Grace had even put on the new straw bonnet that her sister Hattie had ordered from Montgomery Ward’s summer catalog. She’d never worn so fancy a thing before. A band of moss-green silk circled the bell-shaped crown. A single quill shot out from three crimped rosettes, nestled in the seam of the brim. Topped with such beauty, Grace dared to walk a little taller that morning, not in a prideful way, not that she could see, just a little taller.
But Myrtle Evans had to have her say even before the service started. “A bit fussy for the Lord’s house. Some might even say improper.”
“Jesus must have liked fine things,” Grace replied with a smile. “The Bible tells us they cast lots for His garments.”
After church, Grace stomped through her kitchen, yanking flour off the shelf, slamming lard onto the table. Although Myrtle’s remark had irritated her, the fact that she took satisfaction in her own response bothered her even more. “Lord, I know full well that pride goeth before a fall,” Grace said aloud, working the lard into the flour with a sprinkle of cold water. “I’m heartily sorry for my sinful ways. Amen.”
She’d decided to make a huckleberry pie for Daisy. Why not indulge her? After all, it was her baptism day, and later they’d be going to the Providence Christian Church’s annual picnic, one of the rare days the mines shut down in Scranton.
She looked up to see Daisy stroll into the kitchen. She twirled once, the air opening the pleats on her store-bought dress, a one-time indulgence.
“When did you become old enough to be taken into the church?” Grace’s eyes locked on her daughter. “So grown up. My pet. Be marrying you off before we know.” She pushed a colander of huckleberries in Daisy’s direction.
“Never,” Daisy laughed. “Though I expect I’ll be promoted to the Junior Choir, seeing I’m a member now.” She picked through the berries, tossing the green and the spoiled into a bowl.
“More than likely.” Grace dropped the ball of dough into the bowl to rest and turned to adjust the damper on the stove.
Daisy began singing. “I come to the garden alone . . .”
“My favorite,” Grace said. “Get Violet to play the piano. I love to hear both my girls.”
Daisy stood up, took two steps toward the parlor, and called, “Vi-o-let!”
“If I’d wanted someone to stand in my kitchen and yell, I’d have done so myself.”
Daisy moved into the parlor and turned down the hall of their one-story house toward the bedrooms, Grace and Owen’s on the left, the girls’ on the right.
Grace picked up an empty milk bottle and began to roll out the crust. Two things she knew how to handle, piecrust and babies. And babies. She shook off the thought before it had a chance to take hold. “Lord, I’m grateful for the ones you let me keep. Amen.”
Two pairs of feet marched back into the kitchen, but Daisy pushed through the doorway first. “Tell Violet to listen to me.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Grace stirred the berries into a bath of butter and cinnamon sugar and poured the mixture into the pie shell.
“Daisy is telling me what to do again.” Uneven bangs framed Violet’s angry brown eyes, the cropped hair a reminder of a lice incident earlier in the summer.
“I’ll not have bickering today of all days.” Grace bore three finger holes in the middle of a second crust, lifted it on top of the pie, and pinched the two shells shut with thumbs and forefingers. “And you,” Grace nodded toward Daisy as her elbow landed in her sister’s side. “What kind of example are you setting?”
Daisy dropped her arm and stared at the floor. Grace lifted the pie and stepped toward the oven. She looked back briefly to see if the girls were behaving and caught sight of Violet shoving her hip into her sister’s side. Daisy teetered, and for a split-second, Grace thought Daisy might grab hold of the table and save herself. They both locked eyes as Daisy missed her chance, knocking into Grace and tumbling to the floor with her mother and the pie.
“Owen!” Grace yelled loud enough to be heard out on their front porch, and the front porches of the neighbors on both sides. “Take hold of your girls before I get my hands on them.”
* * *
Grace lined the ffagod on a plate wondering how she could have been so angry over a pie. If only I’d been more patient that day. If only I hadn’t taken Myrtle’s comments to heart. If only I’d worn my cloth hat to church. Sobbing, she wiped her hands on her apron and went back to her bedroom.
* * *
After fishing all afternoon with Stanley, Violet arrived home late to find uncooked ffagod on the table and her mother in bed. She wanted to feel relieved about the lies she wouldn’t have to tell, the day she wouldn’t have to explain, but fear kept tugging on her sleeve. She wondered about her father and the late hour, then set her attention to finishing supper.
CHAPTER FOUR
OWEN PUSHED TWO EMPTY GLASSES TOWARD THE BARKEEP. “Shot and a beer.”
“Ain’t nothing sold on credit.”
Owen reached into his pocket for a few more coins, found a greenback instead, and handed it over. He knew better than to stop at Burke’s Gin Mill on his way home from work, but he couldn’t help himself. A few men standing around a bar, each with one foot resting on the rail and the other planted on the sawdust-covered floor, made for a peaceful moment.
The door squeaked open behind him, and he turned to see Joey Lewis and his brother Bobby, both timbermen down at the Sherman Mine, regulars at the beer garden. He waved, turned toward the bar, and threw back his whiskey.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you was a teetotaler,” Joey said, slapping Owen on the back. “What are you drinking?”
Owen held up his hand. “This here’s my last.” He drained the beer, pocketed his change, and turned to leave. “Need to look in on Grace. And see about Violet’s first day.”
Joey and Bobby nodded solemnly. They were neglecting wives and children of their own. “One more,” Joey said, pulling out a handful of nickels.
Owen hesitated. The men were decent enough company, but he didn’t go to Burke’s for company.
“For the motherland,” Bobby added, and he started in on the first verse of “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau,” “Land of Our Fathers.”
Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri . . .
Joey and Owen couldn’t help but join in.
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mâd,
Tros ryddid gollasant eu gwaed.
Four whiskeys later, they started their national anthem again, this time in English.
The land of my fathers, the land of my choice,
The land in which poets and minstrels rejoice;
The land whose stern warriors were true to the core,
While bleeding for freedom of yore.
The three men raised their glasses, “Iechyd da, for our beloved Wales,” putting Owen in mind of the last time he’d seen home.
Sixteen years earlier, his mam had packed the family Bible in his suitcase. “Always remember,”