The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1)

by Ruggieri, Alicia G.

  “Nothin’. I ain’t doin’ nothin’! Tryin’ to give my sister a hug, is all. Guess you don’t want it. You always were as affectionate as a porcupine, Lou!”

  Grace frowned. It couldn’t be… but she knew it was. Ben. Her eldest brother, hair as red as his temper, fun as an ice-cream cone in July, gone to the racetrack these past few years. Ben… home?

  Grace couldn’t stop the smile from flying to her lips, nor her hands from pulling open the splintery barn door. “Ben?” she exhaled into the cold, dim air.

  He stood there, taller than she’d remembered him by a good couple of inches. Ben’s face showed his surprise at Grace’s sudden entrance. He turned toward her, opening his arms. She flew into them, burying her face against the warmth of his plaid shirt. She felt the solid niceness of his chest, and she knew she was secure and safe here with him. Ben smelled of horses and leather and wool. Of tobacco, too, and something stronger.

  “Hey, little canary, let me see your face,” he said, and Grace drew back to gaze up at him, her hair fluffing from the static of his shirt. “Well, look at you,” he whistled. “My little canary, all grown up.”

  Grace blushed, so happy, so very happy that Ben was back. “You home for good, Ben?” she asked, biting her lip.

  Her brother hesitated, then broke into a goofy grin. “We’ll see, little sis, okay? Got to talk to the old man, ya know?”

  Grace nodded. Last time Ben came back, Papa and he had exchanged words that almost ended with fists. But, oh, maybe this time… She couldn’t even phrase the hope that rose within her heart, that organ that was ready to bust out of her chest if she didn’t hug Ben tightly again.

  “Better get Bessie milked, Grace.” The comment came from just inside the cow’s stall. Grace turned to see Lou’s tight-lipped smirk. Her older sister held out the empty milking bucket toward her. “Mama won’t like you being late to supper.”

  When Grace took the bucket from her, Lou strode out, not giving them a backward glance. Grace rolled her eyes at Ben. They both knew how Lou could be. “Mama know you’re here yet?” asked Grace.

  “Naw. Thought I’d surprise her at supper. Hey, look what I brought you kids.” Ben reached into the sagging back pocket of his brown corduroys and drew out a small but hefty white paper sack. He unfolded the top and held it out toward Grace. She asked permission with her eyes, and he nodded, grinning again, more like a little kid than the older brother - grown man, really – that he was. Her curious eyes peered inside the bag.

  “Chocolate babies!” Grace squealed, hardly believing that the bag was more than half-full of the little candy people, their faces and bodies shining darkly in the dim barn light. She glowed at him.

  “Go on, have a couple,” Ben urged, tumbling a good handful into her palm. They felt cool and delightfully heavy in her hand. The faint chocolate scent wafted from them and mingled with the stronger smell of hay and manure.

  Bessie lowed, eager to have her udder relieved by Grace’s skillful milking. Grace looked down at the chocolate babies, then up at Ben. “Sorry,” she said, moving to pour the candy back into the sack. “I’ve got to milk Bessie, and quick, or Mama’ll skin me alive. Lou’ll probably tell her I was late as it is, now.”

  “Naw, listen, kid,” Ben said, pushing her hand back from the bag. “I’ll milk the cow. Fast. You sit over here.” He drew her over to one of the hay bales lying on the barn floor. “Eat your candy. And then we’ll go in to supper together.”

  Grace smiled up at him and yielded to the pressure of his large hands on her narrow shoulders. She watched as her big brother picked up the milking bucket and moved the three-legged stool over to Bessie’s side, beginning the process. She picked up one of the chocolate babies and gazed at it, anticipating the sweet chewiness to come. Rarely did she have a treat like this to herself. If there were a few pennies to spare, to spend on candy or a coffee milk, Grace had to share whatever treat it was with her other siblings… which she didn’t mind nearly as much as when Mama insisted that she give the whole treat – whether a milkshake or candy – to poor, dear Evelyn. Spoiled Evelyn.

  Just thinking of it made Grace bite into the chocolate baby with even more enthusiasm. She rolled the little candy over on her tongue, felt its smooth chocolatiness between her gums and cheek, and swallowed at last with a sigh of contentment. “Thanks, Ben,” she said. “These are really good.”

