Читать книгу Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night - Barbara J. Taylor - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

OWEN PUSHED TWO EMPTY GLASSES TOWARD THE BARKEEP. “Shot and a beer.”

“Ain’t nothing sold on credit.”

Owen reached into his pocket for a few more coins, found a greenback instead, and handed it over. He knew better than to stop at Burke’s Gin Mill on his way home from work, but he couldn’t help himself. A few men standing around a bar, each with one foot resting on the rail and the other planted on the sawdust-covered floor, made for a peaceful moment.

The door squeaked open behind him, and he turned to see Joey Lewis and his brother Bobby, both timbermen down at the Sherman Mine, regulars at the beer garden. He waved, turned toward the bar, and threw back his whiskey.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you was a teetotaler,” Joey said, slapping Owen on the back. “What are you drinking?”

Owen held up his hand. “This here’s my last.” He drained the beer, pocketed his change, and turned to leave. “Need to look in on Grace. And see about Violet’s first day.”

Joey and Bobby nodded solemnly. They were neglecting wives and children of their own. “One more,” Joey said, pulling out a handful of nickels.

Owen hesitated. The men were decent enough company, but he didn’t go to Burke’s for company.

“For the motherland,” Bobby added, and he started in on the first verse of “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau,” “Land of Our Fathers.”

Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,

Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri . . .

Joey and Owen couldn’t help but join in.

Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mâd,

Tros ryddid gollasant eu gwaed.

Four whiskeys later, they started their national anthem again, this time in English.

The land of my fathers, the land of my choice,

The land in which poets and minstrels rejoice;

The land whose stern warriors were true to the core,

While bleeding for freedom of yore.

The three men raised their glasses, “Iechyd da, for our beloved Wales,” putting Owen in mind of the last time he’d seen home.

Sixteen years earlier, his mam had packed the family Bible in his suitcase. “Always remember,” she had said, “sin will keep you from the Bible, but the Bible will keep you from sin.” Owen kissed her and headed for the train station with a leaflet in his pocket promising, High wages for skilled miners. He took one last look at his hometown of Aberdare, with its winding dirt roads and rolling green hills, and set off for New York by way of Liverpool. During the crossing, he met Graham Davies from the town of Flint in the northeast corner of Wales, and the two became fast friends. Once in New York, Owen and Graham continued by rail to Scranton, Pennsylvania, where according to the advertisements, Anthracite Is King. They were confident they’d find jobs in the coal mines.

The first year, they worked out of the Marvine Mine in the Hunky Patch, a Scranton neighborhood of mostly Poles, Lithuanians, and Hungarians. In late 1899, that operation shut down for a few months while the drillers went about finding new veins. Owen and Graham moved on to the Sherman Mine in the Providence section of the city, on the recommendation of Hattie Goodfellow, the widow who owned the boarding house. “Not one to take guff,” she said of the mine owner, “but he’s fair. No need to keep your eye on the scale,” she added, referring to the rumor that the Marvine superintendent underreported the weight of the miners’ coal cars, cheating them out of pay.

While prosperity seemed slow in finding them, Owen and Graham earned enough money to pay for their room and meals with a little left over to buy the beer that washed away the last of the coal dust at the end of the twelve-hour workday. Hattie overlooked the trips to the gin mill as long as her boarders didn’t try to carry drink onto the premises. Not known to take guff herself, the men obliged.

Of course, Owen’s drinking days had ended when he married Grace. “There’s no place for the demon alcohol in a Christian home,” she’d told him. As long as she promised to stay by his side, he would have agreed to any sacrifice.

* * *

“Another round,” Joey said as he flagged the barkeep.

“I’ve had my last pint, boys. I’m headed for home.” Owen staggered out the door well after one in the morning, wishing he had a full moon to light his way. Grace would be angry, and he couldn’t blame her. Nothing worse than a drunkard in her eyes. Thinking time might sober him up, he crossed Market Street and stared up at the redbrick church, anchoring the northwest corner of Providence Square. It featured twelve stained-glass windows and a white steeple that aspired toward heaven. Providence Christian Church, he thought, sitting down on the steps for a breather. The very place that had led him to Grace.

About two years after they’d arrived in Scranton, Owen and Graham took a stroll up to the square on the last Saturday in August. According to Hattie, it was Old Home Week, a time when residents past and present gathered to celebrate the founders of their neighborhood with parades; music; red, white, and blue buntings; and fireworks. American flags adorned porches and storefronts, and shop owners advertised their wares at special prices. Women sat at tables in front of their churches, selling a variety of foods; halupkies from the Poles, corned beef from the Irish, pickled herring and onions from the Jews—a taste of the old country, whichever one that might be.

