Mother Mary Joseph had named the child Bernadette, until the adoptive parents came along, but secretly, Violet called her Daisy. She always knew that someday she’d name her own daughter after her deceased sister, so what harm could come from using the name now?
* * *
At the end of the week, when Dr. Peters had finally released Lily from his care, Violet pulled the cowhide suitcases out from under her bed and opened them on the bare mattress.
“I’m so relieved to be done with all this,” Lily said, stepping away from her dresser to make room for Violet. “When do you think I’ll get my figure back?” She patted the barely perceptible bulge of her belly.
Violet shot a look over her shoulder as she emptied the drawers. “I could use some help here.”
“I’m afraid people will notice.” Lily clenched her stomach muscles and straightened her back.
“Don’t forget your hat.” Violet glanced at the red box. The thought of Stanley entered her head, and she shook it away. I can’t think about that now. “It’s under your bed.” As she turned back to the suitcases, something in the top drawer caught her eye. “What’s that?”
Lily reached in and pulled out one of Muriel’s movie magazines. Clara Bow smiled up from the front cover. Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away while Violet’s back was to her. “It’s an old one,” she said, tossing the magazine back inside and shutting the drawer.
* * *
“You’ll be sorely missed,” the Reverend Mother said as she embraced Violet. “The children have certainly taken to you.” As if on cue, the DeLeo baby, born two days earlier, cooed from across the nursery. Violet started to cry, and Mother Mary Joseph held her at arm’s length. “What is it, child?”
“I’ve grown so attached to all of them. To all of you.”
“You’ll always be welcome here.” The nun gave her one last hug. “But it’s time for you to go and be with your family. They need you now.”
“May I?” Violet glanced toward her niece.
“Of course.” The Reverend Mother walked with Violet to the infant’s crib.
Violet took the baby into her arms, nuzzled her neck, and whispered, “I love you, Daisy.”
“I’ll find her a good Christian home,” the nun said, taking the child. “You have my word.”
“And I’m sorry about your mother,” Violet murmured to the baby. “I’m sure she loves you in her own way.”
Violet picked up the suitcases in the corner of the room. The weight of them seemed enormous somehow. How had she carried both of them from the train station to the Good Shepherd? She turned and looked at the Reverend Mother who was still holding Daisy. “Take good care of her.” A wave of emotion—love, or regret—welled up inside her. Violet dropped the suitcases, went back to the baby, and kissed her one last time. “Be a good girl.” Then she picked up the suitcases and walked out the door.
* * *
Lily sat at the kitchen table, drumming her fingers impatiently. “The train leaves the station in two hours,” she said.
Violet took one long look around the kitchen, picked up the suitcases, and led her sister to the back door. Just as the pair was about to leave, a new girl, considerably further along than Lily had been when she arrived, pushed the door open. The Morgan sisters stepped around her, and Lily called back, “The latch slips shut. Wouldn’t want to lock all your gentlemen callers out.” She followed Violet down the sidewalk and onto the road, laughing lightly, though her heart wasn’t in it.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the sisters arrived at the train station and found an empty bench. Violet glanced at a large clock built into the marble wall. “One hour,” she said. “We arrived in plenty of time.” She started searching through her bag for their tickets.
“I’m hungry,” Lily said. “What are we going to do about eating?”
Violet reached into her pocket, handed Lily an apple, and continued rummaging through her bag.
Lily took a bite and stared straight on at her reflection in the glass. “I look positively frightful,” she said, tugging at her hair. “What will people think when they see me?”
“That you’ve been on a train from Buffalo for eight hours.” Violet found the tickets and pulled them out. “And you best remember that or all our efforts will have been in vain.”
“Who’s coming to meet us?”
“No one knows we’re coming home today.” Violet exhaled loudly. “I didn’t want anyone to see us getting off a train from Philadelphia.”
