Lucinda's Solution

by Nancy Roman

  Although the weather was cool, the amusement park at Lighthouse Point was still opened, and they offered a spectacular carousel. We took the trolley down to the point and the children (and we too, holding them) rode around and around until we were dizzy. And despite the children’s wobbly legs, not to mention my proximity to a swoon considering my delicate condition, we took the ferry ride to Savin Rock and fed the seagulls. We bought a soft cuddly toy horse for Charlotte and a fine wooden carved one for Jonny. We ate spun sugar Fairy Floss and of course everyone’s favorite, sorbetto.

  We arrived home to dinner, which no one could eat, and birthday cake, which we ate although we shouldn’t have, both prepared by Sofia.

  She and I carried the exhausted children up to bed.

  It took just one of Sofia’s lullabies to send the little ones off to sleep. We sat and watched their sweet faces dissolve into their dreams. They amazed me at times like this. I now had a three-year-old and a four-year-old, and I was just eighteen.

  Sofia whispered, “Do you think maybe God doesn’t answer your prayers because He thinks you are selfish…always asking, asking, asking?”

  I thought about it.

  “Maybe,” I said. “He might be tired of hearing people always wanting for themselves.”

  Sofia sighed.

  I said, “What if we change places? What if I asked God to grant you what you want, and you ask God to give me what I want? Do you think we might sound more generous? Asking for good things for other people, not ourselves?”

  “It might help,” she said.

  “Couldn’t hurt to try. Of course, I think I would have the advantage in this arrangement - since you pray so much more than I do.”

  She laughed softly. “Well, then, you have some catching up to do. You better begin to pray for me immediately!”

  I dropped to my knees. “Dear God, I am praying now not for myself but for Sofia here. Please make Sofia less bossy. Amen.”

  Sofia cuffed me on the back of the head with Charlotte’s little horse. We both fell onto the floor overcome with giggles, and promptly woke the children and had to start all over.

  I needed to hear from the non-religious side, so I sought out Constance at the park the next day.

  “Do you think that prayer works?” I asked.

  “No. I’m not even sure I believe in God, but even if He exists, why would He care about what you need any more than what some untouchable in India needs or even what that pigeon over there needs? Why would He be listening?”

  “Why wouldn’t He? Maybe He listens to us all, even the pigeon.”

  Constance stood. “Sadie! No throwing dirt!” She turned back to me. “I do believe there is a different benefit from prayer. Not God answering your prayer, but in prayer itself.”

  “Prayer alone without an answer?”

  “Yes. Prayer for its own sake. Because when you pray and ask for something, you first have to decide what it is you want. What do you pray for? Once you decide you want something bad enough to pray for it, then you know what it is you desire. I think many people don’t really know.”

  This made sense to me. It wasn’t spiritual; it was practical.

  She continued. “And once you know what you want, well, that is the most important step to getting it.”

  “Because then you are specific in your prayer?”

  “Absolutely not. Leaving it to prayer is worse than just giving up. Don’t let someone else decide what you get… not even God.”

  “So what do you do to get what you want?”

  “When you know… exactly, specifically… then you go to war. You fight a war with anyone who tells you no.”

  Charlotte came running up with a handful of oak leaves she had picked up. “Very beautiful,” I said. “Can you make a pretty yellow bouquet?” She ran happily back to the tree.

  I wrapped my shawl around me. “I don’t understand why these children never seem to be cold.”

  “You don’t run around like they do,” said Constance. “Plus, their little hearts beat faster.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Do you know what it is you want? Are you still burning to save the world?”

  I watched Jonathan, Charlotte, and Sadie collecting autumn leaves while I thought about her question. I wasn’t sure of the answer. I knew I loved the children. I loved the one still inside me. Being a world-changing muckraker seemed so naïve. How would one even go about that? I had wanted - it seemed like a lifetime ago - to fight for better wages for colored men. I recognized the injustice in my father’s lumberyard, and I was proud of that extra nickel I had secured. But I recognized that I had a significant advantage in my very small victory. I could plead with a father who - at least at that time - seemed to love me. What knowledge, what skills did I possess to achieve better wages from stubborn or hostile employers? But I certainly wanted to feel that satisfaction again. And where did Martin fit into all of this?

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said.

  CHAPTER 40

  The following day I saw the doctor. I didn’t really intend to. Many women have a perfectly fine confinement without a doctor’s help - or interference, as the case may be. But I had questions.

  I had asked Constance that afternoon what it felt like to give birth and she said, “like Satan has taken possession of your body.” She would give me no details. And I wasn’t sure exactly how true that was, for if it were the truth, then I would expect all women to have only one child. After the one hellish experience, that would be the end of the sexual act forever, and human beings would have become extinct. And yes, I knew that men had power over women, but if the experience of childbirth was more than any could endure, women would have risen up. Of course, I did see the fallacy to this argument, since many women were trying to rise up.

