Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “Thank you.” Grace turned to head back inside.

  “Before you go,” the widow said, “I’m on my way to Murray’s, but I’d be happy to stop at the company store to save you a trip.”

  “That’s very kind,” Grace replied, pulling her coat closed over her belly, so the widow Lankowski couldn’t see the nightgown underneath. “I have all I need, thank you.”

  “Thought you might be short on something for tomorrow.” The widow climbed the steps, handing over the empty container. She glanced back at the Virgin Mary, took in a deep breath, and asked, “So, what is it you’re doing for Violet’s birthday?”

  Grace grabbed the bucket and crossed the threshold.

  “I’m only asking on account of Stanley,” the widow quickly added. “He was so pleased with his party, he wants to make sure Violet has one of her own. He even asked me to make her a cake.”

  Grace stood at the door but said nothing.

  The widow rushed on: “I told him I’d be happy to, but I needed to check with you first.”

  “I have to go now,” Grace said, shutting the door.

  The widow stood on the sidewalk another moment before heading down Spring Street toward the square, wondering what she would tell Stanley.

  * * *

  “A birthday!” Grief shouted from his place at the parlor window. “Ha! I’ll give Violet what she deserves.” He sliced a bony finger across his neck, and turned as if to see whether Grace had caught the gesture. She sat at the kitchen table, brow furrowed, eyes downcast. He glanced back out the window and watched as the widow turned right at the end of the block. “And if she’s so concerned,” he sauntered into the kitchen, “let her take the girl off our hands.”

  Grace lifted her head to listen.

  Grief stopped halfway across the room and leaned on a chair. “Hmmm. Now there’s an idea.” He dropped down next to Grace and stroked her thigh. “Anything to be alone with my Gracie.”

  Grace shot up, as if trying to shake off a nightmare. She glared at Owen’s pocket watch on the cupboard. Two o’clock. Every night, he’d placed it in the same spot, and she hadn’t moved it since he’d left, except to wind it each evening before bed. I have to make the effort, she reminded herself. That’s what a mother does. She moved toward the sink. “Day’s half over,” she said loudly, pumping water to wash up. Owen’s shaving glass caught her attention, and she peered into it, searching for a familiar face. A stranger stared back at her. Pouches of dark flesh puckered under her eyes; a patch of gray hair striped the front of her head. “I’ve never seen this woman,” Grace lamented, squinting. “Such cold eyes.” She shivered. “You can’t trust someone with cold eyes.”

  “Of course you can.” Grief laughed. “I certainly do.”

  “I’ll not look at her again,” she muttered, yanking the mirror off the window sill and sliding it behind a row of bottles on a nearby shelf. She stood there, staring absently at the polishes for furniture, stoves, and pianos. And the washday soaps for disinfecting, cleaning, and bluing. And the tin of concentrated lye. Where did that come from? she wondered, as she picked it up. Owen, of course. She shook the container. Empty. Definitely Owen. He saved everything, finding a purpose for what was used up, like making dollhouses and button holders out of cast-off cigar boxes. She looked at the can more closely. Guaranteed to rid a house of rats, mice, cockroaches, and all kinds of troublesome vermin. Now there’s a thought. She set the container back in its spot on the bowed shelf and almost smiled.

  * * *

  The next morning, Violet woke with a start. Her birthday. The weight of it squeezed the air from her lungs. Nine years old. The same as Daisy. The age for baptism and junior choir. Violet had managed the impossible. She’d caught up with her sister, at least for now, but someday she’d turn ten and eleven and twelve, running ahead, leaving Daisy behind.

  Violet pulled the covers over her face, blocking the sunrise, delaying the day. My ninth birthday. The sickening thought found its way to her in the dark. She threw off the quilt, but stayed in bed a few minutes longer, thinking about last year, how Father came in singing the birthday song, waking both girls before he left for work. And how Mother made two plates of pice ar y maen, Violet’s favorite, for breakfast. Every time their mother made the little Welsh cakes, she’d tell them the story of Old Home Week, the day she’d met their father. “Couldn’t speak a word, and that’s the truth,” she’d say, and the three of them would laugh themselves to tears.

