Читать книгу All Waiting Is Long - Barbara J. Taylor - Страница 11

Chapter four

FEBRUARY WINDS KICKED UP A FRESH DUSTING of winter outside Stanley’s bedroom window. Triangles of snow pressed into the ledge’s corners, as if taking refuge from the punishing squall. Inside his rented room, Stanley rubbed his stinging eyes with thumb and forefinger. He’d spent his entire Saturday studying, and still felt ill-prepared for Monday’s exam. Mining law. His most difficult class, and the most important one, if he intended to make a go of it in Scranton where politics and coal were a dirty business. Scranton. The word swelled inside Stanley’s brain, squeezing out the likes of Pennsylvania Coal Company v. Mahon and The Anthracite Coal Strike Commission of 1902.

Scranton. Home. Violet.

And there he was again, imagining her in that red dress on New Year’s Eve. The neckline dipped in the middle and curved up and around her breasts. A channel between two seas he ached to explore.

Stanley shook his head to loosen the vision. He couldn’t afford to get lost in her. Not tonight. He looked at the open textbook on his desk in front of the window. Clarence Darrow stared back at him in a photo taken at the Lackawanna County Courthouse in downtown Scranton. Someone had snapped it the day Darrow gave his closing argument to the Anthracite Commission in support of the striking miners. Stanley eyed the speech included on the page. We are working for democracy, for humanity, for the future . . .

Darrow’s words usually bolstered Stanley, especially when he flagged in his resolve to finish school before marrying. Violet would wait, he’d tell himself in the darkest part of night when longing took its shot at reason. With a law degree, he’d be able to feed his family and fight for the miners, who deserved better working conditions and higher wages. His own father had died in the mines, and though he had mostly been known for his cruel ways, Stanley still wanted to honor him and all the men who’d lost their lives to coal. Yes, he missed Violet. But what of it? There were families back home who’d never see their loved ones’ faces again. Stanley simply had to hold out for three more months. A small price to pay for their future. Violet knew that, even if she had been sulking when they’d said their goodbyes at the train station on New Year’s Day.

She would wait. She’d promised.

It was no use. The thought of her in that red dress washed over him again. Stanley shut his eyes and pictured Violet standing across the street on her porch just before midnight on New Year’s Eve. There she’d stood in that dress (oh, how he loved her in red), no coat, laughing, waiting for someone to open the door. “It’s my turn to be the first-footer,” she’d called out, rubbing her arms for warmth. According to Welsh tradition, the first foot to cross the threshold in the New Year should belong to someone with dark hair. “I almost forgot,” she’d said, grabbing the coal bucket from the steps. Fuel in the hand of the first-footer symbolized work and warmth, two gifts all mining families needed.

Violet hadn’t waved Stanley over that night. Her parents didn’t approve of their relationship. Owen, her father, had loved Stanley for as long as he’d known him; he’d carried the boy out of the mine the day he’d lost his hand, but even he couldn’t abide a mixed marriage. “Unevenly yoked,” her father had said. “Protestants should marry Protestants. Catholics, Catholics. Says so in the Bible.”

After Stanley’s father died, the widow Lankowski raised the ten-year-old as her own son. She brought him to live in the only Polish home on Spring Street, across from Violet and her family, so Stanley understood Owen’s way of thinking. Most Catholics from up at St. Stanislaus felt the same way.

That’s why Stanley had to finish school before asking Violet’s father for her hand. The lot of a lawyer’s wife was far better than that of a miner’s, and Owen Morgan knew it. Would he rather she end up with someone poor just because he was Protestant? Someone like Tommy Davies? A nice enough fellow who’d lived next door to Violet all her life, baptized in the Providence Christian Church. But what did any of that matter if Tommy Davies would never be able to give her the life she deserved on a miner’s wages, or worse yet, make a widow of her before her time? Owen understood the dangers of that life, and Stanley was convinced that like most fathers, he wanted better for his daughter.

His purpose renewed, Stanley turned his attention back to his textbook and began reading.

“Don’t shoot!” The door inched open, and a pasty arm poked into the room, waving an envelope like a flag of surrender.

Stanley watched as Evan Evans stepped inside, laughing good-naturedly as though they’d shared in the joke.

Evan Evans had been the neighborhood bully as far back as Stanley could remember. Bad enough they’d grown up one block away from one another, but fate had somehow thrown them together in the same rooming house a few months earlier, when Evan took a job with the railroad.

“I’m trying to study.”

“My mistake.” Evan held the envelope to his nose and inhaled loudly. “I thought you’d want to hear from . . .” He paused. “Now that’s odd. It’s the widow’s return address,” he held the letter up to the light and squinted, “but the signature reads, Your Violet.”

