The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (21 page)

A
s usual, that
Saturday morning, Grace dropped her week’s pay on the kitchen counter. The five
shiny dimes jangled lightly as they settled there on the nicked surface. She
knew Mama would add the money to whatever funds Papa felt disposed to provide
that week.

Lou or Nancy
would’ve made a fuss,
she realized for the hundredth time. When they lived at home, the twins usually
had kept any money they’d earned. They would have squawked fiercely if Mama had
asked for their paycheck. But Grace knew the price of her freedom: Ten cents a
day – fifty cents a week – bought her every evening at Mr. and Mrs. Kinner’s
kitchen table, studying with Paulie.

Every cent is
worth it,
thought Grace as she opened the bread box and cut herself a narrow slice of
Mama’s bread. Opening the cupboard quietly so that Cliff wouldn’t hear, she
took down the jar of homemade blackberry jam and spread a thin layer on the
slightly-stale slice.

Crossing herself
quickly, Grace sank her teeth into the sweet breakfast. Just then, she heard
the mattress groan in Mama’s bedroom.
I thought Mama was up already.
Ever
since Grace could remember, Mama had been first to rise, often in the kitchen
before the sun had fully risen.

This baby is
really hard on her,
Grace realized, pity dawning in her heart. Setting her own breakfast down on
the counter, she cut another slice of bread and slathered it with a generous
glob of jam. Pouring a small cup of coffee for herself and one for Mama as
well, she set Mama’s cup and slice at the table just as her mother trundled
into the kitchen.

“Morning, Mama,”
Grace greeted her, making sure her voice wasn’t too cheerful. Mama disliked any
hint of fakeness.

Mama nodded,
blinking red eyes.

“I cut you some
bread,” Grace offered and saw Mama’s face relax when she saw the mug of black
coffee waiting beside the darkly-spread slice. With a sigh, Mama drew out a
chair for herself and plopped down. Ignoring the slice of bread, she picked up
the coffee with trembling hands and took several tentative sips.

Grace leaned
against the counter, nibbling her breakfast.
Should I ask Mama about going
to First Baptist?
Her internal debate on the previous night had lasted
beyond her late waking hours; she tossed through her dreams with a hint of
Paulie’s invitation always flavoring them.

“Cold today,”
Mama commented, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Grace
agreed. She glanced out the window. “But at least it’s not snowing.” Her eyes
narrowed as she saw a bulky figure making its way up the back walkway.
Papa.
She swallowed hard through the last bite of her bread. “Mama,” she said,
turning from the window, “Papa’s coming in.”

Mama’s hand went
to her hair, mussed and tangled from sleep. The pity that Grace had felt
earlier grew and gathered strength as she realized the pathetic situation in
which Mama found herself: aging fast, pregnant, competing with a younger woman with
whom Papa seemed smitten, though Mama was the one who wore a wedding band.
Anger, bright and steely, filled Grace as she saw the old door swing open. Papa
entered, harrumphing at the cold that bit through his heavy coat and turned his
ears crimson.

Raising his eyes,
Papa saw her and Mama but made no acknowledgment of them. Banging the crunchy
snow off his boots, he clomped his way over to the coffee pot. The hot liquid
sounded loud as it poured into Papa’s large mug. He lifted it with strong
hands, accustomed to manual labor, and took a deep draught of the brew.

Quietly, making
no more noise than necessary, Mama rose from her chair, leaving her bread
uneaten. With slow, somewhat unsteady steps, she moved toward her bedroom.

But Papa spoke,
surprising Grace. “Make sure I’ve got a good clean shirt pressed for Mass
tonight,” he addressed Mama’s retreating back.

Mama paused but
didn’t turn. “You singing?” Grace heard Mama’s emotionless voice inquire.

Papa swigged his
coffee again. “Father Frederick asked me to. Can’t say no to a priest.”

