Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “Well, as long as you’re asking, tell your readers that I require the utmost silence and quiet during my sermons. I like to give everyone a chance to hear. I must therefore ask people to refrain from coughing. If you have to cough, place your handkerchief over your mouth.”

  The reporter looked up quizzically. “I see.” He decided to change the subject. “And when might we expect to see Mrs. Sunday?”

  “Well now, you have me there. Ma Sunday is supposed to be here tomorrow, but I heard a few of the old timers talking about snow, so we’ll have to wait and see,” Sunday said, putting his hat on.

  “That’s enough for now,” Sturges said, placing his hand on the evangelist’s back. “We have a police escort waiting out front. Mr. Sunday needs his rest if he’s to start preaching tomorrow.” All of the men nodded as Sturges led the guest out through a pair of twelve-foot-tall mahogany-framed doors.

  * * *

  Owen rested his foot on the railing while Mike Stirna poured him another shot.

  “To early spring,” Mike said, pushing the whiskey forward. “Can’t hardly believe tomorrow is first of March. The robins will sing before we know.”

  “Let’s have a drink!” a customer yelled from the opposite end of the room.

  “Hold your horses!” Mike shouted back, returning a bottle of Old Forester to its shelf. “In hurry to nowhere,” he said to Owen. “Salesmen. They all same.” He headed down the bar and asked, “Now, what’ll it be?”

  The first of March. The words were a blow to Owen’s gut. How can that be? He tried to steady his trembling hand long enough to grab hold of his drink. Daisy’s birthday! He spilled his whiskey across the marble-topped surface. “Sorry,” he called down to Mike, who came running with a towel.

  “No problem,” Mike said, wiping down the bar. “Just give me minute, and I’ll get you another.”

  Owen held up his hand. “No thanks.” He turned to leave.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Morgan?”

  Owen left without another word.

  * * *

  Grace, he thought, as he lay on his bed. What must she be going through tonight? Owen stood up, went over to his dresser, and grabbed the cardboard cutout Violet had left behind on Christmas morning. A father, dressed in a paper suit and tie, clean shaven, smiling, dependable. I’ve let them down, he thought. He crumpled the doll and threw it across the room. His legs quivered and gave out, sending him to his knees. Suddenly aware of his position, he bowed his head and clasped his hands in front of him. When the words refused to follow, he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  * * *

  Grief slipped into the kitchen, pausing a moment to gaze at Grace. “You seem troubled,” he said, curling a lock of her hair around his finger.

  Grace stood up to bank the fire before going to bed. “How is it that none of them remembered?”

  “I remembered,” Grief said, coming up behind her, smelling her hair. “I always remember.” He lifted the strands and sliced them across his teeth.

  Grace returned to the table and caressed the gilded frame that held Daisy’s baptism picture. “Just as well.”

  “They don’t deserve her,” Grief said. “We both know it’s true.”

  Grace kissed two fingers and pressed them on Daisy’s cheek. They’d be together soon enough.

  Grief stepped back to look at Grace. “Now, just what kind of ideas are you spinning in that pretty head of yours?”

  She stared straight into his eyes. “I thought you could see all my fears.”

  “That’s precisely the problem.” He lifted the oil lamp to her face, and watched her lips press into a smile. “You no longer have any fears.”

  Grace erupted into unbridled laughter. “If you only knew.”

  * * *

  Violet sat in bed with her knees folded into her chest, the blanket pulled up to her chin, listening to her mother cackle in the kitchen. What’s going on with her? A chilling silence supplanted the maniacal laughter, as if daring Violet to ask again. Terrified, she buried herself under the covers till morning.

  EGGSHELLS TO CLEAN BOTTLES

  Eggshells dried and crushed are the very best bottle cleaner for a baby’s bottle; use rain water and soap or hard water and soda. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909

  Grace seems to be getting on. Won’t be any time now. You just have to look at her to know she’s having another girl. Dark circles under the eyes, hollow cheeks, spotty complexion. Daughters steal your beauty when you’re carrying them. We can all see it when we look at her, especially Pearl Williams, though she’s only birthed boys.

