Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “I don’t see why you won’t come with me,” Violet said to Stanley, who was waiting for her near the elderberry bushes on her first day back to school. “It won’t be any fun sitting around by yourself.”

  “What’s the point? Pa says there’s work for me at the mine if I’d only sprout up.”

  “That could take years,” Violet said, and Stanley’s cheeks reddened. “What I mean is, you should go to school while you’re waiting.”

  “He brought me around last year, but the boss sent me home on account of how little I was. I’ve grown two inches since then.” He stopped, turned around, and stood back to back with Violet. The top of his head landed somewhere around the nape of her neck. He stretched up on his toes and said, “Won’t be anytime now.”

  “How come your pa doesn’t make you go to school?”

  “Says a boy don’t need education, just good sense.”

  “But you’re the smartest boy I know.”

  Roses bloomed on Stanley’s cheeks. “What a thing to say.” The smile on his lips belied his words.

  “Of course, I can think of half a dozen girls brighter than you, but you’re the smartest boy I know.” Violet laughed at her joke as they turned the corner. “It’s washday. Mother said last night that I’m to come straight home.” She entered her yard and started for the side porch. “Getting awful cold for fishing,” she called out as she made the corner.

  Stanley said nothing as he continued up the street.

  * * *

  The next morning, Stanley stood in front of the Morgans’ house and sang, “Hel-lo for Vi-o-let.” He rested his elbow on the wooden banister, slick with the season’s first frost. He wore a brown corduroy jacket, buttonless and well-worn, a hand-me-down from an older brother who, like the two before him, had long since left Scranton. The coat flapped open in the wind.

  Violet peeked out the parlor window and saw a cleaner version of the boy she was used to seeing. It looked as though he’d taken a bath and washed his hair, which surprised her considering Saturday was still four days away. “You’ll wake Mother,” she scolded as she started down the steps. As she approached him, she noticed his sour smell lingered, in spite of his best effort.

  “Let’s go, slowpoke.” Stanley waved her forward. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

  * * *

  Once Stanley started showing up for school, he completed all of the second grade work in a matter of weeks. By the beginning of November, Miss Philips promoted him to third grade.

  * * *

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” Miss Reese said to Stanley, who waited at the door. “There’s an empty seat next to Evan Evans.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Stanley tipped an imaginary cap as he sat down.

  The teacher glared at the boy before continuing her lesson: “As I was saying . . .”

  Stanley looked straight on and smiled broadly.

  Miss Reese picked up a ruler and tapped it gently against her hand. “We’re fortunate to have a renowned Christian like Mr. Billy Sunday coming to our town. This is someone who turned down a $400-a-week salary as a baseball player,” she glanced up and down the rows, “to preach the gospel to the likes of you.” She closed her eyes dreamily and added, “Who wouldn’t want to meet so fine a man?”

  “First player ever to run the bases in fourteen seconds,” Stanley blurted.

  The teacher’s eyes popped open. “That was a rhetorical question, requiring no response.” She slapped the ruler against her open palm. “Furthermore, young man, I’ll not tolerate speaking out of turn.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I just get excited about the White Sox.”

  “White Stockings,” Evan corrected.

  “Maybe about ten years ago,” Stanley said.

  “One more outburst and I’ll take a switch to both of you. Is that understood?”

  “Yes ma’am,” they answered in unison.

  Miss Reese eyed the boys and started again. “This tract,” she handed a stack of papers to Janie Miller to be passed out, “was printed by the Revival Committee. You’re to take it home to your parents. It contains Mr. Sunday’s entire seven-week schedule and a list of rules for living a proper,” she glanced at Stanley and Evan once more, “Christian life.”

  Janie finished her task, handed the extra papers to Miss Reese, and sat down.

  “No skipping school,” Miss Reese said without reading from the pamphlet. Instead she stared at Violet, who tried and failed to find that particular rule on the list. “No dancing,” Miss Reese continued. “No talking back to your elders. No vaudeville.”

  Violet quickly threw a look in Stanley’s direction, but he ignored her.

