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

by Ruggieri, Alicia G.

  “Morning, Mama,” Grace greeted her, making sure her voice wasn’t too cheerful. Mama disliked any hint of fakeness.

  Mama nodded, blinking red eyes.

  “I cut you some bread,” Grace offered and saw Mama’s face relax when she saw the mug of black coffee waiting beside the darkly-spread slice. With a sigh, Mama drew out a chair for herself and plopped down. Ignoring the slice of bread, she picked up the coffee with trembling hands and took several tentative sips.

  Grace leaned against the counter, nibbling her breakfast. Should I ask Mama about going to First Baptist? Her internal debate on the previous night had lasted beyond her late waking hours; she tossed through her dreams with a hint of Paulie’s invitation always flavoring them.

  “Cold today,” Mama commented, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah,” Grace agreed. She glanced out the window. “But at least it’s not snowing.” Her eyes narrowed as she saw a bulky figure making its way up the back walkway. Papa. She swallowed hard through the last bite of her bread. “Mama,” she said, turning from the window, “Papa’s coming in.”

  Mama’s hand went to her hair, mussed and tangled from sleep. The pity that Grace had felt earlier grew and gathered strength as she realized the pathetic situation in which Mama found herself: aging fast, pregnant, competing with a younger woman with whom Papa seemed smitten, though Mama was the one who wore a wedding band. Anger, bright and steely, filled Grace as she saw the old door swing open. Papa entered, harrumphing at the cold that bit through his heavy coat and turned his ears crimson.

  Raising his eyes, Papa saw her and Mama but made no acknowledgment of them. Banging the crunchy snow off his boots, he clomped his way over to the coffee pot. The hot liquid sounded loud as it poured into Papa’s large mug. He lifted it with strong hands, accustomed to manual labor, and took a deep draught of the brew.

  Quietly, making no more noise than necessary, Mama rose from her chair, leaving her bread uneaten. With slow, somewhat unsteady steps, she moved toward her bedroom.

  But Papa spoke, surprising Grace. “Make sure I’ve got a good clean shirt pressed for Mass tonight,” he addressed Mama’s retreating back.

  Mama paused but didn’t turn. “You singing?” Grace heard Mama’s emotionless voice inquire.

  Papa swigged his coffee again. “Father Frederick asked me to. Can’t say no to a priest.”

  And Papa wouldn’t want to, besides. Grace knew how much Papa delighted to raise his tenor voice above the church choir in a solo part. Everyone said that he had the voice of an angel. And it was true.

  When Mama didn’t reply again, just stood, back to the kitchen, Papa set his mug down. “You’ll have my clothes ready, yeah?”

  Grace winced at the hint of irritation in his voice. Answer him, Mama. Say, “Yes,” like you always do.

  But Mama shuffled off into her bedroom before replying, “Why don’t you have your fancy woman iron your clothes for you?”

  The words jolted Grace. Outside of a few loud arguments, Mama never confronted Papa. His iron fists and bull-like countenance forbade it. Barely breathing, Grace glanced over at Papa.

  He was livid. His swarthy face turned from red to dark purple, and he stared unblinking after Mama.

  Then, in five long strides, he lurched across the room and into the bedroom behind her. Grace’s stomach turned upside-down when he slammed the door, locking Mama into the room with him.

  Sinking down to the floor, head dropped to her arms, Grace listened to the storm raging in the bedroom.

  “Do you hear yourself, woman?” Papa bellowed. A string of curses followed, each directed at Mama’s audacity in answering him back.

  “You’re my wife! You do what I say! You listen to me, Sarah!” he bellowed. “You hear? If I want my clothes ironed, you iron them!”

  “You think you can keep that woman-” Mama’s words snapped suddenly, and Grace cringed as she heard a vase crash to the bedroom floor, followed by the thud of a body hitting the dresser. He hit her.

  “I can keep whoever I please! You hear?” Papa growled. “Who gives you food? Huh? Who gives you money for clothes? Whose daughter is standing there in the kitchen? Whose car is in the driveway?” He paused. “Whose baby you got in your belly? Huh?”

  Another silent moment. I wish he were dead, Grace thought numbly.

  “Huh? Whose? Whose? Whose?” He ended with a near shriek. “Answer me, woman!”

