Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  VIOLET ARRIVED HOME ON THE SECOND FRIDAY in October to find her mother and Miss Reese sitting side by side on the couch in front of the parlor window. Violet’s breath hardened and stuck in her throat. She slid along the wall till she butted up against the Tom Thumb piano. Without looking, she reached underneath, pulled out the piano stool, and took a seat.

  “Your teacher wants to know if I can spare you this Wednesday for a picnic up at Gracye Farms Dairy.” Her mother’s tone was syrupy, and therefore suspect. “I told her no reason why I couldn’t spare you this Wednesday,” she paused, “or any other Wednesday she had in mind.”

  Violet dropped her head and pressed her toes into the floor.

  “She tells me she worries about you,” Grace paused again, giving her words their full weight, “spending all your time tending to my needs.” She turned toward the visitor. “Now isn’t that right, Miss Reese?”

  The teacher twisted and all the prettiness drained out of her face. “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

  Violet studied the stool. Brass talons gripped glass balls at the base of each leg. Instinct told her to say something—make an excuse, find a lie—but her tongue would not cooperate.

  This was not the first time she’d found herself at a loss for words.

  They’d left her all alone in the yard that day. Mother. Father. Daisy. Violet struggled to move, but her legs were two slabs of stone. Myrtle Evans and her sister Mildred watched from their back porch, shaking their heads.

  “Why don’t you go in and see about Daisy?” Myrtle yelled over. “Something wrong with you, child?”

  “I think she’s touched in the head,” Mildred said loud enough for anyone outside to hear. “Considering what she did.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. The grandmother was . . . you know . . . on Grace’s side.”

  Violet remained planted. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make the women disappear.

  “Afraid to see what you’ve done? Is that it?” said Myrtle.

  What I’ve done? She gasped, sucking in charred whispers of air. The oppressive sun glared down on her. What have I done?

  Louise Davies slammed down the Morgans’ porch steps, into the backyard, and yelled, “You should be ashamed of yourselves, talking to a little girl like that!” She crossed the yard. “Poor dear,” she said, covering Violet’s ears. “More than likely lost her only sister.” Violet’s eyes sprang open, and her head shook loose of Louise’s grip.

  “She’ll have to live with that,” Myrtle countered as the neighbors went back into the house.

  * * *

  Miss Reese collected her gloves, marched over to Violet at the piano, and thumped her on the chest. “I’ll expect to see you in school on Monday morning,” she said in a voice oiled with authority.

  “And every day thereafter,” her mother added with a smile that looked to take some effort. “You can be assured of it.” Grace stood up and moved toward the door. “I do appreciate your concern, Miss Reese. I’ll make sure Violet understands the seriousness of her actions.” She held the door open.

  “Goodbye, then.” Miss Reese turned to leave.

  Violet waited for what came next. The switch? A tongue-lashing? Something worse?

  Grace skirted the piano, shuffled into her bedroom, dropped to the bed, and wept.

  With her eyes still closed, Violet swiveled back and forth on the stool, wondering how she should feel—about the teacher, about the tears. It was her fault, of course. Skipping school. Upsetting Mother. But nothing she felt seemed right anymore. Like the morning she’d started smiling at the memory of how her sister used to dawdle at breakfast, building hills and valleys with her oats. When she had tried to cheer her mother with that story, Aunt Hattie had scolded her for not respecting the dead. Violet hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. Remembering just came to her, like sleep or hunger. How could she make their bed without picturing her sister pulling up the blankets on her side? Or sit in that classroom without wondering if the D carved into the desk next to hers stood for Daisy? Or pass by the dandelions that had gone to seed without thinking of her sister plucking bouquets of them for wishes.

  Violet threw herself into a spin, swiveling down on the stool as she circled.

  None of that mattered now. And she was to blame—for all of it. Making Mother sick. Driving Father out of the house.

  Killing Daisy.

  When she opened her eyes, she was facing the piano.

  Daisy’s singing had begun quietly that day. Her song escaped into the yard, from the open bedroom window, and Violet had turned to listen.

  Jesus wants me for a sunbeam . . .

  They’d learned the song in Sunday school with all the accompanying hand gestures.

  To shine for Him each day . . .

  Violet imagined Daisy’s fingers twitching, remembering a duty they needed to perform, forgetting their misfortune.

  In ev’ry way try to please Him . . .

  At home, at school, at play.

  Daisy’s had always been what choir director Betty Leas called a sterling voice, sweet, pure, clean of affectations, remarkable for a child her age.

  A sunbea m, a sunbeam,

  Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.

  A sunbeam, a sunbeam

  I’ll be a sunbeam for Him.

  Violet stepped around the burned patch of grass and crossed the yard. Through the window, she saw the adults, some standing, others sitting, all listening intently to Doc Rodham, so she entered the house through the front door.

