exactly.” He spread the ointment onto the remaining pieces of linen and placed them on the areas where the wounds were open. “Never heard a singing baby before or since.” Once all of the burned areas had been treated, Doc Rodham layered cotton over the linen cloths and wrapped bandages over the batting. “That’s how I knew you were special.”
Alice Harris called from the doorway, and the doctor excused himself. “I don’t want to push myself on anyone,” she said softly, handing him two hot water bottles. “A sick room’s no place for folks that ain’t family, excepting you, of course, and the preacher when he comes. Holler if you need.” She disappeared down the hallway.
Doc Rodham returned to the stool and finished dressing Daisy’s burns. He placed two hot water bottles at her feet, covered her lightly with a sheet, and kissed her forehead. “Now, your mother and father and I are going to step out for a moment.” Grace started to object, but he added, “And while we’re gone, I want you to sleep. Doctor’s orders.” Grace remained seated.
“It’s best if we discuss the child’s condition elsewhere,” the doctor muttered to Grace. In Daisy’s direction he added, “And give her a chance to rest.”
Owen leaned down and gingerly patted the top of his daughter’s head. “We’ll just be outside if you need us.” He turned to Grace and lifted her from the chair. “Five minutes is all.”
Grace relented. “Not a second more.” She kissed Daisy on the cheek. “Go to sleep, pet. Mother will be back before you wake.”
Out in the kitchen, Doc Rodham mentioned something about a blessing, and Grace held onto that word.
“Called skin death,” the doctor explained. “With third-class burns, and of course the shock, she’s spared from most of the pain. At least for now.”
So that was the blessing, Grace realized as she sat for a moment and warmed herself in front of the stove on the hottest day of the summer.
Owen took a breath, closed his eyes, and asked, “Will she make it?”
“Truth is . . .” the doctor lowered his gaze.
Owen reached for Grace’s hand and squeezed it.
“I don’t see how she’ll survive the night. And if she does, she’ll likely die of infection in a day or so.” The doctor lifted his head and looked straight on. “I’m so sorry, Owen, Mrs. Morgan.”
Grace waited for him to continue. As long as he kept talking, there was a chance he might get around to hope, to miracles, to stranger things happening than a child this injured making a full recovery.
Silence. Grace pulled away from Owen and folded both her hands in her lap.
Louise Davies went to Grace and rubbed her arms to stop her from shivering. “Hardest thing to understand,” Louise said, “God’s will.”
“No God that I claim,” Owen said, just as Reverend Halloway stepped across the threshold.
* * *
Myrtle’s screen door snapped shut, interrupting Grace’s thoughts. She reached into the basket and discovered she’d hung all the laundry.
Grief noted the empty rockers on the Evanses’ porch. “All good things must come to an end,” he said, taking Grace’s hand and leading her back to the house.
A PENCIL POCKET
The husband will greatly appreciate a narrow pencil pocket not over one inch wide placed on the inside of coat, cutting through the facing to the right and a little above the inside breast pocket on the left side of coat. It should be just wide enough and deep enough to hold a pencil and a fountain pen. If the husband be a business man who often goes without vest on hot days, he will wonder why he did not have it long ago. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909
Just the other day, Pearl Williams saw Grace Morgan out on her front porch patching one of Owen’s flannel shirts. Covered it with her apron, but not before Pearl took note.
“Winter’s coming,” was all Grace said by way of explanation. “Mending to be done.” She gathered her sewing and ran straight into the house without so much as a goodbye. That’s how Pearl told it.
Heart-sorry. We all say it when speaking of the Morgans. So sad. Not many light moments in that house, ev
en from the start. Had a hard time of it. Grace especially. Always worse for the woman. Miscarried three times in as many years. Louise Davies birthed two boys in the same stretch with a third one on the way.
We all breathed easier after Daisy. Healthy. Happy. Seemed to lift Grace’s spirits.
Violet came too quick is all. Too much for some women. Delicate ones, for sure. Milk dried up early. Baby had to be wet nursed by some of the mothers in the church till she could be weaned. Myrtle Evans heard Doc Rodham say Grace’s insides were all tore up. Violet coming so close on the heels of her sister just did Grace in.
