Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night
Page 20
As they drew closer to the top, the tree line started thinning. Unimpeded, the orange sun blazed overhead, tiring the children, quieting them. Flies, gnats, and mosquitoes buzzed all around.
The three dropped, exhausted, when they reached the crest, and slept. Owen woke atop a smoldering mountain of slag, the smell of brimstone filling his nose. “Daisy,” he yelled, “Violet!” suddenly aware of their absence. “Someone help me!”
Later that night, Grace also appeared to Owen. She kneeled on the ground, a spade in one hand and seeds in the other. “Let’s see how high the sweet peas grow this year.” She smiled at him, squinting into the glaring sun. Grace stood up, revealing the wooden cross Owen had planted at Daisy’s grave.
He cried out, “Don’t look back!”
She started forward, but turned to the cross. The orange flame erupted, swallowing Grace with its intensity.
Before morning, Graham visited Owen’s dreams too, growler in one hand, pickax in the other. “Don’t like the look of them clouds,” he said.
“Stay,” Owen begged.
“You know better than that.”
“Then take me with you.”
“And who do you suppose will look after Grace?” Graham pulled himself free, but Owen grabbed him, and the two men wrestled.
“Deliver me,” Owen yelled out, “I pray thee!” He loosened his hold.
Graham rose up, turning toward the colliery.
The bright sun appeared again, this time in the mouth of the mine, illuminating Grace, Violet, and Daisy, waiting in front as Graham approached. Owen tried to move, but discovered his legs had turned to stone. He tried to call out to them, but no one answered. When they all looked at Owen, he noticed a pale figure enveloping Grace with his ropy arms. As Owen squinted, orange fire burst all around them. Daisy screamed, “Father!” and Owen woke, covered in sweat.
* * *
Owen tipped his cap when he saw Tommy Davies waiting on the stoop. “Couldn’t get started this morning. Sorry if I held you up.”
“No problem,” the boy said, waving his hand. “Better get down the hill.”
The two walked in silence until they turned right, toward the mine.
“Heard Grace got rid of that missionary,” Owen said, eyes to the ground.
“Heard the same thing myself.” Tommy crossed over toward the above-ground stable.
“Anybody else staying with her now?” Owen called after him.
“I wouldn’t know,” Tommy responded before heading inside.
Who was she talking to so late? Owen had wanted to ask the boy, but he couldn’t get the words out. He knew he didn’t deserve an answer. A better man would have gone inside that night to find out for himself.
* * *
At the end of his shift, Owen stood in line at the pay station off the main gangway to pick up his envelope. Same routine every two weeks.
“Number?” the pay master would ask, even though he knew Owen by name.
“One ninety-four,” Owen would answer, and wait for the man to search through a wooden file box on top of the small desk.
With a few men still ahead of him, Owen mentally tabulated his earnings. He’d filled eighty of the five-ton wagons, so his pay should be forty-eight dollars before deductions, a decent wage if he actually took all of it home.
“Number?”
Owen stepped forward and answered.
The paymaster handed over an envelope without looking up. “Number?” he shouted again, as the next man moved ahead.
Owen shuffled toward the wooden cage, checking the calculations on the front of the envelope. Rent, fourteen dollars; company store, seventeen dollars; tool sharpening, one dollar—leaving him with a balance of sixteen dollars for food, drink, and his room at Burke’s. He hadn’t had his pay in hand five minutes yet, and he already knew he’d have to go back into debt to make it through the next two weeks. If he were allowed to shop at Murray’s, he might have a chance of getting ahead, since their prices were almost a third less than those at the company store. But Owen knew that was impossible. Mine owners made it clear that if you wanted to keep your job, you’d shop in their stores.
* * *
Owen headed up the hill toward Providence Square, past Burke’s on one side of the street, Stirna’s on the other, and continued along West Market to Wayne Avenue. He was low on black powder and knew he’d need more before the end of the month, as they were about to start blasting a new chamber. I’ll have to go on the books soon enough, Owen thought. Today I’ll pay cash like a respectable man.