  He rested his cheek against Bessie’s rounded side. “No problem, little girl.” The sound of the milk pinged through the barn, rhythmically, soothing Grace’s jittery emotions. First, the incident with Mr. Kinner, causing her to despair, and now the intense pleasure of having Ben home. Maybe now, with him here… maybe now their home could be a normal one at last, instead of continuing in the bizarre and embarrassing path that it had taken for as long as Grace could remember.

  Sitting there sucking the next chocolate baby, Grace gazed at her brother, who seemed lost in thought. He owned the short, slightly stocky build of all the Picoletti men, deep-chested with arms made for manual labor, muscled from years of working with willful race horses. The prominent jaw that jutted out even more than was natural from its stubbornness. The sensitive aquiline nose, quivering with emotion like one of the Greek heroes Grace had read about in her textbooks. Ben’s oval eyes, tapering at the edges as if God had drawn them on with a calligraphy pen; they flashed with anger sometimes and rained down compassion at others. His forehead rose, white and smooth under the thatch of auburn hair, and she could see the suntan line where his cap usually rested.

  Grace popped another candy into her mouth. Yes, if anyone could help fix their family, it was one of their own: Ben. No one else would understand why every word of her father gave pleasure and pain at once. Why her mama wept late into the nights – alone – and then presented a countenance of steel at the breakfast table each morning, doling out each child’s gray lump of oatmeal like she didn’t care if they lived or died, but she would do her duty nonetheless. Why her papa sang like a red-breasted robin in the choir loft, burly chest puffed out, golden hair slicked back like one of the seraphim… and then sneered at Mama’s soft humming over the half-broken kitchen stove. Why Ben had left in such a huff three years ago and had now returned.

  All these questions, these “whys,” Grace turned over in her mind as she sat there on the hay bale, tongue rolling over the chocolate babies, one-by-one. She studied Ben’s broad back, the muscles pulsing beneath his worn shirt as his nimble fingers drew the milk from Bessie. “Why’d you go, Ben?” she surprised herself by asking. She heard her voice float out, a speck of sound in the air, thin as Thursday-night soup.

  Her brother stopped milking for a just a moment, then his hands began pulling again. He turned his head a jot and gave Grace a crooked grin – the kind you give when you’re smiling through pain. “Had to go. A man’s gotta make his own way, you know.” He leaned his cheek against Bessie’s side, tan against deep brown, and his dark blue eyes sought Grace’s matching ones. “I was sixteen. Almost twenty now, you know.”

  “I’m nearly sixteen,” stated Grace softly, “and I ain’t making my own way yet.”

  “‘Am not,’ canary. Learn to speak right, and maybe you won’t end up a bum like your big brother.” Ben smiled, and Grace knew he was joking. “Besides, that’s different. You’re a girl. Mama needs you.”

  “Papa needs you, Ben,” she answered. “More than Mama needs me. She’s got Lou and Nancy.”

  Ben snorted. “Old Sourpuss and Fancy-Pantsy? They’ll never hold a candle to you, Grace, and Mama knows it. She needs you here, so don’t you go getting yourself ideas.”

  He stood up, pulling the stool from beneath himself and setting it against the side of the stall. Suddenly, he looked at Grace with that piercing gaze of his, usually so full of fun and laughter, now turned deadly serious. “By the way, why were you late? School got out a good hour and a half ago, didn’t it?”

  Grace ducked her head. “Yeah.” She didn’t dare refuse to answer Ben. B
ut, oh, how to explain…

  “Well, what were you doing?” Ben set the milk pail down and took a step toward her, surely meaning to intimidate her.

  It worked. Grace bowed her shoulders and huddled a little deeper into the hay bale, wishing she were the size of the mice she could hear scurrying around her; then she would disappear into the crack in the wall. When Ben acted like this, he reminded Grace so much of Mama, whose quiet ways could harden into ice without much warning.

  He loomed over her, and Grace jumped up, ducking by him. She fled toward the door before turning toward him, a fake smile plastered on her trembling lips. “Mama probably has supper ready,” she heard herself say in a nearly-normal voice.

  Ben took two steps and blocked her exit. Though short himself, he far towered over her mere five-foot stature. “Never mind about supper,” he said. “Where were you, Grace?”

