Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

Hattie stiffened in her rocker. “Why on earth would you do something like that?”

  When Owen had left her boarding house to marry, he and his friend Graham had carried the red-lacquered Tom Thumb piano ten blocks uphill to the new home. Though a third smaller than most uprights, and in spite of its wheels and handles, the instrument proved to be about as difficult to move as a mule in a coal mine. Owen had never told how he’d acquired the piano—Hattie’s best guess, a winning hand of cards; Grace thought barter a more likely explanation—which he presented to his wife as a wedding present.

  “It’s what I can spare for now,” Grace explained, “and it’ll keep a roof over our heads for another few months.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Hattie said, a little louder than she intended. “As much as I hate to take up for Owen right now, you and I both know that if he has breath in his body, he’ll provide for you and Violet.”

  “And we both know what drink does to a man.” Grace took off her shawl and handed it to her sister. “I have my family to consider.”

  “You can come here,” Hattie offered. “There’s plenty of room, and I’d like the company.”

  “Company is the last thing you need. And besides, I don’t want to leave my home.” Grace paused for a moment and blinked back tears. “How will she know where to find me?”

  “She’ll come with you, naturally.”

  “Daisy . . . I mean Daisy.”

  My sister’s worse off than I realized, Hattie thought, as she decided to take matters into her own hands.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NEXT DAY, Owen waited outside the colliery for Graham’s twelve-year-old son Tommy to finish with the mules. Four years had passed since Tommy had started in the mine, and in that time, he had moved up from breaker boy, where he sorted coal from slate bare-handed, to mule boy, where he worked the animals and took care of them in their underground stable. Owen paced in front of the mine’s entrance. He knew Tommy would be out soon, and there was an errand he wanted him to run.

  Owen had just opened his growler, ready to take a swig of beer, when Hattie turned the corner and marched toward him. He dropped his head in shame.

  “She intends to sell the piano.” Hattie didn’t see the need for a proper hello.

  “Why on God’s earth would she do a thing like that?” Owen asked, still looking down.

  “For the money, what else? I hear it’s two rents you’re paying now.”

  “And what kind of man would I be if I didn’t do for my wife and daughter?”

  “The kind of man who leaves his family at the first sign of trouble.” She nodded toward his hand. “The kind who carries a pint for his dinner.”

  Tommy Davies walked up at that moment and tipped his cap, “Ma’am.” He turned toward Owen and asked, “What is it you need, sir?”

  “Go straight home, and see that Grace gets this.” Owen handed the boy what little was left of his pay after he’d taken care of the rents and the tab at the company store.

  “Yes sir.” Tommy nodded and hurried away.

  “Be sure to tell her,” Owen yelled after him, “she’ll not have to sell the piano.”

  Tommy waved back and ran up the hill.

  Hattie wanted to tell Owen that she saw good in him yet, but loyalty to her sister prevailed. “It’s the least you could do,” was all she managed.

  “The very least,” Owen agreed.

  Hattie went on her way without so much as a goodbye.

  * * *

  The Tom Thumb piano, Owen thought, as he headed toward Burke’s. That she would sell it had never entered his mind.

  It had been Good Friday, one month before their wedding. Owen remembered because Grace had asked permission of the landlord to plant morning glory seeds along the front porch of the coal company house on Spring Street, where they’d live once they were married. According to Grace, most of the other flowers could wait until May, but morning glory seeds had to be planted on Good Friday in recognition of the Lord’s sacrifice, and in order for the seeds to sprout in a timely manner.

  She was still working for the colonel but intended to give up her position once she started keeping house with Owen.

  One night, about a week after their engagement, Owen had asked Grace if she’d miss her work.

  “Only the lessons. If I’m ever fortunate enough to come by a piano, I’ll teach the neighbors’ children.”

