As the pair continued down Penn Avenue in silence, Violet tried to reconcile the emotions springing up inside her. She felt sorry for Stanley. He’d lost his hand and his father, even if no one liked the man. Yet, at the same time, she felt great joy. Her friend had not been taken from her. She hadn’t killed him after all. And now he would be free of the mine. Still, Stanley’s pain made her joy seem childish, even selfish, and she struggled to understand her own confusion.
When Violet and Tommy reached Green Ridge Street, they crossed over and started up the hill. Just as they reached North Main Avenue, a horse pulled up alongside them and stopped abruptly.
“Where have you been?” Owen hollered as he jumped out of the saddle. He tied the leather reins on the closest hitching post and grabbed hold of his daughter’s arm. He pulled her in and walloped her on the behind with great force. “You scared us to death!” he yelled, then hugged her hard. He gripped her hands, held her at arm’s length, and looked her in the eye. “I thought I lost you,” he said in a quiet voice, and hugged her again.
Violet did not return the embrace. Tears of embarrassment rolled down her cheeks as she tried to find words. She’d been with Stanley. He needed her. He woke up for her. And how could her father hit her, especially in front of Tommy? “You don’t care about me,” she finally managed. “You left us, remember?”
Owen let go of his daughter, untied the reins, and handed them to Tommy. “See Violet home for me, will you?” Before Tommy had a chance to answer, Owen started toward Providence Square on foot.
* * *
“Praise God!” Hattie shouted as Tommy slid Violet off the horse and down to the ground. She ran and scooped the girl into her arms and carried her inside. “She’s home! Praise God!” Hattie brought Violet straight into the kitchen before setting her on her feet.
Violet locked eyes with Grace, sitting on a chair pulled close to the stove. Grace wore a vacant expression, but her arms shot out in an automatic gesture. Relief washed over Violet as she rushed toward her mother. She longed to be held in those arms. Too late she realized the impracticality of an embrace with a swollen belly between them. Grace caressed Violet’s cheek and finger-combed her hair.
“And just where did you get to?” Adelaide asked as she buttered a muffin from the dozen Louise had brought over that afternoon. There were only eight left, and no one but Adelaide had eaten.
Tommy tramped into the kitchen after hitching the horse. “Stanley woke up for her,” he directed toward his mother Louise, who stood behind Adelaide. He turned to Grace. “The widow called her an angel.”
Violet didn’t remember hearing the compliment, but she took it in just the same.
“Everyone is safe,” Louise said. “That’s all that matters.”
“You gave us a fright, young lady,” Adelaide said with her mouth still full. “I’ll probably suffer all night with this indigestion.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
OWEN’S FROZEN BREATH CHARGED AHEAD OF HIM as he traveled back to Burke’s on foot. Violet was safe. Tommy had seen to that. But Owen was her father. It was his job to protect her. To protect them all. He’d failed tonight. He’d failed with Graham. And, worst of all, he’d failed with Daisy.
The night before Daisy’s funeral, Reverend Halloway had determined that the church would be the best place for the service. He knew of at least fifty souls who planned to attend, and the Morgans’ parlor would hold a quarter of that number. People knew by word of mouth to line their wagons up along North Main Avenue no later than eight o’clock in the morning. Frankly, after three days of viewing, the body stank and needed to be buried before the noonday sun.
Isabelle Lumley, Maude Babcock, and Dorcus Proudlock, Sunday school teachers at the Christian Church, and Jane Griffin, Sunday school superintendent, had offered to serve as pallbearers. Initially, Reverend Halloway had objected to the idea, but Grace thought the notion of women carrying a child so simple, so pure, she insisted he reconsider. Jane also suggested that the smaller boys from the Sunday school be used as flower bearers. Grace’s favorable response caused the reverend to find merit in the idea.