No one blamed the child, of course.
Owen did for Grace and the babies best he could. Not a word of complaint. Worshipped the ground that woman walked on. Now he’s living over a beer garden, and there’s talk the elders might remove his name from the church roll.
Though we don’t like to admit it, there are those who say Grace brought this on herself. Poor thing. Wearing fancy hats to church. Teaching her girls to play piano. Correcting their English when they misspoke.
Of course, we don’t believe it for a minute. God can’t possibly find the time to punish folks for living above their station. Grace’s troubles probably have more to do with that slip of hers. Can’t think of one good reason why a decent woman would have been out of her dress that day—in the middle of the afternoon. And Lord knows we’ve tried.
A tragic situation for all. Oh, “How are the mighty fallen,” is what we say.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OWEN SAT IN THE ROOM HE’D RENTED OVER BURKE’S. It contained a bed, a dresser, and two caned chairs. Only one of the seats could be used with any comfort. The legs on the other were shorter in front than in back. He fingered the letter that had been delivered to him that morning. “Now what would the church want with me?” he said aloud. The answer lay inside, but he refused to read it. He tossed the envelope onto the wobbly chair, looped his suspenders over his arms, and went downstairs for a drink.
As stated in the letter, the elders from the Providence Christian Church intended to convene on the fifth of October to discuss the question of Owen’s membership. He’d been accused of “improper conduct” by more than one congregant, causing the elders to start formal proceedings for removal. Considering all that he and his family had gone through in the previous months, the men were hesitant to act without offering Owen the opportunity to repent. After all, these were Christian men, many of who were burdened with their own troubles.
* * *
Davyd Leas remembered a time when he himself had turned to liquor during the mine strike of 1902. He knew what hardship could do to a man. He headed over to Burke’s, hoping to talk Owen into giving up the drink and going back home.
“What’s the good word?” Davyd asked, dragging a chair toward Owen’s table, kicking up sawdust along the way. Unlike the other miners at Burke’s, Davyd took an hour to bathe and change before stepping inside the tavern, but he knew as soon as he sat that the stench of sweat and ale would stick to him long after he departed.
Owen looked up from his glass and snorted. “Last man I expected to see in a gin mill.”
“Is that so, my brother?” Davyd reached out and patted Owen’s shoulder.
Owen leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, out of arm’s reach. “What is it you want with me?”
“There’s some in the church that’s asked you be removed from the rolls.”
“On what grounds?”
Davyd tipped his head in the direction of Owen’s glass. “And abandonment.”
“So be it,” Owen said, finishing his beer and standing to leave. “I’ll not dispute the truth.” He stumbled outside and upstairs to his room.
Owen lay down on his bed but couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing the look on Grace’s face the moment he’d struck her. What kind of a man takes a hand to his wife? he thought. The kind that can’t be trusted with anyone’s life but his own. That put him in mind of his one true friend, Graham.
Having worked in the mines all his life, Owen never had a formal education, but thanks to a determined mother, he’d certainly had a proper one. Each morning he’d go off to the mine with the other boys to pick slate, and each evening he’d study his lessons by candlelight. He could read and write Welsh by the time he advanced to mule driver, and had a solid command of English before he made inside crew.
Daisy’s birth had only increased Owen’s desire to learn and improve his circumstances. He enrolled in a series of mining engineering courses at the International Correspondence School in Scranton, locally known as the ICS. First he tackled the position of hoistman where he operated the cage, raising and lowering men and coal to any one of the vertical mine’s four levels. The other men couldn’t understand why he’d take a cut in pay to work outside the mine, especially with a family to support, but Owen wanted to be skilled in every position, so that one day, when he made mine superintendent, he’d understand the needs of all his workers.
Although Graham lacked Owen’s natural tendency toward education, he followed along in the path Owen had carved out for them. Once they both became hoistmen, they worked opposite shifts but overlapped for a time each day so Owen could help his friend with his studies. On one particular October night in 1909, Graham climbed the steps and entered the hoistman’s house an hour early for his shift.
