CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Violet sat on the grass tending one of the flower beds beside the front porch steps. The geraniums were already a little leggy, and it was only the middle of June. She’d have to spend more time snipping off spent blossoms if new ones were going to grow. And watering, she thought, pinching a marble of dirt into dust. Spring had been dryer than usual, and summer seemed to be following suit.

Archie sauntered into the yard from his midafternoon stroll and sniffed at an old woodchuck hole near the coal-bin window. “Where’d you get to?” Violet asked, picking up her pruning shears to cut a burr out of the dog’s fur. He barked a response before stretching out on a sunny patch of grass.

A ragtag pack of boys, second grade, maybe third, ran up the middle of the street playing kick the can. When they got as far as Violet’s house, Archie jumped up, chased down the can, and brought it back to the last kicker. “Come on,” the smallest member of the group said to the dog, scratching his ears. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Davies,” he hollered over, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Violet waved. One of the Powell boys, she thought, though at that distance she couldn’t tell which one. A gaggle of girls followed the pack at about a six-foot distance, far enough away to suggest indifference, but close enough to eavesdrop on any conversation.

“Must be the last day of school,” Grace said as she pushed open the screen door.

“Looks like,” Violet said, pulling tufts of white clover from between the river rocks that bordered her beds.

“Wish I could get down there with you.” Grace settled into a rocker. “I’m afraid my gardening days are behind me.”

“I’m just happy to have the company.” Violet tossed the weeds onto her pile of rusted geraniums. She squinted up at her mother.

Grace tilted her head toward the empty rocker. “She’s eyeballing me again.”

“I’m not eyeballing you.” Shears in hand, Violet scooted over to the flower bed on the other side of the steps.

“It’s going to be a good summer,” Grace said. “Don’t you worry.”

Violet couldn’t help but worry. For the better part of forty years, the onset of summer meant the beginning of the “before time” for Grace. Before Our Daisy’s death. Before her accident. Before her baptism. Soon enough, Grace would start talking about the days leading up to the day, July 4, 1913. The story of the pie. Or the hair bow. Or the dress—the one she’d bought for Daisy’s baptism when, as Grace told it, they didn’t have two pennies to rub together. “Your father and I had a little spat over the cost,” she’d always say. “I’m so glad I put my foot down. She loved that dress.”

Violet could remember her sister twirling in it, the white pleats opening like petals on a rose. Violet had been jealous of that dress, and of her sister’s special day. Sure, at fifty years old, she knew better than to blame herself for a child’s envy, but the sting of shame could be easily summoned.

Violet didn’t begrudge her mother the stories, but she dreaded where they led. To everything there is a season, and the beginning of summer marked the season of Grace’s despair.

“I’m done with all that,” Grace said.

“With what? I didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t have to.” Grace bent forward and stared down at Violet. “I said I’m done with all that.”

“That’s good to hear.” To change the mood, Violet said, “I sure wish I had your green thumb.”

“Your thumb’s not the problem.”

“What is?”

“Slugs.” Grace pushed herself up from the rocker, groaning from the arthritis in her crackling knees. “They’re chewing up your leaves,” she said, stretching over the railing.

“So what do I do?” Scatter eggshells or coffee grounds, Violet thought, but she kept quiet. She liked to give her mother a chance to feel needed.

“Put out a saucer of beer.”

“That’s news to me!” Violet laughed.

“Your father taught me that. They drown in it.” Grace’s eyes twinkled with delight. “But they die happy.”

Violet laughed harder and Grace joined in. It felt nice to laugh. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it would be a good summer.

“Hello, Stanley!” Grace called out.

Stanley? Violet’s cheeks instantly flushed. She hadn’t even heard his car pull up in front of the widow’s house. And besides, it was Wednesday. He usually worked late on Wednesdays. Not that she kept track.

“Mrs. Morgan.” From across the street, he waved with his good arm. “You’re looking well. And Violet,” he said. “I didn’t see you down there.”

Violet motioned to him with her shears. She was too good a Christian not to acknowledge the man, but she didn’t have to put the welcome mat out for him either.

“We could use a favor,” Grace called from the porch. “Are you still off the liquor?”

“Mother!” Violet stole a glance at Stanley but didn’t dare to look him in the eye.

“I am indeed.” Stanley chuckled as he made his way across the road.

Grace’s face fell. “Beer too, I suppose.”

