Hope's Daughter

by Joani Ascher

  Olivia cut her off. “Of course he didn’t. You know he would never do that.”

  “But I hurt him so badly.”

  “You must stop dwelling on this. He’s married and probably doesn’t think about you anymore.”

  Jane sighed. “You’re right.” Oddly, though, that did not make her feel better.

  She vowed to stay in her own neighborhood from now on. The people around there were used to Z.Z. by now, and Jane did not feel uncomfortable around them and their children. Z.Z. could even play in the sandbox with other children, some of the time, without objections by their mothers.

  A week after the incident in Manhattan, when Jane and Z.Z. were in their usual place at the local playground, Jane saw Mrs. Canfield approach. She carried a wrapped package and wore a cloth coat instead of the Persian lamb she’d worn the week before. Without hesitation, she walked up to Z.Z. and greeted him.

  “Hello,” he said back to her.

  “I’ve brought you a gift, young man,” she said, holding it out for him. “I hope you like it.” Turning to Jane, she explained, “Your landlady told me where to find you. I hope it’s all right.”

  Z.Z. grinned and looked at Jane for permission to take it. She was so puzzled for a few moments she did not realize he was waiting. When Jane nodded, he opened it happily, pulling a red fire truck from the wrapping.

  “Thank you,” he said, without prompting. He squatted down and rolled it on the ground, back and forth, inexplicably making little toot-toot noises.

  Jane looked at Mrs. Canfield, wondering what to say. But she remained speechless as she saw tears running down the woman’s face.

  Jane’s indecision gave Mrs. Canfield a chance to pull herself together. “I’m sorry,” she said, searching her purse and bringing out a handkerchief. “It’s just that…you seem so happy together. I thought that wasn’t possible.”

  Jane looked up at her. “Many people think so,” she replied, although she was quite surprised. “But Z.Z. is a wonderful companion, aren’t you, sweetheart?” She stood up and led him over to the sandbox, where she showed him how to run the fire truck along the edge. When he was settled, she indicated to Mrs. Canfield that they should sit on a nearby bench, somewhat out of earshot of Jane’s little boy.

  “I could never put him into an institution and let him be treated like an animal,” Jane said, sensing concern and sympathy from Mrs. Canfield. She was becoming convinced there was something else, but she could not put her finger on it.

  “Even the better ones,” she continued, “don’t provide the same family life Z.Z. has.” She realized she was rambling, just filling the void created by Mrs. Canfield’s silence.

  The woman had started weeping in earnest. She took the delicate, lace-edged handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  “He’s my child, my baby, and I’ll keep him with me always,” Jane said, as a final defiance of all she had heard for over four years.

  The words seemed to hit Mrs. Canfield like blows. She winced, and hunched her shoulders defensively against more of Jane’s statements. She caught her breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said. The woman did not deserve the fallout Jane had heaped upon her.

  “No. I understand. I feel the same way you do.”

  Her statement surprised Jane. She seemed to be so sincere. At the same time, it was puzzling. For a while, they sat side by side on the bench, watching Z.Z. play, with Jane wondering what had brought this woman to Brooklyn.

  “I need to talk to you,” Mrs. Canfield said after a few minutes. She seemed about to weep again, and barely managed to get another word out. “Irene.”

  Jane was not sure she had heard correctly. “Pardon me?”

  Mrs. Canfield turned eyes full of misery to Jane. “Irene. My daughter. She is like Z.Z. But I let them take her away from me.”

  It was as if all the fancy clothing, furs, and jewels the woman usually wore fell away and she stood humbly before Jane.

  Embarrassed, Jane stammered, “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No one knew,” said Mrs. Canfield, miserably. “My husband forbade it. We could never talk about our daughter to anyone. And he wouldn’t try for another child.”

  Jane thought about the room she had sat in when she visited Mrs. Canfield to sell her the cameo. It should have been a nursery, but it was a sitting room. Jane had assumed Mrs. Canfield was barren, but this was far worse. She had the capacity to have children and her husband’s fears would not allow it. And while Jane knew his opinion was the prevailing one, it was too painful to think about.

