Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  And she wanted to say all of it from the comfort of her mother’s arms, but Violet’s impudent feet and tongue would not abide. She stood as still as the stone Mary in the widow’s front yard.

  “Fascinating,” Grief said as he stepped over to the girl. He slid the buttonhook out of his pocket and dragged it lightly across her cheek.

  Violet twitched.

  Awareness bubbled up and soured in Grace’s stomach. “Stay away,” she warned, “or . . .”

  “Or what?” Grief slinked back to his corner.

  Violet set the milk and sugar bread down on the closed lid of the piano, took her coat from the hook on the wall, and walked out the door.

  * * *

  “It’s long past supper.” Grace’s brow furrowed at the realization. “I thought she’d be back by now.”

  “Give her a little more time,” Grief said to Grace, who sat across from him at the kitchen table. “She’ll come back when she’s finished sulking. Anyway,” he patted her arm and glanced at the empty kettle waiting at the sink, “we have other priorities tonight.”

  Grace stared absently at their reflections in the window, Grief’s withered appearance, her wasted one. She looked down at the swollen mound stretching the folds of her skirt to their limit, and wondered at a baby’s ability to thrive under such woeful circumstances.

  “Perhaps a cup of tea,” he suggested in an even tone. “It always seems to soothe you.”

  She stretched a hand toward his lips. He nibbled a little—a finger here, and knuckle there—seemingly indifferent to such paltry scraps.

  “I know!” Grief jumped up excited. “I’ll start the kettle.”

  “Why the hurry?” Grace stood, went to the sink, and pumped water. “When did this become your idea?”

  “I’m devastated, truly,” he said, patting his pinched chest with a bony hand. “But I need to be supportive of my Gracie.” He reached toward her and rubbed the small of her back. “Who is it that said, What touches us ourselves shall be last served?”

  “Where could she have gotten to this time of night?” Grace stoked the fire and placed the kettle on the stove. She spooned spearmint leaves into the hinged tea ball and placed it on the table next to the empty tea pot.

  “Shakespeare, I suppose. Though don’t ask me where.” Grief walked to the shelf, grabbed the tin of lye, and set it in the middle of the table. “I never much cared for his plays.” The two sat back down and waited. “Though I have to admit, some of his sonnets intrigue me.” He started reciting.

  When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

  I all alone beweep my outcast state . . .

  “She’s so young,” Grace said.

  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

  And look upon myself, and curse my fate . . .

  “How will she manage alone?”

  Grief broke from his reverie to reassure her: “She’s not alone.” He counted off, starting with his left thumb. “She has Hattie, the widow, Stanley, and that husband of yours.” Only his pinky remained folded. The boiling kettle rattled on the stove, so he reached around with his right hand and pulled it off the flame. He poured the water into the pot and dropped the tea ball inside to brew. “And she has me,” he added, lifting the last finger, before stroking Grace’s cheek with his open palm.

  “You!” Grace pushed the hand away. “I’ll not stand for it!” She slammed her fist on the table.

  “Come now,” he said, tapping the lye into the teapot and swirling it gently. “After all, she’s about the age you were when I first came calling. Probably even a shade older.” He closed his eyes a moment. “So tender, so ripe.” He opened his eyes and grabbed hold of the teapot. His hand quivered a bit as he poured and pushed the cup in front of Grace. “What’s good for the goose,” he laughed, “is good for the gosling. Isn’t that what they say?” He lifted the cup to Grace’s lips. “As if you could stop me.”

  She pushed him away with such force, he tumbled backward in his chair, toppling the teapot, cup, and lye as he fell. “I’ll not let her near the likes of you!”

  Grief lay unconscious at her feet.

  Grace snatched her coat, threw it around her shoulders, and opened the front door. Horrified, she stared out at the night, noticing the storm for the first time. Snow fell from the sky, only to be tossed about by the merciless wind. A white shroud rendered yards, sidewalks, and streets indistinguishable from one another. Who could survive such a night? Certainly not a child, Grace realized as she stepped onto the porch.

