Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

“We have money enough for the streetcar,” the widow said. “It drops us right on the square, two blocks from Spring Street. We’ll ride shank’s mare after that,” she laughed, slapping the sides of her legs. “The walk will do us both good. I won’t let him overdo it.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t work.” When Stanley and the widow started protesting, he added, “Have you ever ridden in an automobile, son?”

  “Never!”

  “Well, this is your lucky day.”

  * * *

  Doc Rodham palmed the crank at the front of the Model T with Stanley standing a few feet behind him. “You never want to grab hold with your fingers.” The doctor turned the handle and started the engine. “You’ll break your wrist,” he called out over the roar of the motor, “if she kicks back in the opposite direction. From now on, you’ll have to be especially careful with your good arm.”

  Stanley nodded solemnly, memorizing every detail of this spectacular event. The widow watched from the safety of the sidewalk.

  “Everyone in!” Doc Rodham yelled. At first, Stanley settled into the roadster’s uncovered backseat, but Doc Rodham and the widow quickly overruled him.

  “There’s room in front if we squeeze together,” she said. Stanley slowly climbed over and sat in the middle.

  Doc Rodham drove up Vine Street and over to North Washington Avenue. “What do you think?”

  Stanley smiled as the wind blew across his face, but the widow pursed her lips. “Hold onto me, Stanley. Boże. Boże. Lord. A little fast, don’t you think?”

  * * *

  A few blocks down the road, A.P. Gill, Billy Sunday’s architect and advance agent, stood in front of the new tabernacle, speaking to reporters from Scranton’s three newspapers, the Truth, the Republican, and the Times. George Sherman, Colonel Watres, and E.B. Sturges were among the dignitaries who had accompanied him to the location.

  From the outside, the building looked like an organized shantytown, with its rough-hewn wood and abundant entrances. Windows dotted each of the four exterior walls and poked through the top of a turtle-back roof designed to carry Mr. Sunday’s voice to every corner of the place. Smoke curled from fifteen metal chimneys attached to fifteen stoves inside. They’d been fired up since the previous morning. The workmen needed to dry out the ground in time to install the seats.

  “You may not think she looks like much,” Gill said to the reporters, “but that just puts me in mind of Matthew, Chapter 6, verses 28 through 29. And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

  “So true,” Sherman said, though his befuddled expression suggested he was still trying to decipher the meaning of the passage.

  “And how many will it seat?” the Truth’s reporter asked.

  “Twelve thousand,” Gill paused for effect, “and one, counting Billy Sunday, of course.” Everyone chuckled. “We have our work cut out for us, though. Especially since we’ve increased the choir space to fourteen hundred and sixty.”

  “How’s that?” the Republican’s man asked.

  “Just last year, a group from Scranton performed in Indiana, Billy’s home state. That’s when he discovered that your fair city is the musical center of the North. So, naturally, Billy insisted we increase capacity here.”

  The Times reporter broke in: “About Mr. Sunday’s work with the poor—”

  “That’s enough for now, boys,” Watres cut in, not seeing the need to let someone from the Times, the only paper he didn’t own, ask a question. “We have plenty of work ahead of us.”

  “Last one,” Gill said, holding up his index finger. “And I’m glad you asked, son, because Billy Sunday is very committed to working with the downtrodden. After all, we’re told in Proverbs, Chapter 19, verse 17, He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again.”

  “Just so,” the reporter looked up from his pad and locked eyes with Gill, “I believe it’s that same book that tells us, He who oppresses the poor reproaches his Maker, but he who is gracious to the needy honors Him.”

  “Good to see you know your Bible, boy.” Gill’s smile flattened. “Now, what is it you’re after?”

  “Why hasn’t Mr. Sunday hired union laborers to build his tabernacle?”

  “I figured as much,” Gill chortled, but his face reddened. “I’m not afraid of labor unions. There is no man who will do union labor as much good as Billy Sunday.” The businessmen flanking Gill nodded in agreement.

