Lily’s foot under the table. Lily, head bowed, fingers tracing the tablecloth’s blue and red roses, seemed not to notice.
Muriel appeared in the doorway. “Everyone’s at chapel.”
“Not everyone,” Mother Mary Joseph sighed. “Make yourself useful then, and put on the kettle.”
The girl scurried halfway across the room before she seemed to remember herself and her ungainly body. She stopped for a moment, caught her breath, and took measured steps toward the sink.
“Let’s see, now.” The nun began pulling items from the folds of her garment: a pair of eyeglasses, which she positioned halfway down her nose; a small ledger, leather-bound in black; several pencils, newly sharpened; and two handkerchiefs embroidered with the letters I.H.M. She opened the ledger to the day’s date, Saturday, February 22, 1930, licked the tip of the closest pencil, and pushed a handkerchief toward Lily. “How old are you, child?”
“Sixteen.” Lily’s gaze remained fixed on the tablecloth. “One week from today.”
“Look at me when I speak to you.” Mother Mary Joseph lifted the girl’s chin and studied her swollen eyes. “That’s better.” She offered another flattened smile and made a notation. “It’s my understanding that your confinement should be for a period of three months.”
Lily glanced across the table at her sister, then back at the nun. “Yes ma’am.” Her lower lip quivered.
“You’re absolutely certain?” The Reverend Mother pulled back Lily’s coat and studied her belly. “Six months along?”
“As near as I can figure.”
Under the table, Violet pressed her right pinky against her leg. When counting off, she always started with the pinky. March. April. May. Her index finger and thumb remained aloft, aimed in Lily’s direction.
“I’ve ruined everything!” Lily reached for the handkerchief and burst into tears.
Air charged from Violet’s nostrils. Lily had ruined everything. Violet was a forgiving person, goodness knows she had to be, but enough was enough. Lily never considered the consequences of her behavior. She only thought of herself. Had she even wondered what her delicate condition would do to their nervous mother? Had she ever weighed the cost of hiding it from their ailing father? And what about the widow Lankowski? How humiliating it had been when Violet’s mother dragged the woman into what should have been a family matter. The widow had practically raised Violet, but Violet was embarrassed all the same. And then there was the matter of her promise to marry Stanley, a secret only the widow was privy to. Violet would probably still be at the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum long after Stanley returned home to Scranton, and hand to God, that was Lily Morgan’s fault.
“Don’t be cross with me.” Lily blew her nose into the handkerchief and refolded it.
“Not now,” Violet pushed both words through gritted teeth.
“Stanley will wait,” Lily continued, dabbing her eyes with a dry corner of linen. “You’ll see.”
“Stanley?” Mother Mary Joseph tugged off her glasses and pursed her lips.
“Hush.” Violet glared at Lily. “Don’t drag him into this.”
“The widow Lankowski’s son,” Lily explained. “Adopted.”
“More of a son than most.” Violet dug her fingernails into her thigh.
The nun picked up her glasses, curled the wires around her ears, and started to write. “So this Stanley . . .” She looked up at Lily. “He’s responsible for your trouble?”
“No!” the pair responded in unison.
“He’s Violet’s intended,” Lily said, as if she had an intended of her own.
Violet slapped her palms on top of the table. “You knew?” she whispered, as if saying the words too loudly would make them true.
“Stop yelling at me.” Lily looked over at the Reverend Mother. “She’s always yelling at me.”
Violet parceled out her words quietly, evenly. “I’m . . . not . . . yelling.”
“You’re yelling at me in that low voice of yours.” When no one came to Lily’s defense, she continued: “Mother found out you were planning to run away with him.”
Violet started up from her chair and leaned toward her sister. “And just how did she find out?”
The nun patted Violet’s hand, encouraging her to take her seat.
Lily gulped and squeezed her eyes shut. When she finally spoke, her words charged forth on a single breath. “I heard you and the widow talking on Christmas Eve.”
Violet cursed herself for being so careless. “And you couldn’t wait to tell Mother.”
“She made me.”
“She didn’t know about it!” Violet stamped both feet, rattling the table. “How could she make you?”
Lily’s eyes popped open wide. “I didn’t want you running away with Stanley. I didn’t want to be left alone.”
“Well, you got your wish. We’re together now.”
“It was your idea to come with me.” Lily’s cheeks flushed. “I certainly don’t need a keeper.”
“You’ve done a fine job so far.”
“Oh, and you’re so perfect.” Lily turned to the nun. “Our parents don’t approve of Stanley, him being Catholic and all.” She cleared her throat conspiratorially. “Not to mention Polish. But that doesn’t seem to matter to her.” She tossed her head toward Violet.
Silence filled the room as the Reverend Mother considered the matter. When she finally spoke, her words lacked any trace of sentimentality. “Our Lord in Heaven commands us to honor thy father and thy mother.” The nun pushed the second handkerchief toward Violet. “And experience cautions us against mixed marriages.”
Experience? The word reverberated in Violet’s ear like a sour note at the piano. What experience might a nun have? How could someone married to Jesus understand real love? Violet twisted the hanky, as if wringing it out to dry. “I’ve honored my parents all my life,” she finally managed. “You’ll not find a more devoted daughter.” She shot a look at both Lily and the nun, daring either one to dispute her claim. Lily’s lips parted briefly, but without result.
“Tea’s ready,” Muriel said, breaking the silence. She placed the teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, and spoons next to three cups and saucers already on the tray, and carried them to the table. A fourth cup sat cooling on the stove behind her. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m not even here.”
Mother Mary Joseph emptied the tray and poured the tea. Muriel backed away from the table, hoisted herself onto a stool near the wall, and quietly sipped her drink.
“Now, in the matter of the child,” the nun warmed her hands over her cup, “we seek good Christian
