“That’s right,” Louise reassured, her troubled eyes darting to Hattie.
Grace looked at both women, studying their expressions. What was it she saw? Relief? Confusion? Worry? Worse, Grace thought. Pity. She shuffled past them and turned toward her bedroom.
* * *
Later that morning, Hattie woke Violet with the news of her father’s resurrection. Violet decided, in that moment to see him for herself.
“Where are you off to?” Adelaide asked as Violet wrapped a scarf around her neck.
“To visit my father.”
Adelaide raised her hand in protest, but Grace simply said, “Let her go,” and Hattie nodded.
Violet jumped off the side porch into the yard and collided with Stanley as he turned the corner.
“Heard the news,” he said with a great big smile.
“I’m going to see him,” Violet said, brushing past the boy. “You can come if you like.”
Stanley studied Violet’s expression—tightened brow, pursed lips, muscled jaw, all suggesting serious business. He slipped a paper sack into the pocket of his corduroy coat and fell into step alongside her.
Violet headed down Spring Street toward the square. She knew her father had been living at Burke’s. She’d heard the talk plenty of times. What she didn’t know was what she would say when she saw him.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Stanley patted his pocket, making sure the bag was safe inside.
“And where would you get a penny?” Violet heard the tone of her voice and wondered at its meanness.
“I’m a working man now,” Stanley reminded her. “Collect my pay like all the other fellows.” He threw his shoulders back and pushed his chest forward.
“In time to hand it over to your pa.”
Stanley stopped in front of the church, stared straight at Violet, and asked, “Who put the bee in your bonnet?”
“Maybe I don’t always want to be seen with Stinky Stanley. Did you ever think of that?” she yelled as she crossed the street to Burke’s.
Violet took three deep breaths and wiped her nose on her sleeve before walking through the front door. Several men, coated in coal and linked arm in arm, started in on the chorus of a familiar hymn.
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
How great Thou art, how great Thou art . . .
The room had the smell of dirty coins and sour sweat. Violet crinkled up her nose, pulled her collar to her face, and breathed into it.
“What’s a kid doing here?” the barkeep yelled. “First you make me open on Christmas, now this?” One by one, the men stopped singing and looked at Violet. “The law will be shutting me down for sure.”
“Is that my doll baby?” Owen squinted his eyes as if trying to make out the shape of an animal on a dark night. “Is it you?” He set his whiskey on the bar, rubbing the soot off his face before going to her.
Violet started to cry. She ran to her father and threw her arms around his stomach.
“Let me have a look at you.” Owen held his daughter out at arm’s length. “Is it really you?” He took her in with his eyes. “My sweet doll baby.” Owen knelt down and hugged Violet for a full minute. He stood up, grabbed a rag from the bar, and wiped smudges of coal off her face. “So beautiful.”
Violet winced at his breath, the smell of metal.
“She don’t like the stink of fire water,” Bobby Lewis said, and all the men laughed. “Won’t give you a minute’s trouble, that one.”
“This is no place for a kid,” the barkeep said again, nodding toward the door.
Owen took Violet’s hand, led her outside and up the steps to his room.
* * *
The first thing Violet noticed when she entered her father’s room was the unmade bed.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” Owen said as he pulled the blanket across the mattress and smoothed it with the back of his hand.
Violet stayed standing in the middle of the floor. “When are you coming home?” she asked. For a moment, they both seemed to be surprised by the question.
“I almost forgot,” Owen finally said, clearing newspapers off his one good chair and motioning for Violet to sit. “I have something for you.” He went over to his dresser and removed two packages from the top drawer. “This one’s for you.” He handed the present to Violet. “Sorry it’s not store bought.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Go ahead and open it.”
Violet tore off the brown paper and found a cigar box with its lid painted to look like the outside of a two-story house, complete with front porch and rockers. A white picket fence stood in tall grass on all four sides, and bunches of purple flowers bloomed in front.
