by Nancy Roman
“Done,” she said immediately.
“Three is difficult. I cannot even explain how difficult. But I can pay for a nurse or a servant who can help you that day.”
Constance continued to play with Annie, turning her this way and that, making the lacy dress spin, while Annie minded not in the least. “Next week is Sadie’s birthday. A five-year-old, can you imagine? She and Jonathan will go to school together and it will be so much fun bringing them to school in the morning, and much more fun for us once they are gone for hours at a stretch! Heavenly freedom! But anyway, if you can schedule Frank’s visit someday next week, I will have a birthday party the same day. I will invite some of the other mothers and children I know, plus we can hire a girl if we need to, so there will be plenty of adults to watch the children. And Charlotte and Jonny will be so busy they will not even know you are gone!”
It was a wonderful plan, and I thanked Constance for her brilliance and generosity. She also offered to take the baby as well, as long as Annie could take cow or sheep milk and not my own. I hadn’t even thought of that. I decided that Annie would come with Frank and me and that way if we were delayed, she would not go hungry. She would hardly divulge our secret.
“I must go home and telephone Dr. Crane,” I said.
“Come to my house,” Constance volunteered. “It is very near here, and that way you will know where to come on the day of your friend’s appointment.”
We rounded up the children, who were now all three sticky with gelato, and walked around the corner to Constance’s home. She lived on the second floor of a glorious old mansion. We tried to get the pram up the stairs, but after several ineffective attempts and much laughter, we picked up Annie and left the pram in the foyer.
Opening Constance’s door was like entering Timbuktu or the Taj Mahal. Gold walls and red draperies. Oriental carpets and black lacquer furniture with designs of peacocks. “Are we in heaven?” asked Charlotte.
“I think so,” I said to her, taking it all in. “Oh Constance, it is so exotic!”
“My sensibilities are not for everyone. The landlord threatens me with eviction every once in a while. But come, you need to make that telephone connection.”
She led me into a small room in silver and deep purple, with a glass door and a horsehair settee near a small table holding the telephone. Imagine having a room just for speaking on the telephone! I still had Annie in my arms and Constance took her from me and left me in this lovely cabinet to make my telephone call. I had been carrying Dr. Howell’s note in my shirtwaist for days, and I now took it out. Martin had made most of our rare telephone calls over the year, and I was nervous that I would sound foolish or give such incorrect information as to end up speaking to the Pope. But the exchange assistant was kind, and in no time at all I had reached the offices of Dr. Leonard Crane.
I identified myself and my connection to Dr. Howell, and explained Frank’s medical issues. Before long, Dr. Crane himself came to the telephone and asked me several particular questions - the frequency and descriptions of the headaches, and whether he had also been burned in the poisoned gas attack. I did not believe he had been burned - I had only seen the upper part of his chest and his arms recently, but they looked fine - more than fine if truth be told. The doctor explained that the burns would most likely be on his head and neck, but not always, as sometimes the chemical had been absorbed by the soldier’s uniform. I expressed my belief that Frank had been spared the burns, and described the headaches as completely as I could. He also asked me the exact date of the injury, but I did not know. I told him I could find out easily enough and telephone back, but he said that would not be necessary. He would ask Frank when he saw him. I was overjoyed at this - Dr. Crane had agreed to see Frank. We set up an appointment for eleven in the morning on the following Thursday, exactly one week away.
I rejoined Constance and the children who were waiting for me in the parlor, and Constance quickly led us to the kitchen where we finally were able to clean little hands and faces. The kitchen was modern and clever, with a large ice box and the latest in washing machines.
“This is like a dream,” I said. “Your husband must be very successful. And obviously very tolerant of your eclectic taste.”
“You have been honest with me, Lucinda,” she said, “so I will be honest with you. I have no husband.”
“Oh my!” I exclaimed. “But you have spoken of him! Have you recently divorced?”
Constance offered me a seat and a cup of tea. She sat opposite me.
“Lucinda, I have never been married. I call Sadie’s father my husband just for propriety’s sake.”
I was stunned. An unmarried woman with a child. But she looked content and well cared for and most of all, unashamed.
“Sadie’s father… where does he live?”
“With his wife.”
“Constance!”
She patted my hand. “I know this is all terribly shocking. It was for me too…at first. I met Thomas in Boston. He was so handsome and successful. I didn’t know for the longest time that he already had a wife. But then there was all this,” she waved her arms signaling the apartment and all the fine things, “and he is very nice. And I find that seeing Thomas twice a month is really quite sufficient. Sadie and I are happy living this life.”
I didn’t know what to think. This was just scandalous. Constance sat before me - a kept woman - telling me that she was happy. Happy! I had given up my own happiness to do the right thing. But here was a sinful woman, immoral and not in the least interested in morality. Happy!
I looked at Sadie, the product of this immorality. She had brought out a wooden model of the London Bridge and was showing Jonny and Charlotte how her little china dolls could all be set up walking across the bridge. Sadie looked like my children. She did not look disgraceful.