  “With all due respect, sir, at last count two hundred carpenters remain idle in the city. One man I spoke to worked only five days in the last six weeks. And he knows of others who are worse off.”

  “We’re finished here,” Sturges said as he took Gill by the arm and pulled him toward the tabernacle’s main entrance. “Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  The Times reporter kept pace with the dignitaries. “Only twelve union carpenters have been hired by Mr. Sunday even though he’ll raise more than enough money to pay a hundred times that number. It’s my understanding the rest are unpaid workers organized by the same churches that promised to use union labor.” Gill and his entourage reached the doors. The pressman shouted, “Aren’t you taking the bread out of—”

  “Barroom bums!” Gill exploded. “The barroom bum who doesn’t know how to hold a job, who never held a steady job, who never did work all the time, is the only man who is shooting the hot air. Loafers! That’s all they are!”

  “There’s talk the union members, those loafers, if you will, may boycott the Sunday revival meetings. What then?”

  Gill opened the door and eyed the reporters. “Good day, all. We have work to do.” He drew in a breath and glared at the man from the Times. “The Lord’s work.”

  Sturges put his hand on the small of Gill’s back and led him inside. Watres and Sherman followed without a word.

  * * *

  “Thought you might like to see the tabernacle, since it’s on the way home.” The doctor pressed on his brake pedal, pulled over to the side of the road, and drew the floor lever back until they came to a complete stop. He slid out of the car, but the widow stayed seated to catch her breath, so Stanley slipped out of the driver’s side.

  “I heard they build one just like it wherever he goes,” Stanley said.

  “This one’s bigger,” the doctor explained. “Wants room for every singer in the town.”

  “No doubt, with all the Welshmen.” The widow came up behind them, patting her face with a handkerchief. “They have such beautiful voices.”

  Stanley remembered something he’d heard in the mines. “What happens when two Welshmen meet on the road?” He waited, then answered, “They form a choir.”

  Doc Rodham laughed, surprising Stanley, who hadn’t realized he’d told a joke. “Here’s a riddle for you,” the doctor said. “What’s five feet tall and a mile long?”

  “I give up. What is it?”

  “A Welsh parade.” They both laughed this time

  “Don’t encourage the boy,” the widow scolded from behind, where they couldn’t see her smile. She pulled up her skirt, stepped on the wooden sidewalk, and headed toward the structure.

  Doc Rodham bent down, pulled Stanley onto his back, and carried him over to one of the windows. They spotted a group of well-dressed men surveying the open, unfinished interior. For now, the inside looked like an oversized pole-barn, with its bare beams and rafters. Cords of wire stretched across the ceiling. “Bet they’ll light the place with electricity before they’re finished,” Stanley called back to the widow, who was still making her way through a bit of snow left from the previous evening.

  “Is that so?”

  “How long will he be here?” Stanley asked.

  “Seven weeks,” the doctor said, “so you’ll be sure to see him.”

  “Ev
an Two-Times said Catholics aren’t allowed,” Stanley ventured.

  “What a thing to say,” the widow responded. “We pray to the same Holy Father as the Protestants. Don’t listen to such nonsense. That’s his mother talking.” The widow stood next to them and crossed herself. “Lord, help me. I certainly have my work cut out.” She opened her eyes, smiled at Stanley, and crossed herself again. “Amen.”

  Once they were back in the automobile, the widow thanked the doctor for stopping. “When the time comes, I’d like to take the boy, if he’s up to it.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Doc Rodham said, as he turned the corner onto Sanderson Avenue. “Mark my word. He’ll be running races before long.”

  She glanced at a lever on the steering wheel. “Then perhaps we should slow down a bit, and get him home in one piece.”

  Doc Rodham stepped on the pedal and pulled back on the throttle. He grinned at Stanley. “Don’t argue with a woman, my boy. You’ll never win.”

  * * *

  Violet wandered over to the front window and pulled back the curtain for the third time in an hour.

