Читать книгу All Waiting Is Long - Barbara J. Taylor - Страница 15

Chapter seven

STANDING AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW, Violet watched the breaking sun lap up the last edges of the night. In the next half hour, all the girls at the Good Shepherd, including Lily, would be congregating in the dining room for a breakfast of creamed wheat topped with a little butter and sugar. Violet closed her eyes and imagined pice ar y maen, the little currant-filled Welsh cakes her mother would have made had they been home for Lily’s birthday. Whatever troubles her mother had, she always tried to make their birthdays special, and Violet would do the same, though she doubted the Reverend Mother would approve.

On top of the stove, an open glass bottle shivered inside a small pot of water. Violet grabbed the bottle, stretched a rubber nipple over its mouth, and tipped it onto her left wrist. The temperature was right, but a sour smell invaded Violet’s nose. Buttermilk. Extra nourishment for the harelipped infant now called Michael.

Mother Mary Joseph had named him. All of the asylum’s abandoned babies were named for saints. The day after the baby arrived, the Reverend Mother had asked Sister Immaculata to check her records.

“We haven’t had a Michael for some time,” the rotund nun had said without looking up from her paperwork.

Mother Mary Joseph had examined the child, bottom to top, holding her gaze on his crooked expression. “After the archangel. The great prince which standeth for the children.”

Violet carried the bottle back to the infant nursery and took Michael out of the crib. The Reverend Mother had been right about the buttermilk. Michael felt heavier in just a week’s time. After ten minutes, Violet draped a clean diaper over her shoulder and patted the baby’s back to coax a burp. He obliged almost immediately, with a sound usually reserved for bullfrogs. “Well, excuse me,” she said, her eyelids widening in feigned shock.

“He’s taken to you,” the Reverend Mother said, walking into the room and lifting the child from Violet’s lap. The nun gently placed the baby onto the white-enameled platform of an old spring scale that hung from the ceiling. A local grocer, who’d once used the device for cuts of meat, had donated it to the Good Shepherd after buying a newer model. “Weighs about . . .” Mother Mary Joseph waited for the needle on the dial to settle, “six and three-quarters. Up a pound and a half.” She handed the infant back to Violet. “Thanks be to God.”

For almost an hour, the Reverend Mother and Violet fed, bathed, and dressed twelve babies, one for each ivory-colored crib in the room. At five minutes to seven, the nun looked up at the clock. “Time for Mass.” She laid Judith Dennick’s infant in his crib, rubbed his belly, and turned to Violet. “I had hoped Sadie would be in to help you,” she said, glancing at the clock a second time. “But not today. I trust you’ll be fine without us this morning.”

Violet looked up and down three rows of cribs, four deep, with just enough space in between for one person to pass. “I’ll manage.” She tacked a smile onto her words, hoping to cover at least some of the indignation in her voice. Violet was annoyed with the nun for being so presumptuous with her time, but then again, she liked not having to go to Mass. All of that kneeling and bowing seemed undignified somehow. Protestants kneeled too, but in the privacy of their own homes.

“We’ll be offering up a prayer for the Hartwell girl.”

Violet looked up. “Muriel?”

“Started her pains in the middle of the night.”

Picturing the midwife’s hands, Violet asked, “Did someone go for the doctor?”

“No need for that. Sadie Hope is in with her.” Mother Mary Joseph stopped at the doorway and plucked a set of silver rosary beads from a nail on the wall. “Trust in the Lord and let nature take its course,” she said and walked out of the room.

Alone, with only infant witnesses, Violet dropped to her knees and prayed.

* * *

Mother Mary Joseph returned to the nursery at half past eleven.

“Any word on Muriel?” Violet asked.

“No change, but that’s not unusual.” The Reverend Mother walked across the room, pushed back the curtains over three identical windows, and peered out at the cheerless March day. “I had hoped for a little sun this afternoon . . .” She turned to the closest crib and scooped a baby girl into her arms. “Let’s get the little ones bundled up.”

The Reverend Mother believed in fresh air, no matter the weather. Each afternoon, the babies were swaddled in thick blankets, paired off in carriages, and placed on the front porch for two-hour naps. Mother Mary Joseph claimed that time outdoors kept children healthy—good advice, considering how robust her charges seemed to be.

