Lucinda's Solution

by Nancy Roman

  And so we sat for the better part of an hour, happily silent except for the occasional admonition or encouragement to our children.

  “Well, I do have a small bit of news,” she said at last. And she removed her knitted cloche to reveal that she had bobbed her hair.

  “Oh Constance!” I said. “That is astounding! You look like a Hollywood screen star! And it is no surprise to me that you would be the first of my acquaintances to chop off her hair!”

  “I feel ever so glamorous,” she said, giving her head a shake. “And you would never believe how much more comfortable it is for sleeping.”

  “Does your husband fancy it?”

  “Him? Oh dear, not at first. But now, he is finding it a bit of a novelty. He likes to show me off as his modern woman.”

  This struck me as a bit odd. I had the strong impression that Constance’s spouse was a Bolshevik. Were not all Bolsheviks’ spouses modern women? The number of incongruities in life seemed to only increase as one grew older. There never seemed to be any resolutions, just inconsistencies abiding side by side.

  “I could cut yours for you too,” Constance volunteered.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t do it! I am not so brave as you!”

  “Well, you are beautiful just as you are,” said Constance. “But if you change your mind, let me know. It will be such grand fun to turn you into a different woman.”

  I demurred, but a small piece of me thought it might not be such a terrible idea to change my appearance. Perhaps Martin would also like a modern woman. One who did not look so much like his dead wife.

  CHAPTER 46

  As was bound to happen, the baby arrived at the worst possible time.

  I felt uneasy all day Sunday. Uncomfortable and restless. I felt the need to wash the floor and take down the bedroom curtains and rinse them out. They didn’t dry, of course; the day was cold and threatening snow. But I ironed the curtains damp and re-hung them, standing on a chair that would be a precarious perch even had I not been nine months with child. I was oblivious to how foolhardy I was being, and Martin, who had been out with Frank - I believe looking to buy some bootleg gin - walked in on me just as I was trying to climb down from the chair. The children were holding my skirt in an effort to give me some balance, which I told them was helping, but was certainly doing no such thing.

  Martin and Frank entered, startling me, and I almost fell.

  “What in hell are you doing?” Martin yelled, and given that he almost never cursed, I felt both ashamed of myself and defiant.

  “I’m working,” I replied. “It’s what I do. Wash things. Floors, curtains, beds, dishes, children. I would wash an airplane if we had one.”

  The children giggled.

  “You are foolish,” said Martin, but I could see Frank was trying not to laugh.

  “Let me help you down,” offered Frank. He reached up and picked me up and set me on the floor. I was surprised at how easily he lifted me. He sometimes seemed so frail, but there was a core of strength that reminded me that he had been a soldier, and was still a man. I cannot describe how nice it felt to have his hands on my hips, no matter how big and awkward those hips were now.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I am overwhelmed with the need to do everything at once today. I feel thunderstruck by the idea that I will soon have three children and may never get anything done again.”

  “I am quite sure you will have everything under control. There seems to be nothing you can’t do or a problem you can’t solve,” Martin remarked.

  “Why thank you, but something tells me that it is perhaps not a compliment?”

  Martin softened. “Please just try to rest for a bit. I’ll even take the children, since I fear they will be up on chairs dusting the ceilings at any moment.”

  And I agreed, and laid down on the bed, while he took the children by the hand with promises of bread and butter.

  I slept. And in my dreams I beat the carpets and polished the silver, although it was my mother’s silver, and I was doing a very poor job. My father stood behind me and scolded me for all the tarnish I was leaving behind.

  I learned later that it is quite common for a woman to tear about the house just before the baby comes. It is called nesting, although I do not believe that the kind of destruction I was engaged in could be considered building a nest.

  I slept until dinner, when Martin sent the children in to wake me. It was already dark. I had prepared a stew the day before, and Martin had already set it on the stove to warm. The children and Martin had good appetites that evening, as did Sofia and Frank, who joined us after we sent Jonathan to knock on their door. After sleeping for hours, I found myself still tired but agitated at the same time. I took some tea, but could not eat. I began to wash dishes while everyone was still at the table.

  “Please sit,” begged Frank. “You are making us all very nervous. You don’t need to do the washing up. Sofia can do it later.” Sofia rolled her eyes at me. The men were always solicitous about our labor, but rarely offered to help.

  “If you don’t want this stew - which is excellent, by the way - I can get you something else to eat,” offered Sofia. “What would you like?”

  “Eggs. I would like some eggs,” I said, only realizing when I said it that it was true.

  So Sofia cooked me two eggs, and put some potatoes from the stew into the skillet, and got them browned and sweet from the tablespoon of lard with which she had oiled the pan.

  “Why is it, Sofia, that your eggs taste better than my stew?” I let the children take a bite, and they demanded an egg for themselves too, and although Martin told them they had already had a full dinner, they protested that they were still hungry, and he relented and asked Sofia if she would mind terribly cooking an egg for each child. She readily agreed, and Martin added, “And one for me.” Frank piped up, “And for me.” Sofia in her good-natured manner, cooked eggs and fried potatoes for all.

