Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  “I trust you’ll have no problem finding a more suitable arrangement,” Grace was saying as Violet slipped into the parlor.

  Adelaide sat on the couch, gaping at the suitcases Grace had packed and lined up at the door.

  “Perhaps a family without children,” Grace suggested. She eyed the plate of sugar cookies on the woman’s broad lap. “Or a baker.” She looked up and noticed Violet in the doorway. “And why aren’t you dressed for school?”

  Violet hesitated.

  Adelaide sat there for a long time, wide-eyed, searching for her voice. “You’re out of your mind,” she finally managed. “Completely out of your mind.”

  Violet stepped forward as if to defend her mother, but Grace shooed her away. “I’ll not have you late for school.”

  Violet turned back to her bedroom. A row of packed suitcases. Adelaide, stunned into silence. She couldn’t be sure; it had been so long, but just for a moment, she thought, surely this is what hope looks like.

  * * *

  When everyone had gone, Violet to school, Adelaide to Lord knows where, Grace sat at the kitchen table, trembling.

  “What made you do it?” Grief bounded into the room and pulled up a chair.

  She eyed him closely. He seemed to be a study in contradictions. Rawboned, but hearty. Hollow-cheeked, but robust. He smiled broadly, revealing a piece of flesh caught in his front teeth. “You’ve developed quite an appetite,” she finally said.

  “Insatiable.” He kissed her hand.

  She breathed more evenly, and the trembling stopped.

  Grief leaned in toward her cheek.

  She nudged him away, but without conviction. “A mother’s instinct,” she said, finally. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Come now.” He sucked his teeth and laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”

  Grief reached up and traced the furrows on her brow. “No matter,” he assured them both. “She’s gone. That’s what’s important.” He let his finger trail down her face to the cleft of flesh between the nose and upper lip. “So tantalizing,” he squealed. “It’s hardly fair.” He pulled her close and whispered, “Now, we just have to get rid of the girl.” He took his bite. “Then we can truly be alone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WHEN ADELAIDE LANDED ON HER DOORSTEP, Myrtle Evans’s curiosity ruled her tongue. “Look no further,” she told the missionary, inviting her to stay as long as she liked. The story of those suitcases out on the front porch was far too tempting to pass up.

  “God as my witness,” Adelaide explained, holding out her cup for more coffee, “it wouldn’t be overstating the truth to say I barely escaped with my life.” She pointed a forkful of boiled cake in Myrtle’s direction. “Not to be indelicate,” she said, scraping the crumbs off her plate and into her mouth with a plump finger, “but I can hold my tongue no longer. She’s off her nut. And that child of hers is no better.”

  Myrtle leaned forward and cut another piece of cake. The smell of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg filled the space between the women.

  Adelaide caught a raisin as it rolled off the cake plate, onto the table, and popped it in her mouth. “Not another bite,” she said, pushing her dish in Myrtle’s direction.

  “You’ve had quite a shock to your system.” Myrtle served the second slice. “A little sustenance is what’s needed. Now, unburden yourself. Tell me every word.”

  “If you insist.” Adelaide shoveled an ample chunk of cake past her lips. “God as my witness,” she raised her unoccupied hand, “all of this over a simple inquiry.” Myrtle nudged her forward with her eyes, though the missionary hardly needed the encouragement. “I asked—out of concern, of course—how that poor crippled child would be able to ride a mule in his condition.”

  “A fair question.” In fact, Myrtle had posed the same one to her sister Mildred the previous evening.

  “I was only thinking of the boy.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well, if that didn’t set Violet off into one of her rages, screaming and kicking like a savage Indian.” Adelaide belched before taking her last sip of coffee. “And that mother. Forgive me, but she lost her backbone when she lost Daisy. Never once stood up to Violet the whole time I stayed there. I’m not one to carry tales, mind you, but that woman spends her days staring off with what can best be described as a moony expression on her face. Has more bats in her belfry than the Presbyterians, and that’s the truth.”