  “Study the Bible. Pray much. And shun evil companions. Are there any questions?”

  “When . . .” Stanley started, then remembered to raise his hand. “When do we get to meet him?”

  “The dates and times are listed on the sheet,” Miss Reese answered.

  “One of the best outfielders ever,” he added.

  “A lousy hitter, though,” Evan said without waiting for permission. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. Billy Sunday’s a Christian.”

  “So?” Stanley waited to hear more.

  “Catholics can’t go see him.”

  “That’s enough!” Miss Reese shouted. “Up front, both of you.”

  Stanley and Evan trudged forward and held out their arms.

  Miss Reese delivered three sharp blows with her ruler to each pair of hands. “Why is it that empty barrels make the most noise?” she asked. The boys took their seats, knowing enough not to answer a rhetorical question.

  * * *

  “Children, line up for a spelling bee,” Miss Reese instructed on a particularly chilly day. With Thanksgiving a week and a half away and a layer of snow dusting the ground, the students were restless. They rushed toward the windows, sneaking peeks outside and trying for positions near the end of the line. “Alphabetical order,” Miss Reese explained, and the line slowly rearranged itself. Stanley Adamski found himself at the head of the formation.

  “Slumber,” Miss Reese said, and a collective gasp rose from the room. She started with a word from their new list, the one she’d only put up the day before.

  “That’s a dirty trick,” one of the boys muttered, “even if it’s Stanley.” Miss Reese eyed the group and the talking stopped.

  “Slumber, S-L-U-M-B-E-R, slumber,” Stanley said without hesitation. He looked at the teacher and waited for her nod of approval.

  “Let’s keep this moving.” She motioned Stanley to the end of the line. He smiled at Violet as he passed.

  “Wagon,” Miss Reese directed toward Emily Bowen. Emily relaxed at such an easy word, spelled it correctly, and took her place behind Stanley.

  Only five students remained standing by the end of the fourth round: Stanley, Emily, Violet, and the McGraw twins, Jimmy and Meghan.

  Violet stepped forward.

  Miss Reese looked at her list. “Prairie.”

  “P-R-I-A-R-I-E, prairie.” Violet started toward the back of the small line when Miss Reese announced, “Incorrect.” Only Stanley seemed to notice how the corners of the teacher’s mouth lifted when she said it.

  Violet continued toward her seat as if that had been her intention all along.

  Two rounds later, only Stanley and Meghan remained.

  “Hatch,” Miss Reese said to Meghan.

  “H-A-C-H, hatch.”

  Meghan stepped to the other side of Stanley. The students waited for Miss Reese’s high-pitched, “Incorrect,” but she simply said, “Soldier.”

  Several “buts” rose from the class. Miss Reese silenced them with her eyes.

  “Soldier,” Stanley said. “S-O-L-D-I-E-R, soldier.” He held his place, forcing Miss Reese to mumble, “Correct,” in order to send him to the other side of his opponent.

  There were three more rounds before Meghan misspelled again. “Celebrate, C-E-L-A-B-R-A-T-E, celebrate.” This time, Miss Reese acknowledge
d the error but announced, “Stanley still needs to spell one more word correctly, or it’s a tie.”

  “Not fair,” someone said, but Stanley stepped forward.

  “Deficient,” a word no third grader had ever seen on any list.

  “Deficient, D-E-F-I-C-I-E-N-T, deficient,” said Stanley, “as in, Everyone thought the boy was deficient, but he turned out to be quite smart.” Giggles rose from the desks.

  “Multiplication tables up to ten, five times each,” Miss Reese said, her tone clipped. The students started shuffling through their desks. Meghan took the seat next to her brother, but Stanley refused to budge.

  “Sit down, Stanley, and get to work.”

  Violet spoke up: “You forgot to declare a winner.”

  Stanley smiled at his friend, threw his shoulders back, and remained standing.

  “Talking out of turn. No recess.” Miss Reese eyed Stanley. “For either of you. Now take your seat.”