  Unsettled by the thought of Grace missing anything, Owen decided to find a piano in time for their wedding. It was the evening before Good Friday that Graham told Owen about a little Tom Thumb down at the horse track along the Lackawanna River. A trainer by the name of Carl had won it from a barkeep up the line in a game of chance. According to Graham, the barkeep had it on good authority that Carl’s dice were loaded. After asking around some, Graham found others eager to make the same accusation.

  “He’s a mean little son of a bitch,” one of the men said. “Deny his own mother if there was money to be made.”

  Along the way, Graham also discovered that the trainer ran cockfights out of the feed barn at the track the second Friday of every month—high stakes, serious gamblers only.

  On the morning of Good Friday, Owen had gone down to the track to see about the piano. Carl kept it in his room off the stables. He used it as a shaving stand, propping his mirror on the music desk, setting his aluminum shaving mug and brush on the covered keys. An unopened cake of barber’s soap lay next to them, and a horsehide razor strop straddled the top of the instrument. He made due with an overturned apple crate for a seat.

  “Come on in and set down,” Carl said, sitting on the edge of the bed as he offered the crate to Owen. “What can I do you for?”

  “Come about your piano,” Owen said, “to see what you might take for it.”

  “So you wants to get a piano. Don’t play myself.” Carl held up his hands and wiggled his fingers, five on the right hand, four on the left. “I’d end up missing a few keys.” He laughed.

  “It’s for my bride-to-be.”

  “Ah, love.” Carl reached for the strop and started sharpening a razor. “How much?”

  “Thought we might barter.”

  “Then you’re wasting my time,” Carl said as he put down his razor, stood up, and gestured toward the door.

  “Heard you run cockfights here.”

  Carl dropped his hand and sat down again.

  “Might be I have a bird that could win a man some money,” Owen continued.

  “You raise fighting cocks?”

  “Got me a beaut.”

  “That so?”

  “Yep.” Chester—a bird too ugly to let live. “He’s yours for the piano. Won a total of fifty dollars with him in three counties.” Owen hoped the Lord might turn a blind eye when it came to swindling a swindler.

  “Then you won’t have no problem paying for that instrument outright.” Carl got up again, and this time Owen stood as well. After a sizable pause, Carl said, “I’ll tell you what. You bring that bird of yours tonight, and if he wins you enough money, I’ll let you buy the piano.”

  The men shook hands, and Owen started up the road, wondering what he’d tell Hattie about her rooster.

  That afternoon, Owen lied to Grace for the first time. “Graham got himself into a peck of trouble.” He looked at the ground, afraid she’d see deception in his eyes. “I need to help him out tonight.”

  No matter how many times Grace asked, “What kind of trouble?” Owen refused to elaborate.

  “You won’t even miss me. Morning glories sure’ll look pretty come summer.”

  Grace turned on her heel, into the servants’ entrance at the colonel’s house, and let the door slam behind her.

  In the end, Owen decided not to tell Hattie about her rooster. He’d already told one too many lies and couldn’t stomach another. If Chester survived the night, and Owen thought he might just be mean enough to, Owen would return him to the yard in time for his sunrise duties. And if Chester didn’t make it
, Owen would have enough time to think about what to tell Hattie on his way home.

  Graham scooped up the bird while Owen tied string around his beak and feet. Chester managed to inflict wounds on both men before they could secure him.

  When they got to the track, they found Carl standing outside the feed barn, checking the crowd—a little light this particular night, even for a holy day. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing toward Graham with a thumb.

  “Raises fighting cocks with me,” Owen said. Chester reared up, as if to expose the lie.

  “Shoulda mentioned him before,” Carl said, but he pointed both men toward the door. “You’re third up.”

  Inside, about fifty men sat on makeshift bleachers surrounding a pit fifteen feet around. Owen noticed some of the men down on the barn floor, poking at the birds, pulling at their wings, getting them riled up.

  Carl strutted in and announced the rules: “All wagers before the bell. Cocks fight till they’re dead or crippled. I’ll call it.”

  The crowd started to settle in.

