Читать книгу All Waiting Is Long - Barbara J. Taylor - Страница 16

Chapter eight

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL DAY?” Lily asked when Violet walked into the dining room for supper. “With that baby, I suppose. I’ll never understand why you care more about that stray than you do your own sister.”

“Not now,” Violet whispered. She took the empty seat on Lily’s right and bowed her head just as Sister Immaculata started the blessing.

Lily waited, open-eyed, for the moment when the Catholics would start crossing themselves, her signal that the prayer was almost over.

“In the name of the Father . . .”

All of the women except for the Morgan girls lifted their right hands to their foreheads.

“Do you even know what today is?” Lily couldn’t contain herself.

Violet tipped her bowed head in her sister’s direction, opened one eye, and glared. “Amen.”

Sister Immaculata gave a nod, and napkins snapped open, some spread across laps and bellies, others tucked under chins. Ladles clanked against pressed-glass tureens as a hearty stew made its way around four long tables. Lily wrinkled up her nose as Violet filled their bowls.

“This doesn’t look anything like Mother’s.” Lily poked at chunks of gray meat swimming among the potatoes and carrots in the thick brown broth.

“That’s because it’s mutton,” Violet said, “not beef. Now be grateful. Plenty of mouths are going unfed tonight.” She took two pieces of hard-crusted bread and handed the plate past Lily to the woman seated on her left. “Here,” she said to her sister, tearing one of the slices into small chunks and scattering them in her bowl.

“Mother always makes dumplings,” Lily said, stirring the bread pieces to soak up the gravy.

Violet lifted her spoon to her mouth and held it there. “Mother rarely makes anything,” she mumbled, “and certainly not dumplings.” She licked the spoon clean and set it alongside her bowl. “And if it’s dumplings you like, you have me to thank.” She picked up her slice of bread and pointed it at her sister. “And while you’re at it,” her was tone slightly elevated, but controlled, “you can thank me for ironing your dresses, plaiting your hair, teaching you how to skate . . .” She paused, the bread still aloft, thumbing through her mind’s catalog. Getting Lily’s breakfast. Reading her stories. Tucking her into bed. “And checking your sums every night,” she blurted out, as if she hadn’t thought about that one for a long time, “the year you had Miss Philips in grammar school!” Violet closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. She took her spoon and pushed it around in the bowl. “Onions are cooked down,” she finally said, “the way you like.”

Without looking up, Lily leaned toward the stew and started eating. “First Muriel leaves me.” She reached for the saltcellar near the tip of her knife, threw a few pinches into her bowl, and stirred. “And then you forget what day it is,” she said, pulling another slice of bread from the plate.

Violet’s head snapped up. “Is there any word on Muriel?”

Lily pointed to a girl across the table, thin strands of blond hair skirting her eyes. “Carol says Sadie’s still in with her.”

Carol nodded and pushed back her bangs. “According to Ann, anyways.”

They all turned to Ann Lehman at the next table, her stomach so swollen that she balanced her stew on top of it. “Saw Sadie my own self this afternoon,” she said wearily. “Says I’m not ready yet. Says I must be carrying an eleven-month baby since my dear husband passed ten months ago.”

Carol howled. “Your nose is growing, Annie.”

“Hand to God.” Ann’s fingers flew to her heart, spilling the contents of her bowl. “Now look what you done.”

Sister Immaculata lumbered over with a handful of napkins. “Enough,” she said to both girls. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you.” She sopped up the mess on Ann’s stomach and led her out of the room.

“An eleven-month baby,” Carol laughed as soon as Ann and the nun disappeared single file through the doorway. “Ain’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”

When supper was finished, the Reverend Mother stepped into the dining room and rang a small bell. “We’ll be saying the Rosary in fifteen minutes,” she said and walked back out the door.

Violet stood to leave.

“Where are you off to now?” Lily pushed herself away from the table. “You’re always going somewhere.”

“Not everything is about you, Lily Morgan.” When girls at the table stopped their conversations to listen, Violet lowered her voice. “There’s others with troubles. It’s high time you learned that.”

“And what’s so special about that baby, anyway?”

“Keep it up and you won’t get your gift.”

Lily clapped her hands. “I knew you wouldn’t forget!”

“I have half a mind to go back downtown and return it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” When Violet didn’t answer, Lily offered up her sweetest smile. “You’re so good to me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Where is it?”

“Don’t get excited,” Violet said, too late. “It’s not much. Meet me in the nursery after chapel.”

Lily stood up and kissed her sister’s cheek. “Sorry for being cross with you.” She clapped her hands again. “I should have known I could count on you. You always do right by me.”

No matter how dear the price, Violet thought as she pictured Stanley, framed inside that streetcar, looking straight at her.

* * *

An unusually fussy Michael squirmed in Violet’s arms when she rocked him. “It must be catching,” she said of her mood, and offered the child her finger to suck. His tiny fist flailed, landed, and pulled the finger greedily into his dented mouth. “Maybe Stanley didn’t see me,” she said to the baby. Violet looked at Michael as if he might concur. “At worst, he’ll think his eyes were playing tricks on him. The gray day. The swiftness of the trolley. The automobile exhaust.” She punctuated each reason with a nod, trying to convince her mind that her body knew the truth.

The first note of a cry sounded from one of the cribs. Violet held her breath and peered across the dimly lit room. The Dennick baby stirred for a moment, then settled back to sleep. “We have to be quiet,” she whispered to Michael. His eyes held onto hers.

The door flew open, and light from the hallway poured into the nursery ahead of Lily. “I’m here,” she announced.

Across the room, Michael’s head popped up and Violet’s finger flew to her lips. The babies, she mouthed, motioning for Lily to shut the door and lower her voice.

Once inside, Lily snaked her way through the rows of cribs, sweeping her fingers along the bars like a child with a stick on a picket fence. She counted twelve babies in all, including the one in Violet’s arms. “How many are girls?” she whispered.

Violet lifted Michael to her shoulder and patted his back. “Seven, and they’ll be here a good bit. The boys go quicker, according to Sadie.”

“Why’s that?” Lily pulled a second rocker over to Violet and sat down next to her.

“Fathers want sons.” Violet nodded toward the baby. “Is he sleeping?”

Lily leaned over, observed the infant’s half-shut eyes, and shook her head. “Almost.” She moved closer and inspected his marred face for the first time. She knew about the harelip, but seeing it up close made Lily shudder. A woman oughtn’t look at a crone or a cripple when she’s in the family way. Lily hugged her stomach briefly before remembering something. “The baby started kicking this morning.”

Violet flattened her free palm against her sister’s belly, but when nothing happened, she pulled her hand back.

“I’ll let you know if she does it again.”

“So she’s a she,” Violet said.

“More than likely.”

“Why’s that?” Violet switched Michael to her other shoulder.

“Mother only had girls, and her mother before that. Just seems natural.” Lily glanced back at the cribs.

“What about the father’s people?” Violet tossed the question out, hoping to unearth some detail that would reveal who was responsible for Lily’s condition—George Sherman most likely, though Violet couldn’t be sure. “Do they have many girls?”

Lily refused the bait. “So where’s my present?” She glanced around the room.

“In a minute.” Violet carried a sleeping Michael over to the empty crib.

Lily’s eyes settled on her sister. “You look good with a baby.” She checked to see if Michael’s face was turned away, and when she saw it was, she stood up and walked over to the pair. “It suits you somehow.”

“You think so?” Violet cooed in the infant’s ear. “We’ll have trouble adopting him out with his disfigurement.”

“We? We who?” Lily searched her sister’s eyes. “He’s not yours, you know.”