  She stood in silence, staring at his chest, her heart pounding harder than the farrier shoeing a horse. So stupid, Grace. How could you be so stupid? You knew you would get caught…

  They stayed still for nearly a full minute – Grace knew, for she was counting her heartbeats. Then, she felt her brother’s fingers cup her chin ever so gently and urge her to lift her gaze to his. The frightened pain in his eyes startled her, and she realized that Ben seemed angry because that was the only way he knew how to express fear. Fear of what?

  “Where were you, canary?” Ben’s expression begged even as his voice remained so inflexible. “You weren’t messing around with some guy, were you?”

  Grace jerked her chin out of Ben’s hand, flushing with embarrassment and insult. She would have to tell him. “I had to stay after and talk to Mr. Kinner,” she informed him scornfully, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t pry farther.

  But Ben’s forehead wrinkled. “Mr. Kinner? Ain’t he one of the English teachers?”

  She nodded.

  “Why’d he make you stay, Grace? You do swell in school, don’t you?” he questioned.

  She nodded again; she was a straight-A student, nearly. Ben stood staring at her, confused. Finally, she mumbled, “He’s got a music class after school, too.”

  The confusion lingered for a moment. “Yeah, so…?”

  Grace looked away, toward Bessie. The small cow crunched her evening hay, her powerful jaw moving slowly in contentment. “So…” She gave Ben a flickering glance. “He’s starting a choir. A special one.”

  “A special one?” Ben echoed. “And you. You wanna join it, is that it?”

  She gave a small, stiff nod, shivering in the draft.

  “He say you could?”

  “Yeah.” She scuffed her toe into the old hay littering the barn floor.

  “Well,” Ben said after a moment, “that’s great, Grace. Just great. You tell Mama and Papa yet?”

  She shook her head. Ben didn’t realize that she and Papa barely spoke to one another. Even less than they had before Ben left… if that was possible.

  “Well,” he repeated, “I think it’s a swell idea. You’re the best singer in the family; you should be in Mr. Kinner’s special choir. Good for you, kid.” His hand fell on her shoulder, giving a rough squeeze. Grace couldn’t stop the grin. Ben was proud of her.

  “I forgot the permission slip at school,” Grace remembered out loud as she and Ben made their way toward the house. Actually, she’d dropped the permission slip when running from humiliation, but she didn’t tell Ben that.

  “You’ll get it tomorrow, kid,” assured Ben, carrying the hefty pail of Bessie’s milk with one hand.

  Grace nodded up at him, smiling. “I’m glad you’re home, Ben,” she said, peaceful in the gloaming. Her eyes fell on the brick homestead, dark crimson and double-storied, the twilight settling its deep shadows over the gables, making the lights inside shine more brightly.

  Ben gave her a wink. “I’m glad to be home, Grace. Whatdaya think Mama made for supper?”

  Grace rolled her eyes and elbowed him. How like her brothers, always thinking of food!

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Where’s Papa?” Ben asked, halfway through his mountain of fresh mashed potatoes. Grace looked at the chunk of coveted butter puddling in the center of the mound. Ben’s filled fork shoveled another huge bite toward his mouth with an eagerness that didn’t give hint of slowing down.

  Grace exchanged a furtive glance with Cliff, her closest-in-age brother sitting across the table from her. His eyes widened and then slid shut, obviously not wanting to hear a response to the question.

  Grace put her fork down, feeling her stomach tighten. Couldn’t Ben have waited to ask until after supper, until after Mama’s apple pie had been eaten with black cups of coffee and most of the children had wandered off to squander the few hours remaining before bed?

  But, of course, Ben didn’t bother with ceremony. No one answered him, though. Not Lou and Nancy, the twins, who sat playing with their meat loaf, afraid to eat for fear it’d go straight to their hips. Not twelve-year-old Evelyn, silently fingering her ribbon-bedecked braids. Nor Cliff, who steadily sank deeper into his chair. And Grace certainly wasn’t about to volunteer any information, not when Mama stood there, a motionless statue in a graveyard. Her cheeks flushed – from the hot stove or from Ben’s question?

  The silence broke. “Didn’t nobody hear me?” Ben demanded, swallowing the bite of buttery spuds. He looked at Grace, frowning. Biting her lip, she turned her eyes elsewhere – to the stove, to the new telephone, to the clunky washing machine crouched in the corner – seeking anything but Ben’s gaze.

  “Mama?”