As they approached the fair, Owen spied pice ar y maen, Welsh cakes, arranged three to a plate, and he smelled home for the first time since leaving Aberdare. For a moment, he remembered Mam working the lard and measuring the currants at the kitchen table. He said a silent prayer for her and meandered over to the Providence Christian Church’s table. Graham followed.

Owen froze at the sight of the two girls seated in front of him.

“May I help you?” asked the one on the left.

Owen simply stared at her, wishing he’d had a drink or two to loosen his tongue.

“Would you like to buy some Welsh cakes?” asked the one on the right. “A penny a piece, or three for two cents.” She smiled broadly, her teeth perfectly straight, her cheeks inexpertly rouged. Graham returned the smile. Owen remained transfixed on the first girl, with long brunette curls and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

Graham ignored his friend, searched his pocket, found a nickel, and passed it to the redheaded girl on the right. She pushed forward two plates and said, “Kindly return them when you’ve finished eating.” She placed the nickel in a cigar box and retrieved a penny.

Graham held up his hand. “A donation for the church.” The pair shared another smile before he managed to shove Owen away from the table.

“What’s got into you?” Graham asked, handing Owen a plate.

“I’ll take the chubby one.” Owen’s first words.

“You don’t say.” Graham patted his friend’s shoulder and laughed.

Owen paused to collect his thoughts. “I’d like to court the one on the left. If she’s not spoken for. Her with the pretty blue eyes.”

“So long as you leave one for me.”

* * *

Owen and Graham began attending the Providence Christian Church of Scranton the very next day, two services every Sunday and one on Wednesday nights. The chubby one, the girl on the left, made no offer of her name. Owen reminded himself that a proper lady waited to be asked. Each time he saw her, he tried to muster the courage, but failed.

The one on the right, Louise, wasted no time introducing herself to Graham. She told him about her life as the child of a maid in the Jones household. How Mrs. Jones refused to allow her daughters to “consort” with Louise, even the youngest, who was her age. The two played together anyway, but in secret, the beginning of a lifelong friendship. She also made mention of a scandal resulting in Mr. Jones’s demise. With the family disgraced, the youngest Miss Jones was forced to take a job as a maid herself, “her with the pretty blues eyes.”

Graham passed all of this along to Owen, who only became more nervous when he realized Miss Jones had been raised with certain advantages. Even if she’s not living that life now, he thought whenever she sat in the same pew at Christian Endeavors, a Sunday school class for the young adults of the church, what could I offer so fine a woman?

Owen’s paralysis persisted, even after three months of church attendance. When she’d glide past him to collect the Bibles, he couldn’t breathe. If she stood to make an announcement about a covered-dish dinner or a visiting missionary, he’d avert his eyes so that his affection would not spill out.

And then came Thanksgiving.

Hattie had invited Owen and all the men without family to share in a meal. Owen donated the bird, one he’d shot a couple of days before in Chinchilla, the next town over. When Hattie called everyone to the table, she suggested Owen sit at the head, since it was his turkey they were serving.

“A beautiful bird,” one man said admiringly.

“Chester never looked so good,” Owen said with a wink. Chester was Hattie’s prize rooster and the bane of every man who boarded there. In addition to his sunrise duties, Chester crowed whenever someone tried to sneak in after Hattie’s ten o’clock curfew. He also nipped the ankles of anyone he disliked, and he disliked everyone except Hattie herself.

“Chester may be the ugliest bird God gave breath to,” Hattie said, “but he’s the best watchdog I ever had.” She sat down on Owen’s right, near the kitchen door so she could clear the table and refill dishes. “And I know that’s not Chester on my platter because he’d have bitten your nose off by now.” Everyone laughed.

Just then, Miss Jones with the pretty blue eyes rushed into the dining room full of apologies, her cheeks flushed, her brow dappled with sweat. On one side, strands of dark hair pulled free from her bun and fell across her face.

Owen looked at Hattie. He’d seen the two women talking together at church on occasion, but it hadn’t occurred to him that they were more than acquaintances. They never sat together that he could recall.