Owen had lain awake that morning listening to Grace starting her biscuits in spite of the mountain of other people’s food in her kitchen. He hadn’t the strength to face her or the day impatient to break over the slag horizon. Culm fires with their rotten-egg smell glowed in the distance. Like everything else, they would burn themselves out. “God . . .” he said aloud. “God . . .” he began his prayer again. When no words followed, he rolled over and faced the window. The rising sun split the sky, alerting all who were awake to the start of another day. “God . . .” he tried a final time, but the word soured and spoiled on his tongue. Owen tumbled out of bed, washed his face in the basin, and headed for the parlor.
Louise Davies, who had nodded off at some point during her overnight vigil, shot straight up when Owen came in. “Just resting my eyes,” she said, pushing tendrils of red hair into her bun. She shoved the chair back to make room for him by the coffin.
He stepped toward Daisy. “A darker day I’ll never know.” He lightly touched his lips to the netting over her face.
Louise fussed with the chrysanthemums, removing the dead ones, reorganizing those that were still fresh.
Owen went over to a shelf on the wall and took down the family Bible, the one his mam had used to teach him how to read and write, Welsh on one side, English on the other. The words Holy Bible had been pressed and burned into the brown leather cover. The first page read,
The Old and New Testaments
Translated Out of the Original Tongues
Owen had placed the Bible on the gate-leg table, grabbed pen and ink, and pulled up a chair. He opened the book and turned to the section sandwiched between Malachi and Matthew, the Old and New Testaments. Gilded letters announced the purpose of each page.
Bonds of Holy Matrimony
Marriages
Births
Deaths
Family Temperance Pledge
He turned to Births and ran his finger across the ornate heading first, then the words written in his own hand.
Daisy Morgan
Born in the year of our Lord
March 1, 1904
At five o’clock in the morning
He traced each letter of her name, from the D’s swollen belly to the Y’s joyful flourish.
“You don’t have to do this just now.” Louise watched as he slid his finger across to the opposite page.
Deaths.
He dipped his pen into the ink and paused long enough to read the only entry he’d written there.
Rose Morgan
Stillborn in the year of our Lord
October 11, 1912
At half past ten
He tapped his pen against the rim of the inkwell and began to write.
Daisy Morgan
Died in the year of our Lord
July 7, 1913
At 3 o’clock in the afternoon
He blew lightly on the page until the ink was dry, closed the Bible, and dropped his head into his hands.
Later that morning, as the horses pulled up along the road to the church, the number of people who turned out had astounded even Reverend Halloway. A weekday funeral, even for a child, was not usually attended by more than just the family and close friends. Somehow, perhaps through newspapers or the grapevine, Daisy’s story had captivated the residents of Scranton. The legend had already been told, polished, and told again. The child not only sang hymns for three days, she sang them nonstop, without a word of complaint or a minute’s rest. Any possible suffering had been removed from the tale, shelved out of reach. And at the moment of her death, the very moment, clouds had pushed the sun back and darkened the afternoon sky. Even those who hadn’t known the little girl noted how the sun stopped shining and wondered at its meaning.
* * *
Reverend Halloway had approached the undertaker’s horse-drawn funeral hearse and helped Grace and
Violet as they stepped out from under the folding top and over the side of the wagon. Owen had waited in the carriage until Daisy’s Sunday school teachers assumed responsibility for the child-sized coffin in back. Three women on either side gently carried it into the church and down the aisle. On a silent count of three, they lifted the casket onto a table in front. Flowers surrounded the altar, blanketing it with their perfume. The women took their seats in the second row. Grace, Owen, and Violet followed, heads bowed, arms interlocked, and sat in the first pew. Reverend Halloway cleared his throat to signal his flock.
“Brothers and sisters in Christ, we gather this day to mourn the loss of Daisy Morgan, precious daughter of Grace and Owen, loving sister.” He tilted his head toward Violet, causing many eyes to settle in her direction, some in sympathy, others trying for it. “While our hearts are heavy, we take comfort in the knowledge that Daisy died happy in faith. Our loss is her eternal gain, for on the very day of this child’s tragedy, she accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior after a profession of faith.”
