By the Rivers of Brooklyn by Trudy Morgan-Cole

turned from the window toward Jim and the landlord, she gave Jim her brightest smile. Ralphie tugged at her skirt and she scooped him up in her arms and stood with him there, framed against the window with the lively, noisy yard behind them, so that Jim, who was talking money and contracts with the landlord, could not do anything but nod and say, “All right then. We’ll take it.”

ANNIE   ST. JOHN’S, MARCH 1928
    B ILL W INSOR TOOK TO walking home with Annie after the Sunday night Salvation Meeting. Annie and Harold used to always walk home together, but now Harold was going out with Frances Stokes. Frances’ people were Church of England, but for years she had gone to the Army with the Evans girls. Now that she and Harold were sweet on each other, she went every Sunday, morning and night. Annie made excuses to hang back, to talk to someone after meeting, telling Frances and Harold to go on ahead so they’d have a few minutes alone. Then Bill started waiting for her, saying he didn’t want to see her walk alone.
    Annie walked home those nights still warm inside from the meeting, warm with the singing and prayers and testimonies, the glory. Sometimes she went down to the penitent form and knelt and prayed, because that week she had been angry and impatient with her mother, and jealous of Harold’s and Frances’ happiness, and envious when she got Ethel’s letter about the new apartment and how Ralphie was talking now. On her knees at the mercy seat all her discontent and petty thoughts and meanness melted away and she felt good and whole again, filled with enough of the glory to make it through another long week.
    â€œYou’re in a good mood tonight,” Bill said the third time he walked home with Annie alone. It was a cold clear night and their breath made white puffs in the air with every word as they climbed the steep slope of Barter’s Hill. Slushy snow slopped around their gaiters.
    â€œI’m always in a good mood after meeting.”
    â€œCaptain had a fine sermon tonight,” Bill said. “Some good testimonies, too.”
    â€œYes. I like to died, though, when Mrs. Pitcher got up, didn’t you? The look on old Helen Abbey’s face, did you see it?”
    Annie shot a quick glance of quickened interest at Bill: she knew almost everyone else in meeting had been watching the subtle glances between the two women, but not everyone would have pointed it out. She was dying to talk about it, even if it was the sin of gossip. “I suppose so, when she must have known every word Mrs. Pitcher was going to say. And when she said, ‘Praise the Lord for giving me the courage and fortitude to bear up under the affliction of this troublesome neighbour, this false friend–’” Annie imitated the pitch of Mrs. Pitcher’s voice perfectly; she was a good mimic, though she seldom had a chance to show off her skills.
    â€œI know! I saw Miss Abbey’s lips start to twitch; I thought, She’s going to sing her down for sure. I figured next thing we’d hear was ‘Throw out the lifeline! Throw out the lifeline!’” Bill’s imitation didn’t quite catch the timbre of Helen Abbey’s reedy voice, but he knew her favourite hymn.
    Annie laughed. “Have you ever really heard anyone sung down in meeting? Not just for going on too long, I mean, but because someone didn’t like what they had to say?”
    â€œOnce, years ago. I was at a meeting around the bay where Uncle David Abbott started to testify about overcoming the sins of the flesh, and there was people there didn’t think he should go into as much detail as what he did, so my grandmother, Sadie Bartlett, started in with ‘I am under the good old Army flag…’” Bill had a powerful voice once he got going; Annie joined him on the next line. They turned off Prince of Wales Street and walked down Rocky Lane singing.
    Bill laughed a