  I could not ask any of my other acquaintances because they were just that - acquaintances. The women in the park did not know that Jonathan and Charlotte were not my children. If some suspected, and perhaps gossiped, I was then even more determined not to give them the satisfaction of my admission. My closest friend, Sofia, offered kind support but had no first-hand knowledge.

  My sister Catherine had seemed to manage her two births just fine, as did my mother. Mother was the person I truly wanted to speak to. But I could not ask these questions with a letter, or over the telephone in the landlord’s apartment. And I could not visit. Not yet.

  I went to the library.

  I sought out the only woman librarian in all of the New Haven Public Library. I asked in the most discreet and polite voice for a book describing the process of childbirth. She replied, in her most indiscreet impolite voice, that her library did not have any books containing such vulgarity.

  I took the children and left. But as I descended the marble steps, Constance’s words stung me more than the librarian’s rude ones. Fight a war with anyone who tells you ‘No.’ I spun around and the children lurched. I walked back into the library. I stood before the librarian. “I would like to point out to you that everyone that has ever lived, everyone you know, even saints such as yourself, was brought into this world by such vulgarity.”

  I turned and stomped out, head high and the children doing their best to keep pace with my steps.

  On the next block was a doctor’s office.

  A woman doctor, unless of course a man had the unfortunate name of Dr. Sarah Howell, M.D., as declared on a small placard on the building.

  “What is this place?” asked Jonathan, as I wandered through a dark hall, looking for the correct offices.

  “A lady we are going to visit,” I answered.

  I found the room on the second floor. I knocked, and after a few moments, I heard footsteps, and the door opened. It was a young woman, as young as myself, with her hair cropped short.


  “I am looking for Dr. Howell,” I said, trying to seem less nervous than I felt.

  “Come in,” she said with a smile. “I am her niece and her assistant.”

  “I must be honest,” I said. “I was passing by and saw your sign. I don’t know of Dr. Howell - what type of medicine she practices. I have questions about childbirth and I have no one to ask.”

  The young woman smiled, and it was kind and genuine. “You have come to the right place. My aunt, Dr. Howell, is in general practice and has helped with many births. And she will be here any moment, with no conflict on her schedule. So take a seat.”

  I did and handed each child a book I had borrowed from the library before I alienated the librarian, and would most likely be banned forever. It was only two or three minutes before a well-dressed woman in hat and gloves arrived.

  “You have a new patient, Doctor,” explained the young woman.

  “I can come back without the children,” I offered.

  “It’s quite all right,” the woman said. “Miss Howell will tend them while you and I have a chat in the next room.”

  “Plus I only have two dollars with me now, but I can pay you more next week,” I said, thinking of my bank account, but also near to changing my mind about the wisdom of this impetuous visit.

  “My charge today will be one dollar, because I think we will just talk and get to know each other.”

  I reluctantly followed her into the adjoining room, while the children seemed content to display their books to a new friendly adult.

  I took a deep breath and started in. I did not have much to lose. She did not even know my name yet; so how badly could I embarrass myself?

  “I am expecting a baby,” I said, and she nodded. “The children with me are my stepchildren, and this is my first … um….time. I have no idea what to expect and I currently have no one to ask.” I looked at my hands. “I am very afraid.”

  “I see,” she said. “But that’s quite normal. Are you afraid of the pain?”

  “Yes!” I practically shouted with relief. “I am afraid I will not be able to bear it - or worse - that I might die.”

  “Very real fears,” she consoled me. “You are not alone. And I will tell you that giving birth will hurt - there is much pain. But it is not unbearable pain. And when it is over, you feel quite well right away, because your own body wants you to heal quickly and be a good mother.”

  “Do many women die?” I asked.

  “Many women used to die, but think about all the mothers you see now. Mothers do not die as they used to. Mainly because we are all much healthier than in days gone by. Centuries ago, women were malnourished and sick to begin with, so childbirth was very difficult.”

  “I am afraid to die because the children I have now have already lost their mother to influenza. They should not have me die as well.”

  “If you would like, I will help you when the time comes, and that may help prevent anything bad from happening.”

  “Yes, please!” I said, and I could not help it - I began to cry.

  “Would you want me to examine you now, see how you are doing?” she asked.

  “I do not want to interfere with your day. I am not on your schedule.”

  Dr. Howell laughed a bit and explained that she was still without many patients. She understood that it would take a while for people to accept a woman in the practice of medicine.

  “That makes no sense!” I said. “How in the world would I expect a male doctor to tell me whether childbirth hurts?”

  “Exactly right,” she agreed.

  She then guided me through a gentle examination. She found me to be in excellent health.

  “I have strange feelings inside now and then. For the last two weeks. Like a bird is lightly flapping its wings around inside me. Is that a bad sign?”

  “Not at all,” Dr. Howell said. “It’s a sign that your baby is healthy too. Babies move around inside you. They curl up and they stretch out. They kick their little feet.”