  We ended up with a good stack of dishes and bowls and pots and pans. Sofia insisted on finishing the washing that I had not completed, but I stood by her side to help wipe the dishes dry. After two minutes, Frank pulled up a chair and had me sit to dry. Sofia and I then began an exchanged of giggles that we could not suppress.

  “Oh, our men are such a help - getting you a chair like that!” said Sofia. And we burst into laughter all over again.

  The Giamettis didn’t linger after the cleaning up was finished. They could see that I was tired, and both Sofia and my Martin needed to be up before dawn on Monday morning.

  Sofia put the children to bed for me, and the couple said their goodbyes. “It is lucky we only have to travel upstairs,” said Frank. “For it is snowing again.”

  Late at night, after Martin was asleep, I went into the bathroom and was sick. I didn’t wake Martin, but quietly got back into bed. He mumbled something, and I responded that I had gone to check on the children.

  About three in the morning, I woke with the realization that the baby was coming. As soon as I rose from bed, I felt my water break. Thanks to Dr. Howell, I understood what had happened. She had told me that the contractions might come first, but I did not think I had had any contractions during the day, unless I had misunderstood what my discomfort had been signaling.

  I quietly cleaned the mess. I went to the kitchen and watched the clock, waiting for the pains. I felt all right, really. Dr. Howell told me that these things could take a long time. About forty minutes later I was sure.

  I woke Martin.

  “I don’t think there is any need to hurry,” I said. “But I think I will be having a baby before the day is out.”

  He dressed. It was near five in the morning. My pains were not yet quickening, so I put the kettle on for tea.

  “Are you sure that you should have that?” Martin asked. I reassured him that it
was fine, and he shook his head in the manner that had come to signal to me that he was trying to remember something. “I’ve been through this twice before,” he said, “but I recall almost nothing. I must have been too young or too frightened.”

  I smiled. “Too young? I am younger now than you were then. Younger than Catherine was. And I am a little frightened, but not too much.”

  When the sun came up, I felt I had progressed enough to telephone Dr. Howell, as she had instructed. There was a heavy layer of snow, and although her office was not far from Pearl Street, I had no idea whether she would be there or where she lived if she was still at home. The card that her niece had given me had two numbers. I hope she would answer one of them.

  We still did not have a telephone, so that meant waking Mr. and Mrs. Battle. First though, Martin ran upstairs and got Sofia. We were lucky to catch her, as she was just leaving for work. She had arranged with her boss to be excused from work on the day I delivered, so that she could tend to the children. We had been hoping against hope that it would be a Saturday or Sunday, since she did not work then. I felt bad that she would miss a day’s pay for me. And Monday, of all days, was the busiest at the factory, because that is when the orders for the week were scheduled and delegated to the seamstresses. She assisted in that process and would be missed. But she came right downstairs and kissed me and told me that she would just run out and tell the women she walked to work with that today is the day, and she would not be in.

  The children were up by this time, and I was still well enough to get them dressed and fed.

  Martin then went down and pounded on the Battles’ door. I could hear him from our kitchen crying, “The baby is coming! I need to ring the doctor!”

  He was gone for quite a while, and so I filled that time with the certainty that Dr. Howell had died, or left town, or was seeing to another childbirth, or did not remember who I was, or her niece revealed that Dr. Howell was not really a doctor at all, but some escaped patient from a lunatic asylum, and so one could say that I waited quite patiently.

  Upon Martin’s return, he told me that Dr. Howell had not yet been in the office, but the clerk at the central exchange rang up the additional number that the doctor had given me, which turned out to be her home, just upstairs from her medical practice. Dr. Howell said that we should not worry, there was plenty of time and she was on her way. I was relieved that she lived right over her office since the walk would not be too long. Although Dr. Howell had said not to worry, and I had said to Martin that I was not afraid, in actuality, I was overwrought with fright and wanted her standing before me with her calm demeanor.

  Certainly, I was not going to be reassured by Sofia. She was very nearly apoplectic herself, although with less fear and more joy. “The baby! The baby! Il bambino!” she repeated over and over, until the children were also shouting about the bambino.

  Martin went back to the Battles, as he had forgotten to inform his own employer. I think perhaps he would have rather been at work than witness a childbirth, but he seemed determined to endure it. I am not sure what the situation had been with Catherine’s children. Martin told me that she used a midwife, so I am sure she did not go to the hospital. But so many women did today. I hoped I had not made a terrible mistake. As Catherine had described it, hers were very easy births. I hoped we had that in common.

  Although the snow had tapered off, and the sky even showed a weak sun, the streets were all but impassable. I hoped that Dr. Howell had decided to walk here. No automobile would make it through for hours. And it had been so long already.

  I stayed in my kitchen, sipping tea and trying not to squirm in my chair when the pains built and then ebbed like the tide I had seen in New Haven harbor. Finally, Mrs. Battle knocked on our door. She had Dr. Howell with her.

  “The midwife is here,” said Mrs. Battle.

  “The doctor,” I corrected.