“I’ll be right with you,” Adam Bonser yelled down from the ladder as Owen entered.
“Take your time,” Owen replied, looking at the picks and shovels along the wall. “I’m in no hurry.”
The storekeeper returned to the counter with a box of washing powder in hand. “Now what is it you were saying, Mrs. Evans?” he asked, recording the item in his ledger.
Myrtle Evans glared at Owen. “That every man in this town needs to hear Mr. Sunday’s message.” She watched as Owen crossed over to look at hoes and seeds. “Backsliders in particular. Those who have taken to the drink.”
Mr. Bonser nodded. “And is there anything else I can get you today?”
Myrtle looked down at her list. “Four cans of mock turtle soup.”
“Be right back,” he said, disappearing behind a curtain.
“Yes sir,” Myrtle continued in spite of Mr. Bonser’s temporary absence, “Billy Sunday’s crusade may be just the answer for some folks.” She turned quickly to watch Owen’s reaction. She saw none. “I hear they’re just about finished with the tabernacle,” she said, stepping closer, trying to catch his attention. “Installed electric lights, chairs, a platform for the choir, and a pulpit in front.”
Finally, Owen nodded out of politeness, which Myrtle mistook for interest. “All that’s left is to lay the sawdust on the aisles, so sinners can hit the sawdust trail, as Mr. Sunday is so fond of saying.”
When Mr. Bonser returned with the soup, Myrtle checked her list. “Two yeast cakes and a package of currants ought to do me for the week.”
Mr. Bonser recorded the additional items, then climbed back up the ladder.
“According to the Times,” Myrtle went on, “Billy Sunday will be arriving at the Lackawanna train station next Saturday, but he won’t start preaching till Sunday morning.”
Owen stepped up to the counter, carrying his black powder.
“And will we be seeing you there, Mr. Morgan?” Myrtle asked.
“We?”
“The good Christians of this fair city, of course. We’re trying to make sure Mr. Sunday’s crusade is well-attended.”
“I’m sure a man like Sunday won’t have any problem filling the pews. And besides, with good Christians like yourself, there won’t be any room left for an honest sinner like me.”
Myrtle ignored Owen’s remark, and turned back to Mr. Bonser. “It’s a seven-week campaign, but if you ask me, that first Sunday is most important. Everyone from Providence Christian will certainly be there. Members in good standing, that is.” She gathered her packages. “And since you’re closed on Sundays, you’ll have no problem making at least one of the three services planned that day.”
Mr. Bonser nodded. “I’ll try my best.” He turned away from her. “Now what can I do for you, Owen?”
Myrtle started for the door, pausing briefly to look at flower seeds on a shelf. “Grace always has such a colorful garden. Just hope she can pull herself together enough to tend it this spring. Poor thing. Always talking to herself.”
Owen shot around. “With all due respect, Myrtle, Grace is none of your concern.”
“Then whose concern is she?” Myrtle held onto him with her eyes. “Certainly not yours, Owen Morgan. Certainly not yours.” She turned on her heel and left the store.
Owen looked back at Mr. Bonser who was busying himself with his ledger. “What do I owe?” he asked, pulling the pay envelope from his pocket.
Owen plucked two one-dollar bills from his envelope.
“Did Violet enjoy her party?” Mr. Bonser slid the book back under the counter and pulled out a cigar box to make change. He pushed fifteen cents across the counter, as Alice Harris came into the store with her little girl. “Be right with you,” Mr. Bonser said.
Owen pocketed the change but stayed put. “Lye?”
“For the rats.”
“What rats?”
“Can’t say exactly.” Mr. Bonser tucked the cigar box under the counter. “She seemed to be worried, though. Something about a spring thaw. I told her better to put lye before the first snow.”
“I did that,” Owen commented to himself. “Are you sure you heard her right?”
