A Violet Season (14 page)

Christmas morning fell on a Sunday, and though it was cold as the Arctic, sunlight skimmed the surface of the earth. Cold or no, Ida would not miss church. Again the family packed into the sleigh—the three boys in back with Mary in her basket and Anabel up front with Ida and Frank. “You’re not wearing that thing to church,” Frank said when he saw the sling tied under her wrap.

“I’ll take it off when we get there,” Ida said, and she did, for when they arrived, Anabel was asleep.

The white clapboard church was bright as the snow, its stained-glass windows tall and dark from the outside but casting jeweled light within. Evergreen garlands tied by the Ellerbys, whose farm included a hardy stand of Scotch pines, festooned the ends of the pews, and the dominie was wearing a new black broadcloth suit with a silk four-in-hand tie. Though Dominie Jacobs often preached in a resonant bass that made his parishioners fear the darkness, this Christmas service called for his quieter tone, the one
Ida recognized from his private prayers with her and one she had heard in Joe’s morning greetings. She spotted him sitting beside his mother a few rows in front of her. When they stood to sing “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,” he turned to scan the congregation, and his gaze lit on her. In the instant it took him to nod politely, she saw a curious disappointment in his face, and then she realized—he was looking for Alice.

Toward the end of the sermon, Anabel began to fuss, and without waiting for an escalation, Ida slipped out the end of the pew and hurried to the lecture room to bind her into the sling. It was quiet and dark and cold there, in gloomy contrast to the sanctuary, and Ida’s mind wandered into darker territory. What if she were to leave Anabel in the narthex, where a hundred people would see her shortly on their way out of the church? What if she were to drive off in the sleigh to New York? She would drive straight to this Miss Sligh’s address—never mind how she would find it—and if Alice wasn’t there, she would search until she found her. Together they would ride out of the city and find a place of their own. It wasn’t even a good daydream because, aside from the impossibility of taking the horses and sleigh so far, it involved leaving Jasper behind. She and Alice would be hard pressed to earn a living on their own. And there were Oliver and Reuben, and Mary. She left Frank unaccounted for. This wasn’t the solution. She thought again of the candlelight in her kitchen. How could she see things differently?

The organ sounded, and the floorboards creaked as the congregation stood. They were singing “Joy to the World,” and soon they would be spilling out onto the snowy lawn with Christmas greetings for one another. Ida started up the hall with Anabel, who had quieted somewhat, and stood in the back of the church. The low notes of the organ beat heavily on the chorus—“Let-heav’n-and-na-ture-sing”—and she felt the music thrum through her body. Then her neighbors were patting shoulders and shaking hands and
massing toward the church doors, and Ida stepped aside at the base of the balcony stairs to avoid the crush. Oliver worked his way to her and deposited Mary in the basket at Ida’s feet. “A bunch of us are taking a sleigh ride,” he announced, then wove through the crowd and out the front door.

Dominie and Mrs. Jacobs stood at the door to greet the departing congregation with Joe and their visiting daughters beside them, one modestly hiding her first pregnancy beneath an old woolen cape of her mother’s that Ida recognized from their younger days.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” a voice said from behind Ida. It was Claudie, alone and looking worried. “I haven’t heard a thing from Alice. Have you?”

Ida had given Alice’s address to Claudie the first time she saw her after Alice’s move, but it was the address with the transposed numbers. Still, if Alice hadn’t written Claudie on her own, something was amiss.

“I did get one short letter from her,” Ida said, but fear fluttered in her throat. Claudie was toying nervously with the ties on her red cape. “I think the address I gave you was wrong. I’ll write it down correctly and give it to you next time I see you.”

“All right,” Claudie said, but she made no move to leave.

“Her father saw her just a couple of weeks ago,” Ida continued, as much to reassure herself as Claudie. “She’s doing fine.”

“I don’t think she’s fine,” Claudie said. “Otherwise she’d write to me.”

“She’s probably working very hard,” Ida said. “You keep writing to her, and I think you’ll hear back.”

Claudie seemed to sense that Ida’s confidence was false, but she nodded and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Merry Christmas.” She smiled politely and hurried to catch up to her family, who had already left the building. Feeling dizzy, Ida leaned against the cold plaster wall and took a deep breath. The weight of Anabel’s sling
pulled on her shoulder, and she wasn’t certain she could pick up Mary’s basket on her own. She was grateful to see Mrs. Schreiber moving toward her.