And Papa
wouldn’t want to, besides. Grace knew how much Papa delighted to raise his
tenor voice above the church choir in a solo part. Everyone said that he had
the voice of an angel. And it was true.

When Mama didn’t
reply again, just stood, back to the kitchen, Papa set his mug down. “You’ll
have my clothes ready, yeah?”

Grace winced at
the hint of irritation in his voice.
Answer him, Mama. Say, “Yes,” like you
always do.

But Mama
shuffled off into her bedroom before replying, “Why don’t you have your fancy
woman iron your clothes for you?”

The words jolted
Grace. Outside of a few loud arguments, Mama
never
confronted Papa. His
iron fists and bull-like countenance forbade it. Barely breathing, Grace
glanced over at Papa.

He was livid.
His swarthy face turned from red to dark purple, and he stared unblinking after
Mama.

Then, in five
long strides, he lurched across the room and into the bedroom behind her. Grace’s
stomach turned upside-down when he slammed the door, locking Mama into the room
with him.

Sinking down to
the floor, head dropped to her arms, Grace listened to the storm raging in the
bedroom.

“Do you hear
yourself, woman?” Papa bellowed. A string of curses followed, each directed at
Mama’s audacity in answering him back.

“You’re my
wife!
You do what I say! You listen to me, Sarah!” he bellowed. “You hear? If I want
my clothes ironed, you iron them!”

“You think you
can keep that woman-” Mama’s words snapped suddenly, and Grace cringed as she
heard a vase crash to the bedroom floor, followed by the thud of a body hitting
the dresser.
He hit her.

“I can keep
whoever I please! You hear?” Papa growled. “Who gives you food? Huh? Who gives
you money for clothes? Whose daughter is standing there in the kitchen? Whose
car is in the driveway?” He paused. “Whose baby you got in your belly? Huh?”

Another silent
moment.
I wish he were dead,
Grace thought numbly.

“Huh? Whose?
Whose?
Whose?
” He ended with a near shriek. “Answer me, woman!”

At last, she
heard Mama’s voice, a murmur blanketed with soft sobs. “Yours, Charlie. They’re
all… yours.”

“That’s right.”
Papa sounded triumphant. “And you remember that, Sarah. You remember that.”

The bedroom door
opened, and Grace nearly swallowed her tongue in nervousness. But Papa could
care less about her, it seemed. He turned one last time toward the weeping that
emerged from the bedroom and ordered, “Make sure you got my clothes ready for
four o’clock. I’m getting together with some of the boys before Mass.”

Grace followed
him with her gaze to the door. He slammed it vehemently.
To show her that he
meant what he said.
Rising to her feet, Grace thought about going to the
bedroom to comfort Mama, awkward as she felt about that.

But Mama
simplified the matter; the bedroom door shut with a click before Grace could
move one step.

“W
hat do you think
of asking Grace to come for Christmas dinner?” Her fingers busily tying the
bows on presents, Emmeline finally broached the question that had lingered in
her mind for several days.

Geoff looked up
from his book. “Don’t you think she’ll be spending it with her family, Emmy?”

He was probably
right, but still… “I know. I just thought that…” Emmeline let her voice trail
off, unsure of what
exactly
she thought.

“Thought what?”
Geoff prodded.

Choosing a gold
ribbon for the next package, Emmeline squinted in thought, trying to figure out
how to explain herself. “Well, when Paulie mentioned that he and Grace couldn’t
do the tutoring at her house last fall, I assumed – and perhaps it’s a wrong
assumption – but I assumed that there must be something that Grace wishes to
hide about her home. Something she doesn’t want Paulie – or us, for that matter
– to know.”

Geoff looked at
her. “Her family’s very poor,” he commented. “That’s certain.”

Emmeline nodded.
“You can tell that from Grace’s clothes alone. But nobody’s rich anymore.” Slowly,
she looped the ribbon into a bow. “I think it’s something more than poverty,
Geoff. I know that there’s no hard evidence; it’s just intuition, I suppose.”