Constance still sat with Annie on her lap. Annie had fallen asleep with her head on Constance’s breast and her hand clutched to a button.
Constance sighed. “If you don’t now hate me, I am still willing to watch the children while you seek medical assistance for your friend.” She kissed the top of Annie’s head. “I may be a disreputable woman, but I am a very good mother.”
Charlotte jumped up and ran to Constance with one of the dolls. “Look, Mrs. Constance, this baby has hair like you. So pretty.”
“Why, sweetheart you are right. Now why would this painted doll have bobbed her hair? She must be very modern indeed.”
I decided.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I would be grateful if you could take the children next week. Thank you.”
“Thank you for trusting me,” she said.
“Does that other offer still stand?” I asked. “For you to cut my hair?”
She laughed. “Truly? I would love to. Right now!”
We did it. Constance threw a towel around my shoulders and bobbed my hair. Not too short. A bit longer than my chin but not near touching my shoulders. A bit shorter in the back -“That’s so stylish right now,” said Constance. My hair curled quite a bit without the additional length, and indeed, we had eliminated a full twelve inches. Charlotte handed me back my hairpins, although I certainly had no use for them now. I rubbed the back of my neck and shook my head. I felt weightless.
“Whatever will you tell Martin?” Constance asked.
“That I am a modern woman,” I said.
CHAPTER 49
Martin was not happy about my bobbed hair, but he was restrained in his reaction.
“Why ever did you do that?” he asked, but kept his voice genial and soft.
“I was with my friend Constance today,” I explained, “and she bobbed her hair a while back, and she looks so nice, and she also said she sleeps ever so much better without being pinned down by lying on her own hair. So I thought, Why not?”
“Well, I suppose ‘Why not?’ might have been answered with the realization that a woman’s hair is her expression of femininity,” Martin said. “And yours was so lovely.”
This surprised me. Martin had never expressed his views about femininity before. Or complimented my looks. And I had gotten the distinct impression that he supported the suffragettes, and many of those strong women had shorn their locks.
“But you let me drive my father’s car!” I said.
“What in the world does that have to do with you cutting your hair?” he asked.
Well, I knew, but it was difficult to express. I shrugged.
“Ah, so be it, it will grow I suppose.” And he turned back to his book.
When Frank and Sofia came down for dinner, their reaction delighted me.
“You look so sophisticated!” said Sofia. And she spent a few minutes finger-styling it, and changing the part, and trying different looks, each time stepping back from me a bit and saying, “Nice, nice, so pretty.”
Frank’s reaction was best of all.
“You are stunning! You are uniquely you and perfect!”
I blushed.
“Come now, it’s just hair,” I said, attempting some modesty that I was not at all feeling. “Let’s eat.”
And Martin again said, “It will grow.”
After dinner, I had the opportunity to speak with Frank for a few seconds, as Martin was showing Sofia an article he had found in the newspaper about the Italian economy.
“I have secured an appointment for you with Dr. Crane on Thursday,” I whispered. “And my friend Constance will take Jonny and Charlotte for the day.”
“I am not sure I can do this,” he whispered back.
“Yes you will. You need to. Please.”
“For you,” he said. “I will for you.”
Later, in bed, lying in the dark beside my sleeping husband, I found myself quite irritated with Martin. I almost wished he had become angry over my shorn hair. But then again, if he had been angry I would have worried that he was upset that I no longer looked so much like Catherine. And that would also have stung.
But his lack of strong opinion had me just as vexed, as that could mean that he just did not care one way or another what I looked like. It was just not important enough to get angry over.
And looking back, I realized that he had never really lost his temper or seemed angry with me in over a year of marriage. I ought to be grateful that he was kind and considerate. There were occasions when he seemed to take pleasure in our life together. But extremes of emotion?
Of course, I was much the same. No elation, no fury.
We were both so careful in our emotions. We could live the rest of our lives just as carefully. It would be an honorable and polite existence. It would be decent. Would it be sufficient?
My anger softened. This was my fault as well. I needed to be a real wife to Martin, not just a mother to his children. I moved closer to him in the dark, and I tentatively touched Martin on the place on his body I had never touched - in truth, had never looked at. I felt him respond, and I rose to my knees and turned my body to straddle his. I loosened the strings on the bodice of my nightdress. Martin reached up and grasped me by the shoulders. In one movement, he turned us both over and our positions were reversed - with me lying on my back and Martin on his knees over me. He leaned forward and kissed me. I felt a passion in his kiss that was absent from his goodnight kiss an hour earlier, from all his previous kisses. I returned his fervor.
Our eyes met and he smiled at me. I reached up and gently brushed back his hair from his brow.
He flinched.
Catherine had done this. I remembered it. I had seen it. In my mother’s kitchen, I had seen Catherine tenderly smooth the hair from Martin’s brow.