“Beer too, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

Stanley approached the house with a pair of binoculars dangling from a strap around his neck. “How so?” He flashed a quick grin at a cringing Violet.

“We need beer. A quart should do it.”

“For the slugs,” Violet clarified, her hands now covering her face.

“No reason to report you to the church elders, then.” When neither woman laughed at his joke, Stanley held out his binoculars. “I’m headed to Leggett’s Creek.”

Birdwatching. Violet remembered him teaching her how to call sparrows when they used to play hooky in grammar school. At Leggett’s Creek, come to think of it. Birds, rabbits, dogs, mules—Stanley had a good soul when it came God’s creatures. She’d give him that.

“I’ll swing by the Polish Club tonight,” he said, “and pick up some beer.”

And that floozie Arlene, Violet thought, cutting short her moment of sentimentality.

Grace’s brow furrowed. “Will they let you do that?”

Stanley hesitated. “Will who let me do what?”

“That organization of yours.”

“AA?” Stanley cupped his hand around the side of his mouth. “It’ll be our secret.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Grace said.

Stanley patted the banister. “No trouble at all,” he said and started up the street.

Astonished, Violet stared at the steps where Stanley had just been standing, then up at her mother.

“That’s a good job done.” Grace wiped one palm against the other. “Time for a little nap,” she said.

Violet stayed in the yard long after the screen door snapped shut. Maybe if she yanked the weeds harder or raked the soil deeper, she could shake loose those mortifying words. Are you still off the liquor? Instead they stuck to her like a burr in Archie’s fur. What was her mother thinking? Violet stewed for another half hour before going inside.

* * *

As Stanley strolled up Spring Street, he wondered if Violet had spotted his heart jumping out of his chest. How long had it been since he’d stood that close to her? More than a few years for sure. He’d seen her in passing on countless occasions, and in those moments, he’d tried to conjure the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, the feel of her waist in the crook of his arm. Sometimes he even succeeded, provided he’d had a few drinks under his belt. But today he was sober, and she’d been a foot away, close enough for him to catch the scent of her Juicy Fruit gum.

So she still has a sweet tooth. Everything changes and everything stays the same. He passed a row of paper birches on his ten-minute walk to the creek. Thin sheets of bark curled away from their bleached trunks. Stanley pinched a piece of what a young Violet used to call “tree skin,” ripped it off like a half-picked scab, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Back when he was in law school, she used to tuck a peel of bark into her letters. A reminder of home, she’d say. And it was. A reminder of home and Violet and the certainty of love that comes with youth.

Stanley tossed a handful of unshelled peanuts onto the bank of the half-dry creek and waited. Moments later, a blue jay swooped in, his sapphire tail feathers skimming the ground like a king’s robe. Stanley lifted his binoculars for a closer look, startling the bird back to his perch with a peanut in his beak. As much as Stanley loved to watch blue jays, he’d come today to check on a cardinal’s nest he’d spotted the previous week. By his count, the trio of green-speckled eggs should have hatched by now.

He squatted near a patch of scrub, trained his binoculars on the center of the thicket, and whistled the chew chew of the cardinal. Inside a cup-shaped nest, the mother, a brown bird with a red crest and beak, replied with a chip chip chip of warning. After a few seconds of silence, she resumed feeding a pair of open-mouthed hatchlings.

A pair. Stanley tipped his binoculars down and found the third hatchling, lifeless on a mossy rock below the nest. Anything could have gotten to it, he told himself. It’s nature way. But somehow, none of that mattered. Nothing could stem the sadness rising inside him.

I don’t want to die alone.

He thought about Violet, and how, other than while he was at law school, she’d always been within walking distance. Growing up, she’d lived across the street; in later years, just across the river; and yet the span between them seemed insurmountable. Until today. Today he’d crossed the street and stood alongside her, and for a moment, their souls touched in the way of old friends whose memories match up. Did she feel it too? When she stole a glance at him, did she see the nine-year-old boy who pulled her out of the elderberry bushes after that bully, Evan Evans, pushed her into them? Better yet, did she remember how Stanley had taught her to fish at this very spot? It had been fall, and the water considerably higher than it was now, but the sight of the creek could still spark a powerful memory, Stanley thought as he lowered himself onto a log.

Thanks to Mrs. Morgan, he’d crossed the street today. Would he have the nerve to do it again unprompted? Maybe start up a conversation when he saw Violet on her porch? You’ll never guess who I ran into the other day. Or better yet, Remember the time the widow caught us cutting school?