Lily continued to adjust her curls. “Where’s that hat you bought me for my birthday?” She wound her long hair as if to secure it in a bun, but let the locks drop loosely. “The one with the flowers,” she said, twisting her hair again.
Violet’s head sank into her hands. “It’s the only thing I asked you to remember.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We?” Violet shot up from her seat. “We?” She closed her eyes and inhaled hard. “Stay here,” she finally said, and headed back to the infant asylum.
Chapter fifteen
ON THE WAY BACK TO THE GOOD SHEPHERD, Violet seethed over Lily’s thoughtlessness. I’m going to keep the hat myself, she thought. Spoiled brat. What do we do now? We! “I’ll tell you what we do,” she said aloud, and the elderly couple with whom she’d been sharing a sidewalk crossed the street. She put her hand to her mouth and cleared her throat, as if to suggest the comment had been a bit of phlegm, but anger quickly usurped her embarrassment. “We’re going to make some changes,” she called across the street. And then more quietly, “Starting today.” The woman steered her husband toward a set of steps and pulled him up into a shop. The sign out front read, Widenor’s Hats, in gold letters. Violet’s legs almost buckled at the memory, and she dropped onto the bench facing the store. She’d given up her valedictorian medal, and for what? A thankless child, if she remembered her Shakespeare. But what of a thankless sister? What would he say about that? Violet closed her eyes and saw the streetcar in her mind, Stanley standing next to the window, gripping the leather handhold. And the split second when he faced her. What had he seen?
The one o’clock whistle blew, and Violet jumped up with a start. Their train was pulling out at two o’clock sharp, and they’d need to board early if Lily was to get an aisle seat. Lily liked knowing she could get up and move about the car freely, though she rarely did. Maybe I’ll take the aisle seat, Violet decided, and quickened her pace.
As Violet approached the infant asylum, she noticed Jack Barrett’s maroon Model T sitting empty in the driveway. Apparently Mamie Barrett had tired of being carted along on days when benefactors met. Maybe she’d finally set her husband straight. Maybe she’d told him these visits to the Good Shepherd were too painful. If so, it would have been her first sane act since the death of her baby girl.
Sister Immaculata stood alone on the porch, shading her eyes to see who was approaching. Violet waved to the woman and started climbing the stairs, but before she reached the top, the nun disappeared inside.
Violet pulled the front door open and nearly slammed into the Reverend Mother, who stood on the other side of the threshold with the red hatbox in her hand. “Something told me you’d be back.”
“I have half a mind to keep it for myself.” Violet took the box and threaded her fingers through the taut string. “It would serve her right.”
“God be with you,” Mother Mary Joseph said evenly, and she turned toward the hallway.
“Thank you,” Violet called out, wondering at the nun’s curt manner. When Mother Mary Joseph disappeared into the parlor, something anchored Violet to the porch, though she knew she must leave soon. She peered past the foyer into the now-empty hallway. She couldn’t help herself and slipped inside. As Violet neared the parlor, she heard voices and stopped to listen. Jack Barrett was saying, “How good this will be for Mamie. Something to clear her mind.”
Violet peeked in to see the Reverend Mother sitting
across from him, nodding sympathetically. “It may just be the answer,” she said. “Of course, you’ll have to give her time to get used to the idea.”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, “but she’ll come around. I once put a litter of setters on the teats of a hound when their own mother died birthing them. Hand a baby to a woman and she’ll start mothering.”
“Shall we go see how they’re doing?” The nun rose from her chair.
Mr. Barrett fingered a chain that dangled from his vest pocket and pulled out a watch. “Let’s give them a few more minutes,” he said. “About how old did you say she was?”
“Three weeks tomorrow,” Mother Mary Joseph answered, taking her seat again.
A wave of nausea choked Violet as she tiptoed past the parlor door and headed toward the nursery. She? Almost three weeks old? Mother Mary Joseph would never hand Daisy over to a woman so crazed with grief. Violet must have misunderstood, or at the very least, it must be someone else’s child being adopted out.