  From lowered lids, Grace saw her mother breathe deeply, sucking air into worn-out lungs. When Ben had asked his question, she’d been up refilling the bowl of corn from a big pot on the black stove. Now Mama, full of her deep breath, turned and met Ben’s wondering eyes. “Your Papa is down at Uncle Jack’s house. Won’t be home ‘til breakfast, most likely.” She set the bowl down on the blue-printed tablecloth with a silent bang and turned back to the stove, busying herself with cutting up more meatloaf that nobody wanted anymore.

  Ben stirred his mashed potatoes with his fork. “What do you mean, Mama?” He measured his words carefully, cut them through and hung them in the air like freshly-washed laundry on the line.

  “What I said.” Mama didn’t turn this time, just stood with her back to them. Looking at her mama’s still form, Grace felt like her insides might collapse, that the sorrow within had left such a vacuum that she might just crumple up and disappear one of these days. Perhaps everyone in their house would, as well.

  Except for Papa. He was safe.

  Grace risked a glance at Ben. His jaw ground, and he blinked hard and fast. Finally, he said just one word. A name. “Gertrude?” It fell into the atmosphere, a dark meteorite.

  Mama didn’t reply, didn’t provide any indication that she had heard her eldest son. Just kept cutting meatloaf.

  No matter, though. Ben pushed his chair back anyway, the scrape against the wood loud in the awkward quiet. “I’ll be back,” he announced. Grace threw a frightened look at Lou, who ignored her.

  “Ben…” Mama’s voice crawled over the heads of her half-dozen children.

  Halfway to the door, Ben paused, shoving his cap on his head. His curls stuck out like tongues of fire beneath the brim. “Yeah, Mama?”

  “Won’t do any good, you know. Never does.” Mama tucked loose strands of hair behind her flushed ears. Her blue-green eyes wore the dullness of resignation.

  Ben stayed there, silent a moment. Then, jaw set, he pulled on his jacket and left. The door moaned behind him; Grace figured it was sick and tired of being opened and closed so often each day.

  Mama sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and removed it. “Nan and Lou, clean up, will you?” Mama’s hand went to the back of one of the chairs, and Grace saw the knuckles whiten as she gripped it, her arm shaking.

  “I got homework, Mama,” protested Lou.

  Grace raised her eyebrows
. Lou may have had homework, but she was not known for doing any of it. Lou usually occupied her evening hours with re-reading dog-eared copies of Hollywood magazines.

  “Just do it, Lou.” Obviously, Mama wasn’t in the mood to be argued with, which Lou must have realized. Her sister shut her mouth in a pout but said nothing more.

  “Grace will help you,” Mama offered, slowly making her way out of the kitchen. Her steps headed toward the living room, where Grace knew Mama would lie down on the couch and rest. And wait for Papa to come home, hopefully before morning.

  Evelyn jumped up from her place, not even bringing her dirty plate and cup to the sink. Her spaghetti legs trotted after Mama into the living room as usual.

  Grace saw Lou exchange an eye-rolling glance with Nancy. The twins may not have been identical in looks – though their sandy-haired, light-eyed beauty certainly had its similarities – but the two girls were carbon copies in character.

  “I’m meeting Richard for a soda,” Nancy stated, fluffing her finger-waves. “You wanna come? Ernie’s gonna be there,” she encouraged Lou.

  The scowl dropped from Lou’s face. Grace could see that the delight of an ice-cream soda – paid for by longsuffering Ernie – had thoroughly brightened her sister’s evening. “Yeah!” she agreed. “Just let me get my sweater.”

  Grace looked at the piles of dirty dishes lining the table and the hills of pots soaking next to the sink. “Wait! You have to help me with the dishes first!”

  Lou sneered. “Says who?”

  Grace gulped. “Mama did. You know it.” She sent a pleading look toward Cliff, who sat gnawing a piece of bread. But Cliff just shrugged again.

  Nancy snorted. “Come on, Lou. I don’t have all night.”

  Lou gave Grace a mocking glance and headed through the wide archway that linked the kitchen with the foyer. A grand staircase, worn by generations of feet, ascended to the house’s upper level from there. Grace followed Lou toward the staircase, feeling helpless to stop her sisters. Halfway up the stair, Lou whirled and looked down at Grace, waiting at the bottom. “Don’t you dare tattle to Mama on us, either, Grace!”