  The boy bristled but held his ground. Miss Reese grabbed hold of her ruler and started toward Stanley, but stopped as the door to the classroom swung open. All eyes turned to the man in the doorway, broad, muscular, red-faced. “Did my boy do something wrong?” Mr. Adamski stared at Stanley standing against the wall. “I told you I don’t want no son of mine going to school. What are you, deaf?”

  “Mr. Adamski?” Miss Reese took a step toward him but stopped to set the ruler on the chalkboard. Her students sat up, arrow-straight and mouse-quiet.

  Violet opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  Stanley nodded at his father. “I was just passing time, sir.” He squeezed by the man, toward the cloakroom next door. “Never even opened a book.” He forced a laugh as he reached for his coat but fell to the floor with his father’s first blow.

  Across the hall, Miss Philips stepped out of her classroom. “May I hel—”

  “This here’s a family matter,” Mr. Adamski explained, tipping his hat with the fist he had just used on his son. “Now go on back inside.”

  Miss Philips returned to her classroom but stood facing the intruder. Stanley jumped to his feet and scrambled down the hall and out the door with his father on his heels.

  * * *

  Stanley’s left eye swelled completely shut by the time he and his father arrived at the Sherman Mine.

  “You’re late. The crew already went down.” The shift foreman made a notation on his board.

  “This here’s my boy. Old enough for the breaker. Won’t give you no trouble. I’ll see to it.” He glared at his son.

  “I’ll give you one more chance, Adamski, but that’s it.” He pulled the boy toward him. “Let me have a look at you.” He circled around him. “Sure he’s of age?”

  “Give you my word.”

  “Not worth a plugged nickel,” the boss said, as he pulled Stanley’s hands toward him and looked at his palms. “A bit scrawny,” he paused for a moment, “but he’ll do. He can start tomorrow morning, six o’clock. Now get back to work.”

  “Yes sir.” Adamski eyed his son. “You better be home when I get there.” He started up to the hoistman’s house to see about going down.

  * * *

  On her way home from school, Violet checked the oak tree and the elderberry bushes for Stanley. His corduroy coat dangled from her arm. When she couldn’t find him, she walked home from school alone for the first time that year.

  FOR TIRED NERVES

  If overworked homemakers whose nerves are “worn to frazzle edge” would acquire the habit of sitting or lying absolutely still . . . for five to ten minutes twice a day, they would soon see improvement. The mind must be relaxed, worries dropped, thoughts wandering to pleasant things. You will probably try this several times before you get it right, but after a little practice you will find that it yields large returns, far surpassing the sacrifice of the time it takes. Try it, nervous ones. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909

  A little over three months to go before Billy Sunday arrives. Not much time considering all that needs doing. Seems everyone’s helping out, though. Fifty-three churches at last count, plus the Rescue Mission and the Salvation Army. Scranton’s never seen the likes of so fine a Christian. We want to do our city proud.

  Of course, we can’t have a Billy Sunday revival without one of his tabernacles. They’re none too fancy, but as we always say, “A blind man would be glad to see it.” Mr. Sturges offered a good-sized piece of land toward downtown, between Washington and Wyoming avenues. The men will start building in a month or so. We expect to have most of the money raised by then.

  In the meantime, Adelaide Humphreys offered to help organize the Christians in Providence, even though, according to her, it’s uncommon for such well-known evangelists to work together. But as she explained, “It’ll take more than the likes of Billy to rid this city of sin.”

  She has a point. All we have to do is open the paper to see it for ourselves. Stories of drunkenness, burglary, suicide. Fourteen murders this year alone! And those brothels sure don’t help. There’s a sign on top of the Scranton Life Building that spells out, Watch Scranton Grow, in great big lightbulbs. A nice sentiment, but some argue it should read, Watch Scranton Grow More Dangerous. We’re lucky to have someone like Sister Adelaide staying here to help in the fight, especially with all her other obligations.

  When asked about her mission out west, all she said was, “Duty keeps me here.” When pressed, and only then, she added, “God as my witness, that Violet has the devil himself inside her. Never saw a body more in need of saving and that’s the gospel truth. With that momma of hers, and no daddy to speak of, it falls to me.”