  Lucky for us, Pearl happened to be at the train station when Mr. Sunday pulled into Scranton. Had to pick up that sister of hers from upstate New York. A pretty enough girl, even with the clubfoot. She’s the one who got herself in trouble with that boy from Henryville, not that it’s our business. Pearl said Sunday’s face shone about as bright as those patent-leather shoes he wears. And he has himself a great big smile—the kind that lets a man get away with a thing or two. That’s probably how he got so many converts. Thank goodness for us he’s a man of the cloth.

  Don’t imagine Grace will be in any condition to go see Mr. Sunday. Seems a shame. He’d do her good, most likely. Leastways, it couldn’t hurt. Lord knows we’ve tried to bring her around. Keep coming up empty-handed. Maybe Mr. Sunday would have better luck. Then again, as Mildred reminded us, “God helps those who help themselves.” Claimed to be quoting the Bible, but we know better. Still, she has a point.

  Grace does need to straighten up. We’ve all said it. Not to Grace, of course. She wouldn’t listen. Keeps to herself most days. Talks to the air as near as we can figure. Stopped going to church altogether. We pity her, truly, but she has to mend her ways before it’s too late. If she keeps knocking at the devil’s door, someone’s bound to answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  OWEN WOKE TO THE PEAL OF THE CHURCH BELL, the same one that had tolled Daisy’s death. He sat up on the wooden floor, leaned against the dresser, and shook the numbness out of his left arm. What have I become? he thought, pulling himself up. He shuffled over to the uncurtained window and tipped his head toward a clear blue sky. More like the first of May, not March. The bell rang a second time, demanding his attention. He looked across the street at Providence Christian Church. Grace. Will she be there today? Below the steeple, a perfect circle of stained glass beckoned him with fingers of morning sun. He walked back to his dresser, took out the suit of clothes he’d gotten from the house the day he’d picked up his watch, and went over to the basin to wash up.

  * * *

  Owen turned the handle on the large wooden church door and entered the sanctuary. The sun burned through the jewel-colored windows, lighting up the empty pews. Confused, he ambled back outside, sat down on the steps, and started to snicker. “Well, isn’t that something?” he said aloud to himself. “I finally show up and no one’s home. God sure does have himself a sense of humor.” He pondered the empty church a moment longer.

  “Everyone’s downtown,” Evan Evans Sr. yelled from the front of his wagon, as he pulled up alongside the church. Myrtle, her sister Mildred, and young Evan sat in back. “Billy Sunday’s preaching.”

  “Will Grace be there?” Owen called down.

  “Yours is the last face that woman needs to see, today of all days!” Myrtle shouted, before slapping her husband on the back and making him pull away.

  She’s right, Owen thought as he stood up. He glanced over at Burke’s, then up at Stirna’s. “Sunday blue laws,” he said to himself, and started for town in search of a speakeasy willing to serve him on the Lord’s Day.

  * * *

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Grace said, pointing her spoon toward an empty chair. “How many times do I have to tell you that patience is a virtue?”

  Violet watched the one-sided conversation from the doorway. Dread soured in her stomach and rose up in her throat. She shuffled into the kitchen and sat down wit
hout saying a word.

  “You startled me.” Grace turned to her daughter and smiled. “I never heard you come in.” She stood up, poured a glass of milk, and slid it toward Violet. “I have a surprise for you,” she said, grabbing a towel-covered plate. “I made them this morning while you were sleeping.”

  Violet removed the cover and found a dozen Welsh cakes stacked in front of her. “Thank you,” she managed as fear coursed through her belly. “I’ll have one in a minute.”

  “I remember the day I met your father . . .” Grace looked over at the empty chair and her voice trailed off. She stepped over to the shelf, lifted the tin labeled, Concentrated Lye, and set it back in its place. “Plenty of time,” she said, shaking her head.

  “For what?” Violet asked.

  “For anything. Your heart’s desire. What is it you’d like to do today?” Grace poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. “Of course, with me being this far along, whatever it is will have to be close to home. It would’ve been nice to see Billy Sunday, though. Won’t get that chance again.” She spooned cream off the top of the milk and stirred it into her cup. White foam bubbled on top. “That’s money in your pocket,” she said and laughed. “Learned that from your father.” She paused. “Did I ever tell you?”

