“I work as a live-in maid for Colonel Watres, like my sister, before she married.” Grace unfolded a linen napkin and arranged it on her lap. “Over on Quincy Avenue. And I also teach piano to his children.”
Hattie interrupted: “Owen, will you lead us in the blessing?”
His throat clamped shut so tightly that words, even if he’d been able to find them, could not escape. He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and with great effort, managed to loosen a single syllable: “Grace.”
After an embarrassing silence, Graham jumped in. “That’s prayer enough. Amen and let’s eat.” He grabbed a bowl of cooked rhubarb and spooned some onto his plate.
Red-faced, Owen pushed himself away from the table and hurried into the kitchen. He took a few swigs from a flask in his pocket as he paced back and forth. Occasionally he stopped and mumbled “Simpleton” or “Half-wit,” then started up pacing again. Just as he began his fourth pass across the kitchen, Grace pushed through the swinging door with an empty bowl in her hand.
“I’m not much for rhubarb myself,” she explained, “but the others sure seem to like it.” She laughed easily and strolled past Owen toward the stove.
He watched her back, the curve of it, the dampness of the blouse clinging to it. She turned toward him, and in one decisive movement, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into him for a kiss—hungry, urgent, necessary. He tucked the errant strands of hair behind her ear, pressed his lips against it, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found Grace on tiptoe, stretched toward him, her eyes wide. Betrayed by her own eagerness, she blushed and tumbled backward, her boot heels slapping against the linoleum floor. She scowled at Owen, who smiled broadly, suddenly emboldened by her chagrin and the contents of his flask. He pulled her in and kissed her again, allowing his lips to linger this time.
Grace and Owen married at the Providence Christian Church six months later, on May 11, 1900, the same day he signed the Temperance Pledge under his father’s signature in his family’s Bible. If he’d had his way, they would have wed sooner, but Grace wanted to wait for the lilacs to bloom.
* * *
Owen smiled at the memory, stood up unsteadily from the church steps, and continued home. Though nowhere near sober, he knew enough to step around the side and enter through the kitchen. The front door took coaxing, and he didn’t want to run the risk of waking the whole house at two o’clock in the morning.
“Look at you,” Grace said from her seat at the table. She turned up the wick on the oil lamp and eyed him head to toe. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. Hair as black as coal. Still handsome, but his hollow-cheeked countenance startled her till she noticed his reddened nose poking through the coal dust. “A fine example for our children.”
They both gasped at the slip and wondered at the weight of it.
Grace found her voice again: “I don’t want drink in my house, Owen Morgan. I’ll not have it.”
Indignation pushed past Owen’s guilt and settled in, making itself at home in his mouth. “Your house, is it? Your house?” he yelled. “I suppose it’s your pay that puts food on the table and a roof over your head?” Owen grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself.
“Do you want to wake Violet?” Grace turned down the lamp as if to quiet him.
“Your house,” he continued. “And I’m what? A guest now?”
“A common drunkard, more like it.”
“You best hold your tongue, woman. I’ll not stand for it.”
“As if you could stand,” she countered.
He slammed the chair across the room, upending it. Grace jumped back in fear.
“I’m so sorry.” Owen reached for Grace’s arm, but she recoiled. “I didn’t mean to . . .” He righted the chair and sat down at the table across from her. “What kind of man am I?” He started to cry. “Look what you made me do.”
Anger swelled inside Grace, running off any hope for sympathy. She could feel the rigidity in her stance, in her soul. She knew she was looking down on her husband, judging him, but she could not help herself. “Get out of the house this minute.” She punctuated her statement with a fist to the table. “My father never took a drop of liquor in his life. I’ll not have a drunkard for a husband.” She stood up, hurried to the door, and held it open.
Owen pushed himself up and stood facing her. “Your father was a scoundrel. You and your highfalutin ways.” He took hold of the door. “Your father was nothing but a no-good coward.”
Grace slapped Owen across the face. He returned her blow without hesitation, and staggered out the door.
TO KEEP AWAKE IN CHURCH
To keep awake in church when inclined to be drowsy, lift one foot a little way from the floor and hold it there. It is impossible to go to sleep when your foot is poised in the air. This remedy, though simple, is very effectual and never fails to keep a person awake. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909
Let the Catholics sprinkle their babies. At Providence Christian we baptize by immersion, the way the good Lord intended. We used to “dunk” in the Lackawanna River. Had to cut away the ice in the middle of winter. Now we have an indoor baptistery. Souls can just as easily be saved near a modern coal furnace.
We try to help out wherever we can. Last fall, after Pearl Williams’s husband took up with that trollop from Bull’s Head, dark-skinned, I-talian most likely, we organized a pound party. Asked folks to donate one pound of food apiece to get the Williamses through winter. Members of Providence Christian did not disappoint. Pearl got herself enough flour, sugar, and canned goods to last a year. And we’re happy for her, even if she didn’t think to share her bounty with those of us who toiled on her behalf.
Missionaries, evangelists. We feed, house, and raise money for them all. There’s talk Billy Sunday might come to Scranton to preach next spring. Now that would be a thrill. Played outfield for the Chicago White Stockings before he found Jesus. Had his picture in the paper just last week. A fine-looking man, even old Miss Proudlock says so.
Wish we could do something for that poor Morgan girl, though. Traipsing all over town with that little Polish boy. Just makes matters worse. Most likely lonesome for her sister. Then again, growing up in Daisy’s shadow couldn’t have been easy. Never knew a more perfect child. Those eyes. That voice. And smart as a whip. It’s a wonder Violet wasn’t more jealous, if you ask us. She did have one advantage over Daisy, though. Never knew a child with more promise at the piano. Of course, that’s all over now. Has to be.
Tending to the needs of our flock—that’s our mission. Probably the same for Catholics, Episcopalians, even Jews. We’re proud to do the Almighty’s work. It’s the Christian thing to do.
CHAPTER FIVE
HATTIE HAPPENED TO BE OUT SWEEPING THE FRONT STEPS when she spotted Grace trooping toward the boarding house. Even before her sister reached the yard, Hattie could tell she was distraught. Grace had the habit of chewing her lower lip when she was troubled. Hattie put down her broom, grabbed two shawls, and led Grace upstairs and out to the second-floor porch for a little privacy.
After some coaxing, for Grace had always needed coaxing, even as a child, she told Hattie that Owen hadn’t come home in almost a week. Hattie’s hand flew to her heart, but before she could say a word, Grace explained, “He’s rented a room over Burke’s. A gin mill, of all places.”
Hattie wasn’t entirely surprised. He’d