Owen broke into choking sobs. Eyes moved toward the grieving father.
“Now, brethren, heed the lesson found in the early flight of Daisy Morgan . . .”
Owen’s mind slipped its moorings and floated away. He had not heard another word until the reverend’s voice rose as if in admonition of the crowd. “Her sudden death should serve as a loud call that we may also be ready, for according to Matthew, The Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect. In Proverbs we are warned, Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring forth. Are you ready to meet the Lord?”
A few muffled “Amens” rose from the pews.
He started again with more authority. “Is your heart free from the sin of this world?”
The crowd caught up with the preacher’s expectation. “Amen!” they shouted.
“Have you accepted Jesus as your personal Savior?”
“Amen!”
“Do honor to this child’s memory. Get right with the Lord and serve Him each day as though it were your last.”
* * *
At the cemetery, Daisy’s Sunday school teachers carried her to a level spot next to the hole the men had dug a few days earlier. A series of braided ropes lay on the ground underneath, ready to be of use. Grace, Owen, and Violet stood in front of the coffin, and the rest of the mourners began to fill in the space behind and around.
James Harris pushed through the crowd, and gave Owen’s shoulder a squeeze before stepping forward to nail the lid on the casket he’d built. He slid his calloused hand along the wood he’d planed so lovingly. Grace dropped her head but jumped involuntarily with each thud of the hammer. Owen tried to put his arm around her, but she pulled away. Violet closed her eyes and counted on her fingers, three strikes for each nail head, six nails in all, eighteen blows in total.
With a nudge from Jane Griffin, the young flower bearers inched forward and placed handfuls of daisies on top of the coffin. Four of the elders approached, lifted the pine box, and lowered it on ropes into the grave. As was required by custom, and only for that reason, Owen threw a shovelful of dirt into the opening. The junior choir started in on “Rock of Ages,” and the mourners gradually joined in.
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee . . .
Owen stood in front of Burke’s, breathing in the icy January air, hoping to numb that part of his brain where “Rock of Ages” resided, but the silence only seemed to amplify the sound inside his head. Outside the gin mill’s door, footprints of sawdust and mud fanned out in the gleaming white snow.
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy wounded side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure;
Save from wrath and make me pure . . .
Make me pure. Owen brushed the snow off his coat, thinking about Grace and how she’d made him pure when he’d married her, or so he thought. Even after Graham’s death—especially then. He’d longed to drink, and she knew it, but he held onto Grace and his little family—or, rather, they held onto him. And it had worked. For a while. Then Daisy, his beautiful sweet girl. When the ground opens up and swallows a man whole like it did the day they’d buried that coffin, he grabs hold of whatever he can find in the dark.
Owen walked into the gin mill and threw back a whiskey to quiet his mind.
PART TWO
Little Billy Sunday’s come to our town to stay
An’ drive the Devil out o’ here, an’ make him keep away,
An’ kick the stuffin’ out o’ booze an’ swat all kinds o’ vice,
An’ hammer sin an’ pull the mask from everythin’ not nice.
Folks sez they’re not afraid to go, an’ hear him preach the word;
Course I don’t know if what he does is right, but this I’ve heard:
You feel yerself a slippin’ when he begins to shout—
An’ Billy Sunday’ll git you, if you don’t watch out!
—Charles B. Stevens
SEA AND CAR SICKNESS
Sea sickness and also car sickness can be avoided by the liberal eating of well-salted popcorn. This has been tried many times, with success, and is a very simple remedy. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909
A.P. Gill, Billy Sunday’s architect and advance man, arrived yesterday by train. Seven weeks and a day before the evangelist himself. Same amount of time it took our resurrected Savior to appear before His Apostles, as Sister Adelaide reminded us. Fitting, since Mr. Sunday’s visit promises to be about as miraculous as Pentecost.