  Violet shook her head.

  “Something his mother taught him. Your grandmother, God rest her soul. Don’t know why. Just the same.” She scooped the foam and handed the spoon to Violet. “That’s money in your pocket.” Grace sat quietly for a minute, looking off, through the window. “He’s a good man,” she finally said, “your father. We must always remember that, no matter what happens.”

  * * *

  The widow took Stanley’s hand and led him toward the tabernacle. They fell into step with all the other folks making their way in to see Billy Sunday’s first service. The blazing sun melted what little snow was left on the ground, and mud oozed up between the wooden sidewalks. “A glorious day,” the widow remarked as Myrtle Evans and her family approached.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Myrtle said. “Nice to see you’re not tied to some pope over in Italy when it comes to Christian activities.”

  Mildred nodded. “Especially since Mr. Sunday seems to be so tolerant of you Catholics.”

  “Zeby cie kaczka kopnęła,” the widow replied. She had always liked this particular expression from the old country: Let a duck kick you. It was mild enough to suggest no real harm, yet pointed enough to be satisfying.

  Myrtle noticed Stanley chuckling and said to the widow, “Pardon?”

  The widow looked wide-eyed at the boy, suddenly realizing he’d learned more Polish in his time with her than she’d imagined. “A blessing for those around me,” she lied.

  “Quack, quack,” Stanley mumbled under his breath, and laughed.

  * * *

  Electrified bulbs burned overhead as an usher guided the widow and Stanley down one of many aisles covered in cinders, sawdust, and pine shavings.

  “Smells like Mr. Harris’s barn,” Stanley said. “I wish Sophie could be here to see this.”

  The widow chortled as she slid halfway down the length of a makeshift pew. “Now wouldn’t that be a story. The Catholics who brought their mule to meet Mr. Sunday.” She grinned and tussled Stanley’s hair. “Myrtle Evans would have a field day with that one.” This got them both laughing so hard, the people in front of them turned and glared.

  Stanley stared right back and said, “Zeby cie kaczka kopnęła,” with a perfect Polish accent.

  Shock flashed across the widow’s face, but wouldn’t settle in. Some other expression worked its way forward. “Quack, quack,” she managed just before a fit of giggles took hold of the pair again.

  The widow knew they needed to compose themselves, so she and Stanley stopped looking at each other, and focused on the tabernacle. And they did eventually settle, with no more than an occasional hiccup or two of laughter.

  White muslin stretched across an empty stage, twenty feet wide and ten feet tall, with Preachers’ Row on the right and dignitaries on the left. Mayor Jermyn sat in the front, waiting to be introduced. Jury-rigged telephone lines and telegraph instruments surrounded the platform, guaranteeing quick reporting and extra editions of local newspapers. Behind the pulpit, choir members from all over Scranton sang hymns of invitation in preparation for Billy Sunday’s appearance.

  “We’d like to sit up close,” Mildred Evans told the usher who was guiding her down the sawdust-covered aisle toward the same pew where the widow and Stanley sat.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, the front seats are reserved.”

  “Well, then move over,” Mildred said, tapping Stanley on the shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with your legs, now is there?”

  The widow pursed her lips as she slid down to the end of the row with the boy in hand.

  At his mother’s urging, Evan Two-Times slid in next to Stanley.

  The widow bristled. If Evan thought he was going to sit there and make unkind remarks to Stanley, he had another think coming. She eyed the troublemaker and waited.

  Evan stared at Stanley’s handless forearm for a couple of minutes. “Can I see?”

  Stanley smiled, unpinned the cover, and pulled back a corner, before the widow could react. “Look!” he said proudly. Red ropes of thickened flesh twisted across the surface. “Gets itchy sometimes,” he explained, scratching the stump.

  “Stanley!” the widow yelled. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  He quickly pulled the cover over, and Evan pinned it in place. Both boys giggled and nudged each other playfully.

