by Janet Benton
A man in a doctor’s robe appeared at the doorway. He poked his head in the room, then crossed to the desk. “Is she the mother of one of our charges?”
The young man raised a hand and ran it along his chin whiskers, suddenly anxious. “She claims so, Doctor.”
“Does she have proof?”
I pulled the birth certificate and forged letter from my skirt and handed them over. The doctor raised the round spectacles from a string at his neck, set them on his nose, and examined the pages. He fixed me with a keen look. “How did your baby come to be admitted here?”
“The Germantown Hospital sent her after a fire. They couldn’t reach me. This man said that if I got certain documents, and two dollars per day—but every time I return, there’s a new requirement, and more money due.” Pressure came to my eyes. “I will take my daughter today if she still lives!”
The physician raised a sturdy arm and pointed at my adversary. “You again! Who told you to charge a daily fee to a parent taking back a child? You know this no longer applies.”
I was dumbfounded. The young fellow paled. “Mr. Malos requires us to collect the costs of support,” he stammered. “He—he’ll have my job if—”
“Mr. Malos! That scoundrel. He shouldn’t be allowed on the Board of Guardians. Yesterday he carted out of here at least sixty pounds of mutton and ten of tea, all belonging to the city. As if our patients don’t need to eat!”
The young man appeared to have deflated. His shoulders sagged beneath his suit; his head dropped forward. The doctor put a warm hand on my shoulder.
“You owe nothing. I’ll take you to the foundling department. I work in surgery, but I did a rotation there in my student days.” He turned to the young man, whose gaze stayed downward. “If Mr. Malos gives you trouble,” he advised, “say the chief surgeon forbade you to follow his orders in this case.”
I thanked the universe for sending a reformer my way as I traveled beside the doctor down a stifling hall. We passed an open door that revealed a room of dining tables in rows; upon one table sat several dozen blocks of bread. Apparently they’d failed to rise. A worker with a long knife was struggling to cut slices from a loaf.
“Bakery rejects,” my companion explained. “The guardians pocket the price difference.”
We stopped on reaching the nursery. The stink of waste accosted us through the open door. How could any baby survive in such a thick miasma? The surgeon stepped past and nodded to a nurse standing by.
“We’re looking for this young woman’s baby,” he explained.
She nodded and pointed to the cribs. The other nurses sat in rockers, observing us with heavy-lidded eyes, each with a swaddled baby at her breast. Behind the doctor I traversed the rows of infants—some with rashes showing at their necks, some with eyes encrusted, all silent in the small metal cribs bearing numbers and hastily assigned names: Stephen Infant, Anna Market. The doctor muttered oaths until at last we found the crib labeled “Mary Foundling.”
The baby’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling; its limbs were immobilized by swaddling. But red wisps poked from beneath its cap. From the face poked a pert nose, a pair of dry, familiar lips.
“Praise God!” I called. I lifted her; she was far lighter. The tight brown wrap felt sodden at her bottom, and her tiny face was pursed with discomfort. But when I caught her red-rimmed eyes, a glint of recognition sparked there.
She summoned a high, short cry, and her cracked lips pursed into a suck. With no regard for the physician at my side or for what diseases she might have fallen prey to, I opened my clothing. She latched on hard enough to bring me pain, and for the first time I was glad for that.
It proved she had the power to want.
“You’ll need to feed her often,” the doctor instructed, “but not much at once. You’ve got to go slow when rehabilitating a baby.” He let me nurse a moment longer, then asked, “May I examine her?”
With reluctance I removed her, and she began to cry with a high, brittle sound. The doctor held her gently in his articulate hands and moved away. I assembled my clothes and rushed after him to an examination table against a wall. Setting her down, he removed the cloths, the binder, the diaper—and revealed her visible ribs. Diarrhea soaked her diaper, and her bottom had a red-rimmed, oozing sore.
What a rule-following excuse for a mother I’d been. I should have forced my way in on my first visit and refused to leave without her. I understood then why someone might tear out her own hair.
“She’s been here five days?” he asked.
I counted but lost track, my mind too panicked. “I believe so.”
