by Anne Lazurko
At three o’clock I took off my apron, straightened my hair, smoothed my dress and headed outside. People on the street nodded a curious hello and a moment of pleasure washed me clean of Mr. Penny’s house. There were decent people in this town too. At the Chinese laundry a small woman eyed me from where she sat on the bench outside. She was tiny and wore a white fitted shirt and black pants with an apron wrapped over them. The Chinese were the only women I’d seen in trousers. I’d envied them in St. John’s and I envied this woman too. How much simpler life must be unrestricted by corsets and layers of undergarments and overgarments.
“The doctor?” I raised my eyebrows to emphasize the question, not sure of the woman’s English.
The words she offered in a short sharp tongue were at odds with the smile on her face. Finally she jerked her head toward the back of the store.
“Thank you,” I murmured, aware too late of the benevolent half smile plastered on my face, the same smile my mother reserved for those she barely tolerated. As I passed the woman I turned to offer more, but she’d vanished inside. Hurrying around the corner to the back of the building, I spotted the shingle. Dr. P. Berkowski, MD.
“I’m about three months along,” I informed him, stumbling over the words in my haste to get it over with. I’d seen the crucifix above the window, feared a lecture on the evils of fornication and the imperilled state of my immortal soul. “The morning sickness has abated a little, but I knew to expect relief after the first trimester.” His eyes widened. I drew myself tall. “I am studying medicine with my father.”
He nodded, a smile beginning to crease his hefty cheeks. “All right then, Moira, what is troubling you so much you would seek my humble advice?”
His candour was unsettling. “I have quite a bit of pain in my lower abdomen.”
“Would you mind an exam then?”
When I shook my head he left me alone to undress. It was cold and uncomfortable under the thin sheet, my nipples pointed to the ceiling, the small mound of my stomach covered in goosebumps. The instruments I’d known in Father’s office hung on the walls and rested on the desk – stethoscopes, scalpels, drug bottles of the trade. An odd sort of homesickness gripped me.
Every day of my life I’d watched Father rushing off in black coat and cap to the next emergency. In recent years he’d taken to helping people in the backwoods around St. John’s, poor souls who could rarely pay. But he didn’t mind, took pleasure instead in their grateful eyes and offers of prayers for him. “For me!” he would chuckle. He’d delivered their babies, performed their surgeries, comforted their bereaved, all without fanfare. He was a practical man. And he’d groomed me, hoping one day I might take over when he could no longer keep up the gruelling pace. Mother wasn’t happy about it, displaying a muted envy at the collegial friendship grown between us, dismissing us. And Father stood back. He had, it seemed, endless capacity to put up with his wife’s petty and facile nature.
“More time for his patients than his own family.” It was Mother’s ritual complaint.
He might have just arrived home from watching an entire family succumb to diphtheria, yet he would apologize for being late, peck her on the cheek and sit silently eating his cold supper while she spoke of the poor selection of beef at the local grocer’s, told how the neighbours were fighting over the indiscretions of a certain cat, or complained no one appreciated the good work she did at the church.
“Why don’t you tell her about your life? The important work you do?” I’d asked Father while on the way to deliver a baby. “She is utterly self-centred and thoughtless.”
“My dear, she is your mother and I won’t let you speak of her that way.”
I was stung. I’d miscalculated, assumed our relationship had gone beyond his scolding protection of her position.
“But Father...”
“There are some things you don’t know about your mother. And I don’t intend to tell you. But she didn’t have it easy. She’s had her suffering. If she seems harsh now it’s only because she wants so badly to hang on to what she has.” We were driving up to an all-too-familiar house. Seven babies had been delivered in the tiny back bedroom. “Now let’s get in there and help Mrs. McGiver. I hope she can survive another one.”