And she’d reply, Yes, I remember. I was shaking in my boots.

And what did she do?

Offered us cookies.

And they’d laugh.

And maybe she would look at him and ask, What made you think of that?

I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately. Life. Love. Regret.

If that didn’t scare her off, maybe he’d take the opportunity to work “the steps.” The fellows in AA were always preaching about amends. If he was going to apologize to anyone, it should be Violet. Maybe she’d forgive him, or at the very least hear him out. And then, if he felt encouraged, he could accidentally on purpose run into her another day, say at the farmers market one afternoon. He’d offer to buy her a cherry pie, a treat for her mother. Knowing Violet, she’d probably invite him over later for a slice and a thank you.

Maybe.

Of course, there was still the matter of the beer. Stanley could drop it off before Violet settled in for the night, but he really didn’t want her to see him with a bottle in hand. Not that he had any intention of drinking. None at all. I will not drink, he thought. “I will not drink,” he repeated, this time aloud. No, Stanley hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in three years, two months, and four days, and he wasn’t going to give up on his sobriety. Not today. And hopefully not ever. He set his binoculars on his lap and fished through his pocket for his three-year coin, a simple red poker chip. The men who ran the Methodist meeting didn’t have the budget for anything fancy. Stanley didn’t care. He’d earned his “coin” fair and square, and it meant more to him than gold.

Instead of the chip, Stanley pulled Violet’s Scranton Central High School valedictorian medallion from his pocket. Class of 1923. It had been at home on his dresser the day she’d stepped off the train with a baby. They’d broken off their engagement in the middle of the station, and rather than return the medal, he’d begun carrying it around. A talisman of sorts, or maybe a spoil of war. Either way, he thought as he fingered the raised gold lettering, it couldn’t hurt to make amends for holding onto it all these years.

Something crashed into the water on the other side of the creek, flushing a pair of doves out of hiding and into the scrub that held the cardinals’ nest. Stanley turned toward the commotion and saw Archie happily slogging his way across and onto the bank. “No!” Stanley yelled as the dog pointed his snout toward the thicket. Archie stopped short, but remained vigilant, and soon his patience paid off. The doves took flight, and he resumed the chase.

With the cardinals out of harm’s way, Stanley tipped his head toward the sky. “I’m not one for signs,” he said, “but that one was a dilly.” He glanced along the creek bed.

“Archie,” he called out, “let’s go home!” When the dog didn’t come running, Stanley hiked up the path in search of him. Faint yelps rose up near a pile of old fencing someone had dumped over the embankment. Stanley ran down and found a bloodied Archie tangled in a rusted nest of barbwire. “Hang on.” The panicked dog tried to extricate himself by twisting his head back and forth, causing the barbs to dig deeper into the flesh. “Easy, boy.” Stanley sat down and set his leg over the dog’s side to keep him from wriggling. Next, he used his stump to loosen a dangerous bit of wire at Archie’s throat. “I’ll take care of you.” With his right hand, Stanley gingerly extracted the barbs from Archie’s face, one at a time. His snout had a couple of nice cuts but his ear had taken the real brunt.

With no first aid kit, Stanley scooped up the wet cocker spaniel with his right hand and crossed his left arm under the belly to form a cradle. He inched his way up the bank and onto the road toward Violet’s house. Archie couldn’t have weighed more than thirty pounds. Thirty-five tops. Definitely less than the bushel of apples he delivered to Babcia every fall for pies and canning. Then again, a bushel of apples never squirmed while being carried. “Easy, boy” he said again. Stanley hated to see anyone suffer, man or beast.

I hope he doesn’t lose that ear. Stanley thought about his own loss, forty-one years earlier. “Listen,” he said aloud, worried the dog might be picking up on his fear, “if I can manage with one hand, you can make it with one ear.”

And Stanley had gotten along fine with just one hand. Not that he’d had a choice, but he’d also never let it stop him. Fishing, baseball, even driving. When he’d first gotten behind the wheel, he’d learned to steer with his stump and shift with his right hand. And he’d still be doing that now if Oldsmobile hadn’t come out with Hydra-Matic Drive back in ’48. No more gears. No clutch. Put the car in “hi,” turn the key, and go. Stanley splurged on a maroon sedan as soon as it hit the showroom. He could’ve kept driving a car with a manual transmission, but why not choose comfort? He’d made the same choice years earlier when he’d finally given up on his artificial hand. Best of the best, German-engineered, in fact, but no matter how many times Stanley tried to use the prosthesis, it only got in the way. He kept at it longer than he should have for the comfort of others, but eventually his own comfort won out.