“How is the tea?” Mrs. Schreiber asked as she reached out her gloved hand to stroke the mottled top of Anabel’s head.

“It helps,” Ida said, swallowing hard, though what she meant was “not much.”

“What helps the most is they grow up. They grow out of it,” Mrs. Schreiber said. “You’ll see. By spring it will be better.”

“I hope it will,” Ida said. “Thank you.”

Without being asked, Mrs. Schreiber picked up Mary’s basket and helped Ida toward the door.

Reuben had been granted the coveted job of ringing the bell this morning. He gripped the thick rope above his head, pulling hard in a squat and then nearly losing contact with the floor as the rope flew up into the belfry and the bell rang out once, then again on the rope’s descent. Its sound was muffled from the narthex, but when Ida stepped out on the bluestone path, she heard the bell ring loud and true. She stared up at the steeple, standing bright against a cerulean sky, and held tight to that clear song, hoping it might guide her.

*   *   *   

Christmas dinner was always held at William and Frances’s house. For the holiday, the workers had strung swags of evergreen along the porch roof, and large stone planters of holly and English ivy flanked the door. The entry hall smelled of gravy and warm rolls. A small fir tree at the front door was decorated with paper ornaments in the shapes of Saint Nicholas, angels, girls in pretty fur-trimmed coats, and even a bulldog like Captain Anderson’s with a red bow tied around his neck. Jasper was stopped short by this little tree, and in her holiday mood, Frances allowed him to finger the delicate treasures hung from its branches.

In the parlor, an eight-foot evergreen was more elaborately decked with colored paper and popcorn garlands, baskets of nuts and dried fruit, lead stars, angels with gold leaf wings, and German icicles made of glass. At the tips of half the branches were pinned slender red candles, which would be lit for only a short time while all the guests were nearby and a servant stood ready with a bucket of water. A fire played in the marble fireplace, and its light infused the glass ornaments with color. Christmas sheet music sat on the parlor organ, indicating they might have to listen to a concert later.

Frances’s housemaid wore an Irish lace collar on her dress. She was stationed at the front door to take hats and wraps and capes and be sure no one tracked snow or mud on the Brussels carpet. Additional servants had been hired for the day, mostly friends and relations of Cook’s, for after the family dinner, many guests would be dropping in for afternoon drinks and cigars, music, and charades. The children—Reuben and Jasper, Harriet’s youngest girl, and even the babies—were taken into the sitting room, where they were to be served and entertained separately. Norris and Oliver and Harriet’s two older girls were permitted to join the adults for Christmas dinner. All four of the young cousins began the meal sitting stiff and quiet, taking care to use the proper fork at the proper time. Oliver answered inquiries on his opinion of the current crop with the politeness of a gentleman, and Ida smiled as she watched him speak. Despite his sometimes misguided enthusiasm, he was becoming a fine young man. He knew what he was dealing with now, and he wasn’t going to be brought low by them. She wanted to cheer for him as the girls cheered the boys on the sidelines of their baseball games.

Of the four cousins, Norris was the least impressed by the formality of the meal, and after an early pretense of politeness, he fell into his usual manner of eating too quickly and pushing out his chair, arms folded, waiting impatiently to be excused. Frances did
not correct him. Ida was of a mind to do it for her, but she knew better than to antagonize on this occasion.

When talk turned to President McKinley and the Philippines, the boys perked up, though they held back from contributing to the conversation between William and Harold. Only Frank couldn’t resist attempting to extinguish their glowing assessments of the president and his policies. “Waste of twenty million dollars, if you ask me,” he said, referring to the agreed-upon purchase price of the Philippines as part of the peace treaty. “McKinley’s advisers have been smoking too many Cuban cigars.”

The others laughed at this, but Frank plunged on. “Mark my words, we’ll be in the middle of a war against the Philippines before you know it.” This last comment the other men ignored, but the boys took it up with excitement.

“Maybe Oliver and I will hop a ship this time, then,” Norris said.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Frances.

“The new Rough Riders, huh?” Norris said, poking Oliver, who smiled politely through a mouthful of potatoes.