I jumped down and collected Father’s bags and the things we’d need – sheets, towels and Mother’s rosary. Mrs. McGiver prayed the beads while in labour and was determined everyone in the room do the same. The sound of children quarrelling in the house was backdrop to Hail Mary ringing out amidst screams and groans, until, on cue with the final sign of the cross, the baby was born. I’d been there for two of the more recent births, sat and held the woman’s hand, marvelled at her timing. I’d been encouraged to sponge Mrs. McGiver’s forehead, to coax her to breathe and push. It was embarrassing, but I felt it my duty to offer up the occasional Glory Be or Our Father until the cord was snipped and there was a chorus of hallelujahs with the baby’s first cry.
Until that last one. Another ill-conceived infant born to a woman whose faith dictated length of labour and time of birth. This time I caught the baby, a boy born with a beatific face and curly blond hair who never uttered a cry, never, in fact, learned to say one word or to take care of himself. For this one the sign of the cross came too late.
i i i
The doctor’s knock was startling. I hadn’t expected the tears and quickly wiped them away. He poked and prodded my belly, used an uncomfortable finger to check for cervical abnormalities, and announced he believed the baby was just fine, though I should try to eat more to sustain myself.
“And if you have these pains, you should probably avoid lifting.”
I almost laughed out loud, instead whispering, “I’ll try.” Lifting was most of my work in Mr. Penny’s employ. But I didn’t want to burden the kind doctor with my sad story. He left again to allow me to dress.
“Thank you.” I walked through to where he shuffled papers on his desk. “It’s good to know everything is all right.”
“Yes, well.” He stared at his desk, absently tapping a pencil. “You know, you’d be a big help here, what with your experience.” He looked at me then, compassion in his eyes. “But I really can’t afford it. The damn medicine show taking people’s money and luring them to their deaths. And...you’re a woman. A pregnant woman.” His face turned pink, his eyes averted. “I don’t know if my wife would approve.”
“Thank you, doctor.” I wasn’t at all sure it was his wife’s approval that mattered. Perhaps he was just like my father’s colleagues. The silence stretched awkwardly. I glanced up and his eyes met mine. “I do understand.”
The grocer’s name stencilled onto the middle panel of the sign might have given the impression he was a leader of men. But a military man would have wiped the dust and stain from the glass windows and replaced the rotting wood of the door frame. A bell jangled when I opened the door and heads turned briefly. A huge black stove drew my eye, its pipes stretched like arms, one straight up, the other sideways to the wall before tracking up and through the roof. I wandered by flour barrels, cases of canned goods and mysterious wooden crates; followed the small pathways snaking between floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with everything from blankets to fabric, shiny new kettles to fancy china.
Two men sat on stools at the counter, sipping coffee and chatting with the man on the other side, General Mercer himself. Three or four women bustled around the store selecting items from piles or shelves.
“Why hello, Mrs. Berkowski. Those twins keeping you busy as usual?” The grocer’s voice was loud.
She barely nodded and went about her business, but not before eyeing me with a shrewd glance. Perhaps her husband had been sincere. Whatever she’d heard about me kept her at a distance. I was new, alone and unwed, working for a man with a reputation for drink and women. I caught her looking again, judging me with my mother’s eyes. I walk
ed home to Mr. Penny’s house, where I could hang my head, like she expected me to.
CHAPTER 5
i i i
DILLAN
I tried to save my wife from all the bad things that can happen. It hadn’t gone very well so far. And then the stranger stomped in like he owned the place. I jumped up to shield Taffy from him, but he looked past like I weren’t even there, to her lyin’ curled up on a filthy mattress on the floor in a dark corner. He had nasty eyes, and sighed as though I was a disgusting bit of fish bait he’d like to see wriggling on a hook.
“It’s Gibson,” said the man, pushing past and shedding his coat and hat onto the only chair in the room. “Doctor Gibson. You’re damn lucky your neighbours have some sense.”
It was the burly woman next door was always asking after Taffy. Protestant. Meddling. She must have sent for him. The doctor’s shirt was plastered to his back where rain had soaked through, and he shivered hard. Out the window a nor’easter was blowing. Hadn’t even seen it coming. Too busy with Taffy I guess, sponging her forehead, singing softly, praying.