  Violet wiped her eyes on the sheet and climbed out of bed. Just then, she heard a snowball splattering against the window, and boots crunching their way through the yard. Startled, she pulled back the gossamer curtain and found Stanley pressing the words Happy Birthday into a fresh layer of snow. His brown corduroy jacket covered the gray union suit he wore for sleeping. Unable to pry open the frozen window, Violet pressed her face against the glass. When Stanley finished the tail of the y, he looked up, grinned, and waved goodbye. Violet waved back, until Stanley disappeared around the corner of the house. She ran to the side window, but he’d already passed by, leaving a crooked-winged snow angel behind. Violet smiled as she crossed the room to get ready for school.

  * * *

  Grace was up and dressed by nine thirty, an hour after Violet had gone, but still earlier than any other morning in months. “I’m hungry,” she said, as she cooked some collar bacon and fried two eggs in the drippings.

  “Something’s different,” Grief said, watching from his place at the table.

  When Grace finished breakfast, she announced, “I’m off to call on the widow Lankowski. After that, the company store. Come if you like.” She wrapped a woolen scarf around her neck and pulled on her coat.

  Grief’s eyes darted back and forth, following Grace’s movements, but he said nothing. His cheeks faded to the color of chalk.

  * * *

  “I’d like to apologize for my behavior yesterday,” Grace said as the widow opened the door.

  “No need.” The widow waved her inside.

  “I can’t stay but a minute.” She stepped into the front room.

  Grief remained on the porch and listened from the doorway.

  Grace immediately noticed the elaborate lace antimacassars draped over the tops of the couch and chairs. “Your handiwork?” she asked, momentarily distracted from her purpose.

  The widow nodded. “A skill from the old country.”

  “How lovely.” Grace wandered over to an upholstered rocker and fingered one of the lace cloths. “So beautiful.” When she looked up, she spied the cake under glass on a buffet. Chocolate frosting rose and fell in perfect peaks and valleys. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m too late. I wanted to invite you and Stanley over for cake, but I see—”

  “What a relief,” the widow said. “Mine came out so dry, no amount of icing could fix it. I wouldn’t even feed it to Sophie.”

  “You’re too kind. But you don’t have to—”

  “Not another word.” The widow patted Grace’s hand. “And I’ll tell Stanley about the party as soon as he wakes. He went back to bed after breakfast this morning. Can’t imagine why he’s so tired.” She nodded toward a tower of books and laughed. “Maybe I’m pushing him a little too hard. I just don’t want him to get behind in school.”

  “That’s admirable,” Grace said, picking up a copy of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and thumbing through it. She returned it to the top of the pile. “Five o’clock then?”

  “Yes, and thank you.” The widow smiled.

  “No, thank you. I thought a great deal on your visit yesterday, and after that, something lifted inside me. I know how fond you are of Violet. Your being there for her is a great comfort.” The women embraced, and the baby kicked, giving them both a start. “This one will always be with me,” Grace said, rubbing her belly. She waved goodbye and headed over to the company store on Wayne Avenue.

  * * *

  “All is not as it appears,” Grief called out. “A little over seven months
along, and you’re moving faster than I am today.” When Grace didn’t respond, he added, “Like it or not, I’m still here.” He paused to catch his breath while Grace stood waiting for him in front of the store.

  * * *

  Adam Bonser, the storekeeper, pulled a ledger and pen from under the counter. “Good to see you, Mrs. Morgan. What’ll it be today?” he asked, wiping his hands on his white apron. “I have some nice liver in back.”

  “Not today,” Grace responded. “Four squares of chocolate, if you’ll be so kind. It’s my Violet’s birthday.”

  “They grow up so fast.” Mr. Bonser climbed a ladder and grabbed a box labeled Iris Premium Chocolate from an upper shelf.

  “Not fast enough,” Grief said, perching his withering frame on a pile of roofing shingles to the right of the door.