“Those men were unique to their commander,” William said. “Now that Roosevelt’s got himself a house in Albany, I’m afraid that glory is over.” He cocked his head on the word “glory” to emphasize his questionable opinion of Governor Roosevelt.

“Who knows what kind of rowdy politics we’ll be seeing?” Harold asked, and the men all laughed again.

“Roosevelt for president!” Norris shouted, his fork in the air, and the men roared. Frances looked as if she might tackle him. Ida caught Oliver’s eye and was shocked to see him wink at her.

“Kindly save the rest of this conversation for the study,” Frances said, but Ida was sorry to hear it end. She had her own opinions about what she’d been reading in the newspaper. For one, she feared William Jennings Bryan was right that the imperialistic
move to take over the Philippines was premature and required more consideration, though she wouldn’t say so in this mixed company. Still, it was always fun to see the men get worked up at Frances’s expense.

With war and peace off limits, business talk was allowed, and the conversation moved to the duller topics of the new variety of violet the Tenneys were growing and whether it would prove hardy enough; potential new wholesalers in Boston and Philadelphia; a planned trip to the Lord & Burnham greenhouse factory in Irvington; and how a blizzard that had hit at Thanksgiving had affected business. That same storm had caused the disastrous wreck of a paddle steamer called the
Portland,
on which one of the families from the Episcopal Church had died, and they all debated the safety of these vessels. Harriet reckoned she would be taking the train to New York City from now on, but Harold countered that the
Portland
had foolishly gone out in the storm and was in the open sea when she sank.

“And how is Alice doing?” Frances asked. It was clear she didn’t want to speak of the
Portland
tragedy any further, for she had known well the woman from her church who had perished.

Ida turned to Frank and waited for a response. It took him a moment to realize she would not speak for him, and he looked up to find them all watching him. He chewed and swallowed a mouthful of food and took a drink of water from his crystal goblet. Finally he said, “She’s well.”

“What is she doing?” Frances asked, her hand suspended over the nearly empty gravy boat, which she’d been about to hand to one of the serving girls. It seemed she had asked the first question innocently enough but had been stopped by the sense that something was strange.

The turkey lay in tatters on its silver tray, the bowls of turnips and Cook’s special creamed onions sat nearly empty on their trivets, and the white embroidered tablecloth was strewn with crumbs. Undaunted
by either Frances’s question or the fact that everyone else had finished eating, Frank cut another slice of turkey on his plate and mopped a forkful in a puddle of gravy. “Factory work,” he said.

“What kind of factory work?” Frances asked. She had placed her hands in her lap and was staring at Frank, whose head was bowed to his plate. Harriet glanced at Ida, who kept her eyes set on Frank.
Yes,
she wanted to echo.
What kind of factory work?

“Something a friend in the city got for her,” Frank said.

“But you don’t know what?”

“Really, Frances,” William said, and Frances shot him a haughty expression that Ida had seen her use often on others but never on her husband.

“I should think, dear, that if you sent your daughter off to work in a factory, you would want to know what kind of work she would be doing. Wouldn’t you?”

William raised his eyebrows noncommittally and returned to his glass of wine.

“A glove factory,” Frank said. “Ladies’ gloves.”

Ida could see he had invented this answer, and Frances had taken no stock in his response, either. She nodded to the girl to take the dishes away, and the conversation moved on. Harriet tried to meet Ida’s eyes again, but Ida watched out the window. The muted afternoon light had hushed the landscape. If she were to run out into the snow and scream for help, she thought, not a soul on this dead earth would hear her.

A young woman came in from the kitchen and touched Ida’s shoulder, startling her back into the room, and whispered that she was needed to nurse the babies. By the time she returned, dessert had been eaten and the family had moved into the parlor, where the tree’s candles had been lit and guests had begun to arrive.

“I saved you a piece of cake, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cook said to Ida as she passed. “It’s on the sideboard.”

“Thank you,” Ida said, and after greeting a few neighbors in
the front hall, she retreated to the dining room, where she found the last piece of a white-frosted cake topped with sugared violet petals. She sat alone with her cake and a cup of coffee, but within a few minutes Harriet came looking. She closed the door behind her and pulled out a chair opposite Ida at the empty dining table. The cloth had been brushed clean, the only traces of the meal a few spots of red wine and gravy.