The doctor moved his agile fingers above her face; she made no effort to follow. “She’s already marantic. She has little strength apart from what it takes for basic functions.” He pointed to the wrinkled skin on her arms. “And she’s dehydrated. See the pap boats by the nurses’ chairs?”
I nodded.
“The grains in the pap cause diarrhea—and perhaps she’s caught infectious diarrhea as well.” He sighed. “We simply don’t have enough willing mothers here to nurse so many babies.”
There had been pap boats in Gerda’s hovel, too, and three infants sharing one woman’s milk; how had Charlotte survived ten days there? Gerda must have given the babies other liquids. Charlotte was far weaker this time. And the red sore frightened me. I pointed.
“That comes from diapers left on too long.” The doctor squeezed the borders of the sore gingerly; Charlotte made a puling sound. “The liquid being clear is reassuring,” he said, “but I’ll give you lanolin to help it heal.” He placed a hand on her forehead and behind her neck. “No fever.” He felt the sides of her groin and neck. “No swelling. She’s suffered neglect and a bad diet, probably nothing more. But if she develops a rash or a fever, or if your milk doesn’t resolve the diarrhea and dehydration within two days, you must have a physician treat her.”
Clinics for the poor had been one of our Meeting’s causes. I’d find one, if need be.
“You’ll want to keep her in the dark,” the doctor continued. “Don’t hold her often; it’s too stimulating. Feed her small amounts at first, then one complete side, then a full feeding every two hours. Wash her bottom and dry it well at every diaper change, and bathe her daily.” He took the cap from her head and searched her scalp. “No lice. That’s lucky. In any case, let’s get her cleaned before you go.”
The nurse he’d spoken to at the door brought us a pan of water, a cloth, and soap. I slid Charlotte in, and her pinched features eased slightly at the touch of water. As I bathed her limbs and frame, wincing at the sight of her, I thought how difficult it would be to follow the doctor’s instructions without a place to live. My distress must have shown, for the doctor brought his oval face nearer to mine, so that I could smell the bitter coffee on his breath.
“What she needs most,” he said, “are your milk and love.”
His words relieved me as I dressed Charlotte in a clean binder and diaper that the nurse supplied. The doctor recommended against swathing in tight cloths—“It’s barbaric”—and gave me a blanket to wrap her in, along with a tiny jar of lanolin, two diaper pins, and four diapers from a heap of them. As he handed me these precious things, I looked at his face, noting the nicks on his cheeks from hurried shaving, the tired eyes.
“You’ve saved my daughter,” I said.
He sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve saved her, with your persistence. But she’ll need weeks to recover. Any longer here and she might have—there’s no use to say. That’s why we’re closing this nursery next month and putting the foundlings into private homes. The staff here tries to help more than to harm, but when it comes to foundlings…” He patted my arm. “It’s lucky your baby has you.”
He escorted us to the door and bowed goodbye, his manner more dejected than glad.
I understood. Even as I rejoiced at holding Lotte to me, and committed myself to her recovery, I grieved for the many infants we’d left behind.
> * * *
With Lotte as quiet as a stone at my chest, I caught streetcars downtown. On a bench I ate from Miss Baker’s pound cake and suffered to watch my baby’s dulled face. Then I fashioned a sling from my shawl and placed Charlotte inside, partly to help her rest, partly to keep her from public inspection.
I searched for somewhere quiet as I walked the downtown streets. Whenever I peeked inside the sling, Charlotte’s expression looked pained—which was no wonder, given the mayhem. Drivers cracked whips and yelled commands; police tried with shrill whistles to prevent collisions; street vendors announced their services and wares; and farm animals made their way, two by two, with farmers prodding them home from market. As I walked, moving toward the river, the day’s heat yielded to a cooler evening. I welcomed the cool but dreaded the onset of darkness, having never spent a night without shelter.
A stream at the far edge of a coal yard appeared to offer refuge. I crossed the empty yard, then sat on a rock and watched the stream meander into the Schuylkill River a short way off. I woke Charlotte with kisses and put her to me for a few moments’ sucking. Then I undressed her and washed urine from her buttocks with splashes from the clear stream—glad for her strength when she protested at the water’s chill. I dried her, applied lanolin, clothed her, and placed her in the sling. She went to sleep. We’d spend our night beside the stream, I decided.