  “You’ll wear a hole in that rug, with all your pacing,” Adelaide called out from the couch. “Haven’t you anything better to do?”

  Violet dropped the curtain and went back into the kitchen. “Can I help yet?”

  Grace inhaled, held the breath, and exhaled slowly. “Almost,” she said, gesturing for Violet to sit. A little more than six months along, a swollen Grace moved carefully about the room. She headed to the stove with a couple of clean broom straws in hand, tied a loop in one of them, and dipped it into a pot. When the white boiled icing coated the circle completely, Grace blew in the center. A perfect bubble formed, indicating the frosting had finished cooking. She lifted the pot off the burner and placed it on the stove’s shelf to cool. Next, she grabbed dry towels from the sink and pulled the oven door open. She poked the centers of two small cakes with the other straw. When it came out clean both times, she removed the cakes and tipped them facedown on wire racks in the middle of the table.

  Violet took the towels, wet them in the sink, and draped them over the exposed bottoms of the pans, one of the many lessons she’d learned from watching her mother in the kitchen. The coolness of the damp rags would help to loosen the cakes.

  “Thank you.” Grace lifted her eyes and pressed her lips together, not quite a smile, but a definite expression of gratitude.

  Violet sighed with relief. Today would be a good day after all.

  About ten minutes later, Grace slowly lifted the pans, revealing two eight-inch round chocolate cakes. Violet went to the cupboard, took out the Haviland dinner plate with hand-painted flowers and coin-gold edges, and placed it on the table. It had been a wedding present to her mother from Aunt Hattie, one of the few mementos salvaged from their childhood and reserved for special occasions.

  After a minute or two, her mother set the icing, a large spoon, and a dull knife in front of her daughter. “Me?” Violet asked, surprised to be given such responsibility. “By myself?”

  Grace nodded as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil.

  Violet placed the first cake upside down on the plate, then dropped a spoonful of frosting into the middle and spread it evenly over the surface. Next, she placed the second layer right-side up, on top of the first, so the flat bottoms pressed together. That way, the second cake wouldn’t slide off, another lesson learned at her mother’s side. She added more icing and fanned it out across the top and down the sides. When she finished, she waited for her mother’s inspection.

  Grace pulled the plate around to see the cake from all angles. “Stanley will be quite pleased,” she finally announced, and stood slowly to make the tea.

  Violet examined the cake once more and smiled at her effort. She licked the spoon and scraped the pot before setting them in the sink to soak.

  “He’s home!” Violet shouted, as she looked out the window and across the street. The gray late-afternoon sky stood in contrast to her delight. “And in an automobile!”

  This last detail prompted even Adelaide to drag herself off the couch and over to the window. “Well I’ll be,” she said. “Shouldn’t spoil a child like that, though. He’ll just start expecting more out of this world.”

  Violet put on her coat and carefully picked up the cake. Grace threw her coat over her shoulders and held the door open.

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” Violet asked Adelaide.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” she said. “Make sure you save me a piece of cake.”

  * * *

  “Now who could that be?” the widow said to Stanley, who was seated in a tufted chair with a bed quilt wrapped around his legs. She winked at Doc Rodham and opened the door.

  “Happy Birthday!” they all shouted as Violet entered.

  “Wszystkiego najlepszego w dniu urodzin,” the widow added.

  “But my birthday’s long gone,” he said, as he waved his friend to sit down next to him.

  “We know,” the widow replied. “Three weeks today.”

  “You woke up for me on your birthday, remember?” Violet said, and Stanley grinned.

  “Well, I didn’t want to miss my party,” he joked. “That’s some cake. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Mother made the cake, but I iced it.” Violet looked around for her, eager to share the limelight.

  “She never came in,” the widow said gently. “Too much excitement, I suppose. We’ll save her a piece.”

  * * *

  Grace sat at the edge of her bed, shivering, her coat still draped around her shoulders.

  “You were right not to go.” Grief strolled toward the bed and dropped alongside her. “We don’t need anyone else.” He stroked her arm. “Certainly not the girl.”