Stanley crested the hill and saw Violet’s house a few doors down. Just in time, he thought, as his lower back began to pinch.

“Anybody home?” he shouted when he got to the yard.

“Good lord!” Violet yelled as she opened the door and ran down the steps. “You’re bleeding!”

Stanley glanced at his bloodied shirt. “It’s Archie,” he said. “Got caught up in some barbed wire.” The dog lifted his head as if to confirm the story. “His ear’s busted,” Stanley said. “And his snout’s sliced up pretty good.”

“Bring him inside.” Violet ran up to hold the door. “How bad is it?”

“Hard to say.”

Violet darted into the kitchen, filled a bowl with warm tap water, and placed it on the floor.

Stanley gently set the dog down on the rag rug in front of the sink. “Ears can bleed like a son of a gun,” he said, stretching his arms to loosen his elbows.

Violet grabbed a couple of clean dish towels out of a drawer and plunged them into the water. “Hold the ear up,” she said, dabbing at the blood.

Stanley wrapped his arms around the dog to keep him still. “Looks like someone took a cheese grater to it.”

“Put pressure on it.” Violet handed Stanley a dry rag. “At least the ear canal’s intact,” she said. Archie whined as she gave his snout a quick swipe with the wet towel. “I know,” Violet comforted the dog.

“It won’t stop bleeding.” Stanley’s face drained of color.

“Grab the cornstarch,” Violet said, taking over for Stanley with the ear. “It’s on the top shelf.” She lifted her chin toward a cupboard. “Good. Now make a paste.”

Stanley poured a cupful of the powder into a bowl and mixed in water. “Here you go.”

Violet smeared the concoction onto Archie’s wounds. The bleeding slowed some but not enough. “Hold this.” She pressed Stanley’s hand against the dog’s ear and ran upstairs. A minute later, she returned with a roll of gauze and wrapped it around Archie’s head to keep the ear pinned and elevated. “Hopefully he’ll keep it on long enough for the cuts to scab over.”

“Thank God it’s not worse.”

“Thank you. You saved him.” Violet patted the top of the dog’s head. “He saved you, didn’t he, boy?”

Stanley stood up and stretched. “He looks like Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol.”

“Or Old Mrs. Daniels,” Violet laughed. “Remember her? She wore a kerchief around her face whenever she had a toothache.”

Roused by the cheery banter, Archie added his stifled bark to the conversation.

“How on earth did that help her tooth?” Stanley chuckled.

“You’ve got me.”

Archie nuzzled against Violet in front of the sink.

“Where’s his water dish?” Stanley asked, figuring the dog would be thirsty.

“On the back porch.” Violet inspected the bandage. “Did she even have teeth?” she called out to Stanley? “I swear I never saw that woman smile.”

Before Stanley could find the water dish, his eyes settled on Tommy’s overalls still hanging on the hook three years later. As Violet continued talking, Stanley slipped out the back door without a word.

* * *

At ten o’clock that night, Stanley stopped by the Polish Club for that promised quart of beer. An easy purchase. Too easy. Set a few dimes on the bar, and a bottle of Gibbons appeared. No questions. No mention of his sobriety. Just an ice-cold beer.

Stanley’s arms ached a bit from carrying Archie, so the bottle felt more burdensome than he’d expected. The ten-minute walk to Violet’s house may as well have been a year. Those overalls. The dog. Violet. It was all too much, too loud in his head. The beer would take care of that, though, wouldn’t it? Just a sip. Enough to quiet the freight train charging through his mind. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change … Stanley shifted the bottle to the crook of his handless arm, courage to change things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. He shifted the bottle back. God, grant me the serenity …

* * *

The next morning, Violet went out to the front porch and spotted a quart of beer alongside the milk box. Stanley, she thought, not sure what to make of the man or the gesture. She bent down to pick up the capped bottle and noticed something pinned underneath—a piece of bark from a paper birch tree. Tree skin, she said to herself, tucking it into the pocket of her housedress.

I’m gonna put on my long white robe,

Down by the riverside …

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