  The piano stood at attention on the opposite end of the parlor. Someone had moved the stool, but Violet would worry about that later. She grabbed hold of the left side of the little Tom Thumb and pulled it away from the wall. She tugged the right side in the same direction and repeated the process until the instrument pointed toward the hallway. Tiny globes of sweat dropped onto the red lacquered surface and rolled toward the keys.

  Positioning herself at the far end of the piano, Violet caught her breath and started to push. The wheels over hardwood sounded like boots on gravel, but no one in the kitchen seemed to notice. No one came running to help. Daisy’s singing had softened, but Violet could still hear her voice between pushes.

  Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,

  Calling for you and for me . . .

  Once she arrived at her sister’s door, Violet saw the problem—not enough leeway to turn the piano. She mopped up her sweat with the skirt of her dress and considered her options. Up ahead on the left, her parents’ bedroom door was open. She pushed the Tom Thumb deeper into the hall and, after much effort, directed it toward their room. She worked at the other end, aiming it toward Daisy. She pushed and pulled and shoved and tugged, until the piano finally cleared the opening. She rolled it into the room and up against the opposite wall, next to the window. Without looking at her sister, she grabbed the stool alongside the bed, sat down at the piano, and started to play the refrain.

  Come home, come home,

  Ye who are weary come home . . .

  Daisy’s voice remained steady, either unaware of the accompaniment, or taking it for granted.

  Come home, come home,

  Calling all sinners come home . . .

  Sinner. The word ricocheted in Violet’s head throughout the entire second verse and exited out her windpipe with a gasp.

  Violet focused on her hands and realized she was rushing the notes, the only criticism her mother ever made of her playing. “Feel the music,” she’d say with eyes closed, head swaying. As the third verse approached, Violet slowed her fingers and rested her foot atop the damper.

  Time is now fleeting,

  The moments are passing . . .

  Violet stretched the notes, inviting each to settle in for a short visit.

  Passing from you and from me . . .

  Her mother and father entered the sickroom with Reverend Halloway in tow.

  Daisy’s song continued, unstraine
d, purposeful, necessary.

  Shadows are gathering . . .

  With an audience, Violet felt both conspicuous and cornered. At least her back was to them. At least she didn’t have to look them in the eyes.

  Deathbeds are coming . . .

  She wished she could melt into the floor and seep between the boards into the cool dark earth below. She wanted to run into her mother’s arms, to sit on her father’s lap, and tell them she was not a jealous girl no matter what they thought—but she could do none of these things. All she could do was play.

  Coming for you and for me . . .

  Did they blame her? Could they even see her? All the while, her fingers continued their dance across the keys, despite the heaviness of her heart. At once she realized that if she stopped—that is, if she could choose to stop—the silence would give her up. And so she continued to play.

  She played through the doses of laudanum every two hours. She played as their mother placed chips of ice on Daisy’s tongue; the ice that had been intended for ice cream at the church picnic.

  “Stop now, Violet,” her mother had said at one point. “Your sister needs her rest.”

  “No,” said Daisy. “Let her play.”

  So she played whether her sister sang or rested, prattled or whimpered. She played long after she was told to go sleep in her parents’ room.

  Three days in all, Violet played all the hymns she knew, until her fingers blistered, then bled, then finally calloused. She played on the second day when Doc Rodham soaked the bandages, peeled them away, and dressed the wounds all over again. She played through the choking smell of infection mixed with the perfume of sweet peas from the open window. Through her mother’s tears, her father’s prayers, and her sister’s singing.

  And then Violet remembered another song. Daisy immediately recognized the tune.

  Away in the manger,

  No crib for a bed.

  The little Lord Jesus

  Lay down His sweet head . . .

  Violet stared at the wall and took in the sounds. Her sister’s voice. The groan of her mother’s rocker. The tap, tap, tap of a boot too quick to be interested in keeping time.

  Daisy sang. The first verse, the second verse, and finally the third.

  Be near me, Lord Jesus,

  I ask Thee to stay . . .

  Her voice was fragile but steadfast, like a crocus poking its head through a spring snow.

  Close by me forever,

  And love me I pray . . .

  For the third day in a row, Reverend Halloway called on the Morgans.

  Bless all the dear children

  In Thy tender care . . .

  The adults took one breath and held it, as if by agreement, in anticipation of the final lines.

  And take us to heaven,

  To live with Thee there.

  Daisy’s voice, a whisper. “I want to look brave when I meet Him.”

  “A finer soul He’ll never see,” her mother assured.

  “I’m ready,” Daisy said, and breathed no more. Without turning, Violet knew to close the lid over the piano keys.

  One long savage wail escaped from the darkest part of her mother’s soul. No other sound was heard until the preacher finally said, “She’s in the Almighty’s choir now.”

  “Small comfort,” her father muttered from the other side of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HATTIE FUMED AS SHE STARTED UP SPRING STREET to see about Grace and Violet. The “good Christian women” of Providence Christian had wasted no time that morning filling her in on Miss Reese’s recent visit to the Morgan house. Yes, Hattie was concerned that the teacher had stopped by, and yes, Violet did need more supervision than Grace seemed able to provide, but why did she have to hear about it from Myrtle Evans and her lot?

