“He’s a damn fool.” Frankie scooted in next to Lily and held her in his arms. “You’re the most beautiful girl in Scranton,” he said, caressing her cheek.
“You really think so?” Lily looked up at him. Dizzy, she fell back onto the blanket, pulling Frankie on top of her. They bumped noses hard as they landed, setting off a fit of tears and giggles. And kisses. Awkward at first, but rhythmic in short time, and soon enough, Lily gave herself over to him, thinking of George and Janetta. She lifted her hips as Frankie fumbled with his trousers, groped for her bloomers, and pressed his body into hers.
* * *
Lily felt the baby kick again, just as Sister Immaculata charged through the door and turned on the first light. “This is the day that the Lord hath made.” She stopped as she did every morning and waited for the women to respond from their beds.
“Let us rejoice,” Lily said, blinking tears from her eyes, “and be glad in it.” She turned her head toward Violet’s bed and saw that it hadn’t been slept in. “Must be down with that baby again,” she whispered to her belly. She turned back toward Muriel’s bed. It too was empty. Lily rolled onto her side and dropped her feet to the floor before standing. “Birthdays are supposed to be happy,” she mumbled on her way to the washroom.
Chapter seven
STANDING AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW, Violet watched the breaking sun lap up the last edges of the night. In the next half hour, all the girls at the Good Shepherd, including Lily, would be congregating in the dining room for a breakfast of creamed wheat topped with a little butter and sugar. Violet closed her eyes and imagined pice ar y maen, the little currant-filled Welsh cakes her mother would have made had they been home for Lily’s birthday. Whatever troubles her mother had, she always tried to make their birthdays special, and Violet would do the same, though she doubted the Reverend Mother would approve.
On top of the stove, an open glass bottle shivered inside a small pot of water. Violet grabbed the bottle, stretched a rubber nipple over its mouth, and tipped it onto her left wrist. The temperature was right, but a sour smell invaded Violet’s nose. Buttermilk. Extra nourishment for the harelipped infant now called Michael.
Mother Mary Joseph had named him. All of the asylum’s abandoned babies were named for saints. The day after the baby arrived, the Reverend Mother had asked Sister Immaculata to check her records.
“We haven’t had a Michael for some time,” the rotund nun had said without looking up from her paperwork.
Mother Mary Joseph had examined the child, bottom to top, holding her gaze on his crooked expression. “After the archangel. The great prince which standeth for the children.”
Violet carried the bottle back to the infant nursery and took Michael out of the crib. The Reverend Mother had been right about the buttermilk. Michael felt heavier in just a week’s time. After ten minutes, Violet draped a clean diaper over her shoulder and patted the baby’s back to coax a burp. He obliged almost immediately, with a sound usually reserved for bullfrogs. “Well, excuse me,” she said, her eyelids widening in feigned shock.
“He’s taken to you,” the Reverend Mother said, walking into the room and lifting the child from Violet’s lap. The nun gently placed the baby onto the white-enameled platform of an old spring scale that hung from the ceiling. A local grocer, who’d once used the device for cuts of meat, had donated it to the Good Shepherd after buying a newer model. “Weighs about . . .” Mother Mary Joseph waited for the needle on the dial to settle, “six and three-quarters. Up a pound and a half.” She handed the infant back to Violet. “Thanks be to God.”
For almost an hour, the Reverend Mother and Violet fed, bathed, and dressed twelve babies, one for each ivory-colored crib in the room. At five minutes to seven, the nun looked up at the clock. “Time for Mass.” She laid Judith Dennick’s infant in his crib, rubbed his belly, and turned to Violet. “I had hoped Sadie would be in to help you,” she said, glancing at the clock a second time. “But not today. I trust you’ll be fine without us this morning.”
Violet looked up and down three rows of cribs, four deep, with just enough space in between for one person to pass. “I’ll manage.” She tacked a smile onto her words, hoping to cover at least some of the indignation in her voice. Violet was annoyed with the nun for being so presumptuous with her time, but then again, she liked not having to go to Mass. All of that kneeling and bowing seemed undignified somehow. Protestants kneeled too, but in the privacy of their own homes.
“We’ll be offering up a prayer for the Hartwell girl.”
Violet looked up. “Muriel?”
“Started her pains in the middle of the night.”
Picturing the midwife’s hands, Violet asked, “Did someone go for the doctor?”
“No need for that. Sadie Hope is in with her.” Mother Mary Joseph stopped at the doorway and plucked a set of silver rosary beads from a nail on the wall. “Trust in the Lord and let nature take its course,” she said and walked out of the room.
Alone, with only infant witnesses, Violet dropped to her knees and prayed.
* * *
Mother Mary Joseph returned to the nursery at half past eleven.
“Any word on Muriel?” Violet asked.
“No change, but that’s not unusual.” The Reverend Mother walked across the room, pushed back the curtains over three identical windows, and peered out at the cheerless March day. “I had hoped for a little sun this afternoon . . .” She turned to the closest crib and scooped a baby girl into her arms. “Let’s get the little ones bundled up.”
The Reverend Mother believed in fresh air, no matter the weather. Each afternoon, the babies were swaddled in thick blankets, paired off in carriages, and placed on the front porch for two-hour naps. Mother Mary Joseph claimed that time outdoors kept children healthy—good advice, considering how robust her charges seemed to be.
“I need to run an errand,” Violet said. “I’ll wait till the children are napping.” She placed a bundled Michael into a wicker buggy, stepped over to the next crib, and started dressing a two-month-old named Bernadette. When Mother Mary Joseph didn’t respond, Violet added, “It’s Lily’s birthday, I’d like her to have something to open.”
“We don’t allow the girls—”
“With all due respect,” Violet interrupted, “I’m not one of the girls.”
The nun paused, as if to consider the point. “Well, we still have to dress the toddlers.” She nodded toward the room next door. “Sister Teresa is still in bed with a cold.”
“Yes,” Violet said, “but after that.”
“If you think it’s wise to reward her.” The Reverend Mother pushed a carriage to the doorway, and a waiting nun pulled it out of the room and onto the front porch. “Personally . . .”
“I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise,” Violet said, her curt tone putting an end to the discussion.
* * *
Once all of the children were dressed and in their carriages, Violet left through the kitchen door and headed around front. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned back, examining the grounds in the daylight. A tall iron fence lined the tar-and-chip driveway leading up to the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum. Short but wide, the road stayed to the right, where a redbrick chapel stood, low and broad. According to Sadie, who loved a good story, the church had been erected in 1880 and was the first structure on the property. The adjoining three-story convent had been added a decade later, at the urging of Bishop McGoff, who thought a contingent of nuns would bolster the flagging morality of the women in Philadelphia. The convent appeared so grand with its tiled arches