Читать книгу Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night - Barbara J. Taylor - Страница 15

CHAPTER SEVEN

BY LATE SEPTEMBER, Violet had only attended school a handful of days. She’d go as far as the oak tree on School Street and wait to hear the two-syllabled chew-chew of the cardinal. She’d reply with a series of sharp chip, chip whistles, the only call she was able to imitate accurately. Stanley would step out from behind the elderberry bushes where he’d been hiding until the boys passed on their way down the hill.

“Fish are biting,” he’d announce, handing her one of two poles. Off they’d go until the end of the school day.

Violet had even stopped going home for lunch, something her mother never seemed to question. She also never asked Violet about the suckers and chubs she’d started bringing into the house every now and again. If anything, she seemed relieved not to have to think about supper.

On the few occasions when Violet did show up for school, Miss Reese smiled at her politely and went about her lesson. Only once did the teacher pull her aside and address the matter of her absences.

“We’ve missed you in school,” Miss Reese said, and she sounded sincere.

Violet took a deep breath, wondering why she hadn’t prepared for this moment. Should she lie? If so, what lie would she tell?

“Tending to your mother,” Miss Reese paused as if searching for words, “considering the circumstances, is admirable.”

Miss Reese seemed to think she understood the situation, so Violet thought it best not to contradict her.

“It speaks to your character. A pleasant surprise for all.”

For all? Violet wondered at the remark, but remained silent.

“I’m sorry about school, but I’m proud of you nonetheless.” The teacher managed a smile, one where the corners of her mouth lifted without alerting the eyes of their intention.

Violet burst into tears and this time gladly accepted the handkerchief Miss Reese held before her.

* * *

“What happened to fishing?” Violet asked one morning late in September as Stanley popped out of the bushes without his poles.

“I’m tired of fishing,” he explained. “And I’m tired of fish.”

“So now what?”

Stanley smiled and started up the hill.

Twenty minutes later, enough time for him to teach Violet the saw of wren, they arrived at a grove of trees just beyond Leggett’s Creek.

“Apples? Why didn’t you say so?” Violet twisted an apple off a lower branch, shined it on her sleeve, and took a hearty bite.

“And I’m the one they call stupid,” Stanley said as he scrambled up into a tree. “I’ll drop them down. You try and catch them. No one will want to buy them if they’re bruised.”

Violet took three more quick bites and threw the core deep into the tall grass. She bent her legs, cupped her hands, and yelled, “Ready!”

* * *

After half an hour, the pair had picked more fruit than they could possibly carry. Stanley loaded his pockets, while Violet gathered her skirt as a sack, taking great care not to show her bloomers along the way.

“Let’s go.” Stanley led Violet to a side road, in the opposite direction of home. “No sense taking chances.”

* * *

Two hours later, after they’d sold, dropped, or eaten all their apples, the pair headed back toward Providence Square with a nickel between them.

“Murray’s?” Stanley suggested. “They have a whole counter in the back with nothing but candy.”

“What if we’re seen?”

“Who’s going to catch us? School hasn’t let out yet. Everyone else is either working or starting supper.”

Violet stopped to consider his points.

“Peanut brittle sure would taste good right about now.” Stanley smacked his lips together.

“And gumdrops,” she added as they started down the hill toward the square.

* * *

The screen door yawned open, brushing against a cowbell suspended overhead.

Violet followed Stanley past bolts of fabric, men’s hats, and a fine china display.

“Be careful!” a woman shouted from somewhere in the store, Mrs. Murray, the owner’s wife, by the sound of it.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stanley returned as he continued toward the back. He paused to admire a bounty of chocolate, while Violet went in search of her favorite treat.

“No fooling around.” Mrs. Murray, a rake of a woman, stepped behind the candy case and grabbed an apron off a nail. She wrapped the strings behind her thin frame and around front again. With fabric still left over, she tied a substantial bow over her hollow stomach. She obviously never sampled her own wares. “What can I get you?”

Stanley piped up first: “Peanut brittle.” He placed the money on the counter.

“And gumdrops,” Violet added. After all, that nickel was just as much hers. “Red ones, please.”

“You’ll take what color I give you,” the woman said as she shoveled a scoop of gumdrops into a paper sack. “No more brittle till tomorrow. Sold the last of it this morning.” She swiped the nickel off the counter, tossed it into the register, and moved toward the front of the store.

Violet handed the bag to Stanley. “You can have the red ones if you like.”

Looking first to see their color, he popped two green candies into his mouth. “What a pickle puss,” he said when Mrs. Murray was out of earshot, and he started toward the door.

Violet spied the widow Lankowski near the entrance. A giant, standing six feet tall, she had at least a head’s advantage over most of her Welsh neighbors. She was also the only Catholic on Spring Street. All Violet had to do was look out her parlor window to see the proof, a foot-tall statue of Mary planted in the woman’s front yard. And if that weren’t enough, she was childless, making her even more suspect in the eyes of the children who seemed to prefer passing on the Morgan side of the street.

