Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “Move along,” Myrtle Evans waved from the kitchen. “Give someone else a turn, why don’t you.”

  Startled, the girls stepped forward, toward Violet’s parents. “Sorry for your trouble,” Flo managed, while shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “We best be going. Tell Violet we’re sorry we missed her.”

  At the other end of the room, Violet sat tucked under the little piano with the stool pulled in against the pedals, her matching blue dress a wrinkled mess from the close heat and her cramped position. She’d seen her sister laid out in the coffin the night before when she and Aunt Hattie sat vigil. That was enough looking for her.

  “You always sit with a body,” Aunt Hattie had explained, “out of respect for the dead.”

  The dead were the last people who needed respecting, Violet thought, but she’d known better than to share her opinion with her mother’s sister. After all, Aunt Hattie had practically raised her mother, so she knew a thing or two about the ways of the world.

  Their watch over Daisy had been shrouded in darkness, save for the light from an oil lamp on the stove. Every now and then, Violet would excuse herself, move to the kitchen, and stare into the flame. Alone, her eight-year-old mind would try to make sense of all that had happened.

  Why did Daisy have to die?

  When would she see her again?

  Did Father mean it when he said, “Anybody but Daisy”?

  So many questions raced inside her head but the important ones turned tail before crossing the finish line.

  “Mrs. McGraw asked why we didn’t get baptized together,” Violet said as she came back into the room. “She lives over on Oak Street. I go to school with her kids.”

  Aunt Hattie tipped her head and squeezed her eyes. “Something wrong with you, child?”

  The same question Myrtle Evans had asked her in the yard. Violet decided to shut her mind to questions she could not answer. “Irish twins is what she called us, being born so close.” She leaned in toward the coffin to check for movement. “Mother told her there was no need for name calling.” She settled back into her chair but kept an eye toward her sister. “I agreed, us being Welsh and all.”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Hattie had whispered, so as not to disturb the dead. “Maureen McGraw is Irish herself. And bog Irish at that.”

  * * *

  Violet climbed her front porch steps, mad at herself for not having the courage to go see Stanley. She pictured him in that hospital, all alone. I know what that feels like, she thought, and closed her eyes and wished with her whole heart for Daisy to come back to be with her, to stand with her so she wouldn’t be so alone. When she opened her eyes, she saw Adelaide pulling back the curtain. “Grab the bucket,” she called through the glass. “We’re going to need more coal for the supper.” Violet dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat before picking up the empty pail and heading inside.

  * * *

  By the fifth day, Stanley’s fever broke, the infection subsided, but the boy had yet to stir. When Doc Rodham came by to remove the drainage tubes, the widow asked him when Stanley would wake up. “He doesn’t even mutter anymore. It’s like the light’s gone out of him.”

  “The body has its own timetable for healing,” was all the doctor could think to say.

  * * *

  Tommy Davies removed his cap and knocked on the Morgans’ front door as he’d done for the last six evenings. “Sorry to bother you again, but I’m going to the State Hospital to see Stanley, and wondered if Violet might come along. I’d keep a good eye on her.”

  Grace stood at the door without saying a word.

  “The widow’s sure he’d wake up for Violet,” he added as he rolled and unrolled the hat in his hands.

  Grace smiled as if she understood but shook her head.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” Tommy said on his way down the steps. He turned back to say he’d take out the ashes when he got home, but the door had already been shut against him.

  Grace shoveled more coal into the stove and poured herself some tea. She felt for Stanley, but she had no intention of sending Violet down there, no matter who was laid up inside. No good ever came out of a hospital that she could tell. Hospitals were for the dying, and her family had seen enough of that already.

  Adelaide patted Grace’s hand, and held out her own empty cup. “You’re right not to let her go. No sense encouraging those two.”

  Grace slammed the teapot on the table between them and took her cup and saucer into the bedroom.