  Grace bristled, intending to object, but surrendered to his caress. She couldn’t step into that party any more than she could carry on with this charade. No longer would she pretend that life went on—without Daisy, without Owen, with only Violet to . . . what, to love? She stared down the hall at the other bedroom, bereft at the emptiness of it, and wondered what was to become of her.

  * * *

  About half an hour after Violet arrived, someone knocked on the widow’s back door.

  “It’s your home now too. You may as well see who it is.” The widow took Stanley’s plate and lifted the quilt. “You’ll help him, Violet, won’t you?”

  Violet jumped up and led Stanley into the kitchen by his good arm. The widow and Doc Rodham followed closely behind.

  “It’s Tommy Davies,” Violet announced as she pulled open the door.

  “Tell him to come in,” Stanley said, turning to sit down.

  Violet’s eyes widened. “I think you better see this for yourself.”

  Stanley moved toward the door, stepped out on the porch, and froze. He couldn’t move. He tried, but it just wouldn’t happen. Only his mouth succumbed to his will. “My Sophie!” he cried. “Is it really you?” He remained there a minute more, then leaped so quickly, Violet had to grab hold of the banister as he passed. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight in all my days!”

  * * *

  Violet rushed into the house, calling for her mother, yelling something about a mule.

  “Finally,” Adelaide said. “I’ve been sitting here for over two hours waiting for my cake.” She held out an empty milk glass.

  “Where’s Mother?” Violet asked, glancing in the parlor, and back into the kitchen. “Can you believe it?” she shouted, anxious to share the news, even with the missionary. The words knocked up against each other, like agates in a game of marbles. “Mr. Sherman, he sold her the mule, the widow, he can keep her, Stanley, in Mr. Harris’s barn, for now!”

  “What?” Adelaide pounded the table. “Are you telling me she bought a mule for a useless cripple?”

  Violet bristled. “A what?”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” Adelaide went on. “Well, he’s hers t
o spoil, I suppose. No one else would take him in.” She shook her head. “Now, where’s that cake?”

  “I left it for Stanley!” Violet stormed into the parlor and over to the Tom Thumb piano. She sat on the stool and began to run her fingers over the dust-covered lid.

  “You what?” Adelaide shouted, loud enough to be heard in the bedrooms.

  Violet measured out her words without looking up. “I-left-the-cake-for-Stanley,” she said. “It was his birthday.”

  The blow to the cheek landed so swiftly, it knocked Violet off her perch and onto the floor. “You’ll think twice before you try that tone with me again. You may have the others fooled,” Adelaide hissed down at the child, “but have no doubt, I can see the blackness in your soul.”

  Violet’s eyes darted around the room, yet no one rushed in to save her. “Then you best watch out,” Violet said, in a voice foreign even to her own ear. She grabbed hold of the little piano, pulled herself up, and stormed down the hall. “And that’s a good sleeping couch. Just your size!” she yelled, before slamming the door to her bedroom. Once inside, she collapsed on the floor, shuddering at the boldness of her words.

  Grace remained seated on the edge of her bed and listened as Adelaide stomped toward the room. “I’ll not put up with such insolence,” she warbled in her most evangelical voice through the half-open door.

  Grief sighed audibly from his chair in the corner.

  “Nor should you have to,” Grace said, hands folded, head bowed. “The matter will be handled by morning.”

  “See to it, then,” Adelaide pointed her voice toward Violet’s door, “or I will.” She stood at the threshold a moment longer, before marching back out to the parlor.

  * * *

  As daylight announced itself at the window, Violet awoke from the soundest sleep she’d had in months. She snuggled deeper into her bed, wondering about the trouble she was in. If she never opened her eyes, she’d never have to face her mother or Adelaide; yet, if she waited for them to come in, her punishment might be worse. Finally, she shook off her covers in one quick motion, and padded down the hall. All the while, the voice repeated in her head, You best watch out, sounding more familiar each time.