“Where did you . . . ?” Stanley jumped up and grabbed the envelope.

Evan shrugged. “Someone must’ve seen the Scranton postmark and put it in my box.”

“I’ll bet.” Stanley sat back down with the letter in hand and turned toward his books. He’d had it with Evan Evans and his dirty tricks—in grade school he’d tell on classmates any chance he got, running his mouth about the gossip his no-good mother concocted, and worst of all, picking on Violet after her sister died.

Sniffing the air, Evan remarked, “You can still smell the perfume.” He snickered. “I’d say she’s sweet on you.”

“Stay out of it. I’m warning you.”

“Whoa! I’m just the messenger.” He pivoted his foot as if to leave but continued facing forward. “Of course, I have to wonder what her parents would think if they found out.”

Stanley shot up from his chair and the letter fell to the floor. He pinned Evan against the wall with his handless arm and gripped his throat with the good one. The fact that Evan stood a head taller made no difference. “Tell anyone about this,” Stanley paused to give his words weight, “and, swear to God, I’ll kill you.” He held Evan a moment longer before letting go.

Evan smoothed his shirt, adjusted his collar, and finger-combed his hair. “Nice way to treat an old friend,” he said.

“We were never friends.” Stanley picked up the letter and sat down on his bed. “Now get the hell out.”

“I won’t forget this,” Evan said, and he skulked out of the room.

Fifteen minutes passed before Stanley finally began to simmer down. He held the envelope the whole time, but chose not to open it in his agitated state. Violet deserved his full attention.

Threat or no threat, by Monday morning, Evan Evans would have a letter in the mail to his mother Myrtle who would claim it was her Christian duty to call on Violet’s mother, Grace.

The news would upset Mrs. Morgan, but it probably wouldn’t shock her, or Owen. They’d spent a considerable amount of time over the years trying to thwart the most steadfast kind of love—that which is rooted in friendship. Stanley and Violet had been playmates in childhood, fishing up at Leggett’s Creek, calling birds in the woods alongside the dairy. But when adolescence struck, society’s mores and a newfound self-consciousness created a natural distance between them. Mrs. Morgan seized her chance, nudging Violet toward more feminine pursuits such as painting, needlework, and Bible study with the girls from Sunday school. On the occasions when Stanley did stop by, Mr. Morgan would say, “It’s too nice a day to be cooped up inside,” or, “Go have fun with your buddies,” before sending him on his way.

Fortunately for Stanley and Violet, the widow Lankowski favored romance over practicality. “You were destined to be together,” she often said when recounting her part in their courtship. “I knew it the day I caught the pair of you playing hooky down at Murray’s store. You couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. There you both were, trembling in your boots over getting caught. But neither one of you turned against the other. You faced what you had coming together. God’s hand is in that kind of love.” Just to be sure, the widow had explained, she decided to put her hand in as well.

“I hear Violet’s been working over at Walsh’s,” she said on the Saturday Stanley returned home from his freshman year in college. When he didn’t bite, she added, “The studio,” then another pause, “on Lackawanna Avenue.”

“I know where it is.” When had Violet taken an interest in photography? For some reason this irritated Stanley.

“She’s coloring the portraits.”

At least that part made sense. Violet had always had a steady hand. “I know what you’re doing, Babcia.” He called her grandmother in Polish. Although the widow wasn’t related to Stanley by blood, he’d started using the name soon after she’d taken him in. It seemed fitting, given her age and importance in his life.

“I’m telling you about an old friend. That’s what I’m doing,” she’d said, peeling a lace tablecloth off a pile of linens and handing one corner to Stanley. “An old friend.” She searched the outstretched lace for the portion in need of repair. “With a new job.”

“There.” Stanley used his stump to point to a small tear near the center of the fabric.

“Who works most Saturdays.” The widow sat down in a chair next to her sewing table and draped the cloth across her lap. “Perfect for an unmarried girl.” She examined several spools of thread before selecting the closest match. “Almost as good as lace work.”

Stanley ignored the widow’s obvious attempt at matchmaking. For one thing, he had no interest in courting Violet. And for another, he’d purposely taken the early train back from school so he’d be home in time to see the debut of Queenie the baby elephant up at Nay Aug Zoo. Queenie, Scranton’s first elephant, had been purchased with donations from children all over the city. Stanley had always had a soft spot for animals. As a boy, he’d even had a pet mule named Sophie. A beautiful creature, white as snow. She’d met her maker some years earlier, but every time Stanley passed the Harrises’ barn where he’d kept her, he liked to pretend she was still inside, sleeping or munching on an apple.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he called out to the widow. June 14, 1924—a day so beautiful, he decided to walk the four miles to Nay Aug. It would give him a chance to clear his head.