“Don’t like the look of them clouds,” Graham said, pointing south through the open door. “Storms and electricity don’t mix.” He nodded at the metal levers and ropes used to operate the wooden cage. Graham had never been totally convinced of the benefits of learning the hoistman position, and he had expressed his doubts to Owen.
Owen nodded from his wooden seat in front of the electrical panel. “Now let’s see. We left off at hydromechanics and the formulas for the flow of water through pipes.”
“Sounds about right,” Graham said, still standing in the doorway, staring up at the sky.
Owen thumbed through the little red ICS book in search of the page. “Q equals the amount of water in cubic feet per—”
An explosion sounded somewhere deep inside the mine, followed by three urgent whistles. Owen grabbed the controls to pull his men to safety. Graham swung around, watching so intently that he never noticed as the hair on his head and arms stood on end. Lightning hit the roof of the building and shot in several directions. An errant bolt burned into Graham’s neck and out the left foot, knocking him forward at first, then back toward the open door. The thick odor of seared flesh filled the small space.
Graham toppled down the steps to the ground below. Owen started toward him, but when three short whistles sounded again, he succumbed to duty. He left his friend writhing on the ground, yelling for help, and turned his attention toward the men in the mine. He hoisted them to safety just as a second pocket of methane exploded inside. With everyone accounted for, Owen scrambled down to Graham whose broken body now lay motionless. Too late to save him, Owen cradled his friend and wept. Days after the incident, Owen would be hailed as a hero for saving the lives of the men on his watch, but he would never forgive himself for sacrificing Graham.
As the horses pulled the ambulance up Spring Street in the opposite direction from the hospitals, the women stepped out onto their porches, knowing that the man inside would be deposited at one of their doorsteps, either already dead or near enough. Grace and Louise met on the sidewalk and held hands. A minute later the ambulance stopped where the two women stood. Owen got out, carrying his best friend in his arms. Ashamed of himself, Owen looked past Louise as he headed up her front porch steps and into her parlor. Louise collapsed at Grace’s feet.
A week after his father’s death, eight-year-old Tommy Davies stood on the sidewalk in front of the Morgan house and sang out in a high voice, “Hel-lo for O-wen,” as if calling for a friend to play. Owen came out and rubbed the boy’s head. “You’re here bright and early.”
“I’m the man of the house now,” Tommy said with what sounded like a mix o
f pride and trepidation. As the eldest son, it was his duty to take his father’s place at the mine; otherwise, Mr. Sherman, like any other mine owner, would put the family out of the company house by month’s end.
Owen eyed the boy’s attire, his father’s denim trousers, tied with a rope and cut down in length, one of his work shirts with the sleeves rolled over the wrists, and a brown peaked cap. Graham’s old dinner pail dangled from his hand, dragging on the ground. Owen took the pail, patted Tommy’s head, and the pair set off on foot for the boy’s first day at the mine.
* * *
Owen got up from his bed and took a gulp of whiskey, holding the last little bit at the back of his throat, allowing the sting to linger. Something to burn off the coal dust. He swallowed the rest. Something to burn off the guilt he carried over Graham. Standing at the dresser, he opened the top drawer and pulled out his ICS book on mining. Although he’d quit the program after Graham’s death, he’d continued carrying the book with him, a reminder of their friendship and youthful dreams. Other than the clothes on his back, it was the only belonging he’d had with him the night he’d left home. Owen pocketed the book and took another drink. Something to burn off the shame of leaving his family. And his church. He picked up the letter and pocketed it too. Just as well, he thought. He’d given up on God the day they’d buried Daisy. Another drink. A long one. No sense in God sticking with him. The last sip, a warm embrace. Something to burn off the pain the way the sun burned off the morning dew. Day after day after day. Grace had been his sun. Before. Not after. Not now.
Owen shuffled downstairs and into the bar, toward a freshly stoked potbellied stove. First, he burned the church’s letter, then, one by one, he ripped the pages out of the book and fed them to the blue flames.
Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night Page 7