  “First up, a fighter out of Chinchilla. Hold that bird high.”

  A barrel-chested man waved a rooster in the air. Its feet scrambled frantically above the man’s head.

  “And a cock out of Bull’s Head, another one of Harry’s.”

  Harry held the bird in one hand and waved to the crowd with the other.

  “Place your bets.”

  Various sums of money changed hands while two boys, no more than sixteen, grabbed up the birds and strapped razors to their spurs. Each boy held his charge aloft.

  “Are we ready?” Carl asked, poised to strike a nearby bell. The boys nodded. “Begin!”

  At the sound of the bell, the cocks were thrown into the pit. Shouts from the crowd overpowered the high-pitched squeals and squawks below. A flurry of wings, feathers, and bloody talons rose and fell, pecking, slicing, and tearing at anything either one could get ahold of. They rose and fell again, and then only one stood up, just barely. His right side had taken the brunt of the blows. An eyeball dangled from its socket by a single cord of muscle. A wing hung down at an unnatural angle like a cracked tree limb after a storm. His foot was shy two claws.

  Carl walked over to the pit and declared the barrel-chested man the winner. He scooped up his damaged bird, untied the razors, and held him aloft in victory. Harry snatched up the loser, removed the blades, and threw him in a crate at the back of the barn. Money changed hands, new bets were placed, and the next two cocks were held up for fighting.

  Owen sat stunned. He’d never seen such a spectacle, and though he hated Chester, he couldn’t find it in his heart to throw him in the pit.

  “I can’t do it,” he told Graham, getting to his feet.

  “Go on,” Graham said. “I’ll catch up later.”

  Grateful he didn’t have to explain himself further, Owen carried the rooster out the door and home to Hattie’s.

  The next morning at breakfast, Hattie asked, “Which one of you nitwits tied Chester’s beak shut?”

  Owen silently cursed himself for the oversight.

  “That’s a terrible thing to do to one of God’s creatures, and I’ll not have it again.” All of the men nodded and kept on eating.

  On their way to the mine that morning, Graham said, “I got myself in a bit of a fix last night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bet most of my wages on the fifth fight, a cock outta the Patch.”

  “How much?” Owen asked, figuring in his head what money he could spare.

  “A sure thing, I says to myself when I saw him. Now he was a fighter.”

  “Nothing sure in this world.”

  “True enough.”

  “How much?” Owen asked again.

  “Don’t need no money, if it’s all the same to you.” A smile broke across Graham’s face. “Just need help moving Grace’s new piano.”

  * * *

  Owen hurried into Burke’s, paid for a whiskey, and threw it back. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he mumbled something about a piano. The barkeep poured a fresh shot and pushed it in Owen’s direction. “On the house.”

  Owen glanced up, surprised.

  “You look like the sorriest man in town.”

  He nodded, picked up his whiskey, and headed over to a table in the corner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BY LATE SEPTEMBER, Violet had only attended school a handful of days. She’d go as far as the oak tree on School Street and wait to hear the two-syllabled chew-chew of the cardinal. She’d reply with a series of sharp chip, chip whistles, the only call she was able to imitate accurately. Stanley would step out from behind the elderberry bushes where he’d been hiding until the boys passed on their way down the hill.

  “Fish are biting,” he’d announce, handing her one of two poles. Off they’d go until the end of the school day.

  Violet had even stopped going home for lunch, something her mother never seemed to question. She also never asked Violet about the suckers and chubs she’d started bringing into the house every now and again. If anything, she seemed relieved not to have to think about supper.

  On the few occasions when Violet did show up for school, Miss Reese smiled at her politely and went about her lesson. Only once did the teacher pull her aside and address the matter of her absences.

  “We’ve missed you in school,” Miss Reese said, and she sounded sincere.

  Violet took a deep breath, wondering why she hadn’t prepared for this moment. Should she lie? If so, what lie would she tell?

  “Tending to your mother,” Miss Reese paused as if searching for words, “considering the circumstances, is admirable.”