“Yes sir. Said so herself.” He pulled out his ledger again. “Oh well, you know women. Always making a problem when they can’t seem to find one.” He laughed, then caught himself. “Pardon me, Owen. No harm intended. My tongue gets away from me sometimes.” He blushed as he hurried over to Mrs. Harris. “What can I get for you today?”
Owen tipped his hat in Alice’s direction, and walked out the door. The thought of the lye nagged at him all the way over to Market Street and down the hill. Laying down lye this time of year would be like throwing money away. Not that money was the problem. No. He was the problem. If he wasn’t drinking, he could be there to take care of the rats, and that was the truth. But knowing a thing and acting on it were about as different as watching a bird soar and being able to fly. Grace doesn’t know any better, he told himself, as he pulled open the door to Stirna’s.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ON SATURDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 28, Betty Leas and the entire choir from the Providence Christian Church took the streetcar to the tabernacle downtown. This would be their last group rehearsal before the official opening of the Billy Sunday campaign the following day. Banners announcing, Scranton for Christ, Get Right with God, and To-day is the Day of Salvation stretched across the wall. Red, white, and blue buntings and American flags decorated the wooden poles supporting the building’s unfinished ceiling. Betty pointed to the bare lightbulbs strung along the rafters. “I see the electricity’s finally working.”
“By the grace of God,” Mr. Gill said and smiled.
Mr. Gill led the singers down aisles of sawdust to their seats up front where D.D. Ackley, the official pianist, and Homer Rodeheaver, the music director, waited for all the choirs from around the city to come together. Betty counted heads one last time to make sure everyone from Providence Christian had made it. Forty-five. She offered up a silent prayer of thanks. After yesterday’s dressing down, no one wanted to be late. When several women from the Methodist church had tried to sneak in after the appointed hour, Mr. Rodeheaver had stopped the rehearsal and warned, “You’ve got to be Johnny-on-the-spot if you want to be part of Mr. Sunday’s choir! There are others ready to take your place. I only need to ask.”
After all the people had assembled in front, Mr. Rodeheaver thanked them for their punctuality. He tapped his baton, looked over at Mr. Ackley, and said, “‘I’m Bound for the Promised Land.’ Let’s begin.”
* * *
“I wish you’d reconsider,” Louise said to Grace over an afternoon cup of tea. “I don’t like the thought of leaving you, so close to your time.” Grace tried to wave her off, but Louise continued: “There’s too many of us planning to go see Billy Sunday tomorrow. Won’t even be a service at the church.”
“I’ll be around in the morning and afternoon,” Hattie said, entering the kitchen without knocking. “Don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“Then I’ll stay back in the evening,” Louise said. “No need to go to all the revival meetings in a day, anyhow.”
“The whole congregation will be attending tomorrow, and I’ll not have the two of you staying behind on account of me.” Grace stood up, poured another cup of tea, and set it out for her sister.
“But if we’re all downtown,” Hattie said, dusting a few errant snowflakes off her coat before sitting, “no one will be around to look after you.”
“She has me,” Grief said, pulling off his tie and tucking it into his coat pocket.
Grace stood up with her hand on her back and added a shovel of coal to the stove. “I’m a month out, and I’ve never gone before my time. Besides, I won’t be alone. Violet will be here with me.”
“And what can a child do if the baby comes early?” Hattie asked as she warmed her hands on the cup.
“Fetch the doctor,” Grace answered. “If need be.”
Violet walked into the kitchen looking for her cigar-box dollhouse.
“Speak of the devil,” Grief said, and laughed.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Hattie stretched out her hands. “How’s my girl?” She hugged Violet, pushed her back, and held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.” She twirled her around and peered at Louise. “Can you believe she’s nine years old already? Where does the time go?”
“And so beautiful,” Louise said. “Now Violet, do you think you’re old enough to keep an eye on your mother tomorrow?”
“Yes ma’am,” she said, finding the box on the cupboard and tucking it under her arm.
“And you’ll see that she gets her sleep?” Hattie added.
Violet glanced at her mother for some indication of how to answer. It had never occurred to her to tell her mother when to go to bed.