  * * *

  Adelaide repeated her story several more times, as Myrtle seemed to have a steady stream of neighbors passing through her kitchen for a bit of conversation. After a lunch of beef and potato meat pies, Adelaide exclaimed, “Haven’t had a pastie that moist since my last trip out west. It’s as if Grace purposely asks the butcher for a cut of meat without any fat.”

  When it came time for the missionary’s afternoon nap, she asked Myrtle to fetch her bags. “Milk leg’s acting up,” she explained, before lumbering down the hall toward the bedrooms.

  * * *

  On the last Friday in January, Owen collected his pay envelope, minus the rents and the family’s tab at the company store, and headed home to the square without a single nickel left for beer. Knowing that Burke’s didn’t operate on credit—he’d actually seen Bobby Lewis thrown out of the place for asking—Owen continued up West Market Street to a beer garden called Stirna’s, five doors away from the church, right next to the Masonic Lodge. Mike Stirna, the owner, was a Lithuanian fellow, but that wouldn’t keep Owen from trying it out. Joey and Bobby Lewis had both heard that a miner’s first drink at the little gin mill was always free. Of course, they’d never stepped foot inside themselves, seeing that they were such good Welshmen. Buying drink from the Irish was sin enough; no need to throw good money at the Lithuanians. With that foreign tongue of theirs, not even the Poles understood them half the time. “What next,” Bobby had joked, “liquor with the Turks over in Westside? Booze with the coloreds downtown?”

  It made no difference to Owen. A drink was a drink, and a generous barkeep was a godsend. He wandered into the place and headed for the bar. Mike Stirna stood waiting, his muscled arms folded over his chest. Behind him, several photographs showed a younger version of the man in various boxer poses. Mike took one look at Owen, caked with coal dust and fresh snow, poured a jigger of whiskey, and slid it toward him.

  “On the house. Clean out lungs.”

  “Much obliged,” Owen said, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his blackened hand. “Any chance an honest man might get a drink or two on credit?”

  Mike pulled a red ledger out from under the bar and carefully wrote the name Owen Morgan with a bit of pencil.

  “Do I know you?” Owen asked, pushing his empty glass forward.

  “Algird!” Mike yelled behind him as he refilled the whiskey. “First two drinks always on house for Mr. Owen Morgan of the Sherman Mine. After that, settle your account on payday.”

  Owen started, “I’m not sure I . . .” but stopped when he saw a tall man with a hitch in his gait coming down a set of steps toward him.

  “A few more feet,” the man said with a smile, his accent thick but understandable.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Owen said as he threw back his drink. He hadn’t seen his mine butty since they’d crawled out of the Sherman on Christmas morning.

  The two men embraced, and, after some thought, Algird managed the words, “Thank you.”

  “My nephew,” Mike said. “Still working on his English. Told me you save him. Say you no leave him behind, even with broke ankle. We always be grateful.”

  Owen listened as Algird spoke to Mike in his native tongue.

  Mike poured a beer and handed it to Owen. “This one on Al.”

  Owen nodded his thanks and the men embraced once more before Algird shuffled back upstairs.

  * * *

  Four beers later, Owen decided he’d prefer to take his dr
inks at Stirna’s all the time. Free drinks aside, Mike treated his customers fairly, and people kept to themselves. Owen even inquired about renting one of the rooms over the bar, but with a man like Mike running the place, they were already full-up.

  “Thanks again,” Owen said, as he turned to leave.

  “Be seeing you tomorrow.” Mike waved, and headed over to another miner who’d just walked in, fresh off the late shift. The barkeep poured a jigger of whiskey and pushed it forward. “On the house. Clean out lungs.”

  “Many thanks.”

  Recognizing the voice, Owen swung around in time to see Bobby Lewis throwing back his free drink. “And will your brother Joey be joining you?” Owen asked with a smile, knowing the two were inseparable.

  “What’s that?” A red-faced Bobby slid his empty glass toward Mike.

  “Good to see you,” Owen said, patting the man’s shoulder. He ambled out of the bar into the cold January night.