  * * *

  When Violet had walked out the door, she’d found Sophie chewing on an empty burlap sack in the backyard. “How’d you get here?” Violet looked over at the Harris’s barn and noticed the open door. “Stanley wouldn’t want you wandering the neighborhood.”

  She tugged on what could best be described as a leash. The widow had fashioned it out of her late husband’s belt the day Stanley had announced that Sophie would no longer need a bridle. “No sense wearing the thing if no one’s going to ride her,” he’d said. “And no one’s going to ride her. She’s worked her share already.”

  It had taken Violet over an hour to coax the mule back into the barn. Sophie would take a step or two, and stop to nuzzle Violet, licking away her tears. By the time she finally got the mule settled in her stall, watered, and fed, the snow had begun in earnest.

  Hours later, Violet lay huddled beneath the hay in the Harris’s barn, sidled up against Sophie’s warm belly. How could I think that Mother would forgive me, she thought, that anyone could forgive me for what I did?

  She shivered, even as Sophie pressed her body closer. The tears, which hadn’t stopped flowing in the hours since she’d left the house, froze to thin lines of straw around her. “I’ll run away,” she said aloud. Sophie whinnied, but Violet ignored her objection. She looked up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Stanley,” she said, before turning her attention back to the mule. “I’ll need your help. This night’s not fit for walking.” She stood up to see if the worst of the storm had passed. A foot and a half of snow wrapped its way around the barn. The wind had dropped at least another foot alongside the door, and still had not let up. Violet burrowed back under the hay and waited.

  * * *

  Grace clung to the porch banister, dizzy from squinting through the wind-swirled snow. She’s out there somewhere, Grace thought, as she tried to make out a child’s shape in the blizzard. And it’s all my fault. Though virtually snow-blind, Grace knew the widow’s house to be a straight shot across, so she bowed her head and set out, hoping to find Violet there, warming herself at the stove. Grace tried to push through the snow, but her legs tired quickly, and she had to resort to raising and dropping them like a soldier on parade. A few minutes later, she arrived on the other side of the street and, clinging to the banister, pulled herself up the front steps. After shoveling a good amount of snow away from the door with a coal bucket and bare hands, Grace squeezed her way inside and yelled, “Violet!” Only the howling wind moaned in reply. Grace shook the ice out of her skirt, as the flame inside the stove flickered and died. She grabbed an afghan from the widow’s couch and headed back into the night.

  * * *

  In spite of Sophie’s best efforts, Violet trembled underneath the hay. She drew her hands up into her coat sleeves, but that didn’t stop the numbness from spreading down her fingers.

  “We’re in trouble,” she whispered toward the mule’s ear, shutting her swollen eyes for just a minute.

  “Wake up!” Daisy cried. “It’s time for school.”

  Violet resisted the urge to stir. She wanted to savor the warmth of her bed.

  Daisy shook her by the shoulder. “I’m not going to let you make me late on my birthday.”

  When Violet finally opened her eyes, she found Daisy standing at the door of their bedroom. She wore her beautiful white store-bought dress, and a matching bow bloomed from her head like a peony in early summer.

  “I have a surprise fo
r you,” Daisy teased. “It’s a dandy.”

  Violet slipped out of bed, feeling the chill of the day through her muslin nightgown.

  “Last one out’s a rotten egg,” Daisy called back as she ran down the hall and out their front door.

  Violet scurried after her into the yard.

  “Get on,” Daisy said from atop Sophie’s back. She fingered the mule’s white mane and waited.

  Violet hesitated.

  Daisy started clapping. “Come on. It’s my birthday!”

  Sophie nudged Violet’s head, and leaned down low so she could swing her leg up and over.

  “Hold tight!” Daisy yelled from in front. “And keep an eye out for Myrtle Evans. Nothing she likes more than to catch us up to no good.”