Gibson lit a tallow and set it on the crate beside Taffy, feeling her face, looking into her eyes with a light. “Not long for the world, I’m afraid.” His voice wasn’t mad any more. More weary than anything.
I couldn’t say nothing, what with my gut falling to my knees. Taffy was supposed to be having a baby. I’d only thought she was tired, the baby taking its time the way Mother said a first child should. The doctor slid his stethoscope over Taffy’s bulging stomach, grunting like he was surprised.
“There’s a heartbeat.”
He rolled up his sleeves, and before I could stop him, the bugger was looking between Taffy’s legs.
“My God, the head’s coming,” he yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me she’s in labour?”
What?
“You damn Catholics. Sure know how to make ‘em, and then pretend the whole bloody thing is immaculate. Like they’ll just land in a goddamn crib from the goddamn sky.”
He fished huge tongs from the black bag he’d brought.
“You’re living in the back end of a stinking livery and you still gotta make babies.” He was muttering like a lunatic. “Jesus.”
He shouldn’t have been swearing in front of my wife. “I couldn’t find work. I...”
“Get a blanket, an old shirt, something you can wrap the baby in.”
The words sent me into action. I grabbed a blanket off the bed.
“No, for Christ sake. Something clean.”
Everything about the place was suddenly strange and hopelessly dirty, so I galloped around like a mental, picking up and throwing aside any piece of cloth I saw, until finally I found a towel under the washstand. Only a few stains. I turned back in time to watch Doctor Gibson reach the tongs deep into Taffy, grunting with the effort of the pull. The baby was ripped from my tiny wife. She screamed, a huge open-mouthed, gut deep, animal scream.
When she went still again I thought she was dead. Just before I could grab the doctor by the throat, she moaned real low, like the sound our milk cow made just before my father shot it, a sound like there was no way she could hold on to this world any longer. Taffy opened her eyes only once to get a glimpse of her boy. And then she turned her huge eyes on me and I all but shrank away into the floor, the world gone whirly, the doctor’s voice a far-off whisper telling me she’d not likely last the night, the baby’d need caring for, he was small and sick.
Finally a shout. “Clean the place up, man. Give the child half a chance.”
I didn’t understand. Taffy was still, her chest barely moving under the thin blanket. The top of a small pink head and one tiny hand poked out of the towel beside her. Who was dying? Who would live? I was like a blind man looking at the doctor. But he was stomping outside, coming back in quick with carbolic acid and a bucket. He looked around, his eyes wild, like a cat about to be skinned, and slammed the bucket on the side cupboard so hard the flaking paint flew up in a dust and the wobbly leg damn near broke off. I’d found the cupboard at the dump and brought it home for Taffy to use for the baby. It was only to be used for the baby.
“Get away from there. What the hell are you doing?”
The doctor dumped acid into the bucket and poured water into it from the pail by the door. “We’re going to get this place clean so this child doesn’t catch his death too.”
I couldn’t move. The doctor looked at me hard, grabbed my hands and thrust the wet rag into them, pushing my hands with his own, scrubbing like there were demons in the walls and floor. He had no right, barging in, hurting Taffy, ruining her things. I swung round and jumped him. He fell hard, knocking over the bucket so the water sluiced across the floor, the acid smell stinging in my nose. He just lay there in it, mad and scared.
“All right then,” he said real calm. “If you want to live like this.” He sat up and shrugged like he’d given up. “Your wife is going to die soon, and unless you do something you’ll lose your son too. It’s up to you.” He picked up his things.
I didn’t really notice him leave. Going to die. Pictures were flashing through my skull, beautiful Taffy, her wide-set blue eyes red from crying, small mouth and nose twisted with fear, begging to stay in Arichat, our tiny village on Isle Madame off Nova Scotia.
“This is home, where we have family.” She’d taken turns between mad and yelling, or sad and whining with her lip out to there. “We’ll make out just fine here. You can work with my father at the mill. He’s told you he needs another foreman. And he can help out if we need it. What’s in Halifax? We’ll be all alone.”
