The early bird may catch the worm, Violet thought, but that didn’t explain why Daisy had left for town hours before the stores opened. She’s a grown woman, Violet reminded herself. Time to let go. If only I knew how.
With her mother still in bed, Violet tiptoed up to the attic, grabbed the card table, and carried it downstairs. After giving it a good scrub, she opened the legs and locked them into place. Now that the piano was gone, the parlor wall stood empty, save for the portrait of her sister Daisy, chalked from a sepia photograph taken the morning of her baptism, same day as the tragedy. The likeness captured the delicacy of her white dress and exuberance of the matching hair bow, but it didn’t do justice to the child’s beauty. Even so, the brass frame with its ribbon detail elevated the piece to a proper memorial.
Whether in this home or the one next door, the portrait had always taken pride of place over the piano. Now, without that anchor, Our Daisy appeared unmoored. Violet set the table against the wall, noted its flimsy appearance compared to the Tom Thumb, and said, “It’ll have to do,” as much to herself as to her sister’s image. Besides, she thought, it would be good to have a permanent spot to do her work. No more setting up her paints in the dining room and putting them away for meals, as she’d done for years.
Violet unpacked her supplies—palette, brushes, pencils, paints, dyes, fluffs of cotton wool—and arranged them on the table. She’d started working as a colorist at Walsh’s Portrait Studio the summer after high school graduation, hand-tinting sepia photographs into color. When she became a mother, Mr. Walsh allowed Violet to paint from home. She’d enjoyed the work, found it soothing in fact, and was sad to give it up for marriage, but Tommy wanted to support his new family, and a man’s pride was more important than his wife’s desires. However, two years later, Violet’s father and Tommy’s mother died a month apart, one from black lung, the other a gangrenous appendix. Grace moved in soon after, about the same time the coal mines began cutting back on production. Violet had set out to convince Tommy to let her work again. He bristled at first, but she softened the blow by referring to her wages as “pin money,” and he relented.
Here she was all these years later, grateful to have a skill that could help make ends meet, though with the breakthroughs in color photography, she wondered how much longer she’d be needed. The work had slowed considerably in the last year, and Mr. Walsh’s son, who’d taken over after his father’s retirement, seemed eager to modernize the business. She should probably try to find a job outside the home, but the thought terrified her. For starters, she was no spring chicken. How would she keep up with women half her age? And if she went out to work, who would look after her mother or the widow Lankowski? And what about her duties as a church steward? Or her daughter? Yes, she was almost twenty-five, but not too old for worry. If only Daisy could find a man to support her. Then she wouldn’t be tempted to take help from Lily or, more to the point, that husband of hers. Supposedly he’d cleaned up his act when they’d moved to Atlantic City, but Violet didn’t buy that for one minute.
“She’ll be glad to have the company.” Grace stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor, studying the portrait on the other side of the room.
“I’d like to think so,” Violet said as she pulled a ladder-back dining chair over to the card table. “Didn’t hear you get up.”
“I was finishing my prayers.” Grace patted her legs. “The old knees are shot, so it takes me awhile.”
“Anybody home?” the widow called out as she pushed through the front door with her cane hanging from one arm and a blue-enameled bread box tucked under the other. A patch of rust bit through a bouquet of white tulips painted onto the lid. She elbowed the door behind her and it closed hard, sending several of Violet’s brushes to the floor.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lankowski.” Violet retrieved the brushes and dropped them into an empty canning jar. “What has you out so early?”
“We’re all ready,” Grace said.
“Ready for what?” The women now had Violet’s full attention.
“The coast, it’s clear?” The widow scanned the room.
Grace glanced behind her at the wall clock. “She’s been gone over an hour already.”
“Who’s been gone? Daisy?” Violet followed the pair to the kitchen.
The widow placed the bread box in the middle of the table while Grace set sponges and bowls of water in front of three of the four chairs.
“Let’s hope we have enough books,” Grace said as she pulled an Acme grocery bag out from under the sink.