Violet grabbed Stanley by the collar and pulled him down behind a cracker barrel to the right of the china. She pointed and mouthed, “The widow.” Without a word between them, they agreed to wait the woman out.

“We Catholics are just as eager to meet Billy Sunday,” the widow Lankowski was explaining to Mrs. Murray. She straightened her fingers as far as her swollen knuckles would allow and raised her right hand. “God as my witness.”

Mrs. Murray nodded while she cut several yards of black muslin from a bolt on the table. “Glad to hear it,” she said, turning to wrap the fabric in a sheet of brown paper.

“We’re all God’s children, are we not?” the widow said.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Mrs. Murray cut a length of string, tied it around the package, and handed it to her customer. “That’ll be one dollar even.”

“And a bottle of Lydia Pinkum’s.”

Mrs. Murray motioned the widow to follow her to the right side of the store. “For what ails you,” she said, pointing to an assortment of bottles stacked on the shelves behind her, all promising to cure any number of female ailments.

“I’m fit as a fiddle,” the widow said. “An ounce of prevention is all.”

Mrs. Murray ran her finger across a ledge in search of the tonic. “There’s more in back. Just be a minute.”

The widow glanced around the store before turning to the counter, where she pulled out a small red book and pencil, and recorded her purchases.

Stanley saw his chance and yanked Violet left around the barrel. “Move,” he whispered, keeping hold of her hand. Both pairs of feet scurried toward the door, but their eyes remained fixed on the widow’s giant frame. As they reached the front of the store, Stanley finally breathed and smiled, “I thought we were in for it.”

The screen door yawned, the cowbell rang, and the children collided with Myrtle Evans just as she crossed the threshold.

“What in the world?” Myrtle placed a hand on the head of each child and pushed them backward into the store. “Mrs. Murray?” she shouted. “Come here this minute.”

“She’s in the storeroom,” the widow Lankowski called out, moving toward the entrance. She eyed the prey trying to wriggle free of Myrtle’s talon grip. “And what do you have to say for yourselves?”

“Probably trying to rob her blind,” Myrtle offered as she dug her nails in a little deeper. “Mrs. Murray?” she called again.

“Where are your manners?” the widow asked, looking at Violet and Stanley. “Apologize to Myrtle Evans.”

Violet willed her lips to move. “Sorry,” she managed a beat before Stanley. Their apologies overlapped like songs sung in rounds.

“Now if you’d waited for me at the counter like I told you, none of this would have happened.”

The children’s eyes sprang up and their mouths popped open as they pivoted toward the widow.

“They’re with you?” Myrtle asked, relaxing but not abandoning her hold.

“I asked the children if they wouldn’t mind helping me this afternoon. Gout’s acting up.”

“That so,” Myrtle said. “For someone who’s afflicted, you move real good.”

The widow allowed her left leg to slacken under her long skirt, as she leaned against a table of bed linens. “I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t think to ask their folks first. I’d be much obliged if we could keep this matter between us.” When Myrtle didn’t answer, the widow added, “We both know Grace doesn’t need bothering now.” She glanced in Stanley’s direction. “And who knows what his father would do. Beat the daylights out of him, I suppose.”

Stanley reared up, but Violet grabbed his wrist and squeezed.

Myrtle Evans said nothing, her lips pulled tight like a drawstring purse.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you if that was your Evan I saw pushing over poor Mr. Bonser’s outhouse on Thursday night. Sure looked like him, but I couldn’t say for certain. Eyes are about as bad as my gout.” She stood up straight and waited.

“Apology accepted.” Myrtle dropped her hands to her sides. “Consider the matter forgotten. You’ll not hear a word about it from me.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, Myrtle. The children and I are sure grateful.”

Mrs. Murray came back out, carrying a bottle of Lydia Pinkum’s. “One dollar and sixty-three cents, all together.”

The widow Lankowski paid Mrs. Murray, entered the price of the tonic in her red book, and handed the bottle to Violet and the muslin to Stanley. She said, “Good day,” as she ushered the two out through the screen door.

Dumbfounded, the children accompanied the widow in silence over and up to Spring Street. When they arrived at her back porch, she took both packages and held up a finger as a signal to wait. The pair exchanged glances, but stayed put. Stanley stared through the open door, as Violet nervously glanced around the yard. Her eyes settled on a statue of Jesus, similar in size to the one of Mary out front. Orange marigolds circled the stone savior, while gold and purple pansies flanked His outstretched arms.

A minute later, the widow returned to the door with an oatmeal cookie in each hand. “A little thank you for your time. I’m making molasses taffy Saturday night. Come around after church on Sunday.”

Both children nodded, still unable to speak.

The widow peered at Violet. “Remember me to your mother.” She turned her attention to Stanley. “If you’d like to accompany me to Mass this week, I’d be much obliged. Haven’t seen your father since long before your matka passed, God rest her soul, but that’s no reason for you to stay away. Eight o’clock. No later.”

“Yes ma’am,” Stanley managed as he backed down the steps.

Violet finally found her voice when they crossed over to her house. “I didn’t know you were a Catholic.”

“Neither did I.”