  Next door, the Masons were leaving for home. “Never noticed the full moon,” Owen said to no one in particular. Since the Masonic brothers established the Moon Lodge in Providence long before gaslights had been in use, their meetings were traditionally held on nights when the moon was full. That way, the men would have light to guide them home.

  “A fine night for a meeting,” Warren Maxsom, the lodge’s Worshipful Master, answered. “Good evening,” he tipped his hat, “and God bless.”

  Owen stood in front of the building a moment longer, staring up at the plump moon.

  “I’m the last one out, again.” Davyd Leas smiled as he pulled shut the door to the Masonic Lodge. “How’s Grace these days?” He put his arm around Owen’s shoulder, an easy gesture, one that suggested talk of wives and children was a daily occurrence between the two.

  Owen dropped down to adjust his boot laces, effectively freeing himself from the man’s hold. He hadn’t seen Davyd since the day he showed up at Burke’s to talk about the elders’ intention to remove him from the church rolls. Owen hadn’t wanted to see him then, and he didn’t want to see him now. “Grace’s needs are met. Violet’s too. About all I can say on the matter.”

  “Her time’s coming soon.”

  “Beginning of April, near as I can figure.” Owen stood, but kept his eyes to the ground.

  “Heard she finally gave that missionary the boot.”

  Owen looked up, surprised by this bit of news. “How’s that?”

  “You need to look after her,” Davyd said, now that he had his attention. “You’re the only one who can. And you’re too good of a man not to.”

  Owen struggled for words, but couldn’t find any that fit.

  “It’s not right,” Davyd continued, “her being alone. She needs you.” He slapped Owen on the back and turned for home. “You’re duty-bound,” he called out, before disappearing into his house at the crest of the hill.

  Owen stayed in place a moment longer, then continued down West Market Street. He got as far as the church, started toward Burke’s, glanced at the full moon, and thought, Just maybe it’s guiding me home.

  * * *

  Owen slipped around back, afraid the moon would give him away to his neighbors. He glanced past a gossamer-covered window and into the girls’ room. Violet was snuggled in for the night curled on her side, Daisy’s half of the bed unused. He thought of the last time he saw Violet. You left us, remember? And he had, no doubt about it. He couldn’t blame his daughter for speaking the truth.

  Ten o’clock, he thought, as he trekked to the far side of the house. Would Grace even be awake at this hour? He moved over to the window alongside the rain barrel and peered into the kitchen. From this vantage point, he could make out the right side of the room: part of the stove, half the kitchen table, and a good portion of the wall leading to the parlor. An oil lamp flickered from an unseen perch, casting shadows on a bit of ceiling.

  He waited. A shadow passed across the wall. Grace was near. Owen closed his eyes, breathed in, and for moment thought he was catching the scent of lilacs in spring. When he looked again, he saw Grace, sitting at the table, a steaming cup before her. So beautiful, he thought. She dropped her head into her hands. So fragile. He wanted to go in. He willed his legs to move, but stood, frozen to the earth. You’re duty-bound. And he was; yet duty alone could not propel him forward.

  There she sat, eyes bluer than he dared to remember. Ringlets of dark hair fell around her face; a white embroidered blouse stretched over her growing breasts. She peered toward the window. Owen’s heart pounded in his chest. Could she see him? Did she know he was standing just feet away? She stood up, holding her cup, and padded in the direction of the sink. He saw her swollen belly, his child growing inside her. A part of him. Did that part still exist, or had the bitterness and the whiskey killed it off? Only one way to know, he thought, and just like that, he walked up to the kitchen door and held out his fist to knock.

  “What I want is to be left alone,” Grace said, loud enough to be heard outside.

  Does she know I’m here? Owen wondered. Is there someone else inside? He waited.

  “Stop sulking,” Grace said. “It doesn’t become you.”

  Owen stood on the porch a moment longer and listened.

  “It’s just that I’m tired of going round and round,” she said.

  Owen went down the steps and back to the window. He watched as Grace grabbed hold of the oil lamp. He couldn’t see anyone else inside, but he didn’t have a clear view of the whole room.