  Miss Reese seemed to think she understood the situation, so Violet thought it best not to contradict her.

  “It speaks to your character. A pleasant surprise for all.”

  For all? Violet wondered at the remark, but remained silent.

  “I’m sorry about school, but I’m proud of you nonetheless.” The teacher managed a smile, one where the corners of her mouth lifted without alerting the eyes of their intention.

  Violet burst into tears and this time gladly accepted the handkerchief Miss Reese held before her.

  * * *

  “What happened to fishing?” Violet asked one morning late in September as Stanley popped out of the bushes without his poles.

  “I’m tired of fishing,” he explained. “And I’m tired of fish.”

  “So now what?”

  Stanley smiled and started up the hill.

  Twenty minutes later, enough time for him to teach Violet the saw of wren, they arrived at a grove of trees just beyond Leggett’s Creek.

  “Apples? Why didn’t you say so?” Violet twisted an apple off a lower branch, shined it on her sleeve, and took a hearty bite.

  “And I’m the one they call stupid,” Stanley said as he scrambled up into a tree. “I’ll drop them down. You try and catch them. No one will want to buy them if they’re bruised.”

  Violet took three more quick bites and threw the core deep into the tall grass. She bent her legs, cupped her hands, and yelled, “Ready!”

  * * *

  After half an hour, the pair had picked more fruit than they could possibly carry. Stanley loaded his pockets, while Violet gathered her skirt as a sack, taking great care not to show her bloomers along the way.

  “Let’s go.” Stanley led Violet to a side road, in the opposite direction of home. “No sense taking chances.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, after they’d sold, dropped, or eaten all their apples, the pair headed back toward Providence Square with a nickel between them.

  “Murray’s?” Stanley suggested. “They have a whole counter in the back with nothing but candy.”

  “What if we’re seen?”

  “Who’s going to catch us? School hasn’t let out yet. Everyone else is either working or starting supper.”

  Violet stopped to consider his points.

&n
bsp; “Peanut brittle sure would taste good right about now.” Stanley smacked his lips together.

  “And gumdrops,” she added as they started down the hill toward the square.

  * * *

  The screen door yawned open, brushing against a cowbell suspended overhead.

  Violet followed Stanley past bolts of fabric, men’s hats, and a fine china display.

  “Be careful!” a woman shouted from somewhere in the store, Mrs. Murray, the owner’s wife, by the sound of it.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stanley returned as he continued toward the back. He paused to admire a bounty of chocolate, while Violet went in search of her favorite treat.

  “No fooling around.” Mrs. Murray, a rake of a woman, stepped behind the candy case and grabbed an apron off a nail. She wrapped the strings behind her thin frame and around front again. With fabric still left over, she tied a substantial bow over her hollow stomach. She obviously never sampled her own wares. “What can I get you?”

  Stanley piped up first: “Peanut brittle.” He placed the money on the counter.

  “And gumdrops,” Violet added. After all, that nickel was just as much hers. “Red ones, please.”

  “You’ll take what color I give you,” the woman said as she shoveled a scoop of gumdrops into a paper sack. “No more brittle till tomorrow. Sold the last of it this morning.” She swiped the nickel off the counter, tossed it into the register, and moved toward the front of the store.

  Violet handed the bag to Stanley. “You can have the red ones if you like.”

  Looking first to see their color, he popped two green candies into his mouth. “What a pickle puss,” he said when Mrs. Murray was out of earshot, and he started toward the door.

  Violet spied the widow Lankowski near the entrance. A giant, standing six feet tall, she had at least a head’s advantage over most of her Welsh neighbors. She was also the only Catholic on Spring Street. All Violet had to do was look out her parlor window to see the proof, a foot-tall statue of Mary planted in the woman’s front yard. And if that weren’t enough, she was childless, making her even more suspect in the eyes of the children who seemed to prefer passing on the Morgan side of the street.