Billy Sunday always leaves a town in better condition than he finds it. Churches filled to the rafters. Beer gardens boarded up. Why, just last year, he inspired a group of gentlemen from Wilkes-Barre to turn their monthly poker games into prayer meetings. Expect to see that same spirit here. And we’re not alone. According to the Times, a fellow from Johnstown, New York, asked Mr. Sunday to find him a wife here in Scranton, a Christian woman who can keep him from backsliding. Several women in our own congregation took note of the article. Some a little too enthusiastically.
As for Mr. Gill, we had the pleasure of his company in service this morning. He’s preaching around the city, preparing people for the revival. A fine-looking man, though he put Pearl Williams in mind of that louse who abandoned her. Same dimples. Same thick head of hair. Fortunately, Mr. Gill’s voice is high-pitched, so Pearl just shut her eyes and listened.
We’re to start holding prayer meetings in each other’s houses every Tuesday and Friday, beginning in February. After church, Adelaide took charge of organizing the folks around Providence Square. Said she’d offer Grace’s home if it weren’t so small. Isabelle Lumley volunteered her house. Reminded us it has two stories. “With the staircase on the outside, as I recall,” Adelaide said, knocking her down a peg or two. Someone else suggested the Rockwell place, but we had to refuse. His people are Baptists. Closet drinkers. Not our kind.
When enough moneyed members finally came forward, Adelaide moved on to news about the tabernacle. Seems they need volunteers to saw boards and drive nails. James Harris asked about union carpenters, but Sister Adelaide turned a deaf ear. Didn’t want to borrow trouble before the revival even starts. Can’t blame her. We all want to make a good impression. Besides, James earns enough to keep his family going all winter. Makes furniture in that barn of his. No reason for him to get folks riled up. As we always say, the more you stir the pot, the worse it stinks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
STANLEY SQUIRMED IN HIS HOSPITAL BED as the widow Lankowski deftly cut the bandages away from his forearm.
“Careful,” Doc Rodham warned. “And remember to check for swelling.”
The widow stopped, one snip away from completing the task. She eyed the doctor, then turned her attention back to the boy.
“I think she’s trying to tell us you’re in capable hands.” Doc Rodham smiled at Stanley. “And I agree.”
The widow threw the used dressing
into a basin, and inspected the injured area. A thick mound of fibrous tissue covered the truncated limb. She lifted it gently, noting its colorless appearance, like flesh too long in water. “No sign of infection,” she said. “Bogu dzięki.” Thank God.
Doc Rodham watched as she tended to the arm. “Now remember, meats of any kind. We want him to build up his strength. And vegetables in small amounts, especially cauliflower and turnips.”
“What about cabbage?” she asked.
“And cabbage,” the doctor replied. “But keep him away from fruit, potatoes, tapioca, and sugar.”
“Sugar?” The widow’s head popped up. “It’s the first I’ve heard of that.”
“Oh,” he said, as if remembering something. “A little sugar won’t hurt. Not to worry. Just don’t let him overdo it.”
Relieved, she finished bandaging the limb. “And you spoke to Tommy Davies?”
“Took care of the matter this morning.”
“Thank you for that.” The widow reached across the bed and held the man’s hand in both of hers. “Thank you so much for everything.”
“My pleasure.” Doc Rodham dropped his arm and turned to Stanley. “I suppose that’s it, then. I have to let you go home.”
“Home? Today?” Stanley said. “Truly?”
“Unless you’d like to stay a few more weeks. I could still use some help with those birdcalls.”
“Sorry,” Stanley responded, kicking off the woolen blanket. “I’m leaving.”
“Tell you what. When I stop by to check on that arm, you can finish teaching me.”
Stanley nodded and swung his legs over the side of the bed, poised to hop down. The widow eyed him, and he swung his legs back in place.
“Of course, there is one problem,” the doctor said. “How to get you home?”
Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night Page 16