“Not to worry,” Grace said. “I’ll be sound asleep by nightfall.”
“We’ll both be,” Grief chimed in, glancing at the lye on the shelf before slipping out of the room.
* * *
As was his custom, Billy Sunday arrived at the Lackawanna train station with little fanfare. He always liked to slip into a city before dusk on a Saturday, saving most of the excitement for the revival itself. Sturges and Sherman were among the handful of dignitaries who met his train, eager to see the man who preached a message of “subservience on earth for rewards in heaven.” Such notions served the purposes of businessmen eager to quell the rumblings of the working class. And Sunday’s natural sincerity only made his words that much more effective.
Those waiting for the evangelist spotted him easily as he stepped down from the train. Though in his early fifties, Sunday still had the broad chest and narrow hips of an athlete. He often credited his years as a professional baseball player for the stamina he displayed at the pulpit.
“Neat as a pin,” Sturges remarked as Sunday approached. He wore a fur-trimmed coat and a Dakota hat, similar to a fedora but with a higher crown and curled brim.
“A pleasure to finally meet you,” George Sherman said, stretching out his hand.
“Always a pleasure to do the Lord’s work,” Sunday returned with a smile.
Once a porter secured Sunday’s bags, the men ushered him inside the train station, where a pressman from the Truth stood waiting. “Welcome to the Electric City,” he called out. “Cleanest town around.”
“Glad to hear it,” Sunday said, turning to get a good look at the grand lobby with its mosaic floors, marble walls, and vaulted stained-glass ceiling. “A mighty fine structure.”
“Five stories high,” Sturges said. “We’re quite proud of her.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” Sunday took off his hat. “Imagine the sermons I could preach here.” All of the men smiled.
The reporter glanced at his tablet. “If I may, sir, where will you be staying while you’re with us?
“Over on Monroe Avenue. The Christys, one of Scranton’s finest families, have invited me to share their home.”
“And what is it you hope to accomplish during your Scranton campaign?”
“Well, son, I’m here to assault evil.” Billy Sunday set his hat on a bench and
threw a fist into his open palm. “I’d like to see every booze fighter get on the water wagon.” He took off his jacket, swung a leg up on the seat, and leaned in. “Every sinner hit the sawdust trail.”
A passerby yelled, “Amen, brother!”
Travelers made their way over to listen.
“You know,” Sunday said, looking around at the gathering crowd, “I am familiar to some extent with the people of this fair city. You are a zealous, earnest bunch, and I know you will fight for the Lord.”
A ticket agent, caught up in the excitement, shouted, “Jesus saves!” from his booth to the right of the entrance.
Sunday cupped his ear. “Do you hear that? The Lord is working already.” He loosened his tie. “I’ve just come off my campaign in Pittsburgh, and it seems to me that there is a great big wave sweeping across this state. A great big thirst for the Gospel. Now is the accepted time. Today is the day of Salvation. Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and ye shall be saved.” Sunday dropped his foot, put on his jacket, pushed up the knot on his tie, and asked, “Does that answer your question?”
Everyone around him applauded.
“Sorry about that, son. I’m a little enthusiastic when it comes to serving our Lord.” He laughed. “Anything else you need to know?”
The journalist looked back at his tablet. “Your plans for tomorrow?”
“Three services. Ten, two, and seven thirty. That gives everyone a chance to come.” Sunday waited, allowing the man to take down the information, before beginning again. “Folks can expect rousing sermons and the most inspiring music on the Atlantic Coast. Best choirs yet, according to my song director. Had sixteen hundred and sixty singers show up, but we only have capacity for fourteen sixty. Actually had to turn two hundred away. That’s a first for Billy Sunday.”
“And any advice for those who will be attending?”
“No children in arms. That’s why we set up a nursery at the YWCA. And it’s hats off starting tomorrow. The ladies may wear veils, but that’s it. Don’t want to block anyone’s view with all those feathers and such.”
“Anything else?” the reporter joked.