  At last, she heard Mama’s voice, a murmur blanketed with soft sobs. “Yours, Charlie. They’re all… yours.”

  “That’s right.” Papa sounded triumphant. “And you remember that, Sarah. You remember that.”

  The bedroom door opened, and Grace nearly swallowed her tongue in nervousness. But Papa could care less about her, it seemed. He turned one last time toward the weeping that emerged from the bedroom and ordered, “Make sure you got my clothes ready for four o’clock. I’m getting together with some of the boys before Mass.”

  Grace followed him with her gaze to the door. He slammed it vehemently. To show her that he meant what he said. Rising to her feet, Grace thought about going to the bedroom to comfort Mama, awkward as she felt about that.

  But Mama simplified the matter; the bedroom door shut with a click before Grace could move one step.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “What do you think of asking Grace to come for Christmas dinner?” Her fingers busily tying the bows on presents, Emmeline finally broached the question that had lingered in her mind for several days.

  Geoff looked up from his book. “Don’t you think she’ll be spending it with her family, Emmy?”

  He was probably right, but still… “I know. I just thought that…” Emmeline let her voice trail off, unsure of what exactly she thought.

  “Thought what?” Geoff prodded.

  Choosing a gold ribbon for the next package, Emmeline squinted in thought, trying to figure out how to explain herself. “Well, when Paulie mentioned that he and Grace couldn’t do the tutoring at her house last fall, I assumed – and perhaps it’s a wrong assumption – but I assumed that there must be something that Grace wishes to hide about her home. Something she doesn’t want Paulie – or us, for that matter – to know.”

  Geoff looked at her. “Her family’s very poor,” he commented. “That’s certain.”

  Emmeline nodded. “You can tell that from Grace’s clothes alone. But nobody’s rich anymore.” Slowly, she looped the ribbon into a bow. “I think it’s something more than poverty, Geoff. I know that there’s no hard evidence; it’s just intuition, I suppose.”

  “A woman’s intuition is usually right,” Geoff smiled. “Why don’t you invite her? She can always say no.”

  Glad for her husband’s generous spirit, Emmeline returned his smile. “Alright,” she replied. “I’ll ask her.” Happy anticipation filled her as she turned her full attention to wrapping the presents.

  But Grace wouldn’t be coming back until after Christmas recess! Emmeline groaned. “I can’t believe it!” she said aloud, putting her scissors down with a clatter.

  Again, Geoff looked up from his book. “What is it?”

  “I can’t ask her. I forgot: She won’t be coming back until after school recess. And we don’t know where she lives.” Emmeline shook her head. “If I did, I would send her a note. I didn’t even give Grace her Christmas present!”

  “You can give it to her after Christmas,” Geoff suggested, grimacing a little. “I forgot, too. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not the same, giving a gift after Christmas,” Emmeline replied, her heart sinking. Receiving a late Christmas present was the last thing a girl like Grace needed!

  Geoff shrugged. “I’m not sure what else you can do, Emmy.”

  Sighing, Emmeline turned back to her work.

  Paulie. Surely, he knew where Grace lived! She rose from her seat, eager to get to the telephone before Paulie left for New York with his father.

  A pail of milk in her right hand, Grace shut the
barn door tightly behind her. Bessie’s milk supply had dropped off significantly, which Grace had expected, seeing that Papa had bred the cow last summer again. Bessie would dry up soon and bear a calf sometime in early spring. Grace’s heart twisted at the thought. Papa would surely sell the calf for meat, leaving Bessie disconsolate for days. But there was nothing that Grace could do about that, other than give the poor mama cow extra scratches around her thick, soft ears.

  The sound of a car pulling into the driveway distracted Grace from her gloomy thoughts. Maybe it’s Evelyn. Hope rose within her. Mama will be glad if it is. Aunt Mary should bring Evelyn to visit more often.

  Grace hurried her steps around the curving path that led to the driveway from the barn, eager to greet her sophisticated aunt as well as to hug her little sister.

  But the older beige car stalling in the driveway didn’t belong to Aunt Mary. Startled, Grace’s blood froze as she watched Mrs. Kinner emerge from the driver’s side and then walk up to the back door.

  This isn’t happening! Grace tried to swallow, but her throat stuck. Her body felt numb. Remembering just in time that she carried a bucket of milk, her fingers tightened around the handle. How does she know where I live?