“I need to run an errand,” Violet said. “I’ll wait till the children are napping.” She placed a bundled Michael into a wicker buggy, stepped over to the next crib, and started dressing a two-month-old named Bernadette. When Mother Mary Joseph didn’t respond, Violet added, “It’s Lily’s birthday, I’d like her to have something to open.”

“We don’t allow the girls—”

“With all due respect,” Violet interrupted, “I’m not one of the girls.”

The nun paused, as if to consider the point. “Well, we still have to dress the toddlers.” She nodded toward the room next door. “Sister Teresa is still in bed with a cold.”

“Yes,” Violet said, “but after that.”

“If you think it’s wise to reward her.” The Reverend Mother pushed a carriage to the doorway, and a waiting nun pulled it out of the room and onto the front porch. “Personally . . .”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise,” Violet said, her curt tone putting an end to the discussion.

* * *

Once all of the children were dressed and in their carriages, Violet left through the kitchen door and headed around front. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned back, examining the grounds in the daylight. A tall iron fence lined the tar-and-chip driveway leading up to the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum. Short but wide, the road stayed to the right, where a redbrick chapel stood, low and broad. According to Sadie, who loved a good story, the church had been erected in 1880 and was the first structure on the property. The adjoining three-story convent had been added a decade later, at the urging of Bishop McGoff, who thought a contingent of nuns would bolster the flagging morality of the women in Philadelphia. The convent appeared so grand with its tiled arches and rounded windows that the workmen added a twenty-foot steeple to the unadorned chapel free of charge. Almost immediately, and much to the bishop’s dismay, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary started sheltering unmarried women who found themselves in the family way. By the turn of the century, the nuns had raised enough money to add a small maternity hospital onto the left side of the convent, where the women could be delivered within the walls of the Good Shepherd.

Violet gave the asylum one last look before heading toward the millinery on the corner of Market and Broad, across the street from the train station. She’d noticed the shop the night she and Lily arrived. Considering Lily’s burgeoning form, a hat would make a sensible gift. Nothing too fussy, Violet thought. Nothing that would draw unwanted attention. She looked up at a street sign to get her bearings, and after a moment she turned left onto Market Street and followed it for six more blocks.

Gold letters on the store’s red sign announced, Widenor’s Hats. James Widenor, Proprietor. Violet eyed the merchandise in the window, wondering if Mr. Widenor would be willing to barter. She reached into her coat pocket and fingered the gold medallion awarded to her at graduation. The raised letters on front read:

Scranton Central High School

Valedictorian

Class of 1923

Violet’s parents had been so proud of her when she’d received the medal and delivered the valedictory address. She’d been honored with a scholarship to Bloomsburg Teacher’s College, and she might have gone too, if Lily had been a little older. Lily was only nine, and given their mother’s nervous episodes, Violet felt obligated to stay.

“I’m sorry,” was all her father had said. But the morning after graduation, she watched unseen as he placed the scholarship letter between the gilded pages of the family Bible.

Now Violet entered the milliner’s shop. Inside, she zigzagged around hat-covered trees in search of the shopkeeper or one of his assistants. At the rear of the store, she discovered a high counter with a cash register and silver desk bell. A note alongside the bell read, Ring once for service. Violet tapped the bell on top, releasing a tinny note.

“Be there in a minute!” a man called out.

“I’m in no hurry.” Violet meandered through a forest of tams, berets, and Panamas, in search of something quiet and sensible. Instead, she found herself staring at one of those modern, felt, creased-crown hats, trimmed with a periwinkle ribbon and matching silk forget-me-nots.

“A lovely choice.”

Violet jumped.

A pudgy gentleman was standing behind her. “What can I do you for?” He reached past Violet to the hat. “I own the place.” He took the hat and evened out the crease before placing it on her head.

“It’s not for me.” She snatched the hat and hung it on the bare limb before her. “I’m here to buy a present for my sister.”

“Just the same.” Mr. Widenor pulled a handheld mirror from a nearby shelf. “Indulge me.” He took the hat once again and pushed it down over her curls. “Lovely.” He handed her the mirror.

She looked at her reflection and fingered the periwinkle ribbon. “My favorite color.” She smiled, surprised that such a daring headpiece would flatter her face.

“Wear that and you’ll not want for suitors.”

“I haven’t any money.”

“I’m sorry, miss.” Mr. Widenor took the hat back and placed it on the tree. “I wish I could help you, but I have five mouths to feed at home, and a sixth on the way.” He fluffed a beret at the top of the stand. “We’re hoping for a girl this time.” He turned back, smiling sheepishly.