  “I’m going to bed.” Grace turned down the wick on the lamp, extinguishing both its light and Owen’s hope.

  He hurried out to Spring Street and back toward his room at Burke’s.

  * * *

  Grace sat down on her bed and stared into the dark. These nightly go-arounds with Grief exhausted her. “Lord help me,” she whispered as she curled up under the covers. “Lord forgive me.” She waited with her eyes open.

  After a time, she heard Grief making his way toward the bedroom. Grace lifted the blanket, inviting him in, as they both knew she would.

  TO DRIVE AWAY RATS

  Fill their holes and run-ways as fast as discovered with chloride of lime or concentrated lye. Their feet get sore and they will seek other quarters —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909

  Sister Adelaide wore out her welcome, is all. Can’t blame Myrtle for wanting her house back. Two weeks of waiting on someone hand and foot takes its toll. Especially when you have your own family to tend. Sometimes godly folks are harder to please than the rest of us. Not always, mind you, but more often than not, in our experience. We should know, having put up our fair share of missionaries over the years.

  Can’t find fault with Grace either, God bless her. Lord knows, as strange as she is these days, she did try in her own way. Suffered with Adelaide even longer than Myrtle, and that’s a fact. Just wish she didn’t keep to herself so much. It’s not natural.

  Of course, with Sister Adelaide gone west, Reverend Halloway took charge of organizing the residents of Providence for Billy Sunday’s revival. The choir’s been practicing three nights a week, and the elders have been calling on backsliders. The men’s Sunday school class is up to two hundred, and the evening prayer meetings are going as planned. We’re hoping to make an impressive showing on Mr. Sunday’s first day here. We want him to think back fondly on the members of the Providence Christian Church.

  And we’re not the only ones excited about the campaign. All sorts of people are getting in on the act. Even Mr. Murray from the dry goods store. He’s been advertising in the Truth. Have the paper right here.

  Billy Sunday’s got one month

  Before converting as many men and women

  From the downward path

  As will be attracted

  By his magnetic power.

  His mission is to save souls.

  Our Mission is to save you money.

  A little inappropriate, if you ask us, but who are we to judge?

  CHAPTER TWEN
TY-SEVEN

  THE DAY BEFORE VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY, the widow assessed Stanley, who was finishing his lunch of kielbasa and pierogi, and asked, “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Much to her amazement, Stanley had adapted quite well to life with one hand, but she still worried about him.

  He wiped his mouth with a sleeve sewn closed at the end of a handless forearm and nodded. “I’ll be fine. Now go. You want to get there before they close, don’t you?” He took another forkful of the smoked sausage. “And remember to get the red gumdrops. Red are her favorite. And the makings for a chocolate cake. That’s everyone’s favorite.” He took a swig of milk and laughed. When some of the milk shot out of his nose, he blotted his face with the already stained sleeve.

  The widow threw extra coal into the stove, kissed the boy’s head, and took her coat from the chair. “Mój drogi, I won’t be more than an hour.” She headed out the door.

  She walked around to the street, still fretting over Violet’s ninth birthday. She stopped in front of her statue of the Virgin Mary. Stanley had asked her repeatedly if they could have a cake ready on the exact day, February 19, in case Violet’s mother wasn’t up to it. He hated to think of his friend being disappointed, especially after all the trouble she went to for his party. Of course, the widow would bake a cake for Violet, but she couldn’t help thinking it would mean so much more to the little girl if it were her own mother making the fuss. The widow had prayed daily on the matter, asking God if she should speak to Grace or hold her tongue, but when no answer came by the eighteenth of the month, she decided to make a trip to Murray’s.

  The widow offered one more prayer, this time to the Virgin. She turned around just as Grace came out on her porch with a galvanized coal bucket. “I think I have my sign,” she whispered to the statue, and crossed the street.

  “Let me get that for you,” the widow called to Grace, taking the pail and scattering the ashes on the ice-covered steps and sidewalk. “Last thing you need to do is take a fall in your condition.”