The widow peered inside. “I’d say more than enough.” She turned back to the table and tried to lift the front corner of the bread box lid. “It’s on there good,” she said, moving from one corner to the next, her fingers permanently curled from a lifetime of lacework, first as a girl in Poland, then for decades here in the States.
Violet watched from the doorway. If the widow wanted help, she’d ask for it. At ninety-one, age may have robbed a few inches off her six-foot frame, but her independent nature remained intact. “I’m not feeble yet,” the widow would say when anyone suggested she might not be up to a task.
With the corners loosened, the widow lifted the lid. “Ta-da!” Streamers of S&H Green Stamps sprung up as if startled from slumber.
“What on earth …?” Violet’s mouth dropped open. Since merchants issued one stamp for every dime shoppers spent, it had to have taken years to collect such a stash.
Grace beamed as she pulled handfuls of empty booklets out of the bag and put them on the table. “How many did he say?”
“How many did who say?” Violet asked.
“A hundred and fifty,” the widow said as she sat down. “Give or take.”
“Books?” Violet balked at the sheer audacity of the number. She could get a top-of-the-line sweeper for twenty-two. “Are you trading them in for a Cadillac?”
“They won’t stick themselves,” Grace said and tapped on the empty chair. “Now let’s see if we can’t get her a television.”
“So that’s it.” Violet rolled her eyes as she sat down. “How’d she talk you into this, Mrs. Lankowski?”
“She can be very persuasive, your mother.”
“Somehow, I don’t think it took too much convincing.” Violet glanced at Grace, who had settled into the work of pasting thirty stamps into the five-by-six grids on each of the booklet’s forty pages. According to the instructions on the inside cover, completed books held a value of two dollars, to be redeemed for merchandise at the S&H Green Stamps store. “What’s the point? They don’t even carry televisions.” Violet knew this for a fact. She’d practically memorized the catalog. Sweepers? Yes. Ceramic roosters? A matching pair. Ottomans? Three different styles, one of which would work perfectly in her parlor. They even had a four-piece set of TV tray tables, but no actual TVs. And as far as she was concerned, Daisy needed a television like she needed a hole in the head. That’s what her Tommy would say if he were alive to see this. Violet picked up a loose stamp, licked the back, and winced at the taste of the glue.
“That’s what the sponge is for,” Grace said without looking up.
Violet reached for another stamp. “I’ll be dead and buried before we reach a hundred and fifty.”
The women ignored her ill humor in favor of their own conversation. Both Grace and the widow were known in the neighborhood for being tight-lipped, but when it came to each other, they shared gossip like missionaries spread the gospel. Fortunately, they’d both been to church the day before, a Protestant service for Grace, a Catholic mass for Mrs. Lankowski, so they had plenty of fodder.
“Myrtle’s gallbladder flared up again.” Grace fished out a strip of three stamps and pasted them into Violet’s book to finish off her first row.
The widow peered over her glasses. “How many years since she had it out?”
“Seven, by my count.”
“Her gallbladder …” the widow paused, as if to deny credence to that last word, “seems to act up every time Myrtle does.”
“You certainly have her number.” Grace completed her own book and placed it on the sink behind her.
“What set her off this time?”
“Potato salad.”
Genuine alarm crossed the widow’s face. “Spoiled?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Grace smirked. “Pearl brought potato salad to Wednesday night’s covered-dish supper, as did Myrtle. Folks favored Pearl’s.” She arched her eyebrow. “Myrtle took to her bed that night. Been there ever since.”
“I don’t know how that husband of hers puts up with it.”
“My Owen never would have. God rest his soul.”
Out of respect for the dead, the widow waited a moment before picking up the conversation. “Bad news about Mr. Katulis.”
“Mr. who?” Grace asked. The glue made her fingers sticky, so she rinsed them in her bowl, and dried them on a dish towel.
“Katulis.”
Grace shook her head as she picked up another book. “Don’t know a Katulis.”
“Sure you do.” The widow eyed Grace’s progress, looked back at her own half-filled book, and frowned. “Katulis. From over on School Street.”