  Grace threw a look in his direction, and turned back to Mr. Bonser. “It’s for a marble cake,” she explained. “Violet’s favorite.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be pleased.” He returned to the counter, broke off four pieces, and wrapped them in brown paper.

  Grace’s eyes darted around the store.

  “Something else I can get for you?”

  “A nickel’s worth of those peppermints.” She bit her lower lip. “Why not spoil the birthday girl?”

  “Give her what she deserves,” Grief mumbled, and turned away from the pair.

  Mr. Bonser scooped half a dozen pieces into a sack before recording the chocolate and the candy in his book.

  “I almost forgot.” Grace took a deep breath before the words tumbled out. “A tin of lye. Concentrated.” And then quickly, as if an afterthought, “For the rats.”

  Grief turned to listen, suddenly interested again.

  “This time of year?” the storekeeper asked, reaching under the counter.

  Grace had gone too far and she knew it.

  “Better to lay it down before winter sets in.” He wrote the words concentrated lye in his book and handed the can across the counter. “Rats look for a warm place to cozy up just after the snow starts falling.”

  She pressed her lips into a smile. “Always good to have some on hand in case of an early spring thaw.”

  Grief chuckled, rose, and sidled up to Grace.

  “I suppose,” Mr. Bonser answered, “but just the same.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said, hurriedly gathering her packages.

  “See you soon, Mrs. Morgan.”

  She nodded and turned to go.

  “Lord willing,” he said, “and the creeks don’t rise.”

  “Lord willing,” she called back as she walked out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  GRACE MADE A SIMPLE WHITE CAKE BATTER and poured two-thirds of it into a pair of greased and floured pans while her baking chocolate melted in a double boiler on top of the stove. She scraped the chocolate into the remaining batter, stirred it through, and dropped spoonfuls of the mixture into the partially filled cake pans. Next, she took a knife and cut the chocolate batter into the white, to create the marbleized effect. When she was satisfied with the design, she tapped the bottoms of the pans on the kitchen table, breaking any air bubbles that might have formed inside. As she slid the cakes into the oven, Violet walked through the door.

  “You’re just in time,” Grace said, pushing the bowl and spoon toward her daughter. “I thought I’d have to lick them myself.” She held out her arms.

  Confusion settled on Violet’s face.

  “I know, I haven’t been myself lately. But that’s all done with now.” Grace raised her arms again.

  This time Violet moved forward.

  “And happy birthday, my sweet.”

  Grief started humming the birthday song from his overstuffed chair in the next room, but Grace ignored him.

  Tears filled Violet’s eyes as she awkwardly hugged her mother around the belly.

  “No time for crying,” Grace said, wiping Violet’s face with a corner of her skirt. “Stanley and Mrs. Lankowski will be coming soon.” She looked over at the cupboard to see the time, and found Owen’s watch missing. Grace’s heart raced. He was here. She took a breath. No matter, she reminded herself, eyeing the new tin of lye on the shelf.

  “Awfully quiet out there!” Grief yelled from the parlor. “Does my Gracie need saving?” He chuckled, but stayed seated in his chair.

  Grace shivered as she fought the urge to call back to him. Instead, she turned to Violet. “Wash the bowl when you’re through and I’ll start the icing.”

  When Violet was at the sink, she noticed a small purple draw-string pouch dangling from the nail that still held one of Daisy’s hair ribbons. She turned questioningly toward her mother.

  So that’s what he was up to, Grace thought, glancing once more at the empty spot on the cupboard. “A gift,” she said, “from your father, I expect.” She reached over Violet’s head, unhooked the tiny sack, and handed it to her daughter, wondering if Owen had made a good trade.

  “Are you sure?” Violet asked, afraid to hope.

  “Only one way to know.”

  Violet carefully loosened the fabric at the neck and pulled out a round gold locket with a matching rope chain. When she turned it around in her palm, she discovered a bunch of miniature gold violets affixed to a mother-of-pearl face. Her mouth dropped as she held out her hand to show her mother.

  “It’s lovely,” Grace said, her voice low. “Worth every penny.” She noted the joy on her daughter’s face. “Open it.”