  * * *

  Grace pushed against the wind and snow, back across the street, this time to Louise’s house. When she finally managed to let herself in, Grace found the place as empty as the widow’s. The last bit of heat from the banked stove leaked through the rag-stuffed window frames, like the final traces of warmth on a fresh corpse. Grace shivered, as she lumbered to the back door and headed for the Evanses’ house, not even stopping to wipe the ice from her frozen eyes.

  The wind slapped pellets of snow against her cheeks and neck. Grace pulled the afghan up around her face and inched forward. Next, she arrived on Myrtle’s back porch, only to find the door bolted against her. Another time, Grace would have found it odd that Myrtle had locked her door, but she didn’t have the energy to think about such matters now. Instead, she dropped to her knees, out of exhaustion as much as a need to pray. “Please, Lord!” she yelled. The wind absorbed her voice, but Grace kept on, hoping God might hear her plea even if she could not. “I’ll make it right, somehow. Just don’t take her away from me!”

  She thought to say more, but when no words came, she opened her eyes and stood. The wind changed course, and for a moment Grace saw Violet floating on a pillow of snow. She tried to make sense of the vision while she pushed past the drifts. There it is again, she thought, as the gusts momentarily calmed enough to let her see in the storm. Grace pressed on, weaving and stumbling toward her house. Just before reaching the door, she fell into what seemed to be a mountain of snow. When she stood up, she discovered what the vision was—an unconscious Violet, draped across Sophie’s back.

  Grace threw the afghan over her daughter, pulled at Sophie’s leash, and led the mule and child up the porch steps. In spite of her increasing back pain, she lifted Violet off the animal’s back and carried her into the house. She sat with her on her lap in front of the hissing stove, alternately rubbing Violet’s hands and feet between her palms.

  Sophie squeezed her way into the kitchen uninvited. The wind slammed the door shut behind her, causing Grace to swing around.

  Grief opened one eye, but snapped it shut when Grace threw a look down at him. She glanced up at Sophie standing by the cupboard. Savior or not, a mule did not belong in the house.

  Sophie dipped her head as if she understood, took a few steps backward, and folded herself onto the floor, quite inconspicuously for a mule. Grief moaned under the weight of the beast, but Sophie didn’t seem to notice. She licked at Violet’s ankles dangling in front of her.

  “Daisy,” Violet muttered, as if waking from a deep sleep.

  “Mother’s here,” Grace said, turning back toward the fire. “Thank you, Lord, for answered prayer,” she added, wrapping her body around her daughter.

  Just at that moment, the pains of childbirth began.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  OWEN STARTED THE TWO-AND-A-HALF-MILE TREK from the tabernacle downtown to Spring Street in Providence, with one thought on his mind. Grace. How could he have been so wrong? Of course she knew when to put down lye. Hadn’t she seen him do it plenty of times? And he’d even left the empty tin on the kitchen shelf this past October, so she’d know he’d taken care of the rats before the first good frost. Lye on the lips of his wife. He shivered as he pushed through the howling gusts that pounded him with snow.

  * * *

  Violet stirred in Grace’s arms. “Daisy,” she said, again.

  “Mother’s here,” Grace cooed in her ear, soothing the waking child. She kept one arm around Violet and grabbed hold of the chair’s seat with the other, squeezing as hard as she could, waiting for the pain to pass.

  Sophie stretched her neck and gently nuzzled the two of them.

  With her eyes shut tight, Violet inhaled her mother’s scents: spearmint, perspiration, Welsh cakes, lilacs, and vanilla. She nestled a minute longer, feeling like she belonged on this lap. Outside, the whistling wind beat against the weathered boards.

  When the pain let up, Grace wrapped both arms around her child, hugged her once more, and shook her gently. “You have to wake up now,” she whispered.

  Violet jumped down from her mother with a start and hopped to the other side of Sophie. “You don’t want me here.” She tugged at the mule’s leash, but Sophie wouldn’t budge. Violet ran over to the hook on the wall and grabbed a woolen scarf.

  Grace’s face twisted at the start of another contraction. “I need you.” She glanced from her stomach to Violet. “My time’s come early.” The pain exploded. Now she squeezed the chair with both hands. “Besides,” she closed her eyes and measured each syllable through her clenched jaw, “I won’t let you go out into this night again. You’ll die out there.”