  * * *

  In the parlor, Violet pulled her knees in closer, so her mother wouldn’t see her folded under the little piano. The widow’s sure he’d wake up for Violet. Tommy’s words squeezed into her head and sidled up against the others. It’s my fault he’s dying. Each truth stepped back to size up the other. Both seemed to be of equal weight. Violet knew the blame was hers, but she also knew the widow never lied. He’s dying, she thought. He’ll wake. She closed her eyes and folded her hands in prayer. Please, God, spare Stanley. Either way, come morning she was going to see him and his fate would be decided.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  VIOLET WRAPPED A RED WOOLEN SCARF AROUND HER NECK, tucked the cigar-box dollhouse under her arm, and stepped out into the biting January morning. She hadn’t skipped school since Miss Reese’s home visit in October, but she decided the whipping she’d surely get would be easier than another day of uncertainty. A few inches of snow had fallen overnight, and as she started down the hill, she placed her feet inside the tracks made by the miners before sunrise.

  When Violet reached the bottom of Spring Street, she turned right, toward the square. Having been to Poli’s Theatre twice, she knew how to make her way downtown in the direction of the State Hospital. Scranton had already had its share of weather that season, but it hadn’t had any new snow until now for at least a week. Violet marveled at the snow’s ability to transform the city. Tree limbs curtsied under its weight; lampposts donned hats of it.

  Once Violet crossed over to Murray’s, where she and Stanley had bought their gumdrops so long ago, she found that most of the storekeepers had already thrown ashes on their sidewalks to keep customers from slipping, though foot traffic still seemed light for that hour of the morning. She continued on her way, down to Green Ridge Street, toward Penn Avenue. She knew the hospital to be a straight shot after that.

  Violet noticed the storeowners, driving their wagons toward town. She remembered the day she and Stanley had seen the Billy Sunday signs on their way to the Wholesale District. And how later that afternoon, they tried unsuccessfully to see a minstrel show. Stanley still called her a baby whenever he thought of her dragging him out of the theatre. She’d done it to protect their souls. Did it matter now?

  Still four blocks away, the hospital loomed, like Goliath before the Israelites. Violet’s heart began to pound as she imagined poor Stanley, lying helpless in a hospital bed. Would he wake for her? Was he already dead? It’s my fault—the one truth she remembered in the morning light. If only Daisy were here to walk with her, to hold her hand. Violet’s legs kept moving forward, but her thoughts circled round, in search of answers.

  “If you’re not a sight for sore eyes,” Doc Rodham said when he and Violet nearly collided on the sidewalk. He took her hand warmly and led her inside.

  * * *

  The widow’s faith began to falter. She placed her hand on the boy’s forehead and erupted into sobs. “Mój Bóg, dlaczego ma ty opuszczony mi?”

  “What’s wrong? What are you saying?” Violet asked as she ran the length of the ward toward Stanley’s bed. “Is he dead too?”

  “No, no, my sweet.” The widow reached out, pulled the girl in before helping her off with her scarf and coat. Violet kept a firm hold on the cigar box. “I thought that God had forsaken me,” the widow explained, “and I foolishly asked him why. I see now He never left me. He sent an angel.” She rubbed Violet’s arms briskly to warm her and whispered, “Ojciec przebaczać mi,” and then
in English for the benefit of Violet, “Father, forgive me.”

  Violet turned to Stanley to look him over. She noted how small he seemed in the center of the hospital bed. She scooted around to his left side, grabbed hold of the blanket, and asked, “Can I?”

  The widow nodded.

  Slowly, Violet lifted the blanket to reveal the injured limb, shorter than before though wider with the bandages wrapped around it. She studied it for a long moment. “Something’s not right.” She put the cover back in place.

  “The hand couldn’t be saved,” the widow said, surprised to have to tell her.

  “I don’t mean that.” Violet looked at him again.

  “Then what?”

  Violet paused for a moment, and leaned in close. “His smell,” she said. “He lost his smell.”

  Confusion settled on the widow’s face.

  “The sour smell,” Violet explained, “that stuck to him—his hair and clothes. It’s gone.”

  The widow broke into a smile. “Cooked cabbage. Only thing his tata knew to make, God rest his soul. Eat it pretty regular myself.”

