“I hear Violet’s been working over at Walsh’s,” she said on the Saturday Stanley returned home from his freshman year in college. When he didn’t bite, she added, “The studio,” then another pause, “on Lackawanna Avenue.”
“I know where it is.” When had Violet taken an interest in photography? For some reason this irritated Stanley.
“She’s coloring the portraits.”
At least that part made sense. Violet had always had a steady hand. “I know what you’re doing, Babcia.” He called her grandmother in Polish. Although the widow wasn’t related to Stanley by blood, he’d started using the name soon after she’d taken him in. It seemed fitting, given her age and importance in his life.
“I’m telling you about an old friend. That’s what I’m doing,” she’d said, peeling a lace tablecloth off a pile of linens and handing one corner to Stanley. “An old friend.” She searched the outstretched lace for the portion in need of repair. “With a new job.”
“There.” Stanley used his stump to point to a small tear near the center of the fabric.
“Who works most Saturdays.” The widow sat down in a chair next to her sewing table and draped the cloth across her lap. “Perfect for an unmarried girl.” She examined several spools of thread before selecting the closest match. “Almost as good as lace work.”
Stanley ignored the widow’s obvious attempt at matchmaking. For one thing, he had no interest in courting Violet. And for another, he’d purposely taken the early train back from school so he’d be home in time to see the debut of Queenie the baby elephant up at Nay Aug Zoo. Queenie, Scranton’s first elephant, had been purchased with donations from children all over the city. Stanley had always had a soft spot for animals. As a boy, he’d even had a pet mule named Sophie. A beautiful creature, white as snow. She’d met her maker some years earlier, but every time Stanley passed the Harrises’ barn where he’d kept her, he liked to pretend she was still inside, sleeping or munching on an apple.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he called out to the widow. June 14, 1924—a day so beautiful, he decided to walk the four miles to Nay Aug. It would give him a chance to clear his head.
Violet. Although he was no longer interested in her, he did find it funny that she was working for an Irishman, a Catholic no less. What would her father think of that? I suppose he has no qualms about Catholic money, Stanley thought, just Catholic suitors.
He walked over to Providence Square and continued down North Main Avenue, toward town. But Stanley liked Owen. He’d always been kind to him. They just happened to disagree about what was best for Violet. Not that it mattered now. Yes, Stanley had carried a torch for her in high school, but he’d moved on. He’d taken Lorraine Day to the St. Valentine’s Day formal. Hadn’t seen her since, but Violet certainly didn’t figure into that.
Stanley walked on, past Scranton Central High School, their alma mater. For a moment he remembered standing outside the boys’ entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of Violet as she entered on the girls’ side.
Instead of turning up Vine Street to get to Nay Aug, he headed toward town. Toward Lackawanna Avenue. Was there a law against a fellow stopping by to say hello to an old friend? For that’s what she was, an old friend. He continued this line of reasoning as he passed the post office, the courthouse, and another block of storefronts.
He stopped and looked across the street at a moss-green awning proclaiming, Walsh’s Portrait Studio, in bright white letters. Stanley considered his greeting. Keep it cheerful, he thought, as you would with any friend. So good to see you. No need to fawn over her. Wouldn’t want to give the girl the wrong idea.
He glanced at his reflection in a shoemaker’s window, pushed down a cowlick at the part in his hair, and crossed the intersection. Maybe he’d tell her how well she looked. To do less would be impolite.
As soon as he arrived on the other side of the street, his heart fell. A sign, posted on the front door, read, Closed early. Tacked next to it, a newspaper clipping announced, “See Queenie, the Kiddies’ Own Elephant, All Day Saturday.” Someone, Mr. Walsh most likely, had also put a basket of peanuts out for anyone heading up to the zoo.
Well, if that didn’t take the cake. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but he was annoyed with her just the same. And with Babcia for wasting his time. And with himself for behaving so foolishly. He grabbed a peanut out of the basket, cracked the shell with one hand, and popped its contents into his mouth.
The door swung open. “They’re for the elephant.” Violet laughed, stepping outside.
“I thought you . . .” Stanley’s cheeks burned.
She pulled the door shut, locked it, and turned toward him. “What a wonderful surprise.” She squeezed his arm and stepped back to look at him. “College suits you.”
Stunned, Stanley stood in silence another moment before saying, “You’re still . . .” he paused to gaze, “so beautiful.” As soon as he said the words, an awkwardness settled over them, the sort of awkwardness that comes when two people suddenly and simultaneously understand the stakes.
“Queenie awaits,” Violet finally said, looping her arm through Stanley’s handless one and pulling him toward Nay Aug.
* * *
Thousands of people turned out for a chance to see a real elephant, so the line stretched beyond the limits of the zoo, into the picnic grove.
“All waiting is long,” Violet said after they’d been standing for half an hour.
Stanley could be impatient at times, even stubborn, but not today, not with Violet so near, so beautiful. “Didn’t your mother used to say that?” He studied her dress, that face, those eyes, committing all of it to memory.
She nodded. “And her mother before her.”
“All depends on who you’re waiting with, I say.” He smiled and thought for a moment he might kiss her.
“Get your souvenirs here!” a vendor called out from behind a wheeled cart. He stopped alongside Stanley and motioned to a herd of button-eyed elephants with colorful chintz hides. “A remembrance for the lady?”
Coins changed hands before Violet could object. Stanley studied the pile and selected the floppy-legged version whose loaf-shaped body suggested a permanent state of repose. “Violets,” he said, pointing out the delicate flowers on the fabric. He handed her the keepsake, adding, “For you.”
Twenty minutes later they took their turn in front of Queenie, a footnote now in Stanley’s memory. His wait with Violet, her sunburned nose, her licorice breath, was what remained indelible in his mind.
They were holding hands by the time they left the zoo. The kiss took another two days and a good deal of courage on both their parts. When Stanley finally asked if that had been her first, Violet simply said, “It’s the only one that matters.” She’d meant to reassure him, he was convinced, but her words rankled him. Someone else had tasted those lips. Tommy Davies, most likely, though Violet refused to discuss the matter. She didn’t have to. Stanley had seen the way Tommy looked at her.
* * *
Stanley lifted the letter to his face, savoring the scent of lilacs. Violet had waited long enough. Come graduation, he was going to marry her. He wouldn’t even unpack his bag. He’d go over to her house and ask her father for her hand, as a gesture of respect. If Mr. Morgan said no, he’d take Violet and leave as planned. He knew of a justice of the peace in Philadelphia who would marry them, and before the end of May, they’d be Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Adamski.
Chapter five