  Hattie continued up the street, wondering what she could do to help. Grace refused to move into the boarding house, and Hattie couldn’t afford to move to the Providence section of town.

  Assuming she’d find Grace in the kitchen, Hattie went around to the side door. As she put her hand on the knob, the door flung open.

  “I was just telling Grace we’d probably be seeing you today,” Myrtle said with a smile as she waved her in.

  Hattie’s attention flew to Grace who sat at the table, her head in her hand, with her blouse half-buttoned over what looked like a nightgown. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve solved our problem!” Myrtle announced. “And everyone’s on board.” She patted Grace’s limp hand.

  Myrtle’s solution came in the form of a rather corpulent missionary, who stood huffing and puffing, her white-knuckled hand gripping the back of a chair.

  Forty-three-year-old Adelaide Humphreys had been raised on a Guatemalan mission field until the age of ten. She and her father, Reverend Howard Humphreys, had returned to the States after her mother contracted and subsequently succumbed to malaria. Intent on carrying God’s message to anyone who had an ear for it, her father joined the Circuit Riders, a group of Methodist preachers spreading the word on horseback in those godless settlements out west. Adelaide traveled a separate circuit, bouncing from one church family to the next until she reached adulthood. Since she only knew how to depend on others for her keep, she naturally became a missionary herself.

  Once a year, Adelaide spent the better part of a month in Scranton, reporting on her work to the members of the Providence Christian Church, who supported her mission out west. Though Adelaide never actually lied about how far west she’d traveled, Hattie had been surprised to learn from a visiting evangelist that Adelaide never made it any farther than Pittsburgh.

  “I tell you, these children out west would burn in the fires of hell if it weren’t for your generosity,” Adelaide would explain at the start of each visit. “Some never even heard of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. Can you imagine?”

  Murmurs of disbelief would pass through the Women’s Bible Study Group, the Christian Endeavor Society, or the congregation at large.

  “They’ll say to me, Sister Adelaide, who is this Jesus fellow?”

  Heads would shake in horror.

  “Without God’s Word, their little souls would go unsaved.” She’d raise a hand and shout, “Thanks be to God for the support you have given thus far!”

  A rousing “Amen!” would sweep through the congregants.

  “But there are still more children, bellies to fill, hearts to be won for Jesus.”

  Those in the audience would start digging in their pockets. The deacons would advance along the pews, passing the collection plates up and down the aisles.

  “Dear Lord,” she’d drop her head in prayer, and a wattle of flesh would sag at her neck like a silk balloon in need of gas, “may these fine Christians ask themselves, Have I given enough to the service of the Lord? Have I sacrificed enough in His name?”

  A few hands would reach back into their pockets in search of their own salvation.

  “Father, let them consider whether that extra sweet or finger of whiskey,” she’d open her eyes and let them settle on the well-fed woman or bulbous-nosed man she’d spied in advance, “is worth a few lost souls.”

  More hands would scavenge for coins intended for other, less noble purposes. The men taking up the collection would circle back, smile broadly, and pass their plates a second time.

  “Thanks be to God,” she’d say, and signal the deacons to hoist her to her feet.

  * * *

  Adelaide Humphreys had arrived at the Morgan household with more suitcases than seemed necessary for a missionary, in Hattie’s opinion. Grace managed a weak smile from her seat at the kitchen table while Hattie stood, appalled, in the doorway.

  “If you’ll be so kind as to show me to my room,” Adelaide said pointedly to Violet. Violet started toward her bedroom when Sister Adelaide cleared her throat and tipped her head in the direction of the suitcases. “Milk leg’s acting up, and the doctor advised me to avoid strain.”

  Violet took ho
ld of the largest suitcase and dragged it down the hallway. Adelaide trailed, unimpeded.

  “What in the world is going on, Grace?” murmured Hattie.

  “I’ll be off then,” said Myrtle, squeezing by Hattie in the doorway and hurrying out.

  “I’m not feeling well,” Grace said, standing slowly. “I’m going back to bed.”

  * * *

  “That’s a good girl,” Adelaide Humphreys said when she reached Violet’s room. “You can get the others once I’m settled in.”

  Violet entered first and started to clear her half of the bed.

  “This will be fine,” Adelaide said as she patted the mattress and sat down. “And where do you sleep?”

  “I’m partial to the right side, but I can make do with the left.”

  “No need for that.” Adelaide smiled. “That’s a good sleeping couch out in the parlor. Just your size.” She stretched out fully, depositing her girth across both sides of the bed. “Now be a dear girl and bring the rest of my suitcases in before I fall to sleep.”

  Violet returned to the kitchen to talk to Aunt Hattie, but she had gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  AFTER MISS REESE’S VISIT, Violet started attending school on a regular basis. She didn’t need anyone to see her off each day, which was just as well, considering her mother usually slept long into the morning, and Adelaide never awakened before noon.