Violet rested her hand on the doorknob for a second before stepping inside. On the far side of the room, Mamie Barrett sat in a rocker, her eyes unfocused, a dark-haired baby lay crying in her arms. Mrs. Barrett remained unfazed. Smiling tightly, Violet set down the hatbox, walked over to the pair, and lifted the infant. “Time to sleep,” Violet said quietly, and carried Daisy to an empty crib. Mrs. Barrett continued to rock, her face expressionless. With no time to waste, Violet picked up the hatbox, tugged off the string, and shoved a few clean diapers and a half-empty bottle under the brim of the hat. She quickly replaced the string, then searched the room for pen and paper and wrote: It is always better to be raised by your own. You taught me that, and then she added, God help me, before dropping the note on the changing table. Violet scooped Daisy up with one hand and grabbed the hatbox with the other. The pair passed through the kitchen, out the door, and into the street.
* * *
She half-ran back to the station, though carrying Daisy and the hatbox slowed her down considerably.
“All aboard!” the conductor shouted from the front of a nearby platform.
“What on earth?” Lily gasped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Grab those suitcases,” Violet said shortly, hurrying toward the train, sweat moistening the back of her neck and underarms.
Lily stood firm. “Return that baby at once!” she cried, and several heads turned toward them.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Violet said and stepped up into the train.
A moment later, Lily caught up with her, a suitcase dangling from each hand. “I don’t understand,” she said. A porter passed by and she handed him the suitcases. He slung them on a rack overhead and tipped his hat, but Lily ignored the gesture. “I don’t want to be a mother.”
“But I do,” Violet said, surprised by the truth of her words. “I do.” She took a step back so Lily could slide across to the window seat.
“You’re ruining my life! I’ll never forgive you for this,” Lily said as she stormed off to the next car.
Violet’s feet twitched as if to follow, but the urge subsided, and she settled peacefully into her seat on the aisle. She swayed back and forth, feeling the weight of the baby in her arms. “Let’s get you home,” she said to Daisy, “where we both belong.”
* * *
“Next stop, Scranton,” the conductor announced as he passed through the car. Lily trailed behind him and settled in the empty seat across from Violet and the baby. “If you’re trying to humiliate me,” Lily said, “you’re doing a fine job.”
Violet handed her sister the empty bottle and a cup of milk she’d gotten from the porter. “Make yourself useful,” she said. “We’ll be getting off in about ten minutes.”
“What are people going to say?” Lily angrily poured the milk into the bottle and snapped the nipple over its mouth.
“They’re going to say . . .” Violet paused. What would they say exactly? “They’re going to say, Did you hear the Morgan girl got herself in trouble?” Before going to the Good Shepherd, a revelation like that would have severely shaken Violet. Instead, she simply accepted the truth of it.
“They’ll say more than that,” Lily snapped. Blood rushed to her cheeks, then drained away just as quickly. “Which Morgan girl?”
“Let’s get something straight,” Violet said. “If you are ever going to lay claim to Daisy, do it now.”
“You’ve named her?”
“Otherwise,” Violet considered her words, “I’m raising her as my own. No one will ever know your part in it.”
“And I’m just supposed to sit by and watch? She’s mine, not yours!” Lily scanned the car to see if anyone could hear her. Most of the passengers within earshot were either sleeping or lost in their own conversations.
“Not from where I’m sitting,” Violet said. The train’s wheels screeched to a stop. “So what’s it going to be?”
“You’re being impossible. I’ll not stand for this.”
“Which is it going to be?”
The porter hurried up the aisle and pulled down their suitcases.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” Lily said. “I’ll always be known as the girl with a floozy for a sister.”
Startled, the porter dropped one of their suitcases in the aisle. “So sorry,” he said, tipping his hat without looking at the pair.