“Not ringing any bells.”
“Albert,” the widow said. And then a little louder, “Katulis. You know him. From School Street.”
Grace gave the matter serious thought. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Katulis.” The widow plowed ahead: “He married that Lebanese girl from over in West Side.” She waited a beat for a sign of recognition. “The one with the gold bracelets.”
“Up both arms?” Grace nodded. “I know the one. What about her?”
“Not her. The husband.”
“Albert?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Shingles.” Now that she had her story on its track, the widow delivered the worst of it: “Blisters bubbled up on his back,” she lowered her voice, “but they’re making their way around.” She sorted through the bread box for a strip of six stamps, so she could complete a whole column at once. “And you know what they say.”
Grace dropped her voice to match the widow’s solemnity. “Shingles’ll kill you if they meet.”
“Exactly.” The widow wet her stamps, slid them in place with her swollen knuckles, and fished out another strip of six.
“That’s how Shirley met her reward.” Grace scratched a spot on her own stomach to indicate where Shirley’s shingles had converged.
The widow blanched.
Grace turned her attention to her now completed booklet. “Two down,” she said as she started a pile. “One hundred and forty-eight to go.”
The conversation shifted to Mr. Aukstones, who’d come over from England a dozen or so years earlier. He’d recently been stricken in a manner too delicate to spell out if the ladies wanted to stay in good standing with the Lord. Sufficeth to say, while Grace and the widow felt sympathy for the man, they also shared a sense of relief for his wife. After nine children, including a set of twins, she most likely welcomed the respite from marital relations.
Archie yelped in the backyard as if to contradict their conclusion.
“I’ll let him in.” Violet opened the kitchen door and watched as his butterscotch snout pushed through a hinged screened panel on the far end of a room that had once been a porch. Tommy had enclosed it in the forties. He’d wanted a place to pull off his boots and hang up his coat and overalls before stepping into the house proper. Since Archie was a part of the family by then, Tommy cut a spot at the bottom of the outer door, so the cocker spaniel could come and go as he pleased, provided the kitchen door stayed open.
“Where did you get to this morning?” Violet scratched the dog’s neck as he poked his head farther into the house. Daisy must have let him out when she’d left for the studio. Archie liked to roam the neighborhood, sniff out a couple of cats, find the previous day’s bacon grease spattered across a yard. Tommy had gotten him as a bird dog to flush out pheasants. He’d even built a doghouse and a run out back, but Daisy wasn’t having it. The teenager was more concerned about the dog’s comforts than his hunting abilities, so she took to sneaking him into her room. The first few times Tommy caught her, he’d tried to tell Daisy it’s not right to make a house dog of out a hunter. It ruins the nose. But she didn’t care about noses. She cared about Archie, her new best friend. It wasn’t too long before Tommy gave up on having a bird dog and went back to shooting rabbits.
Now inside, the dog shook off the morning, followed Violet back into the kitchen, and curled up under the table at her feet. While her mother and the widow continued their chatter, Violet scratched Archie behind the ears and thought about what a godsend he’d been after Tommy’s passing. Archie would nudge her awake in the first few months when waking seemed impossible. Slowly, she learned how to manage her grief. Begin with a wall calendar. Hang it prominently at the sink, so you can see the days coming. Brace for them. Holidays. Birthdays. Anniversaries. That was the trick of it. Get a running start. Throw yourself into preparation. Change traditions, or rearrange seating so his absence, any absence, isn’t felt as keenly. No need to entertain in the dining room when a cozy kitchen will do. And the good china, a gift from his mother, didn’t need to be pulled out this year. Make the day festive for the others, and you may just have a moment for yourself where you stop thinking about the thing you know you’ll never forget, and maybe, if only for a minute, you can join the living.
