Grace pulled away from Grief and sat down at the table. “What do you know of me?”
“I know your fears. Your pain.” He tucked in his sullied shirttail and combed his parched fingers through his oiled hair. “We’re two halves of the same whole. Twins, born on the same day, tied together for eternity.” He stepped closer.
“Not another word about Violet, do you hear?” Exhausted, she dropped her head and wept.
“Poor Gracie. What’s to become of us?” Grief lifted her chin and blotted her tears with the back of his hand. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you.”
A late-summer breeze pushed through the screen door, momentarily rousing Grace to a larger world, one with Owen, and yes, even Violet, and love. Her feet stirred, but her body remained rooted to the chair.
“Let’s do something about that pain,” Grief cooed. Grace nodded but held onto the words. “So much pain,” he continued. “So many tears.” He wiped her cheek again.
Grace leaned forward and pressed her lips against the hollow of his open hand.
CHAPTER TWO
WHILE THE THIRD GRADERS PRACTICED THEIR CURSIVE, Miss Reese called Violet into the hallway. On her slow march up the aisle, Violet looked to her classmates for some hint of her wrongdoing, but they kept their eyes trained on their papers.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Miss Reese said when Violet stepped into the hall.
She nodded. She wasn’t in trouble. There was some relief in that. The teacher was simply offering her sympathies. Violet should’ve been used to it by now. She should have been able to say thank you the way she’d been instructed so many times throughout the viewing and the funeral, but once again, the words stuck in her throat. She still didn’t know what words to use for Daisy being gone, but thank you hardly fit.
The teacher continued: “Your sister was a student of mine last year.”
Violet and Daisy had spoken about Miss Reese on several occasions. “She smells of rose petals,” Daisy had said, and standing this close, Violet realized it was true. Neither sister had ever had or even known such a young teacher. And so pretty. Violet had had Miss Philips the year before, a stern woman, all teeth and bosom, who wielded a switch with a marksman’s accuracy.
Miss Reese knelt down, and her long skirt billowed, sending a puff of air in Violet’s direction. “I said, your sister was a student of mine last year.”
Violet wondered at the repetition and nodded again, this time more vigorously.
The teacher pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her shirtwaist and held it out.
Violet had neither sneezed nor spilled anything, the only two reasons for a hanky in school, so she said, “No thank you.”
Miss Reese stood abruptly, shook out the folds of her skirt, and sent Violet back to her seat, alongside Olive Manley.
* * *
Later that morning, after the children had been released for recess, Violet sat on the steps listening to her teacher describe the morning’s encounter to Miss Philips. “Not a tear in her eye after only two months.”
“An odd duck,” Miss Philips said, her eyes trained on a spirited game of kick the can. As if to clarify her remark, she explained, “Only one in the yard that day other than Daisy herself. We’ll probably never know the truth.”
Violet glanced up and noticed several of her classmates listening to the women with rapt attention.
* * *
After recess, Olive slid into the empty desk next to Lydia Parker.
“And what’s wrong with the seat I gave you?” Miss Reese asked.
Olive’s eyes nudged at Violet.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to spend the rest of your day in the corner.”
“No ma’am.” Olive crossed over and dropped into her seat next to Violet, without looking at, speaking to, or brushing up against her.
* * *
When Miss Reese rang the bell for lunch, Olive popped up before the clapper finished sounding. The other students quickly followed suit. Violet remained seated, wiping down her pen tip and arranging her books, until she felt certain the room had emptied. She padded out to the schoolyard, convinced that self-imposed isolation somehow suggested she had a choice in the matter.
As she started down the hill for home, Evan Evans, known in the neighborhood as Evan Two-Times, bounded into her path from behind an oak tree.
“Slowpoke.”
Violet kept her head forward and her eyes straight ahead as she tried to move around the boy.
Evan mirrored her steps so she could not pass. “How come you’re alone? Everyone’s way ahead.” He winked in the direction of some overgrown elderberry bushes, and giggles rose up from behind them.
“Not you,” she said, still refusing to glance at him or his pals in the covert. “Unfortunately.” Everyone knew Evan to be a bully like his mother Myrtle. Violet had no intention of showing weakness.
“I’d be happy to see you home.”
“No thank you.” Violet glanced toward the street, but a milk wagon prevented her from crossing.
“Wouldn’t want to worry your ma . . . considering.” The bushes shook with nervous laughter.
“Will you please move?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You’re going to make me late.”
“Did you really kill your sister?”
Violet slammed Evan Two-Times against the tree with such force that the back of his head knocked against the trunk. “Ask me again. I dare you.”
He rubbed his scalp and winced. “Ma’s right,” he said, pushing Violet into the elderberry bushes, causing the crouching boys to scatter like hens. “You are crazy.” Evan took off down the hill after his friends.
Violet tried to wriggle free of the bushes but couldn’t get a grip on anything to push off of. Just as she started to cry, two hands reached in and pulled her to her feet.
“Thanks,” she managed, too ashamed to look up.
“He had it coming, but good.”
“Stanley?” Violet said, recognizing his pinched voice. Of all the saviors in the world, hers had to be Stanley Adamski. Stinky Stanley. Stupid Stanley. Not that she had ever called him those names, but she’d never spoken against those who had, either. For one thing, Stanley did have an odor, which surprised Violet. According to her mother, Polish women had spotless kitchens, so it stood to reason that their children would be clean as well. For another, even though Stanley was a year older than Violet, he hadn’t yet made it out of second grade. He failed due in large part to his poor attendance, but that didn’t stop the bigger boys from calling him a dumb Polack. And from Stanley’s view, all the boys were bigger. He stood four feet tall on his tiptoes, at least six inches shorter than anyone else his age. Even Violet had an advantage over him.
“Thanks again,” she muttered, brushing leaves off her pinafore. “Mother’s expecting me,” she added over her shoulder as she started running down the hill. Once safely on her front porch, she turned to see Stanley waving at the top of the block. She pretended not to notice and darted inside.
Violet pussyfooted into the kitchen so as not to disturb her mother. She found an old biscuit and smothered it with molasses.