  Suddenly, Grace realized that if she didn’t hurry, Mrs. Kinner surely would knock on the back door. And who knew whether Mama would answer, eyes red with weeping, bruise freshly apparent on her cheekbone? Or if Papa would swing wide the door, his hairy chest popping out of his undershirt for the whole world to see? Grace was certain that Mr. Kinner never bared his chest.

  She found her tongue at last and called out. “Mrs. Kinner!” Not waiting to see whether the woman heard her, Grace rushed down the path toward her, the milk sloshing in the bucket.

  But Mrs. Kinner turned right away, a ripe smile blooming on her lovely face. She wore a thick black winter coat that made her skin glow even whiter than it usually did. Paired with the crimson lipstick shining on her lips and her vivacious dark eyes, Mrs. Kinner appeared a snow queen to Grace.

  A snow queen about to discover that Grace came from the abyss.

  “Grace,” Mrs. Kinner greeted her, reaching out a hand to grasp Grace’s. “I’m so glad you’re home. I just came by to give you your Christmas present.”

  “My… Christmas present?” Should I have gotten Mrs. Kinner a gift? Does she expect one?

  Mrs. Kinner smiled. “Yes, I’d forgotten that you wouldn’t be back to our house until after Christmas, and I dislike giving Christmas presents after Christmas.”

  I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to invite her inside the house. “Oh, yeah. That’s right,” Grace answered aloud. “I won’t be coming over again until we go back to school.”

  Mrs. Kinner nodded. “I didn’t know where you lived, but I thought Paulie might know. And he did!”

  She sounded triumphantly happy, but Grace just wondered how in the world Paulie knew her address. He must have followed me home one day, she mused. The blood rose in her face.

  “So,” Mrs. Kinner interrupted Grace’s thoughts, “let me give you your gift! It’s in the car.”

  Grace followed Mrs. Kinner over to the car and waited while the woman bent into the interior. Despite Grace’s embarrassment, she wondered what the gift could be. A book, perhaps? A pretty hairclip? It might be the only gift Grace would receive this Christmas, and so she couldn’t help the way her anticipation bubbled up.

  But Mrs. Kinner’s gift took Grace by surprise. With a happy smile, Mrs. Kinner held out a beautifully-sculpted pot of deep brown clay. A rich crimson ribbon clasped the pot just below its rim, contrasting with the dark greenish-brown stems sprouting from the nearly black soil.

  Speechless, Grace looked from the pot to Mrs. Kinner, and then back to the pot.

  “It’s a geranium,” Mrs. Kinner explained. “Seeing how much you appreciate mine, I thought that you might like to have one of your own. It won’t bloom for months, but you can certainly look forward to the flowers that will come in the warmer weather.”

  Oddly, the gift frightened Grace. She felt as if Mrs. Kinner had opened a door from a dark room into… Grace didn’t quite know where the door led. And that frightened her.

  Yet the fright was not enough to overcome her joy at the geranium plant. Stop shaking, Grace commanded her trembling hands as she reached out to receive the gift.

  She placed it on the windowsill of her bedroom, where she could see it as soon as she woke up in the morning and last thing before sleep claimed her eyes.

  Glancing at it as she dressed for six o’clock Mass, Grace remembered Mrs. Kinner’s recent invitation to Christmas dinner at the Kinner house, as well as Paulie’s urging that Grace attend services at First Baptist tomorrow morning.

  Will Paulie be there? Grace buttoned her white blouse with nimble fingers and weighed the reasons for and against going to the Christmas Sunday service at First Baptist.

  The Kinners will be there. Certainly, that weighed heavily in its favor.

  Mama probably won’t like me going. I know Father Frederick won’t like it. The thought of the priest’s somber eyes caused a shiver to run down Grace’s spine.

  Paulie might go, if he hasn’t left for New York yet. She bit her lip to keep from smiling, even in the privacy of her empty bedroom, as she imagined her friend’s sparkling brown eyes and delighted grin.

  I don’t have anything nice to wear. True, she could don the same worn-out clothing that she wore to Mass tonight, but… no one at First Baptist knew about her family’s poverty. And the God of First Baptist seemed to be a rich Fellow, if one judged Him by His followers. She’d seen the people entering that place of worship: fancy hats with feathers, shiny high heels, silky white blouses on all the ladies. And the men? They all wore smooth dark suits with polished shoes and snowy shirts. Looking at her reflection, Grace knew that she’d stick out like a sore thumb. And just at a time when she wished to be invisible.