As the bruised-orange sunset poured over the darkening river, I poured the coins and bills from my purse to count them. A scrambling noise emerged from a short distance away, where a tin roof leaned across coal heaps. I stayed put, expecting nothing larger than a skunk or a raccoon to emerge. But a squat man ducked out, his wide hand rubbing his eyes; under one arm he gripped a crutch, which took the place of his missing leg. He turned his meaty body and came pounding toward us, letting out peculiar utterances.
I gathered everything and ran. I outpaced him by so much that he gave up pursuing. But I dreaded to risk another such encounter. So I listened for the bells of streetcar horses and pursued their clanging to a more populated area. I took up a steady, pointless marching, this time finding reassurance in the press of other people and conveyances. Charlotte slept, regardless.
Darkness grew. I nursed Charlotte in little amounts when privacy was possible. In a prosperous section, lamplighters began to walk from orb to orb, creating gaseous haloes against the darkness. Fancy folk traipsed down the well-scrubbed stoops of their homes; they stepped into carriages, and muscular horses moved them toward their night’s adventures. I continued moving my feet in succession. The monotony might have put me into a sort of trance, were it not for the spasms traveling my arms and neck from the unrelenting weight of Charlotte and the valise.
She wasn’t vomiting, thank goodness. But her diarrhea and the sore required frequent changes, and already I had no more clean diapers and no dry blanket. A rag-seller with a burdened cart sold me fabric that I cut up with my penknife. At a public fountain I gulped cool water. Once, faint with hunger and weariness, I sat on a stoop to rest and ate the last of the cake from Miss Baker. Asked by a housemaid to move along, I walked some more. The stillness of the baby against my chest was like a knife pricking me. From its little cuts oozed my sorrow and my guilt.
Midnight neared. Out of the taverns and saloons came swaggering the men of high and low society, lewd and careless. Many turned their heads about as if seeking something. Women who’d previously seemed stranded against the buildings began to respond like marionettes whom the night’s crude music brought to life. Some were dressed no differently than average factory girls, and perhaps were such; these ones stepped slowly forward, as if reluctant to succeed in drawing their quarry. Others wore festive hats and gowns and had paste jewelry at their necks and ears; these went boldly on display, approaching men with waggling gaits.
“Won’t ya have a drink with me?” one called.
“Lonely, Johnny?” asked another.
Within seconds, these calls were met by eager bargaining.
I’d seen it in abusive homes while visiting with Mother, and now I saw it on the street: how our far-lower wages force women to become the chattel of men. Yet what makes a man take part? Only a sickened soul could enjoy the caresses of a person chained by circumstance. Might some of these opportunists consider me for sale, as Albert had? I shrank against a brownstone wall, out of reach of the gaslights, and willed myself invisible.
An ill-matched couple aimed their unsteady bodies past me, heading toward a saloon. The man was short and swarthy; his muscles strained the seams of a faded suit; his fresh-shaved cheeks and chin shone pinker than the rest of his face. The woman, much taller, struggled along in high French heels, her bosom swelling at the neckline of her purple dress. Her eyes were ringed by black paint, her lips smudged with red. The man pinched her buttock, and she opened her mouth in a fraudulent laugh.
The last time I’d seen that face, a firm line defined the lips, and the eyes were swelled from mourning a baby’s departure. I called out, “Nancy!”
She stopped and looked about the crowded street. I stepped from the shadows, called again, and waved. She stared, comprehending, and held up a finger as if to say, “One moment.” She entered the saloon with her companion but soon burst onto the sidewalk and approached me in a puff of perfume and alcohol. I reached an arm toward her, craving a friend’s embrace. She drew back.
“Please don’t judge me,” she begged, looking as if I were her accuser.
“Goodness! Who am I to judge? What happened to thee?”
Her words came in a rush. “The maid position was a trick. The woman runs a brothel and locked me up. She sent in men to ruin me.”
“I’ll help thee escape!” I exclaimed, my spirit rising. “Let’s go right away!”