  When everyone had settled into their seats, Homer Rodeheaver stepped onto the platform, turned to the choir, and applauded. “As Mr. Sunday’s music director, I must say, it’s been a blessing to work with so many trained voices. Beautiful.” He started to clap again, and the audience joined in. “Just beautiful,” he repeated at the end of the applause. “Now, before Billy Sunday takes the pulpit, I’d like to read the roll call of organizations which have come to attend this meeting in a body.” He peered out into the reserved sections. “We are supposed to have with us today the Boy Scouts of Green Ridge. Are you here? Rise up and let us have a look at you.”

  About thirty boys between the ages of ten and eighteen stood at their seats.

  “My, how good you look. What a nice healthy lot of young people you are and how well the uniforms fit you. Now tell me your favorite song, and we’ll sing it for you.”

  “‘Blessed Assurance’!” the smallest boy yelled.

  Mr. Rodeheaver turned to Mr. Ackley at the piano and said, “You heard the man,” and everyone at the revival stood up to sing.

  After the song ended, the music director called out, “Where are the iron workers from the Scranton labor unions?” Six rows of people stood. “I see you have brought your wives along with you too, eh? That is wise. Never let the boys go out alone. Not even to the tabernacle. Now, what is your favorite song?”

  “‘The Old Rugged Cross’!” one of the men shouted, and Mr. Ackley began playing again.

  The roll call continued in this fashion for about an hour, ending with the Masons from the Moon Lodge in Providence. “A fine Christian organization,” Rodeheaver said. “Brothers in Christ. And who is your Worshipful Master?”

  Warren Maxsom raised his hand.

  “We’ll be pleased to sing a song for you. Tell me your favorite.”

  “With all due respect,” Warren said, “the Boy Scouts got to it first.”

  “‘Blessed Assurance,’” Rodeheaver said to Ackley. “A finer song we’ll never hear.” Ackley nodded in agreement and began to play the tune a second time.

  At the end of the song, the crowd of about two thousand noticed for the first time that Billy Sunday had somehow slipped in, and now stood waiting on the platform behind a simple wooden pulpit. Women smoothed their skirts and men buttoned their jackets. Even the children knew to straighten up on the hard wooden bench
es, thanks in equal parts to instinct and stern parental warnings received earlier that morning.

  “I have a message that burns its way into your soul and into my heart!” Billy Sunday shouted. “My words may be strong, but they are bloodred with conviction!” He pounded his fist against the pulpit and leaped out to the front of the platform. “I must cry out!”

  Several of the dignitaries appeared to be confused by Sunday’s rapid-fire style of speaking, but women in the congregation waved white handkerchiefs and cried out, “Amen!”

  “Be not deceived, Paul tells us in Galatians, God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” Sunday pulled out his handkerchief and patted his damp face. “I know of no more suitable text in all the Bible for the subject that I have in hand for this morning’s service.” He paused as if mustering fortitude for a distasteful chore. “For-bid-den a-muse-ments.” He stretched each crude syllable to its limit, before spitting into his hanky. “I’m speaking of theatre, cards, and dance.” Several heads bobbed along Preachers’ Row.

  “You know that the theatre had its beginning in the church and was intended to be the handmaid of religion.” Sunday pranced back and forth across the length of the platform, daring every fixed eye to keep up with him. “It produced so much fuss and trouble that they were compelled to drop it. Unless the theatre is redeemed, it will fall by its own stinking rottenness.” He pulled a wooden bow back chair forward, swung his foot upon the seat, and pointed at the people in front of him. “If you want obscenity, you will find it in the theatre. Nowadays, your show has to be tainted in order to gather the coin.”

  Spontaneous “Amens” erupted from the crowd.

  “The capacity for amusing people along decent lines seems to have gone by. Instead, you will find divorce smeared all over the stage, and adultery even lurking in the flies. Why, there are shows where they have beds right in the middle of the stage, and carryings-on which, if they happened in your own homes, would result in a visit from the police!”

  About ten rows back, Miss Reese, the third grade teacher, swooned and dropped onto the sawdust-covered aisle. Those nearby fanned her until two men from the temporary first-aid station arrived and carried her out.