Martin rolled off me. He spoke into the dark, not looking at me. “I’m sorry, Lucinda. You are sweet and loving and beautiful. But I can’t.”
We lie side by side in the dark. Silent, eyes open, unmoving. We could have been in our coffins; two more victims of the cursed influenza.
After a long while, Martin took my hand, and we continued to watch the darkness, waiting for morning.
CHAPTER 50
On the day of Frank’s appointment, I woke with anxiety and guilt. The guilt was simple to identify - I had kept our intentions a secret from Martin. He did not know I was leaving his children with what most of mankind would consider an immoral woman, and traveling by train with a man not my husband to complete a mission that included neither of our spouses.
The anxiety stemmed from the audacity of my plan. I had never been to Bridgeport in my life, and now I had decided to travel with a seriously ill man and a two-month-old infant. I needed to locate the doctor’s office, and secure transport to and from the office. I had no idea how long we would be gone, whether we would find any answers, what the treatment would be, whether further trips would be required, and what we would tell Martin and Sofia when we returned.
And yet I was determined.
As soon as Martin was off to work, I dressed Charlotte and Jonathan in party clothes, and explained that they would be spending the day with Mrs. Constance and Sadie, and wondrously, they would attend a birthday party. Their excitement helped keep me from my own imminent panic.
As the children were finishing breakfast, Frank appeared. He was also nervous, but ready. He volunteered to stay with Annie while I walked the older children to Constance. She had offered to come and fetch them, but she had been generous enough.
The sun was shining. I hoped that was a good omen. And Constance responded to my knock with effusive enthusiasm. She promised that the children would be kept busy and happy, and not to worry about what time I should return. As if not worrying were an option open to me.
It was over a mile from Pearl Street to the train station, and Frank’s determination flagged as we neared the train. I so wished I had had the foresight to arrange for a car to drive us to Bridgeport. It would have been so much simpler - and less strain on Frank’s precarious health. I was truly not cut out for the role of advocate.
It was not a long train ride, though Frank’s headache had become significant, and the strain was apparent. I tried my best to distract him.
“Tell me,” I asked, “how you became such a magnificent musician.”
“Magnificent?” he smiled as well as he could manage. “Do you mind….?” he asked quietly, and then he rested his head on my shoulder. I stroked his brow lightly.
“Does that help, or does that make it worse?” I asked.
“Helps,” he said. “Greatly.” He closed his eyes. “Well, my father was the one who was a magnificent musician. And his father as well, from what I understand, although I never met my grandfather. And when I was very small, my father gave me a little violin - they make small ones, you know, for a child’s small hands and fingers - and he said, ‘Now just play.’ And I squeaked out some notes just by copying what I had seen him doing from the time I was an infant. Oh, I was so bad! And Papa said, ‘The secret to music is to never stop. When you make a mistake, you must just go on. If you never lose the rhythm, then you never lose the music, and in the end, it becomes very good music.’ And so that is what I did. I never stopped for a wrong note. I just continued. And that’s all there is to it. You continue.”
I thought about my own years of piano lessons, championed steadfastly by my mother, but ultimately unsuccessful. And I could see the truth of Frank’s philosophy. I had always stopped for every mistake, repeating passages again and again, trying to fix my music. But in the end, I lost the music, because I lost the rhythm.
We arrived in Bridgeport within the hour, and we had a bit more than an additional hour to make our way to Dr. Crane. I had at least practiced the minimum prudence in that I had gone to the public library the prior day, a
nd checked a map of Bridgeport. The doctor’s office was adjacent to Bridgeport Hospital, and the hospital was two miles from the train. I did not think Frank was up to the walk. So when we disembarked from the train, we made our way directly to the station director’s office, where I asked how and where I might be able to hire a motorcar to bring us to our destination, and then wait for us to return us to the train. The stationmaster was very kind, and within ten minutes, the hired car had pulled up to the station and the accommodating driver brought us directly to the office of Dr. Leonard Crane.
The doctor was an elderly man, ascetic and pale, with a mustache that had been the style around the year I was born. He greeted us warmly. He remembered my telephone conversation, and if he was surprised that I was carrying an infant to my friend’s medical examination, he did not show it.
“Mr. Giametti, I am so honored to meet you,” Dr. Crane said. “You have suffered your injury fighting a war in place of old frail gentlemen like myself. I think perhaps my kind is more expendable than yours.”
“Well, I thank you for seeing me,” said Frank. “I’m hoping your expertise can save me from these terrible headaches. Perhaps then neither of us will be expendable.”
Dr. Crane showed Frank to the examination room. Frank turned to look at me, entreating me with his eyes to come with him. But I sat with the baby in the anteroom, and said, “It’s fine… see the doctor and I will wait here.”
They were gone for near to thirty minutes. Then the door opened and Dr. Crane called me in.
“I would like to take Frank over to the hospital for an x-ray,” the doctor said. “Often we don’t see much when we radiograph the skull, but it will eliminate any skull fracture or calcification.”
Frank looked very frightened.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.