Nancy lowered her head and shook it. “There’s no use. The manager would find me and beat me. And she’d take you, too!” Her eyes brimmed with tears as I considered these points. “You can do one thing for me,” she said—“find out what family took my William, and where they live.” She bent to bring her head to mine, showing me her bloodshot eyes, her pores clogged by paint, her unclean teeth. “I want to see him, even from across the street. Do you think he’s well?” A tear drew a line of flesh through the rouge on her cheek.
That’s when I remembered: Nancy had given William to the almshouse. The chance of his having been adopted from that nursery was slim. Most likely he’d been among the babies I’d left behind, if he wasn’t already dead.
I held back my dismay. I couldn’t possibly tell this to Nancy and increase her burdens. Already she’d been sent out to service and raped by her employer, had given up her son and then been made into a woman of the night.
Charlotte began making bird-like sounds beneath my shawl—her first joyful noises since I’d reclaimed her. She must have recognized Nancy’s voice! And Nancy knew hers. My friend’s sorrow parted like the Red Sea.
“You have her! Let me look!”
I pulled back the fabric. Charlotte tried to make another sound but coughed. Her eyes poked forth too prominently against her flattened cheeks, and her thinness was evident even through the blanket that wrapped her.
“She’s ill!” Nancy stiffened.
“But she’s improving.” Already her complexion was less sallow, and her lips were moist.
“At least you’ve got her.” Nancy eyed the saloon. “I have to go in. Where are you living?”
I told her our situation as rapidly as I could. She pulled a dime from her pocket. “I’m not supposed to keep money, but I have this. Take it.” When I hesitated, she forced it into my pocket and kissed my cheek with her painted lips. “The lamps stay on all night at Broad Street Station,” she advised. “Go there.” She reached to squeeze my hand; hers was unnaturally warm. Perhaps she’d caught a disease—from her new profession or from Mabel.
“Thee can get away,” I urged. “There are asylums downtown that help”—what should I call her?—“degraded women. Please go to one.”<
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Her aspect sharpened with her thought. “There is one girl going to escape to the Magdalen Asylum.”
I pushed. “Go with her. Please don’t accept this as thy life.”
In a choked voice she replied, “I’m not worth saving.” Then she rushed into the saloon. A cloud of tobacco smoke wafted out in her wake—a fragment of the debauched soul of that place.
As it stung my throat, I prayed for strength. I had to make my way through this trial. I had to undo the damage I’d done to Charlotte. Then one day I’d seek out Nancy and prove her worth to her.
I set off toward Broad Street Station. The streets grew empty, save for an occasional inebriated man who wove about, gesturing and shouting into the silence. I’d heard that gangs of young bloods roamed the streets at night, but I met none. Then the street cleaners began their work, urging their horses from house to house, debarking to overturn full ash barrels into their wagons, and sweating as they shoveled up the grease and kitchen scraps, the manure, the occasional dead animal piled at the curb. When a policeman passed, tossing a stick hand to hand and eyeing me too eagerly for comfort, I veered onto a path between two buildings and began traversing the alleyway behind, where open drains overflowed with sewage. I tried to avoid stepping in their effluence and breathed shallowly. Over low backyard fences I saw gardens, clotheslines, sheds, privies, tethered goats—and these mundane sights of normal life soothed my fear.
Finally I arrived at an area of splendid edifices, with the four-story, granite-and-brick building of Broad Street Station ahead. Across from it lay a huge structure of stone blocks and bricks, surrounded by monstrous heaps of materials and machinery: our new city hall in process. The workers were gone till morning, but dust still floated.
I entered the train station. Throughout its long, low-ceilinged lobby, flames burned in wall fixtures and chandeliers. Rows of people slept on the floor or whispered together against the walls. Some showed the jerky movements and off-kilter expressions of the insane; some sat with opened, unseeing eyes; some lay in puddles of urine. Many had feet in poor condition, with their filthy shoes cast to the side, sodden socks removed, the skin blistered and bloated and scabbed. Nancy had directed me to a place where the neglected and the desperate cast their anchors before hobbling through the streets again in search of coins and food.