  Sinking down on her bed, Grace knew that she couldn’t go. She wouldn’t expose herself and her family to the pointing fingers and tittering lips of a bunch of rebellious Protestants. Much as she wished to, she would not attend First Baptist’s Christmas service.

  Papa sang beautifully that night. His throat quivering with the golden notes, he closed his eyes, the picture of reverent worship and manly strength. An angel in God’s throne room could not appear to better advantage. Stealing another glance to the balcony behind the congregation, where Papa and the rest of the choir stood, Grace could not recall the hateful words that Papa had poured from that same throat this very afternoon.

  Sitting beside Grace, Mama, too, shut her eyes, seeming to forget as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grace woke early the next morning. The house sat silent, draped under a newly-fallen blanket of snow. First Baptist’s Christmas service is today. The thought popped immediately into her brain as soon as Grace’s gaze landed on the pot of geraniums.

  Shivering in the winter dawn’s chill, she pushed back her blankets, getting her fingernail stuck on the top one’s ragged edge. Her toes curled on the ice-cold floorboards, despite the double layer of socks she wore. She pulled one of the blankets around her shoulders as a makeshift robe.

  The quiet of the room still unnerved her a bit; her sisters had long since taken leave, but they had shared the bedroom with Grace for so long that it was difficult to become accustomed to life without their presence. Nancy hardly comes around anymore. And Lou had moved into a Providence apartment with two other girls just a week ago.

  Turning the knob slowly, Grace avoided making the hinges squeak. Her quiet steps took her down the stair and into the dimly-lit kitchen. She could hear Mama’s soft snoring escaping through her half-open bedroom door. As usual, Cliff hadn’t woken up yet. He’d probably sleep in for as long as Mama let him.

  Grace filled the coffee pot with water and coffee grinds, anticipating the rich scent of the brewed beverage filling the stale house. Cozying up the blanket around her shoulders so
that she’d be warm as she waited, Grace peered out the kitchen window just in time to see Papa and Gertrude dash toward his already-running car. Probably going to Uncle Jack’s. On weekends, Uncle Jack often had a house full of rowdy guests, sweet Italian cookies, singing, and homemade wine. Likely, Papa would stay there all day, having done his duty by God last night.

  Through the panes of glass, Grace heard the happy gurgle of a robin issue from the pine trees. The bird chirruped once more and then flew from the trees down to the frozen ground just in front of the window. His bright black eyes peeped up at Grace, and she couldn’t help but smile at the little creature in his crimson vest. His chest feathers could compete with geraniums for ruddiness…

  Why shouldn’t I go to First Baptist today if I want to? Grace glanced toward Mama’s bedroom. The sound of sleep hadn’t abated at all. And First Baptist’s service started early. If I come back before I’m missed, what harm could it do?

  Determination lifted Grace’s chin, though her heart skittered, playing dodgeball with her lungs. She straightened her dress one last time and hoped that it would be warm enough in the church to remove her ratty jacket quickly.

  How fortunate that Lou had left a couple of grown-out dresses in the very back of their closet! Grace hadn’t thought of looking for anything salvageable belonging to her departed sisters before this morning, but she’d thanked the Sweet Mother several times in the last hour for this boon: a slightly-worn dress of dark green cotton with a white lace collar. Its lowered waist attested to its age, and Grace knew that the material didn’t really match the cold weather. But it’s green for Christmas, at least, Grace tried to reassure herself, and it fits.

  She’d hurried to get ready, pushing all doubts from her mind. Now, however, standing before First Baptist, Grace wondered if she’d been too hasty.

  The light gray stone church rose before her, intimidating her with its soaring arches and steeple. The other churchgoers milling around her didn’t seem to notice First Baptist’s imposing demeanor; they hustled into the building, calling out greetings and tossing smiles here and there. Looking at them, Grace knew that she’d been correct last night in her thoughts: even in this green hand-me-down, she would stick out like a sore thumb. Many of the ladies and girls Grace’s age wore fur-trimmed coats and sophisticated hats. A rich church, just like I thought. I don’t fit in here.