The first year, they worked out of the Marvine Mine in the Hunky Patch, a Scranton neighborhood of mostly Poles, Lithuanians, and Hungarians. In late 1899, that operation shut down for a few months while the drillers went about finding new veins. Owen and Graham moved on to the Sherman Mine in the Providence section of the city, on the recommendation of Hattie Goodfellow, the widow who owned the boarding house. “Not one to take guff,” she said of the mine owner, “but he’s fair. No need to keep your eye on the scale,” she added, referring to the rumor that the Marvine superintendent underreported the weight of the miners’ coal cars, cheating them out of pay.
While prosperity seemed slow in finding them, Owen and Graham earned enough money to pay for their room and meals with a little left over to buy the beer that washed away the last of the coal dust at the end of the twelve-hour workday. Hattie overlooked the trips to the gin mill as long as her boarders didn’t try to carry drink onto the premises. Not known to take guff herself, the men obliged.
Of course, Owen’s drinking days had ended when he married Grace. “There’s no place for the demon alcohol in a Christian home,” she’d told him. As long as she promised to stay by his side, he would have agreed to any sacrifice.
* * *
“Another round,” Joey said as he flagged the barkeep.
“I’ve had my last pint, boys. I’m headed for home.” Owen staggered out the door well after one in the morning, wishing he had a full moon to light his way. Grace would be angry, and he couldn’t blame her. Nothing worse than a drunkard in her eyes. Thinking time might sober him up, he crossed Market Street and stared up at the redbrick church, anchoring the northwest corner of Providence Square. It featured twelve stained-glass windows and a white steeple that aspired toward heaven. Providence Christian Church, he thought, sitting down on the steps for a breather. The very place that had led him to Grace.
About two years after they’d arrived in Scranton, Owen and Graham took a stroll up to the square on the last Saturday in August. According to Hattie, it was Old Home Week, a time when residents past and present gathered to celebrate the founders of their neighborhood with parades; music; red, white, and blue buntings; and fireworks. American flags adorned porches and storefronts, and shop owners advertised their wares at special prices. Women sat at tables in front of their churches, selling a variety of foods; halupkies from the Poles, corned beef from the Irish, pickled herring and onions from the Jews—a taste of the old country, whichever one that might be.
As they approached the fair, Owen spied pice ar y maen, Welsh cakes, arranged three to a plate, and he smelled home for the first time since leaving Aberdare. For a moment, he remembered Mam working the lard and measuring the currants at the kitchen table. He said a silent prayer for her and meandered over to the Providence Christian Church’s table. Graham followed.
Owen froze at the sight of the two girls seated in front of him.
“May I help you?” asked the one on the left.
Owen simply stared at her, wishing he’d had a drink or two to loosen his tongue.
“Would you like to buy some Welsh cakes?” asked the one on the right. “A penny a piece, or three for two cents.” She smiled broadly, her teeth perfectly straight, her cheeks inexpertly rouged. Graham returned the smile. Owen remained transfixed on the first girl, with long brunette curls and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
Graham ignored his friend, searched his pocket, found a nickel, and passed it to the redheaded girl on the right. She pushed forward two plates and said, “Kindly return them when you’ve finished eating.” She placed the nickel in a cigar box and retrieved a penny.
Graham held up his hand. “A donation for the church.” The pair shared another smile before he managed to shove Owen away from the table.
“What’s got into you?” Graham asked, handing Owen a plate.
“I’ll take the chubby one.” Owen’s first words.
“You don’t say.” Graham patted his friend’s shoulder and laughed.
Owen paused to collect his thoughts. “I’d like to court the one on the left. If she’s not spoken for. Her with the pretty blue eyes.”
“So long as you leave one for me.”
* * *
Owen and Graham began attending the Providence Christian Church of Scranton the very next day, two services every Sunday and one on Wednesday nights. The chubby one, the girl on the left, made no offer of her name. Owen reminded himself that a proper lady waited to be asked. Each time he saw her, he tried to muster the courage, but failed.
The one on the right, Louise, wasted no time introducing herself to Graham. She told him about her life as the child of a maid in the Jones household. How Mrs. Jones refused to allow her daughters to “consort” with Louise, even the youngest, who was her age. The two played together anyway, but in secret, the beginning of a lifelong friendship. She also made mention of a scandal resulting in Mr. Jones’s demise. With the family disgraced, the youngest Miss Jones was forced to take a job as a maid herself, “her with the pretty blues eyes.”
Graham passed all of this along to Owen, who only became more nervous when he realized Miss Jones had been raised with certain advantages. Even if she’s not living that life now, he thought whenever she sat in the same pew at Christian Endeavors, a Sunday school class for the young adults of the church, what could I offer so fine a woman?
Owen’s paralysis persisted, even after three months of church attendance. When she’d glide past him to collect the Bibles, he couldn’t breathe. If she stood to make an announcement about a covered-dish dinner or a visiting missionary, he’d avert his eyes so that his affection would not spill out.
And then came Thanksgiving.
Hattie had invited Owen and all the men without family to share in a meal. Owen donated the bird, one he’d shot a couple of days before in Chinchilla, the next town over. When Hattie called everyone to the table, she suggested Owen sit at the head, since it was his turkey they were serving.
“A beautiful bird,” one man said admiringly.
“Chester never looked so good,” Owen said with a wink. Chester was Hattie’s prize rooster and the bane of every man who boarded there. In addition to his sunrise duties, Chester crowed whenever someone tried to sneak in after Hattie’s ten o’clock curfew. He also nipped the ankles of anyone he disliked, and he disliked everyone except Hattie herself.
“Chester may be the ugliest bird God gave breath to,” Hattie said, “but he’s the best watchdog I ever had.” She sat down on Owen’s right, near the kitchen door so she could clear the table and refill dishes. “And I know that’s not Chester on my platter because he’d have bitten your nose off by now.” Everyone laughed.
Just then, Miss Jones with the pretty blue eyes rushed into the dining room full of apologies, her cheeks flushed, her brow dappled with sweat. On one side, strands of dark hair pulled free from her bun and fell across her face.
Owen looked at Hattie. He’d seen the two women talking together at church on occasion, but it hadn’t occurred to him that they were more than acquaintances. They never sat together that he could recall.
“The colonel’s dinner took longer than expected. I hope you didn’t wait for me.” Miss Jones paused for a moment, glanced at Owen stuck to his seat, and pulled out her own chair. “We had forty-eight people. Can you imagine?” she asked him, turning to the right. “I’m Grace. Grace Jones,” she said. “Hattie’s sister.” Owen didn’t stir.