Violet pulled the medallion out of her pocket and felt the weight of it in her palm. Lay up not for yourselves treasures upon earth, she reminded herself, and handed it to the proprietor. “I thought we might barter.”

He flipped it over and read its message. “You?”

She nodded.

“I can’t take this.” He tried to return the award. “You earned it.”

And it wasn’t easy, she thought. If only their mother hadn’t taken to her bed so often in the years following Daisy’s death.

Violet slipped her empty hand into her coat pocket. “What can I get for it?” she asked.

Mr. Widenor bit down on the medallion. “Gold-plated.” He tipped it to the light. “Ten carat, no more.”

Violet didn’t budge.

“Wait here.” A minute or two later he returned with something sturdy but unremarkable, the kind of straw bonnet every miner’s wife in Scranton owned.

Violet tried it on. Her face fell.

“Best I can do,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He offered the medallion back to her. “Just as well. A person should hold onto something this special.”

Violet shook her head at the coin and handed the straw hat over to the shop owner. “This one will have to do. Box it for me, please.” She walked to the front of the store, took a seat in a straight-backed chair, and waited.

Several minutes later, Mr. Widenor returned from the back room with a bright red hatbox, exclusive to his store. “I tied it good and tight,” he said, handing it over. “With a sister like you, she’s a lucky girl. God bless, miss.”

Violet forced a smile and a “Thank you,” but they didn’t match up. She threaded her fingers through the string and headed for the door.

As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, a nearby mill whistled its workers back from lunch. It was a familiar sound. The Lace Works, a factory in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, used the same method. On weekdays, Lace Works employees and schoolchildren within earshot eagerly awaited the first whistle, a signal for lunch. An hour later, the whistle would sound again, urging everyone back to their duties.

Since Violet had left the asylum at half past twelve, she knew that must have been the one o’clock whistle. She was surprised at how quickly she’d managed her errand. The suitcases must have slowed her the last time she’d walked these streets. No one expected her back before two o’clock, so she decided to savor her solitude. Violet settled herself on a nearby bench to watch the bustle of the large city. For the first time in the two weeks since her arrival, she noticed the gray air. The smoke, expelled from countless trains and automobiles, hung in front of her like gossamer curtains. Pedestrians hurried through the haze, eyes downcast, coats drawn up toward their faces. Tracks cut through the middle of the street, where fast-moving cars and crowded trolleys shared the road. Across the way, arched windows and Gothic spires graced the massive train station.

Violet wondered if she could ever make a life in such a place. One of Stanley’s letters had suggested getting married in Philadelphia. What if he decided to move them here? She found the anonymity of a big city inviting. If she were sitting alone on a bench in Scranton, half the congregation of the Providence Christian Church would know about it, and what’s more, have shared their opinions on it before she ever made it back to her own front porch. And a predicament like Lily’s wouldn’t be tolerated back home, though Violet hoped never to be compromised by such troubles again.

Yet, there was also comfort to be had in a place like Scranton. Last winter, when Mr. Harris was laid up with the gout, the men on Spring Street took turns cleaning the ashes out of his furnace and spreading them on the icy sidewalks. And when Susie Hopkins lost her husband in that mine fire, the ladies of Providence stepped in, providing enough staples and canned goods to feed Susie and her three children through the winter.

A sudden gust of March air stirred the dust, and Violet’s hands flew to her eyes. An instant later, when the wind subsided, she saw the red hatbox tumbling toward the trolley tracks. Without thinking, she ran into the street and snatched Lily’s present just as a streetcar approached. Violet looked up, and for a moment time faltered, unable or unwilling to move along.

Stanley stood in the middle of the overcrowded trolley, gripping a leather handhold, facing the motorman up front. Reason demanded that Violet run away, but Stanley’s sudden presence pinned her in place. She studied his profile, his lips, his nose, and found solace in the familiar. It was as if she’d been in foreign lands for untold years and awakened one day to the sound of her native tongue. She was home.

Time lurched forward. Violet’s fingers started throbbing from the too-tight string on the hatbox. The hat. Lily!

She lingered another second, not long at all, yet long enough for Stanley to turn and glance out the window as the streetcar passed by her. Uncertainty seemed to tug at the corners of his eyes as he yelled, “Stop!” either to her or the conductor.

Fear propelled Violet in the opposite direction, away from the trolley, away from the man she loved.