As if sensing Violet’s low mood, Archie stood up under the table and pressed his side against her thigh, allowing his warmth and steadfastness to be absorbed. Violet hugged him hard around the neck and cast her eyes toward the back porch. Even with its walls and outer door, they’d never stopped calling it the back porch. And there, on a hook alongside the washing machine, stood Tommy’s overalls, because stand they did, in a manner of speaking. Three years after his death, the pant legs, slick with coal dust, stiff with sweat, held onto the form of the man who had worn them. The pyrite from the coal gave the fabric a metallic sheen that always put Violet in mind of the Tin Man. Had she ever told Tommy that? Had she ever thanked him for taking her and Daisy to see The Wizard of Oz the summer it came out? Daisy was nine. Remember? We’d been married four years by then, and she was already your daughter in every way that counted. Hands down, the Tin Man was her favorite character in the movie. On the way home, she wondered if we could ask Doc Rodham about finding him a real heart.
Archie gave a low growl as he curled up to sleep. Violet offered a tired smile to her tin man, hanging from a hook on the porch. He’d had the biggest heart of all, her Tommy, even after the stroke that shorted out his whole right side like a blown fuse. The doctor had said the hospital wouldn’t be able to do any more for him, and besides, he’d be more comfortable at home. Nothing could make a difference but God’s mercy. He’d last a week, maybe two. Even so, she left the overalls hanging on the hook. You can’t take hope away from a man all at once. Hanging work clothes say, You’re not that bad off. Sicker men than you have recovered. And it helped for a while. Eight months in all. It would have been a blessing too, if he hadn’t suffered so.
Thank goodness for Daisy, though. She was the real blessing. Came home from Atlantic City right away. Didn’t even have to be asked. And now she was getting ready to make her own way right here in Scranton. Violet lost herself in thought, dreaming a mother’s dreams for her daughter.
As the morning wore on, Grace occasionally yelled out numbers like a bingo caller. “Sixteen books!” “Thirty-seven!” “Sixty-two!” At “Eighty-seven!” she got up from the table and pulled a cookie tin out of the cupboard. “I’ve been saving these for a rainy day.” She dropped dozens of green strips, some as long as shoelaces, in or around the bread box.
A few loose stamps settled on Violet’s booklet, bringing her attention back. “You’ve been holding out.” Unlike the newer stamps with the red S&H insignia on front, her mother’s had the word Co-operative written across the decorative oval. “How long have you had these?”
Grace aimed her chin at Violet. “Never you mind.”
The widow grabbed several of Grace’s strips to finish her book. “So what were you saying about Mrs. Henry’s gout?”
“She hasn’t had an attack,” Grace said, “since her Chester stopped drinking.”
“How’d that happen?”
“One night, she’d just had it. Beat him senseless with a sack of oranges when he was passed out. Woke up all black and blue the next morning. Hasn’t touched a drop since.”
“Where’d she get the oranges?” The widow finished her book and set it on the pile.
“She has a sister in Florida,” Grace said. “Eighty-eight.”
“I couldn’t take that heat year-round.” The widow fanned herself with an empty book and several stamps scattered.
“I’m always happy to see the next season when it comes.”
“Funny how life works out. I’m forever grateful that my Stanley gave up the drink. Woke up one morning and said, ‘Enough.’ Went to his first …” the widow’s voice dropped momentarily, “Alcoholics Anonymous meeting …” her volume picked up again, “that very day. Always had a strong character.” Her voice cracked with pride. “Still goes over to the Polish Club now and again, but only for a soda.”
And to meet Arlene, Violet thought. According to Evan Evans, who’d told his mother Myrtle, who’d told Pearl when they were on speaking terms, who’d told Violet. Arlene Wardell was a brazen one, to hear Pearl tell it. She’d sit right up there at the bar with him. Not even at a table. And according to Pearl, she’d park out front and skip the ladies’ entrance. She had a husband somewhere. Never took measures to divorce him. Wanted to stay in good standing in the Catholic church. Violet groaned. She had to shake this peevishness.
“Ninety-nine!” Grace announced.