Violet. Although he was no longer interested in her, he did find it funny that she was working for an Irishman, a Catholic no less. What would her father think of that? I suppose he has no qualms about Catholic money, Stanley thought, just Catholic suitors.

He walked over to Providence Square and continued down North Main Avenue, toward town. But Stanley liked Owen. He’d always been kind to him. They just happened to disagree about what was best for Violet. Not that it mattered now. Yes, Stanley had carried a torch for her in high school, but he’d moved on. He’d taken Lorraine Day to the St. Valentine’s Day formal. Hadn’t seen her since, but Violet certainly didn’t figure into that.

Stanley walked on, past Scranton Central High School, their alma mater. For a moment he remembered standing outside the boys’ entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of Violet as she entered on the girls’ side.

Instead of turning up Vine Street to get to Nay Aug, he headed toward town. Toward Lackawanna Avenue. Was there a law against a fellow stopping by to say hello to an old friend? For that’s what she was, an old friend. He continued this line of reasoning as he passed the post office, the courthouse, and another block of storefronts.

He stopped and looked across the street at a moss-green awning proclaiming, Walsh’s Portrait Studio, in bright white letters. Stanley considered his greeting. Keep it cheerful, he thought, as you would with any friend. So good to see you. No need to fawn over her. Wouldn’t want to give the girl the wrong idea.

He glanced at his reflection in a shoemaker’s window, pushed down a cowlick at the part in his hair, and crossed the intersection. Maybe he’d tell her how well she looked. To do less would be impolite.

As soon as he arrived on the other side of the street, his heart fell. A sign, posted on the front door, read, Closed early. Tacked next to it, a newspaper clipping announced, “See Queenie, the Kiddies’ Own Elephant, All Day Saturday.” Someone, Mr. Walsh most likely, had also put a basket of peanuts out for anyone heading up to the zoo.

Well, if that didn’t take the cake. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but he was annoyed with her just the same. And with Babcia for wasting his time. And with himself for behaving so foolishly. He grabbed a peanut out of the basket, cracked the shell with one hand, and popped its contents into his mouth.

The door swung open. “They’re for the elephant.” Violet laughed, stepping outside.

“I thought you . . .” Stanley’s cheeks burned.

She pulled the door shut, locked it, and turned toward him. “What a wonderful surprise.” She squeezed his arm and stepped back to look at him. “College suits you.”

Stunned, Stanley stood in silence another moment before saying, “You’re still . . .” he paused to gaze, “so beautiful.” As soon as he said the words, an awkwardness settled over them, the sort of awkwardness that comes when two people suddenly and simultaneously understand the stakes.

“Queenie awaits,” Violet finally said, looping her arm through Stanley’s handless one and pulling him toward Nay Aug.

* * *

Thousands of people turned out for a chance to see a real elephant, so the line stretched beyond the limits of the zoo, into the picnic grove.

“All waiting is long,” Violet said after they’d been standing for half an hour.

Stanley could be impatient at times, even stubborn, but not today, not with Violet so near, so beautiful. “Didn’t your mother used to say that?” He studied her dress, that face, those eyes, committing all of it to memory.

She nodded. “And her mother before her.”

“All depends on who you’re waiting with, I say.” He smiled and thought for a moment he might kiss her.

“Get your souvenirs here!” a vendor called out from behind a wheeled cart. He stopped alongside Stanley and motioned to a herd of button-eyed elephants with colorful chintz hides. “A remembrance for the lady?”

Coins changed hands before Violet could object. Stanley studied the pile and selected the floppy-legged version whose loaf-shaped body suggested a permanent state of repose. “Violets,” he said, pointing out the delicate flowers on the fabric. He handed her the keepsake, adding, “For you.”

Twenty minutes later they took their turn in front of Queenie, a footnote now in Stanley’s memory. His wait with Violet, her sunburned nose, her licorice breath, was what remained indelible in his mind.

They were holding hands by the time they left the zoo. The kiss took another two days and a good deal of courage on both their parts. When Stanley finally asked if that had been her first, Violet simply said, “It’s the only one that matters.” She’d meant to reassure him, he was convinced, but her words rankled him. Someone else had tasted those lips. Tommy Davies, most likely, though Violet refused to discuss the matter. She didn’t have to. Stanley had seen the way Tommy looked at her.

* * *

Stanley lifted the letter to his face, savoring the scent of lilacs. Violet had waited long enough. Come graduation, he was going to marry her. He wouldn’t even unpack his bag. He’d go over to her house and ask her father for her hand, as a gesture of respect. If Mr. Morgan said no, he’d take Violet and leave as planned. He knew of a justice of the peace in Philadelphia who would marry them, and before the end of May, they’d be Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Adamski.