“A woman’s
intuition is usually right,” Geoff smiled. “Why don’t you invite her? She can
always say no.”

Glad for her
husband’s generous spirit, Emmeline returned his smile. “Alright,” she replied.
“I’ll ask her.” Happy anticipation filled her as she turned her full attention
to wrapping the presents.

But Grace
wouldn’t be coming back until after Christmas recess! Emmeline groaned. “I
can’t believe it!” she said aloud, putting her scissors down with a clatter.

Again, Geoff
looked up from his book. “What is it?”

“I can’t ask
her. I forgot: She won’t be coming back until after school recess. And we don’t
know where she lives.” Emmeline shook her head. “If I did, I would send her a
note. I didn’t even give Grace her Christmas present!”

“You can give it
to her after Christmas,” Geoff suggested, grimacing a little. “I forgot, too.
I’m sorry.”

“It’s not the same,
giving a gift after Christmas,” Emmeline replied, her heart sinking. Receiving
a
late
Christmas present was the last thing a girl like Grace needed!

Geoff shrugged.
“I’m not sure what else you can do, Emmy.”

Sighing,
Emmeline turned back to her work.

Paulie.
Surely, he knew
where Grace lived! She rose from her seat, eager to get to the telephone before
Paulie left for New York with his father.

A
pail of milk in
her right hand, Grace shut the barn door tightly behind her. Bessie’s milk
supply had dropped off significantly, which Grace had expected, seeing that
Papa had bred the cow last summer again. Bessie would dry up soon and bear a
calf sometime in early spring. Grace’s heart twisted at the thought. Papa would
surely sell the calf for meat, leaving Bessie disconsolate for days. But there
was nothing that Grace could do about that, other than give the poor mama cow
extra scratches around her thick, soft ears.

The sound of a
car pulling into the driveway distracted Grace from her gloomy thoughts.
Maybe
it’s Evelyn.
Hope rose within her.
Mama will be glad if it is. Aunt Mary
should bring Evelyn to visit more often.

Grace hurried
her steps around the curving path that led to the driveway from the barn, eager
to greet her sophisticated aunt as well as to hug her little sister.

But the older
beige car stalling in the driveway didn’t belong to Aunt Mary. Startled, Grace’s
blood froze as she watched Mrs. Kinner emerge from the driver’s side and then walk
up to the back door.

This isn’t
happening!
Grace tried to swallow, but her throat stuck. Her body felt numb. Remembering
just in time that she carried a bucket of milk, her fingers tightened around
the handle.
How does she know where I live?

Suddenly, Grace
realized that if she didn’t hurry, Mrs. Kinner surely would knock on the back
door. And who knew whether Mama would answer, eyes red with weeping, bruise
freshly apparent on her cheekbone? Or if Papa would swing wide the door, his hairy
chest popping out of his undershirt for the whole world to see? Grace was
certain that Mr. Kinner
never
bared his chest.

She found her
tongue at last and called out. “Mrs. Kinner!” Not waiting to see whether the
woman heard her, Grace rushed down the path toward her, the milk sloshing in
the bucket.

But Mrs. Kinner
turned right away, a ripe smile blooming on her lovely face. She wore a thick
black winter coat that made her skin glow even whiter than it usually did.
Paired with the crimson lipstick shining on her lips and her vivacious dark
eyes, Mrs. Kinner appeared a snow queen to Grace.

A snow queen
about to discover that Grace came from the abyss.

“Grace,” Mrs.
Kinner greeted her, reaching out a hand to grasp Grace’s. “I’m so glad you’re
home. I just came by to give you your Christmas present.”

“My… Christmas
present?”
Should I have gotten Mrs. Kinner a gift? Does she expect one?

Mrs. Kinner
smiled. “Yes, I’d forgotten that you wouldn’t be back to our house until after
Christmas, and I dislike giving Christmas presents
after
Christmas.”