  “But you don’t smell.”

  “Add a crust of stale bread to the cabbage pot. Soaks up the odor. Keeps it from clinging to you. And throw a handful of whortleberries on the stove to sweeten the—”

  “Why doesn’t he wake up?”

  “He will,” the widow answered, and she meant it. “I’m certain of it. He’ll wake for you.” She remembered the beads in her pocket and fingered them.

  “I brought you something,” Violet said to Stanley. She swung around and set the dollhouse on the bed, near his good right hand. She opened it, removed the mother, Daisy, and Violet dolls her father had made, and placed them on the little table. Next, she reached for two more cutouts, crudely drawn in her own hand. They looked to be a father and son, or, more precisely, her father and Stanley. She set these next to the others and went back to the box again. Inside lay at least twenty birds, some drawn by the same childish hand as the male cutouts, and others torn from a seed catalog Violet had found near the schoolyard. “I’ve been practicing,” she said, pulling out a penned blue jay and placing it on the blanket. “Twee-dle-dee, twee-dle-dee, twee-dle-dee.” She dropped her head. “Doesn’t sound as good as yours. I still need teaching.” She looked straight at Stanley, but he didn’t respond.

  She pulled out a smaller bird and whistled again, this time the saw of the wren. Her call went unheeded.

  On her fifth try, the chip, chip, chip of the red cardinal, Stanley began to stir.

  “Wychwalają Boga!” the widow shouted. “Praise God!”

  The nurse, at the other end of the ward pushed decorum aside and yelled, “Our Stanley?” in a high-pitched voice, startling several patients around her. When Violet nodded back, the nurse ran into the hall for the doctor.

  “You best take the little one out,” Doc Rodham said to the widow, “and let me examine the boy.”

  Violet grabbed hold of Stanley’s good hand with both of hers. “But he just now woke up. I don’t want to leave him.” Stanley’s eyelids fluttered open and he half-smiled.

  The widow crossed herself and offered a prayer of thanks before gently pulling on Violet’s shoulders and pointing her toward the door. “Doc Rodham won’t let any harm come to him. Besides, we have to do what we’re told, or they won’t let us stay.”

  Violet held her ground.

  “There are rules in hospitals,” the widow explained. “Especially about children. We don’t want them to remember you’re too young to be here.”

  “A hospital’s no place for the sick,” Violet said to Doc Rodham before heading toward the hallway.

  “That’s just her mother talking.” The widow followed behind. She guided Violet toward the wooden chairs alongside the windows. The late-morning sun squeezed through slats on the open blinds. “A January thaw,” the widow said, aware of a world outside for the first time since Stanley’s accident. “Lucky we don’t have too much snow on the ground. One warm day is all it takes to flood the cellar.”

  Violet dropped her head into her hands.

  “Of course, it’s probably much colder out than it looks.” The widow turned her chair and faced Violet. “He’ll be home in no time. I promise.” She pulled the girl onto her lap and rocked her.

  “I tried to come sooner.” Tears dripped down Violet’s cheeks. “It’s my fault he’s here.”

  “What silliness! He’s alive. That’s your doing, and the good Lord’s.” She hugged Violet tighter and started to cry herself. “I should have come for you, but I was afraid to leave him.”

  Violet opened her eyes and stroked the widow’s cheek. “You were right to stay. You’re all he has now.”

  “We’re who he has now. And don’t you forget it.” The widow reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “Now blow.”

  * * *

  An hour later, a nurse led Violet and the widow back into the room.

  “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,” Stanley said, his voice shaky but resolute.

  “The lad’s hungry,” Doc Rodham said with a wide smile. “A good sign. A good sign, indeed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  DUSK HAD FALLEN BY THE TIME TOMMY DAVIES SHOWED UP once again at the State Hospital. As was his custom, he kept his head bowed, eyes to the floor, while he walked the length of the ward. He’d seen enough suffering in his twelve years, and didn’t need to catch sight of more. It only made a person feel helpless, and that didn’t do anyone any good.