  “Yes, so she says,” replied the old woman, rolling her eyes at the doctor.

  “So hello, Mrs. Blaisdell. I am told today is the big day! How are you right this minute?” said Dr. Howell, walking past Mrs. Battle and so dismissing her efficiently.

  I sighed. “I think I am well. I have pains, not very close but not very far. And they are worse than they were a few hours ago, but not so bad, I don’t believe.”

  “Time for you to take to your bed,” she said, “so I can see for myself. Although I would say, you do look quite wonderful.”

  As she was settling me into the bed, she asked, “And where is your husband?”

  “He is in the parlor with our friend Frank, I do believe he is afraid to come out.”

  “That is a wise decision, no doubt. And your children?”

  “Frank’s wife Sofia has taken them upstairs to her apartment.”

  “All good,” she nodded.

  I whispered to her, “Doctor, I am so frightened I think I may collapse with fear. I am just pretending to be fine.”

  She smiled. “Pretense is an admirable scheme when you are afraid. It tricks the mind - and the body - into calming down. I believe that all of bravery is rooted in pretense.”

  I thought about this and decided that later on I would ask Frank if this was true in war too.

  My labor progressed slowly. The doctor was so much more patient than I. When I expressed that I needed to hurry this up, she explained - in terms that were probably not medically accurate, but that I could readily understand, even with my brain consumed by waiting for the next sharp pain to come:

  “Your body right now is remaking a good piece of itself. It is what is called dilating. The exit of your womb and what the sensitive call your “delicate area,” but which we of stouter heart shall call your vagina, those parts of your body are right now making themselves large enough for a baby to come through. Of course, your baby doesn’t really want to wait any more than you do, and is determined to push its way out. And that hurts a great deal until you are ready. So the best thing you can do is be patient and bear it for as long as you can.”

  So we waited. I asked her why she had become a doctor.

  “Oh my brother wanted to be a doctor, and I wanted to do everything he did, only better, which to tell you the truth was not that difficult. But it turns out that getting accepted into a medical school was very difficult. That made me want it even more badly. I truly believed that I was going just to prove to my father that I was as smart as Matthew. But a funny thing happened. I loved it. Women are supposed to be too delicate to handle the coarseness of the human body. But we aren’t delicate, are we?”

  She uttered that last sentence just as I was screaming out some extremely coarse words. She laughed with her head thrown back. Like Catherine used to. I think that is when I saw this doctor as a real woman. An educated woman who would be my friend in a different circumstance.

  The pains were coming quite close together now.

  I said, “Before I lose all my ability for rational thought - which perhaps is just seconds away - I need to ask you something else. Our dear friend Frank is very ill. He was gassed in the war, and although it was considered a mild case at the time, the effects now are very bad. He needs to see a doctor who is educated in the illness brought on by the mustard gas.”

  She said that she would see what she could do.

  “I think you are an accomplished doctor,” I said. I waited for the next stab to pass. “And I would never want to offend you, but as much as I love Frank, I am not sure he would be quite ready for an examination by a female.”

  “Understood,” she said. “I know of a doctor - a man for your manly friend Frank - who is in Bridgeport, and he has studied extensively the aftereffects and complications that many soldiers are experiencing due to their exposure to the poison gasses. I will put you in touch with him. But later, because right now you have a baby about to be born.”

&nbs
p; And ten minutes later, at 3:06 in the afternoon of the twenty-third of February in 1920, my daughter came into the world.

  She was so tiny, but Dr. Howell assured me she was the perfect size for a newborn. She had dark matted hair and a purple face all scrunched up. Her fingers and toes were the most delicate things I had ever seen. I was so unprepared that I was surprised when she came out attached to me by her little belly button.

  “Oh, Lucinda, how do you think your baby got nourishment from you?” laughed Dr. Howell. “But now we separate you two, and for the very first time, she is her own little person.” And with that, Dr. Howell laid the baby on my chest. It was beyond belief. Five pounds and a new and complete human being. She was no longer me. She was herself.

  Dr. Howell instructed me in bringing the infant to my breast. I could nurse her as soon as I felt up to it. She assured me that although I wouldn’t have real milk for a few days, my body was producing a type of nourishment that was exactly what a newborn would need.

  “And she will need it often. Be prepared to be very tired. You have three children now - sleep whenever you can. But not right this minute, because you need to introduce this baby to her father.”

  Dr. Howell left the room, and returned with Martin.

  “A girl,” I said simply. “She is not so pretty, but I have hopes for her.”

  “She’s lovely,” said Martin. “You have done well. I hardly believe your strength.” He touched the baby with two fingers only. His hand was so big compared to her tiny frame. He stroked her dark hair.

  “I thought…perhaps… we could name her Catherine,” he said.

  I nearly agreed. I nearly said it was a fine idea. I nearly gave my consent to giving my child the name of a ghost - however beloved a ghost - who had haunted me for more than a year and who would haunt me all of my life. I nearly allowed the ghost to inhabit my daughter who was minutes old, my daughter who trusted me after only those few minutes to always protect her.