I hope she
doesn’t think I’m going to invite her inside the house.
“Oh, yeah.
That’s right,” Grace answered aloud. “I won’t be coming over again until we go
back to school.”

Mrs. Kinner
nodded. “I didn’t know where you lived, but I thought Paulie might know. And he
did!”

She sounded
triumphantly happy, but Grace just wondered how in the world Paulie knew her
address.
He must have followed me home one day,
she mused. The blood
rose in her face.

“So,” Mrs.
Kinner interrupted Grace’s thoughts, “let me give you your gift! It’s in the
car.”

Grace followed
Mrs. Kinner over to the car and waited while the woman bent into the interior.
Despite Grace’s embarrassment, she wondered what the gift could be. A book,
perhaps? A pretty hairclip? It might be the only gift Grace would receive this
Christmas, and so she couldn’t help the way her anticipation bubbled up.

But Mrs.
Kinner’s gift took Grace by surprise. With a happy smile, Mrs. Kinner held out
a beautifully-sculpted pot of deep brown clay. A rich crimson ribbon clasped
the pot just below its rim, contrasting with the dark greenish-brown stems
sprouting from the nearly black soil.

Speechless, Grace
looked from the pot to Mrs. Kinner, and then back to the pot.

“It’s a
geranium,” Mrs. Kinner explained. “Seeing how much you appreciate mine, I
thought that you might like to have one of your own. It won’t bloom for months,
but you can certainly look forward to the flowers that will come in the warmer
weather.”

Oddly, the gift
frightened Grace. She felt as if Mrs. Kinner had opened a door from a dark room
into… Grace didn’t quite know where the door led. And that frightened her.

Yet the fright
was not enough to overcome her joy at the geranium plant.
Stop shaking,
Grace
commanded her trembling hands as she reached out to receive the gift.

S
he placed it on
the windowsill of her bedroom, where she could see it as soon as she woke up in
the morning and last thing before sleep claimed her eyes.

Glancing at it
as she dressed for six o’clock Mass, Grace remembered Mrs. Kinner’s recent
invitation to Christmas dinner at the Kinner house, as well as Paulie’s urging
that Grace attend services at First Baptist tomorrow morning.

Will Paulie be
there?
Grace buttoned her white blouse with nimble fingers and weighed the reasons for
and against going to the Christmas Sunday service at First Baptist.

The Kinners will
be there.
Certainly, that weighed heavily in its favor.

Mama probably
won’t like me going. I know Father Frederick won’t like it.
The thought of
the priest’s somber eyes caused a shiver to run down Grace’s spine.

Paulie might go,
if he hasn’t left for New York yet.
She bit her lip to keep from smiling,
even in the privacy of her empty bedroom, as she imagined her friend’s sparkling
brown eyes and delighted grin.

I don’t have
anything nice to wear.
True, she could don the same worn-out clothing that
she wore to Mass tonight, but… no one at First Baptist knew about her family’s
poverty. And the God of First Baptist seemed to be a rich Fellow, if one judged
Him by His followers. She’d seen the people entering that place of worship:
fancy hats with feathers, shiny high heels, silky white blouses on all the
ladies. And the men? They all wore smooth dark suits with polished shoes and snowy
shirts. Looking at her reflection, Grace knew that she’d stick out like a sore
thumb. And just at a time when she wished to be invisible.

Sinking down on
her bed, Grace knew that she couldn’t go. She wouldn’t expose herself and her
family to the pointing fingers and tittering lips of a bunch of rebellious
Protestants. Much as she wished to, she would not attend First Baptist’s
Christmas service.

P
apa sang
beautifully that night. His throat quivering with the golden notes, he closed
his eyes, the picture of reverent worship and manly strength. An angel in God’s
throne room could not appear to better advantage. Stealing another glance to
the balcony behind the congregation, where Papa and the rest of the choir
stood, Grace could not recall the hateful words that Papa had poured from that
same throat this very afternoon.

Sitting beside Grace,
Mama, too, shut her eyes, seeming to forget as well.