Violet reached into her purse and brought out a few coins, which she settled in the porter’s hand. She glanced at the hatbox on the floor, gathered up the baby, and started for the exit. Lily grabbed their luggage and followed at a distance.
I might be making the biggest mistake of my life, Violet thought as she balanced the baby on one arm and took hold of the handrail with the other, but if I don’t do this, I will die. She kept her eyes lowered as she navigated the three steps down from the train. As soon as both feet landed on the platform, she looked up and saw Stanley staring right at her.
Part II
ADVICE TO THE MARRIED
AND THOSE ABOUT TO BE
. . . Whether you are newly married or have been married a quarter of a century, be sure that your underwear is the very best that your means will allow you, and that it is always sweet, fresh, and dainty. It will help you to retain the affection of your husband.
—Woman: Her Sex and Love Life,
William J. Robinson, MD, 1929
Never thought we’d see the day. Protestants, Catholics, Jews, even the Episcopalians (just a fancier way of saying Catholic if you ask us) working together to feed and clothe those hit hardest by what the papers are calling “The Great Depression.” Last month alone we distributed 1,729 quarts of soup and 513 pairs of children’s shoes to Scranton’s neediest. We say neediest, but truth is, we’re all hurting these days. Some worse than others, is all. The Archbald Mine’s only been worked eight weeks in the last year. That kind of hand-to-mouth living steals a man’s dignity.
With so much misery in the world, it’s a wonder more people aren’t coming out to church on Sundays. If hard times don’t fill pews, what will? Reverend Sheets is determined to add to his flock. Says new blood will do us some good. He might be right. Then again, nothing ruins a congregation faster than an overeager preacher.
Take Violet Morgan. She certainly deserves a second chance, and we’re all happy to give it to her if she’s truly repentant. She’ll be a married woman soon, and if that’s reason enough for the elders to reinstate her, so be it. But does that mean we have to allow her to exchange wedding vows at Providence Christian? Reverend Sheets seems to think so, especially since she’s promised to raise that little girl of hers in the church. The preacher’s heart is pure, and yes, there’s the child to consider, but in order to be a beacon of light in these dark days, it seems to us we should be cleaving to our morals, not abandoning them.
Of course, the die is cast. Reverend Sheets made his decision, so no sense chewing over it again. Time to focus on other matters—the coal drive, for example, set up at St. Sta
nislaus’s. The Polish church on Oak Street. Nice enough people if you like that kind. Poverty sure makes strange bedfellows, but we don’t mind. Tending to other people’s troubles helps us to forget our own.
Chapter sixteen
“IT’S WEDDING DAY!” Five-year-old Daisy ran into the bedroom, waving a calendar over her head like a kite. She pointed to the date, Saturday, October 12, circled in red, and climbed up next to her mother on the bench seat at the dressing table.
“There’s my doll baby.” Violet pulled the child into the curve of her hip and kissed the tip of her nose.
“And Indian summertime day.” Daisy put down the calendar and pointed out the window to an autumn morning already wrapped in sun. “Look at me!” She made a long O sound in the back of her throat while vigorously patting her mouth. “I’m a summertime Indian.”
Violet didn’t have to ask where her daughter had learned such common behavior. The Wilson twins next door were holy terrors. Only six years old and those boys had already gotten into trouble more times than Violet could count. That mother of theirs never seemed to notice. Violet caught them trying to shoot Mrs. Harris’s chickens with a bow and arrow set they’d found down by the creek. Violet made them hand it over.
“Nice little girls don’t play Indians,” she said sharply to Daisy.
One last low-pitched O leaked through Daisy’s flattened fingers.
“Do you want Grandma and Grandpa to see you acting that way?” Violet wagged her finger and glanced at the open bedroom door.
Shrugging, Daisy dropped her hand in her lap.
Violet immediately regretted her impatience. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My nerves are getting the best of me today.”
Daisy loosened a hairpin from a tangle of them on the dresser and yanked both ends apart. “But it’s a happy day.”
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