“It’s a playhouse for dolls,” Owen turned the box on Violet’s lap and lifted the lid, “if you open it away from you.”
“It’s wonderful,” Violet said, studying each detail.
“There’s more.” Owen turned the box around again.
Her father had painted a kitchen, parlor, and bedroom on the inside of the lid. Lamps shone yellow in each room, waiting to light the way for any who entered. A paper mother, father, two little girls, and a baby lay in the bottom of the box. Owen had cut the figures out of a discarded Sears, Roebuck & Company catalog. He’d pasted the shapes to cardboard and filled each one in with vibrant color.
“I should have chosen an older picture for you,” Owen said as he picked up the cutout intended to be Violet. “You’ve grown like a weed since I last saw you.” He dropped the doll back into the box and reached for the one who resembled Daisy. “Wouldn’t be much of a family without her,” Owen added, defending his decision to include her.
Violet simply nodded, as she sorted through the cutouts to find the father.
“Not much of a family without you, either.”
Owen dropped the Daisy doll back into the box, walked over to the dresser, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He blew the dust out of a nearby glass and filled it halfway. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said, holding up his drink before swallowing its contents. “You better head on home. You’re mother’s probably worried sick by now.”
Violet set the cutout of her father on top of his bed before closing the lid to her cigar-box dollhouse.
“Just as well,” Owen said as he refilled his glass. “Wish your mother a Merry Christmas for me, now, won’t you?”
Violet nodded curtly as she headed toward the door.
“Wait a minute.” He grabbed the second package and handed it to his daughter. “It’s for your mother. A button box.” Violet took the second cigar box, this one painted with lilacs and morning glories, and left without a word.
* * *
When Violet crossed the street toward home, she found Stanley waiting silently for her on the church steps. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, sitting down next to him. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I don’t know what got into me. I didn’t mean it, I swear.” She raised her right hand to heaven.
Stanley sat and said nothing.
“Please don’t be sore at me.”
Stanley stewed for another minute. “A penny’s nothing to a working man,” he finally said. “I could spend a penny right now if I had a mind to.”
“I was just feeling mean. I’m sorry.”
“If you was to say, Stanley, let’s get ourselves some gumdrops, why, I’d say, What color? without blinking an eye.”
“Red, of course,” Violet responded nervously, not sure if she’d been forgiven.
Stanley reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out the paper sack he’d been carrying, and handed it to Violet. “Merry Christmas.”
Violet opened the bag and found a whole scoopful of gumdrops, as red as the tips of Stanley’s ears. “Stanley Adamski,” she pulled out a piece of candy and popped it into her mouth, “this is my best present.” She thought about the dollhouse on her lap and hoped her father couldn’t hear what she’d just said. “Merry Christmas.” She kissed him on the cheek and handed him a gumdrop. “How’d you get old Pickl
e Puss to let you pick a color?”
“Went in with the widow. She did the asking, but I did the paying.”
By the time they reached the top of Spring Street, their bellies were full and the bag was empty.
TO DRIVE AWAY SPARROWS
If bothered with sparrows, put a little molasses on their roosting place and they will leave. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909
Such joy. Every man spared. Seven from our own congregation, if you count Owen Morgan. And what a blessing for his family, considering the shambles he left them in. No two ways about it, Grace couldn’t take another tragedy. Feeble-minded, if you ask us. And that child, troubled as she is, needs her daddy. Though we have to wonder how much of an example he can be, living over that beer garden. “The sins of the father,” as Adelaide reminds us. Now there’s a woman who knows her Bible.
Still, Owen survived, and Violet is back in school. Awful familiar with that Polish boy, though. And now they’re spending time with the widow Lankowski. Not our kind, but pleasant enough. Knows how to pinch a penny, that one. Catholics always were cheap, though. Educated too. Quotes Shakespeare like it’s the Good Book. A bit uppity for a Pole. As Myrtle Evans always says, “Put shoes on their feet and they think they’re swell.”