  Violet burst into tears. “It’s what I deserve!” she sobbed.

  “No!” Grace stood and started walking around the table, away from Sophie and Grief, toward Violet. “I love you!” She reached for her daughter, who scrambled away.

  “How can you love me?” Violet looked around for her coat. When she couldn’t find it, she picked up the afghan lying alongside Sophie and headed for the door. “I’m the one who killed her!”

  Violet put her hand on the knob, and her mother dropped to the floor, unconscious.

  * * *

  Owen’s breath turned to ice against his buttoned collar, his fingers numb inside his sawdust-lined pockets. Although he bent his head to the wind, he still had to blink to keep his eyelids from freezing shut. He watched the blizzard circle round his legs. “Knee high!” Owen yelled, as if someone had called out to him from a window or porch for a check on the snow. “Knee high,” he repeated, though he couldn’t say why. A compulsion gripped him, forced him to say those two words over and over. “Knee high. Knee high.” They seemed to be the start of something, or the end of it. “Knee high,” he said again, searching, but for what? Some saying? Some truth?

  Owen turned onto Green Ridge Street, halfway home. First he’d have to make it down the steep hill where all the moneyed people lived, then up, past the mine and the river. He started his descent, and the words rattled inside his head. Knee high. Knee high. His shins seemed to catch fire as he pushed through the piling snow, so he lifted and lowered his legs, trying for a bit of relief, but found none.

  At the bottom of the hill, with his eyes almost frozen shut, Owen tripped on a buried railroad tie and fell headfirst into a six-foot snowdrift. He struggled to stand, but couldn’t get his footing on the ice-slicked plank. Each time he tried, his muscles resisted, as if they believed they had finally found rest. The snow stung his face and filled his nostrils. So this is it, Owen thought. I’m going to die here. He didn’t mind so much for himself. After all, he hadn’t shown an interest in living for the better part of a year. But he worried now about Grace and Violet. They deserved better than this. Than him. Was anyone out there who could intervene? Owen ached to believe in a God who shepherded lost souls, who scoured the woods for His lost children, even those who had run away. Owen’s God hadn’t bothered with him for some time. Then again, the same could be said of Owen.

  Snow burned his shins. He realized he was on his knees—the second time in as many days. A sign? He pulled his hands out of his pockets to cover his face, inhaling the scent of freshly cut wood. His fingers twitched against his r
aw skin. When did I become so lost?

  The words circled again in response. Knee high, familiar, yet incomplete. “Knee high . . .” He held the last syllable expectantly, as if to coax whatever followed. In a moment, the truth sliced through the silence of his tomb—an adage used by local farmers when describing the progress of corn. “Knee high,” he mouthed, “by the Fourth of July.” And he wept.

  The Fourth of July. Grace hadn’t wanted him to buy those sparklers. And he’d been the one to scold the children and send them away. “Outside, both of you, while you still can.” He moaned into his cracked palms.

  Grace’s face flashed before him, the face he’d followed out of the mine on Christmas Eve. He tried again to find his footing, this time positioning his feet between the icy railroad ties. With a good deal of effort, he pushed himself up and out of the snowdrift and continued toward home.

  * * *

  Violet ran back to her mother and tugged on her arm. “Wake up!” she cried. She draped the afghan around her, sat down on the floor, and cradled her mother’s head. “Not you too!” She held her mother against her chest and rocked her.

  Grace’s eyes fluttered open. She stared into her daughter’s face, reached up, and traced the creases in her brow. “Don’t cry,” she said, pulling her daughter toward her.

  Violet’s head settled at her mother’s bosom, a place she’d known in another life. One where Father left for work each morning and returned at night. Where Mother made hair ribbons to match their dresses and kneeled with them to say their prayers. “Now I lay me down to sleep.” A time of pianos and pies. “It’ll get better before you get married.” Of laughter and kisses. “Ready or not, here I come.”