Really? Violet had no idea they were that close. She checked out the piles on the sink. “I’ll be right back.” She ran upstairs, grabbed a shoebox, and returned in under a minute. “I’ve made do with my push sweeper this long,” she said. “Eleven more.” She handed the already completed books to her mother.
“That’s the spirit.” Grace laughed. “One hundred and ten!” She pawed through the stamps. “I’ll bet we have enough for at least six more.”
The widow joined in: “And I bet he can find one for that.”
“He who?” Violet asked. “How is it you always ‘know a man’ who’s willing to bargain?”
Grace and the widow exchanged a quick look.
“A lady never tells her secrets.” The widow crossed her arms.
“Whoever this one is,” Grace said as she recounted the books, “we have to pay him what’s due.”
The widow scanned a nearby shelf. “Maybe we can sweeten the pot with a couple of jars of Violet’s mustard pickle.”
“If you think he’d take them.” Violet allowed her excitement to catch hold. “And I still have a few jars of last summer’s jam.”
“Perfect.” The widow started stacking the completed books inside the bread box while Grace pasted the last of the stamps onto an empty page.
“I’ll carry that over for you,” Violet said. “Or I can drop them off to your mystery man.”
“All men are a mystery.” The widow laughed. “He said he’d swing by before the birthday. I think he mentioned a Philco, if that’s all right. People seem to like their Philcos.”
“I don’t know about brands,” Grace said. “Any television will do, if you’re asking me.”
“What makes you think she even wants a TV?” Violet said. “I never heard her say one word on the subject.”
“Then she’ll be good and surprised.” The widow collected her cane.
“One hundred and seventeen!” Grace called out. “All finished.” She handed Violet the very full bread box and said, “I’ll get the canned goods together after a cup of tea. Fingers crossed he’s a man who barters.”
“I think I can persuade him,” the widow said. “He’s a good man. Maybe someone for you, Violet.”
“I’ve had my turn.”
The widow shook her head. “You’re young. Fifty.”
“It’s Daisy’s turn. We need to get her settled,” Violet said. “My dreams are for her now.”
“That’s the thing with dreams.” The widow gave Violet’s arm a squeeze. “You can have as many as your heart can hold.” They moseyed into the parlor as a delivery truck from the Globe Store pulled up in front of the house.
“Daisy’s dress is here.” Violet set down the Green Stamps and opened the door.
“A package for Mrs. Davies,” a deliveryman said as he climbed the steps.
“Right on time.” Violet opened the screen door and reached for the box. “Thank you so much.”
“I almost forgot.” The man ran down to the truck and returned with a plate of something baked. “Mmm.” He peeled back the waxed paper on eight thick wedges of corn bread. “A little bit of sunshine,” he said, tucking the paper back under and handing her the dish.
“I didn’t order …” Violet eyed the man.
He pulled a delivery slip from his shirt pocket and read a note on the bottom: “For Mrs. Grace Morgan. A treat, by way of Zethray Long. From the freight elevator,” he clarified, “at the Globe Store.”
“But how did she …”
“Well isn’t that lovely.” Grace stepped into the doorway and took the plate. “Please tell her we said thank you. Would you like a piece?”
“Already had mine. Zethray made me my own pan.” He rubbed his stomach. “There’s a note on the other side,” he said, handing the slip to Violet.
“Wait,” Grace called back as she headed toward the kitchen. “Give me a minute to put these on my own plate, and you can take Zethray’s.”
“You’ll see her,” the delivery driver said as he hurried down the steps and into his truck. “She’s a fixture in that place!” he exclaimed, and pulled away.
Violet stood in the doorway long after the man drove off, long after the widow and Grace decided to sit back down in the kitchen to share a wedge of corn bread.
“Get it while it’s hot.” The widow aimed her words at Violet, still planted at the front door, reading the note: You’re the bravest girl she knows.
The bravest girl? The message made no sense. Or it was some sort of a prank. That was it. A prank. Leave it to Violet not to get it. She never did like jokes. You’re the bravest girl she knows. Violet balled up the paper and threw it in the dustbin across from her sister’s portrait.