  “Would you look what the cat dragged in?” Stanley said, loud enough to be heard across the room.

  “Crimonies!” Tommy’s head popped up. He rushed forward and stopped at the foot of Stanley’s bed. “You scared the heart out of me!” He grabbed ahold of his friend’s feet.

  “Be careful, now,” the widow warned. She stood on Stanley’s right, holding a cup of beef tea in her hands.

  Tommy gave the feet another squeeze, gentler this time, and rested his hands on the iron footboard.

  “One more sip,” the widow said, holding the cup to Stanley’s lips. “Only way to get your strength back.”

  Tommy turned to Violet, who stood on Stanley’s left. “When did he wake?”

  “Late this morning. Just in time for his birthday!” she answered, turning to pick up an empty milk tumbler from the bedside table. “Should I get more?” she asked the widow, but Stanley waved them both away.

  “A fellow can’t take all this fussing.”

  “You stay with him,” the widow said to Violet, as she gathered the cups. “I’ll be right back.”

  Stanley looked up at Tommy and asked, “How’s Sophie?”

  The widow paused about four beds away to listen.

  Tommy looked down at his feet and curled and uncurled the cap in his hands. “So how long you think you’ll be laid up?”

  Stanley pushed himself up on his right arm and asked about Sophie again.

  Tommy shook his head. “Won’t work. Won’t eat. Just pining away, if you ask me.”

  Stanley dropped back on his pillow. “What will they do with her?”

  “Mr. Evans says she’s no good, oughta be shot for what she . . .” Tommy swallowed the last word, suddenly aware of its implication. He took a breath and started again. “Don’t fret. Mr. Sherman never put down a mule, and he’s not about to start now. She cost him two hundred dollars, after all.”

  The widow continued down the ward and out the door. A minute later she returned to Stanley’s side with a damp rag in one hand and a tin cup in the other. She reached over the boy to Violet. “Set this water on the table in case he gets thirsty.”

  “Anyhow, Sophie’ll pick up,” Tommy said, still tangled in the same conversation, “as soon as you’re strong enough to get back to work.”

  The widow looked directly at Tommy. “He’ll not go back in that mine, not ever.” She placed the rag on Stanley’s forehead. “As soon as he’s well, he’s off to school.
”

  “I’ll have to think on that,” Stanley said, pushing the rag away.

  “Think all you want, young man, but as long as I have breath in me, you’re getting an education.”

  Stanley eyed the trio surrounding him. “Pa don’t believe in school. Never did.”

  Tommy and Violet looked to the widow for direction.

  “Don’t believe in hospitals neither.” Stanley moved his lips, as if trying out his next line before releasing it. “I figure that’s why he’s not here.” He eyed his friends to see how the words landed.

  “Oh, my boy,” the widow said, as she turned the rag. Your father, Niech spoczywa w pokoju,” then in English, “God rest his soul, has gone home to be with the Lord.”

  “How?” Stanley asked, his voice cracking.

  “Killed at the mine,” the widow said. “Same day you lost your hand.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Tommy said, dropping his head.

  “Me too,” Violet added, and they stood in silence.

  “I’m tired now.” Stanley turned his head toward the wall.

  The widow motioned for Violet and Tommy to leave.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Violet gave Stanley’s hand one last squeeze.

  “Good night,” Tommy said, and they walked toward the door.

  The widow wiped her damp cloth across Stanley’s closed, moist eyes. “Sleep, my child. Spać.”

  Tommy held the door open for Violet as they went out into the sharp January night.

  “I guess he really loved him,” Violet said, and shoved her hands into her pockets.

  “Who?” Tommy asked, buttoning his coat to the neck.

  “His father. Don’t know why it surprises me. Just can’t understand how anyone could love someone so mean.”

  “A boy always loves his dad.” Tommy looked up at the falling snowflakes, illuminated by the electric lights. He stopped for a moment, opened his mouth, and caught some on his tongue. “A boy always loves his dad,” he repeated, and winked toward the sky.