  Violet slid her thumbnail between both halves and carefully split them apart. She found a small piece of paper inside and unfolded it with trembling hands. She read aloud. “Happy birthday, doll baby. You’ll always be my girl.” Violet’s eyes filled with tears once more. “He remembered,” she said, tucking the note back where she found it. She handed the necklace to her mother and turned around.

  Grace fastened the locket around her daughter’s neck. “It’s perfect.” She grabbed the shaving mirror from behind the bottles. “See?”

  Violet admired herself in the glass for a moment, and twirled through the kitchen. “He remembered,” she said again, falling into a chair.

  * * *

  Stanley and the widow arrived at exactly five o’clock. “Happy birthday!” they both yelled when Violet opened the door to the parlor.

  “Look,” she said, holding up the necklace. “A gift from my father. He remembered!”

  “Of course he did,” the widow said. “He loves you.” She lifted the locket and admired it from all angles. “Piękny. Beautiful. Treasure it always.” She glanced into the kitchen at Grace and added, “He’s a good man.”

  Grace smiled as she finished icing the cake. “And how’s our Stanley?” she asked, handing the boy one of two frosting-covered spoons. “His color’s good.”

  “And his appetite.” The widow laughed. “Suffering a bit, though. Doc Rodham calls it phantom limb.”

  Grace passed the other spoon to Violet, who asked, “What’s that?”

  “Ain’t nothing,” Stanley said, licking the last of his icing.

  “Isn’t,” the widow corrected.

  “Sometimes I’d swear my hand was still there.” He swatted the air over his stump with the spoon. “Gets mighty itchy. And more than once I’ve tried to scratch my head with it.” He laughed. “Ain’t nothing,” he said again.

  The widow smiled. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.” She turned to Grace. “And how are you? Back on your feet, it seems.”

  “I’ve found peace.” Grace watched both children laughing at the table, now eating red gumdrops out of a paper sack. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  After they’d eaten half the cake, two pieces each for everyone, the widow grabbed a package from the parlor and handed it to Violet. “From me and Stanley. I hope you like it.”

  Violet ripped open the brown paper wrapping and found a delicate white shawl inside.

  “Look,” Stanley said, grabbing one corner while Violet
held onto the other. “They were my idea.” Small lace birds, connected by the smoothest cotton threads, stood in profile along the shawl’s border.

  Violet sat, speechless.

  “Don’t you like it?” Stanley asked, handing his end back to her.

  “Where are your manners?” Grace scolded. “I’ve never seen anything so fine.”

  “It’s . . . it’s too beautiful,” Violet finally managed, and tears sprang to her eyes.

  “No more beautiful than the girl sitting before me.” The widow lifted Violet’s chin. “Remember that.” She took the wrap, unfolded it, and draped it around the girl’s shoulders. “So beautiful,” she said, and Grace smiled dreamily.

  * * *

  Later that night, as the neighborhood slept, Violet stood in front of her bedroom window, studying her shawled reflection. When she swayed back and forth, the lace birds took flight and her gold-trimmed locket winked at the quarter-moon. A few inches to the left, and two necklaces appeared in the thickest part of the glass. A phantom locket—like Stanley’s hand. She bent down to see her face reflected twice. A phantom sister. That’s how it was with Daisy. Violet still reached out for her when she was lonely or scared or had a story to tell. But then she remembered. She hated the remembering.

  Standing up, she pressed her hand against the one reflected in the window and held it there for some time.

  * * *

  Around eleven o’clock, Owen staggered up the steps to his room, steadying himself on the banisters. He unlooped his suspenders and dropped into bed with his boots still on. “Happy birthday, doll baby,” the closest words to prayer he’d uttered in months. “I miss you more than you’ll ever know.” He mumbled something about forgiveness into the pillow, and fell into a restless sleep.

  Daisy and Violet came to him in a dream, beautiful in matching white dresses. Each took a hand, as he led them up a cool, green mountain, with hundreds of pine trees lining a well-worn path. Light poked through the branches, casting long shadows behind them. The girls prattled on, adding their voices to the chorus of squirrels and birds.