But that was the point. I didn’t want them watching every minute, noses in the air, judging, interfering. And my family-backward immigrants and all their kids-barely surviving on a wreck of a farm. I’d brought her to Halifax so’s we could find our own way. Now it was killing her.
Taffy had the typhoid. The doctor left, swearing he’d never seen anything like it, and I could only watch while her whole body shook with cold even while her face was burning up. She moaned and thrashed about, occasionally waving her hand at something in the distance, whispering at ghosts there by the door, now by the table. The stench of her was unbearable, her functions out of control. I cringed to go near her, even more with guilt at my disgust.
She would have hated the indecency of it. She hadn’t even wanted me to see her scratching behind her ears for the lice. I’d shaved off my hair to get rid of them, had even soaked my head in kerosene that left it reeking for days. But Taffy would never cut her long locks, too proud, too worried of what I might think. And she never complained about it either. Only the scratching when she thought I wasn’t looking. The lice was nothing compared to this.
Hours after the baby was born, Taffy was finally still, her blue eyes open and empty, blonde hair spread wildly on the flat pillow. In death she was no one I knew. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. I signed myself and figured I’d better do the same to her. I was no priest, but maybe my blessing her was enough to save her. Purgatory weren’t near as bad as hell. I took the amulet from around her neck to see what prayer she might have tucked inside. Instead on a tiny piece of paper she’d scrawled, Casey – courageous and brave. The baby squalled and my insides crumpled up small and dead. Before I knew it I was on my knees bawling with him.
We cried together for a while, but his tiny voice insisted I pay attention, his problems were bigger than mine. Slowly he came into focus. At first I was kind of suspicious of him, felt like a cave man poking at something that might poke back. I knew babies, just not my own, and not without a woman there to take over at the first sign of trouble.
“Taffy was ready for you,” I told him kind of quiet. “Stitched gowns out of feed sacks using these small perfect stitches. And cut up old flour sacks for diapers, said they’d be softer.” I fingered the towel he was wrapped in. “I had to brin
g home any rag, anything, no matter what it looked like. And she washed them, cut them into squares and quilted them. She was a genius.”
“And I was useless to her.” The baby had gone quiet, just lay there, big-eyed, wanting an explanation for his current miserable situation. I’d begged for jobs, but no one wanted an unskilled, uneducated bohunk. Almost took the bottle from toothless old Ralph in the street out front. But I only had to think of my old man to chase that want away. I looked at the baby hard. “She worked hard to make this hellhole bearable for you. I couldn’t do nothing to help. Should have taken the job with her father. She’d have had family around to help, women to appreciate all this.” I motioned around the room and laughed. “Mind, she never said it. Told her father to piss off when he threatened to cut her out of his inheritance. Said it didn’t matter; I was her husband. She was loyal, was Taffy.” The baby looked bored.
As I stood looking at Taffy’s body, all her efforts seemed a waste. Slowly I kissed each cold fingertip and folded her hands together on her chest, smoothed each soft eyelid over each tired eye. I drew a rough blanket over her and finally turned to the baby. It was tiny, like the small hairless kitten I’d found abandoned in a carton in an old shed at home. I’d felt helpless then too. The baby was mewling, a soft whimper. He seemed barely to breathe.
My hands felt enormous picking up the child, his soft downy head in one, the tiny bum fit neatly into the other. I swayed back and forth with him for the longest time, afraid I’d crush him if I held him close, afraid to set him down now in case he broke. His arms and legs were long and skinny, his tiny stomach stretched tight over blue ribs. Even the boy’s head was narrow and pointed, his small face pinched and red, bruises starting where the doctor’d grabbed him with his tongs. Never seen anything so in need of protection; matchsticks would break with less force. It was amazing Gibson hadn’t wrenched the boy in two. The thought gave me gooseflesh and I cradled the boy close, feeling his warmth through my fingertips and arms. Casey.