“The colonel’s dinner took longer than expected. I hope you didn’t wait for me.” Miss Jones paused for a moment, glanced at Owen stuck to his seat, and pulled out her own chair. “We had forty-eight people. Can you imagine?” she asked him, turning to the right. “I’m Grace. Grace Jones,” she said. “Hattie’s sister.” Owen didn’t stir. “I believe we both attend Providence Christian.”

Owen wanted to speak, to tell her how lovely she looked with her hair pulled back and a silk flower behind her ear. He yearned to tell her how sweet she smelled, an intoxicating blend of lilacs and vanilla, but he couldn’t find the words.

“I work as a live-in maid for Colonel Watres, like my sister, before she married.” Grace unfolded a linen napkin and arranged it on her lap. “Over on Quincy Avenue. And I also teach piano to his children.”

Hattie interrupted: “Owen, will you lead us in the blessing?”

His throat clamped shut so tightly that words, even if he’d been able to find them, could not escape. He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and with great effort, managed to loosen a single syllable: “Grace.”

After an embarrassing silence, Graham jumped in. “That’s prayer enough. Amen and let’s eat.” He grabbed a bowl of cooked rhubarb and spooned some onto his plate.

Red-faced, Owen pushed himself away from the table and hurried into the kitchen. He took a few swigs from a flask in his pocket as he paced back and forth. Occasionally he stopped and mumbled “Simpleton” or “Half-wit,” then started up pacing again. Just as he began his fourth pass across the kitchen, Grace pushed through the swinging door with an empty bowl in her hand.

“I’m not much for rhubarb myself,” she explained, “but the others sure seem to like it.” She laughed easily and strolled past Owen toward the stove.

He watched her back, the curve of it, the dampness of the blouse clinging to it. She turned toward him, and in one decisive movement, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into him for a kiss—hungry, urgent, necessary. He tucked the errant strands of hair behind her ear, pressed his lips against it, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found Grace on tiptoe, stretched toward him, her eyes wide. Betrayed by her own eagerness, she blushed and tumbled backward, her boot heels slapping against the linoleum floor. She scowled at Owen, who smiled broadly, suddenly emboldened by her chagrin and the contents of his flask. He pulled her in and kissed her again, allowing his lips to linger this time.

Grace and Owen married at the Providence Christian Church six months later, on May 11, 1900, the same day he signed the Temperance Pledge under his father’s signature in his family’s Bible. If he’d had his way, they would have wed sooner, but Grace wanted to wait for the lilacs to bloom.

* * *

Owen smiled at the memory, stood up unsteadily from the church steps, and continued home. Though nowhere near sober, he knew enough to step around the side and enter through the kitchen. The front door took coaxing, and he didn’t want to run the risk of waking the whole house at two o’clock in the morning.

“Look at you,” Grace said from her seat at the table. She turned up the wick on the oil lamp and eyed him head to toe. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. Hair as black as coal. Still handsome, but his hollow-cheeked countenance startled her till she noticed his reddened nose poking through the coal dust. “A fine example for our children.”

They both gasped at the slip and wondered at the weight of it.

Grace found her voice again: “I don’t want drink in my house, Owen Morgan. I’ll not have it.”

Indignation pushed past Owen’s guilt and settled in, making itself at home in his mouth. “Your house, is it? Your house?” he yelled. “I suppose it’s your pay that puts food on the table and a roof over your head?” Owen grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself.

“Do you want to wake Violet?” Grace turned down the lamp as if to quiet him.

“Your house,” he continued. “And I’m what? A guest now?”

“A common drunkard, more like it.”

“You best hold your tongue, woman. I’ll not stand for it.”

“As if you could stand,” she countered.

He slammed the chair across the room, upending it. Grace jumped back in fear.

“I’m so sorry.” Owen reached for Grace’s arm, but she recoiled. “I didn’t mean to . . .” He righted the chair and sat down at the table across from her. “What kind of man am I?” He started to cry. “Look what you made me do.”

Anger swelled inside Grace, running off any hope for sympathy. She could feel the rigidity in her stance, in her soul. She knew she was looking down on her husband, judging him, but she could not help herself. “Get out of the house this minute.” She punctuated her statement with a fist to the table. “My father never took a drop of liquor in his life. I’ll not have a drunkard for a husband.” She stood up, hurried to the door, and held it open.

Owen pushed himself up and stood facing her. “Your father was a scoundrel. You and your highfalutin ways.” He took hold of the door. “Your father was nothing but a no-good coward.”

Grace slapped Owen across the face. He returned her blow without hesitation, and staggered out the door.