Violet gave the asylum one last look before heading toward the millinery on the corner of Market and Broad, across the street from the train station. She’d noticed the shop the night she and Lily arrived. Considering Lily’s burgeoning form, a hat would make a sensible gift. Nothing too fussy, Violet thought. Nothing that would draw unwanted attention. She looked up at a street sign to get her bearings, and after a moment she turned left onto Market Street and followed it for six more blocks.
Gold letters on the store’s red sign announced, Widenor’s Hats. James Widenor, Proprietor. Violet eyed the merchandise in the window, wondering if Mr. Widenor would be willing to barter. She reached into her coat pocket and fingered the gold medallion awarded to her at graduation. The raised letters on front read:
Scranton Central High School
Valedictorian
Class of 1923
Violet’s parents had been so proud of her when she’d received the medal and delivered the valedictory address. She’d been honored with a scholarship to Bloomsburg Teacher’s College, and she might have gone too, if Lily had been a little older. Lily was only nine, and given their mother’s nervous episodes, Violet felt obligated to stay.
“I’m sorry,” was all her father had said. But the morning after graduation, she watched unseen as he placed the scholarship letter between the gilded pages of the family Bible.
Now Violet entered the milliner’s shop. Inside, she zigzagged around hat-covered trees in search of the shopkeeper or one of his assistants. At the rear of the store, she discovered a high counter with a cash register and silver desk bell. A note alongside the bell read, Ring once for service. Violet tapped the bell on top, releasing a tinny note.
“Be there in a minute!” a man called out.
“I’m in no hurry.” Violet meandered through a forest of tams, berets, and Panamas, in search of something quiet and sensible. Instead, she found herself staring at one of those modern, felt, creased-crown hats, trimmed with a periwinkle ribbon and matching silk forget-me-nots.
“A lovely choice.”
Violet jumped.
A pudgy gentleman was standing behind her. “What can I do you for?” He reached past Violet to the hat. “I own the place.” He took the hat and evened out the crease before placing it on her head.
“It’s not for me.” She snatched the hat and hung it on the bare limb before her. “I’m here to buy a present for my sister.”
“Just the same.” Mr. Widenor pulled a handheld mirror from a nearby shelf. “Indulge me.” He took the hat once again and pushed it down over her curls. “Lovely.” He handed her the mirror.
She looked at her reflection and fingered the periwinkle ribbon. “My favorite color.” She smiled, surprised that such a daring headpiece would flatter her face.
“Wear that and you’ll not want for suitors.”
“I haven’t any money.”
“I’m sorry, miss.” Mr. Widenor took the hat back and placed it on the tree. “I wish I could help you, but I have five mouths to feed at home, and a sixth on the way.” He fluffed a beret at the top of the stand. “We’re hoping for a girl this time.” He turned back, smiling sheepishly.
Violet pulled the medallion out of her pocket and felt the weight of it in her palm. Lay up not for yourselves treasures upon earth, she reminded herself, and handed it to the proprietor. “I thought we might barter.”
He flipped it over and read its message. “You?”
She nodded.
“I can’t take this.” He tried to return the award. “You earned it.”
And it wasn’t easy, she thought. If only their mother hadn’t taken to her bed so often in the years following Daisy’s death.
Violet slipped her empty hand into her coat pocket. “What can I get for it?” she asked.
Mr. Widenor bit down on the medallion. “Gold-plated.” He tipped it to the light. “Ten carat, no more.”
Violet didn’t budge.
“Wait here.” A minute or two later he returned with something sturdy but unremarkable, the kind of straw bonnet every miner’s wife in Scranton owned.
Violet tried it on. Her face fell.
“Best I can do,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He offered the medallion back to her. “Just as well. A person should hold onto something this special.”
Violet shook her head at the coin and handed the straw hat over to the shop owner. “This one will have to do. Box it for me, please.” She walked to the front of the store, took a seat in a straight-backed chair, and waited.
Several minutes later, Mr. Widenor returned from the back room with a bright red hatbox, exclusive to his store. “I tied it good and tight,” he said, handing it over. “With a sister like you, she’s a lucky girl. God bless, miss.”
Violet forced a smile and a “Thank you,” but they didn’t match up. She threaded her fingers through the string and headed for the door.
As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, a nearby mill whistled its workers back from lunch. It was a familiar sound. The Lace Works, a factory in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, used the same method. On weekdays, Lace Works employees and schoolchildren within earshot eagerly awaited the first whistle, a signal for lunch. An hour later, the whistle would sound again, urging everyone back to their duties.
Since Violet had left the asylum at half past twelve, she knew that must have been the one o’clock whistle. She was surprised at how quickly she’d managed her errand. The suitcases must have slowed her the last time she’d walked these streets. No one expected her back before two o’clock, so she decided to savor her solitude. Violet settled herself on a nearby bench to watch the bustle of the large city. For the first time in the two weeks since her arrival, she noticed the gray air. The smoke, expelled from countless trains and automobiles, hung in front of her like gossamer curtains. Pedestrians hurried through the haze, eyes downcast, coats drawn up toward their faces. Tracks cut through the middle of the street, where fast-moving cars and crowded trolleys shared the road. Across the way, arched windows and Gothic spires graced the massive train station.
Violet wondered if she could ever make a life in such a place. One of Stanley’s letters had suggested getting married in Philadelphia. What if he decided to move them here? She found the anonymity of a big city inviting. If she were sitting alone on a bench in Scranton, half the congregation of the Providence Christian Church would know about it, and what’s more, have shared their opinions on it before she ever made it back to her own front porch. And a predicament like Lily’s wouldn’t be tolerated back home, though Violet hoped never to be compromised by such troubles again.
Yet, there was also comfort to be had in a place like Scranton. Last winter, when Mr. Harris was laid up with the gout, the men on Spring Street took turns cleaning the ashes out of his furnace and spreading them on the icy sidewalks. And when Susie Hopkins lost her husband in that mine fire, the ladies of Providence stepped in, providing enough staples and canned goods to feed Susie and her three children through the winter.
A sudden gust of March air stirred the dust, and Violet’s hands flew to her eyes. An instant later, when the wind subsided, she saw the red hatbox tumbling toward the trolley tracks. Without thinking, she ran into the street and snatched Lily’s present just as a streetcar approached. Violet looked up, and for a moment time faltered, unable or unwilling to move along.
Stanley