“Twenty-nine!” Stanley hollered, and laughed at his own joke. When Violet looked at him annoyed, he added, “It’s as good a number as any.” Stanley stood back for a moment and examined the barren piece of property, a full city block in size. “They’re on all four corners.”
Violet nodded, and they headed to the third sign. “Future home of Scranton’s largest tabernacle,” she read out of turn.
“Holy rollers must be building a church,” Stanley said. “Hey, what is a holy—”
Violet ran toward the fourth corner before Stanley could finish his question.
“Wait up, so I can read!” Stanley sprinted and the two arrived together in front of the last sign. “Reverend William A. Sunday,” he paused a moment to catch his breath, “the world’s greatest evangelist, will begin his siege on Scranton, March 1, 1914. Will you join his army?” Stanley stood, amazed. “Well, isn’t that something?”
“What?”
“Billy Sunday.”
“Who’s he?” Violet asked.
“Only one of the best outfielders to ever play baseball.” Stanley shook his head. “Girls! Come on.” He tugged on Violet’s arm. “Let’s get to town while there’s still time.”
Once they arrived at the Wholesale District, Stanley looked at Violet and said, “I have a better idea.” He turned onto Wyoming Avenue.
“Not another one.” Violet winced but followed. “Do I need to remind you of what happened the last time you had an idea?”
Stanley stopped in the middle of the block, pointed to a sign, and grinned. “A minstrel show. Sounds promising.”
“How do you figure?” Violet knew better than to go inside Poli’s Theatre. To begin with, she didn’t have the money for a ticket any more than Stanley did. They’d have to sneak in. Just as important, according to the sign on the easel out front, dancing would be “the highlight of the performance.” Violet knew full well that Providence Christian Church did not tolerate dancing of any kind, and she was sure that included, the “Shim Sham Shimmy” and the “Buck-and-Wing,” whatever they were, and she told Stanley just that. “How about a game of Nipsey instead?” she suggested. “We can get sticks down by the creek. See who can hit them the farthest.”
“I think you’re yellow,” Stanley said. “Who woulda thunk it?”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Prove it.”
Violet pushed ahead of Stanley, held her breath, and slipped in the side door. After taking a moment for her eyes to adjust, she glanced up and screamed at the oddest-looking colored man she had ever seen. His dark face glistened like wet paint. Skin, the same color as her own, circled his eyes and bright red mouth. He stretched his arm forward and plucked a cowboy hat from a rack to the right of Violet.
“Watch where you’re going, kid.” He placed the hat on his head and disappeared through a door labeled, Backstage.
Violet turned to leave.
Stanley opened another door, this one marked, Theatre, and pushed her through. Both of them froze at the sights before them. Electric lights, velvet curtains, and signs pointing to indoor comfort stations, one for Ladies and one for Gentlemen. Neither of them had ever seen anything so fine in their lives, and they paused to take it in. Stanley pointed to the columns surrounding the stage decorated with garlands of plaster vines and flowers.
A burgundy-jacketed usher started toward them, his brazen buttons catching the reflection of the lights. Stanley yanked Violet by the arm, and into a curtained alcove. They watched as the usher made the turn away from them toward the Gentlemen’s arrow.
“I want to go home,” Violet muttered.
“Not a chance,” Stanley said, leading them toward two vacant seats.
As soon as the curtain opened, Violet closed her eyes. She may have been obligated to stay for Stanley’s sake, but she didn’t have to watch the show. Maybe if she kept her eyes shut, she could escape damnation. She imagined being at home, sitting in the kitchen by herself. She looked around and saw the stove, the table, the sink, and the motto hanging above it. Rules for Today. The needlepoint words hit her like the back of her mother’s hand.
Do nothing that you would not want to be doing
when Jesus comes.
Say nothing that you would not want to be saying
when Jesus comes.
Go to no place where you would not want to be
found when Jesus comes.
She opened her eyes and looked around. She could think of no worse place to be when Jesus came, and she knew He was coming. Every nerve in her body told her so. She squeezed her eyes shut and saw the words emblazoned in gold thread.
Go to no place where you would not want to be found when Jesus comes.
Thanks in equal parts to her mother and her sister, Violet had had the motto memorized by the age of six. She thought about that day and the horrible pain. It was washday, so it had to have been a Monday. Her mother had just finished filling the copper tin when Daisy accidentally knocked into it, sending boiling water down her sister’s backside. It truly was an accident. Violet was convinced of that, but pain was pain. In spite of her mother’s home remedies, angry blisters rose up from Violet’s skin.
Every night for a week, Violet balanced on a stool bending over the kitchen sink while her mother carefully tended to her burns.
“Read the first two words for me,” she’d say.
“Do nothing . . .”
“That’s right, and the next couple?” Her mother would pass a needle over the flame of a candle.
“. . . that you . . .”
“Good,” she’d say. “Keep going.” She’d slowly inserted the needle into the first blister. Stick, pop, squeeze until the wound was drained of fluid.
“. . . would not want to be doing . . .”
Her mother would move onto the next blister and start again.
“. . . when Jesus comes.”
“Close your eyes and see if you can say it back for Mother now.”
And so it went for seven days, and by the end, she had the motto memorized.
* * *
Violet pulled on Stanley till he got up from his seat and followed her out the side door. Given a choice between coward and sinner, she thought coward the more favorable option.
“What’s going on?” Stanley asked, stopping to let his eyes adjust to the sunlight. “It was just starting to get good.”
“You’ll thank me when the Pearly Gates open up to you, Stanley Adamski,” she said, as she pulled him toward home.
* * *
School had let out by the time Stanley and Violet got back to Providence from downtown. Hungry from all that walking but hesitant to return to their own homes just yet, they found themselves on the widow’s porch steps.
“Go ahead and knock,” Stanley said.
“Third time this week. Maybe we’re making pests of ourselves.”
Stanley