  “Oh my God! Really?” And I felt a bit foolish but there was no hiding the fact from this kind and experienced woman that I had no knowledge whatsoever of my pregnancy or anyone else‘s.

  “And your little sensations also help me determine how far along in your pregnancy you are. I would estimate from the exam and the baby’s movements that you might be having a baby in late Winter.”

  I knew that. But as honest as I had been with her, I could not bring myself to tell her that there was only one day so far in my life that I could have conceived. So I just thanked her.

  “Why don’t you come back to see me right after Christmas, and we’ll see how you are doing? Jane can give you a day and time now, so you can plan on it. And perhaps find someone to watch your little ones? If you need to bring them, though, come anyway. It will be fine.”

  “My name is Lucinda Blaisdell,” I said.

  I was not going to tell Martin about my impromptu doctor’s visit, but as soon as he came in from work that evening, the children began relating all about “Miss Jane and her magic necklace,” and since I had no idea whatsoever what that meant, when he looked at me curiously, I told him I had felt a little weak on the way home from the library, and on impulse, stopped by at a nearby doctor’s office.

  He was immediately solicitous about my health, so I reassured him that the doctor said I was fine. That perhaps I needed a bit more to eat that morning. When he asked me which doctor, I told him that her name was Sarah Howell, and he seemed taken aback that the doctor was a woman.

  “I’m glad you sought help,” he said, “but I’m not sure about that doctor. Catherine used a midwife, and you should have told me you were unwell. I would have brought you to see her right away.”

  “But if a woman could be a midwife, why couldn’t she be a doctor?” I asked.

  Martin ignored the question. “Just please tell me if you aren’t well. I’ll take care of you. I’m sorry that you felt the need to handle this yourself. I apologize.”

  Of course I had not even thought of a midwife, or asked Martin. It wasn’t his fault at all, not that I could see. And somehow, I felt comforted. Not that Martin felt guilt, although I must admit there was a strange satisfaction in his remorse. It was Martin’s reference to Catherine - the first time he had used her name without the depth of sorrow that had always made me feel like a trespasser.

  “I’m healthy and the baby is healthy,” I said. “Although I have no idea what the magic necklace could be.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Inevitably, the weather grew chillier and we were upon the anniversary of Catherine’s death.

  Time had tempered Martin’s grief, and he showed more affection towards me. At night, he occasionally wrapped his arms around me as we slept, my back up against his front. Beyond that, there was no attempt at intimacy. I had not thought to ask the doctor whether marital relations would be a danger during my confinement, but how would I have even thought of that, when the possibility had been so remote? I could always stop by Dr. Howell’s office to understand any risk, although that would have required a bravery I did not think I could summon. But in any event, Martin never asked.

  Catherine was buried in Springfield, and my parents had arranged for a mass to be offered in her memory. So I put aside my hurt sensibilities and my father put aside his umbrage, and Martin and I took the children up to Massachusetts for the mass and graveside visit. We traveled on Friday and planned to stay through Sunday dinner, but Martin assured me that if I was disparaged for even a moment by my father, that he would pack us up and hire a car to take us immediately back to New Haven. His loyalty to me showed such decency as to instill in me some of the love I had felt for him as a child.

  For in truth, over the long year, my love for Martin had not grown. Instead, my admiration for him had - and that
was not the same thing.

  The evening before we left for Springfield, I gave the children another little story of their mother after our bedtime prayers.

  “Your first Mama, your Mama Catherine, could dance with the grace of the fairies,” I said. “But oh, her singing voice! It was so dreadful. And she loved to sing so she didn’t care a fig whether it sounded fine or not. She joined the church choir, and down in the pews, we could pick her voice out among the dozens of other children in the choir. Your grandmother would laugh - right during the service. Your grandfather would give her a stern look. One morning during Mass, your Mama Catherine was particularly terrible, and Grandmother could not suppress the giggles. And then we all started, me and Amelia, and even little Malcolm who was an infant. But not your grandfather! He frowned and scowled. ‘Shush!’ he said. And Grandmother said, ‘That is our little frog croaking out her love for Baby Jesus.’ And you know what Grandfather did? He let out one roar of a laugh and all the parish turned to look at him. And Grandmother said, ‘Shush!’”

  The children by the end of my story were rolling in Jonathan’s bed, laughing and croaking like frogs themselves.

  I turned to find Martin standing in the doorway. “I never heard that story,” he said, “but I’m glad I heard it now. And I believe every word.”

  Later in our own bed, Martin asked me how often I talked to the children about their mother.

  “Just once in a while. Perhaps once a week or so.”

  “What have you told them?” he asked.

  “That Catherine was a champion marble player. That she could run very fast and often beat the boys. That she could read before she started school. How her hair curled in the warm weather. That she kept a kitten under the porch until the weather grew cold, and then informed my parents that she must keep it in her room until Spring - which she did. How her eyes were just like Jonathan’s and her mouth like Charlotte’s. That she liked to kiss their toes.”