A Violet Season Read Online Free PDF Page B

bread and cheese and strawberries from her garden; then he slept soundly until two o’clock and amused himself by contemplating the light and shadow above him for a half hour before he began to fuss again.
    By midafternoon, Ida could see that Joe’s arms were tiring. His sleeves were rolled above the elbow, and under his gritty skin, his tendons rolled and stretched like straining ropes on a pulley. He frequently paused to dangle his arm and then shake it before reaching for the next cutting.
    “You’re tiring,” she said. “It’s a long day.”
    “I never realized how hard you had to work to grow these littleflowers,” he said. “I don’t imagine any boy who gives them to his sweetheart has any idea.”
    “When you get home tonight, allow yourself a steaming-hot bath,” she said. “And rub some liniment on that arm.”
    “Thank you. I surely will.”
    “You’re a good worker,” Ida said, gazing up the row at some of her neighbors, whose pace had slowed considerably since morning. The Hoskins boy had gone home at noon for lunch and hadn’t returned.
    “I’d be happy for steady work here this season,” Joe confided. “The caretaking job at the church isn’t much.”
    A few minutes later, Norris wandered up the aisle to ask Ida how Joe was doing. His shirt was nearly as fresh and ironed as it had been this morning, and his vest was buttoned snugly. Like William, who kept to the books and avoided the workers, Norris had taken on an air of superiority. William, at least, knew the business.
    Ida saw Frank enter the greenhouse at the far end, his hat low on his forehead. He had a habit of pulling on the brim when he was angry or frustrated, and she worried over what had happened this time. She prayed he would not walk up their way.
    “Mr. Jacobs is doing quite well,” Ida told her nephew, playing her subservient role for the sake of keeping the peace. “He’s picked up the rhythm. Be sure to have him again.”
    “The rest of this week and next,” Norris said, nodding at Joe, who thanked him.
    “Norris!” Frank called out, and taking larger than usual steps, he strode toward them. Frank was almost a head shorter than Norris, and Ida was embarrassed for him, making a show in front of the workers.
    “We’re missing a dozen buckets. Where’ve you put them?” Frank demanded. “I’ve got four workers waiting and no cuttings!”
    “Why don’t we talk about this outside,” Norris said in a voicethat mimicked William’s. It might have been funny if not for the threat to Frank’s livelihood underlying everything Norris said or did.
    “Why don’t you just get your goddamned job done,” Frank said. As he turned away, Norris caught his upper arm. Frank shook him off and drew back as if to throw a punch, and as Norris flinched, Ida blurted, “Frank!” With a swift backswing, Frank pounded his fist on the side of the wooden bed, and Ida felt the vibration in her own hand. Then he yanked his hat low and pushed past Norris.
    It had always been like this with William and Harold, though the indignity of taking orders from Norris was worse still. Frank knew the plants better than either of his brothers and certainly more than his nephew. William and Harold were better with the accounts and sales and shipments, but it was Frank who was always the first to catch the start of the rot and eradicate it before it took a whole bed. It was Frank who experimented to find the best mixture of manure and soil, and Frank who regulated the amount of water and sun and shade and the temperature the plants needed. Frank grew a perfect crop nearly every season, and without a beautiful, hardy crop, there would be no accounts to figure, no sales to make, and nothing to ship. But Frank was the youngest brother, the one who could be bullied, the one who owed them and who didn’t have to be taken seriously. He seemed to believe that one day he would prove himself to his brothers, but Ida was certain that no matter what he did,