They rose and fell again, and then only one stood up, just barely. His right side had taken the brunt of the blows. An eyeball dangled from its socket by a single cord of muscle. A wing hung down at an unnatural angle like a cracked tree limb after a storm. His foot was shy two claws.
Carl walked over to the pit and declared the barrel-chested man the winner. He scooped up his damaged bird, untied the razors, and held him aloft in victory. Harry snatched up the loser, removed the blades, and threw him in a crate at the back of the barn. Money changed hands, new bets were placed, and the next two cocks were held up for fighting.
Owen sat stunned. He’d never seen such a spectacle, and though he hated Chester, he couldn’t find it in his heart to throw him in the pit.
“I can’t do it,” he told Graham, getting to his feet.
“Go on,” Graham said. “I’ll catch up later.”
Grateful he didn’t have to explain himself further, Owen carried the rooster out the door and home to Hattie’s.
The next morning at breakfast, Hattie asked, “Which one of you nitwits tied Chester’s beak shut?”
Owen silently cursed himself for the oversight.
“That’s a terrible thing to do to one of God’s creatures, and I’ll not have it again.” All of the men nodded and kept on eating.
On their way to the mine that morning, Graham said, “I got myself in a bit of a fix last night.”
“What’s that?”
“Bet most of my wages on the fifth fight, a cock outta the Patch.”
“How much?” Owen asked, figuring in his head what money he could spare.
“A sure thing, I says to myself when I saw him. Now he was a fighter.”
“Nothing sure in this world.”
“True enough.”
“How much?” Owen asked again.
“Don’t need no money, if it’s all the same to you.” A smile broke across Graham’s face. “Just need help moving Grace’s new piano.”
* * *
Owen hurried into Burke’s, paid for a whiskey, and threw it back. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he mumbled something about a piano. The barkeep poured a fresh shot and pushed it in Owen’s direction. “On the house.”
Owen glanced up, surprised.
“You look like the sorriest man in town.”
He nodded, picked up his whiskey, and headed over to a table in the corner.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BY LATE SEPTEMBER, Violet had only attended school a handful of days. She’d go as far as the oak tree on School Street and wait to hear the two-syllabled chew-chew of the cardinal. She’d reply with a series of sharp chip, chip whistles, the only call she was able to imitate accurately. Stanley would step out from behind the elderberry bushes where he’d been hiding until the boys passed on their way down the hill.
“Fish are biting,” he’d announce, handing her one of two poles. Off they’d go until the end of the school day.
Violet had even stopped going home for lunch, something her mother never seemed to question. She also never asked Violet about the suckers and chubs she’d started bringing into the house every now and again. If anything, she seemed relieved not to have to think about supper.
On the few occasions when Violet did show up for school, Miss Reese smiled at her politely and went about her lesson. Only once did the teacher pull her aside and address the matter of her absences.
“We’ve missed you in school,” Miss Reese said, and she sounded sincere.
Violet took a deep breath, wondering why she hadn’t prepared for this moment. Should she lie? If so, what lie would she tell?
“Tending to your mother,” Miss Reese paused as if searching for words, “considering the circumstances, is admirable.”
Miss Reese seemed to think she understood the situation, so Violet thought it best not to contradict her.
“It speaks to your character. A pleasant surprise for all.”
For all? Violet wondered at the remark, but remained silent.
“I’m sorry about school, but I’m proud of you nonetheless.” The teacher managed a smile, one where the corners of her mouth lifted without alerting the eyes of their intention.
Violet burst into tears and this time gladly accepted the handkerchief Miss Reese held before her.
* * *
“What happened to fishing?” Violet asked one morning late in September as Stanley popped out of the bushes without his poles.
“I’m tired of fishing,” he explained. “And I’m tired of fish.”
“So now what?”
Stanley smiled and started up the hill.
Twenty minutes later, enough time for him to teach Violet the saw of wren, they arrived at a grove of trees just beyond Leggett’s Creek.
“Apples? Why didn’t you say so?” Violet twisted an apple off a lower branch, shined it on her sleeve, and took a hearty bite.
“And I’m the one they call stupid,” Stanley said as he scrambled up into a tree. “I’ll drop them down. You try and catch them. No one will want to buy them if they’re bruised.”
Violet took three more quick bites and threw the core deep into the tall grass. She bent her legs, cupped her hands, and yelled, “Ready!”
* * *
After half an hour, the pair had picked more fruit than they could possibly carry. Stanley loaded his pockets, while Violet gathered her skirt as a sack, taking great care not to show her bloomers along the way.
“Let’s go.” Stanley led Violet to a side road, in the opposite direction of home. “No sense taking chances.”
* * *
Two hours later, after they’d sold, dropped, or eaten all their apples, the pair headed back toward Providence Square with a nickel between them.
“Murray’s?” Stanley suggested. “They have a whole counter in the back with nothing but candy.”
“What if we’re seen?”
“Who’s going to catch us? School hasn’t let out yet. Everyone else is either working or starting supper.”
Violet stopped to consider his points.