Truth be told, the widow can also be generous in her own way. Sent what she called halupkies over to the Morgan house the other day. Some sort of stuffed cabbage, according to Sister Adelaide. No telling what was inside. She couldn’t get them past her nose. A nice thought, just the same. Sister Adelaide threw them away, but not before thanking the widow kindly and getting her to say the name a couple times more, so she’d get it right in the retelling.
Of course, there are those who pity the widow. Her husband beat her more than most, God rest his soul. Maybe she needed it. Maybe not. Who are we to judge?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
STANLEY STEPPED INTO THE WOODEN CAGE and stood next to Tommy Davies as he had every morning since he’d become a nipper. Three weeks inside, and Stanley still needed the comfort of a familiar face as the hoistman lowered them into the mine. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine sunshine as he was carried down. Three sixes. Six in the morning until six at night, six days a week. Stanley knew he’d meet the devil here for sure. It was just a matter of when. He blessed himself the way the widow had taught him and counted the days till sunlight. In winter that meant Sunday.
When the floor of the cage hit the floor of the mine, Stanley opened his eyes and got out. He followed the others to an empty mine car, swung his leg over the side, and climbed in. He closed his eyes once more and silently began saying the “Our Father.”
“Where’d you come from?”
Stanley jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. “Been working as a nipper.” When his father said nothing, Stanley added, “Be a month come Friday.”
Having worked underground most of his life, Stanley’s father could see well in the dark. He looked at his son and asked, “How the hell did that happen?”
“Got that mule,” Stanley pointed to Sophie being hitched to another car, “on a harness.” He smiled proudly.
“Foolest thing I ever heard. White mule’s bad luck. Mark my words. No good’ll come from her.” Stanley’s father turned away, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
As the miners tumbled out of the car and headed toward the peg-board shanty, Stanley fell into line behind them. The small blue flames on their caps threw shadows on the glistening walls. Electric pumps whirred in the distance, keeping out the flood of water anxious to resume its natural path. Wet boots suggested the men did not put too much faith in the machinery.
As the fire boss gave the assignments for the day, each man pegged in, knowing that if his peg still remained in the board at the end of the shift, someone would come looking for him, hopefully in time.
“Tunnel number nine,” the boss said to Stanley. “Mind the doors. And no sleeping.”
As a nipper, Stanley spent most of his time waiting in what they called the airshaft, a stretch of tunnel blocked off by doors on either side where large electric fans circulated fresh air throughout portions of the mine. The doors to the shaft were hung in such a way as to close automatically with the air current, but Stanley needed to open them by hand when mine cars came through. There he sat for ten hours a day, almost entirely in darkness. All too often, a nipper fell asleep out of boredom, waking seconds before a car crashed through the doors—or worse. Sometimes a sleepy boy would try to open the door in time, only to be run over where he stood.
Since there were no birds to call in the mine, not even canaries anymore, much to Stanley’s disappointment, he kept himself awake by whittling sprags. Tommy had taught him about sprags, a one-foot piece of wood used to brake the mine cars. A mule boy, such as Tommy, would run alongside the car and force a sprag into the spokes of a wheel to stop it. The idea terrified Stanley.
“If you want to be a mule boy someday,” Tommy had said, “you’ll need to get over that.”
What I want is to go back to school, Stanley had thought, but chose to keep the notion to himself.
Stanley sang in between whittling sprags and opening doors. Hearing his own voice echo in the dark made him a little less afraid. Tommy had taught him a better version of a song sung in the schoolyard, and it was Stanley’s favorite. He always started his day with it.
My sweetheart’s the mule in the mines,
I drive her without any lines . . .
He’d belt out each note and exaggerate each word.
On the bumper I sit . . .
He’d hold that last word, enunciating the “t” into its own syllable.
And I chaw and I spit . . .