  The woman is a godsend. We all say it. Only wish Grace could see it too. Perhaps it’s the grief. Though, more likely, it’s her delicate condition.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING, Hattie walked out to her back porch and found a twenty-pound turkey strung up by the feet. Chester had alerted her to someone in the yard. She yelled, “Much obliged, Owen!” in case he was still within earshot. “Makes it kind of hard to stay mad at you.” She waited. “You’re welcome to join us tomorrow. Grace’ll be here. And Violet too.” She pulled a knife from the pocket of her apron and sawed down the bird. “I’ll save your place at the table.”

  Owen waited until Hattie stepped back inside. He didn’t want her to see him in the woods at the end of the yard, even if she figured he was out there. After almost three months away, he couldn’t imagine what he’d say to her, or her to him for that matter. He hadn’t forgotten his obligations, though. Rent, food, chores around the house the few times Grace was off at church, and now the turkey. Hattie would be obligated to mention it to her sister. That had to be enough for now.

  * * *

  Grace hadn’t been out of the house in weeks, not even to help Hattie the day before Thanksgiving. And she would have been content to stay home on the holiday itself if it weren’t for Adelaide’s insistence.

  “We could all use a good meal,” Adelaide said. She pushed herself away from the kitchen table, pulled in her stomach, and squeezed two fingers into the waist of her skirt. “I’ll have to get everything taken in if this keeps up.”

  Grace looked down at her own waistline and realized neither of them seemed to be suffering from a lack of sustenance, odd considering the sporadic nature of their meals.

  Violet walked into the kitchen, pulled out the flour, and started on the baking.

  The missionary held out her cup and saucer. “A bit of advice,” Adelaide said. “It takes a generous handful of lard to make a proper biscuit.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Violet said as she stopped what she was doing to pour the coffee.

  Grace looked at her daughter. An inch taller, a mite thinner, and a seriousness in her dark eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. Grace momentarily wondered at the transformation, but let go of the thought when Grief whispered in her ear.

  “What is it you’re expected to give thanks for?” He patted her hand
with his sweaty palm and dragged his chair closer to hers. Grace watched absently as he sucked the flesh from her fingers and licked the bones clean.

  * * *

  “There’s my girl,” Hattie announced as Violet bounded through the swinging door into the kitchen. Hattie’s hands were starch-covered from peeling potatoes, so she wiped them on a rag before hugging her niece.

  “Sister Adelaide sent me in to help. She and Mother are resting in the front parlor.”

  “Is that so?” Hattie pushed two bunches of carrots toward Violet. “Scrub them real good,” she said as she left the room.

  Some of the boarders were seated on couches, waiting for their Thanksgiving meal. “If you’d be so kind, my sister and I need a moment.” The men nodded, lumbered into the dining room, and pulled the pocket doors shut. When Adelaide didn’t budge, Hattie added, “Violet could use a hand in the kitchen.”

  “It does that child good to feel useful,” Adelaide stated, nestling deeper into the couch. “Wouldn’t want to take that away from her.”

  Hattie glared at the missionary, then perched on an ottoman in front of Grace. “I’ve been worried.”

  Adelaide nodded as if she and Hattie had somehow been in cahoots on the matter.

  A labored sigh preceded Hattie’s next words. “Somehow, and I don’t pretend to know the answer—with my help, maybe, with God’s help, certainly—you will pull yourself together.” She cupped Grace’s right hand between both of her own. “Daisy’s gone, but you’re still here.” She paused to let her words sink in.

  Grace stared past Hattie, to Grief, who’d slipped in without being noticed. He leaned against the opposite wall, his eyes sparkling, his complexion still ruddy from his morning repast.

  “You can’t just let the pain swallow you,” Hattie tried again. “After all, there’s Violet to consider.”

  Adelaide leaned forward and added, “We must be grateful for the blessings God has given us.”

  Grace’s fingers curled into fists, the nails digging into her palms.

  Grief chuckled mercilessly from his corner. “Neither of these women knows the loss of a child firsthand.”