He’d wait an extra two beats, sometimes for effect, sometimes to release a giggle.
All over my sweetheart’s behind.
When he finished the song, Stanley would laugh and start again, singing a little louder each time.
* * *
On the first of January, Stanley pegged in and set about work in the airway chamber of the number nine tunnel. He thought about the new year, 1914, and what it had in store for him. He could think of nothing favorable. He thought about his birthday, a week away, but came up empty again. He ate his meal, two biscuits and cold cabbage, and dropped the crumbs on the ground. He’d learned early on to feed the rats. The men spoke of them with reverence, since a rat could hear the crack of a prop or smell a pocket of gas better than any man. More than one miner had warned Stanley to run if the rats started scurrying.
At the end of his shift, Stanley followed the track up toward the peg-board shanty. He heard Sophie coming behind him, pulling about five tons worth of coal up the slope, so he stopped and waited. “That’s my girl,” he said, reaching out to pet her. Sophie nudged him away and whimpered. “What’s the matter?” he asked. She shook her ears and cried once more as she passed him by.
About twenty feet back, an earth-colored mule pulled a dozen men in Stanley’s direction. Albert Adamski was among them. Stanley leaned against one of the coal pillars supporting the roof of the mine, and waited for his pa to catch up.
Worried about Sophie, Stanley turned his eye toward her at the top of the incline a second before he heard the snap of her harness. Five tons of coal hurtled back downhill. Stanley’s hands each grabbed a sprag from the ground before alerting his brain to the danger. He tried to focus on the blur of the rear wheel as his right hand shoved a sprag into its spokes. The wheel chomped, chewed, and spit out the wood brake in pieces, slowing the car only long enough to give Stanley one more try. He focused, stretched, and then jammed the other sprag at the front wheel, but his reach landed a few inches beyond his target. The wheel crunched and groaned to a stop, taking Stanley’s hand with it.
The men in the car, whose lives Stanley had just saved, jumped out and rushed toward him. Albert Adamski led the pack, but raced past his son uphill, leaving the others to tend to him. John Roberts ripped off his shirt, grabbed a piece of sp
lintered sprag, and tied a tourniquet near the bottom of the boy’s left forearm. Owen Morgan and Evan Evans Sr. positioned themselves at the boy’s head and feet and carried him running to the mine hospital, about a half-mile up, near the number five tunnel.
When Stanley’s father reached the top of the hill, he slammed Sophie across the back with the handle of his pick. “I knew you were no good!”
Sophie looked back and responded with a kick to the head, instantly killing the man.
CHAPTER TWENTY
TWO JAGGED BONES POKED OUT FROM THE WRIST, like bared teeth on a rabid dog. Harold Bowers, the only man on duty with first aid training, propped Stanley’s mangled arm up on a rolled blanket. He loosened the boy’s clothing, placed two fingers at his neck in search of a pulse, and found it feeble.
“Who’s carrying whiskey?” the man yelled to the miners hovering nearby. A half-dozen flasks appeared before him. Harold grabbed the closest one, lifted Stanley’s head, and tipped the drink toward his lips. “Don’t give up on me now, son.” Though seemingly unconscious, the boy managed to swallow a mouthful. Harold lowered Stanley’s head back onto the stretcher. “I can’t do no more.” He shook his head. “He’s in God’s hands now.”
“The wagon’s ready up top!” someone yelled from the gangway.
Harold motioned for Owen and John to grab hold of the litter and carry the boy up and out of the mine.
* * *
As the wagon pulled in front of the State Hospital for the Northern Anthracite Region, Owen jumped off the back and ran inside ahead of the others. “We need a doctor!” he shouted as he rushed through the doors. “There’s a boy out here, lost his hand. Come quick!”
Doc Rodham rushed into the hallway at the sound of the commotion. “What’s happened?”
Owen froze for an instant. He hadn’t seen the doctor since the day Daisy died.
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