  “I visit her,” said Mrs. Canfield. “I go every Wednesday and dress her up, and comb her pretty hair, and talk with her, and hold her in my lap, even though she is a little big now.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twelve.” Mrs. Canfield smiled. “I tell my husband I am going to a matinee, and off I go to the asylum.” She paused, and frowned. “But it is so dismal there, and it smells so. I wish I could bring her home.” New tears welled over.

  Jane put her arm around Mrs. Canfield’s shoulders. “I’m sure it’s hard for Mr. Canfield. But maybe you could try another home for Irene.” She told her about the one Lloyd’s sister had been in, without telling her how she knew.

  “Will you go see it with me?”

  Feeling sympathy for all Mrs. Canfield had missed, and an instant bond with the woman as she now knew her, Jane said, “Yes.”

  Mrs. Canfield stood up, looking suddenly content. “May I say goodbye to Z.Z.?”

  “Certainly,” Jane said. She went to get her son and his new truck and brought them back to where Mrs. Canfield stood. As they got closer, Z.Z. reached out his pudgy little hand, smiling encouragingly at her to take his so they could all walk together. On the way to the taxi stand, Jane and Mrs. Canfield made plans for their trip to see the possible new place for Irene.

  ****

  Jane told Olivia about her encounter in the park while she finished dressing for work that afternoon. “I know exactly how it feels to be told you must put your child in an institution. Can you imagine how it feels to actually do it?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Not everyone is as strong as you are. I wish I had your backbone.”

  “Nonsense, Olivia. You’re doing fine.” But that was not as true as Jane would have hoped. Martin’s demands of Olivia were annoying and petty, from bringing him his slippers when he got home to cutting his toenails. Jane knew she did not know everything about a wife’s duties, but she had never seen her father treat Pearl as Martin treated Olivia.

  ****

  On Saturday, Jane and Mrs. Canfield, who now insisted Jane call her Anne, drove to Brooklyn in Anne’s new car, one of the first off the assembly line after the war. Jane was waiting for her, wearing her own New Look dress, but not one from Paris. It was polka-dotted, with a pleated portion from the knees to mid-calf, and the belted waist accentuated Jane’s slim figure. She had been able to buy the copy of a Paris designer in Mays for $14.95, only a few weeks earlier, and had been saving it for a special occasion. Her matching hat, pleated and twisted, had a veil with small white balls enmeshed in it, and she pulled the veil down over her face after she put on her gloves. Olivia had convinced her that her outing with Anne would qualify as a reason to dress well no matter where they were going.

  They drove to the Garden Acres Insane Asylum. They had a complete tour of the grounds, and Anne thought it was far better and cleaner than the home Irene currently lived in.

  The director handed her the papers for Mr. Canfield to sign and asked when he could expect them to be returned.

  “I’m not certain when my husband will have time to get to it, but I’m sure it won’t take long,” Anne said. To Jane, though, she seemed uncertain.

  “Do you want more time to think about it?” Jane asked, when they were back in the car.

  “What? No. I’ve changed my mind.” Anne smiled. “I’m going to bring her home. You’ll help me learn how to care for her, won’t you?
”

  Jane reached out and touched her friend’s hand. “Yes.”

  Anne’s conversation turned to her husband. She was most concerned about his reaction to Irene’s homecoming. She also spoke of Prescott Weaver and his new wife, Regina. “I once thought he was interested in you,” she said. “He was certainly quite fond of you.”

  Jane was stunned. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “He used to talk about you all the time. Whenever we were at the same function it was always Jane this and Jane that. He didn’t seem to care much for the socialites in the room. But I suppose you had someone else at the time and you weren’t interested in him.”

  Jane sat, not blinking in her attempt to avoid spilling the tears that flooded her eyes.

  “His marriage isn’t a happy one,” said Anne, bringing Jane back to the conversation. “He married the daughter of the president of the club.” She lowered her voice, even though they were alone in the car. “She was the last of her group to marry, if you get my drift. From what I know of her, she isn’t very nice.”

  Jane had heard nothing about the woman, other than that her father was wealthy. “Since they got married,” Anne told her, “her father has become another one on the growing list of Mr. Weaver’s rich clients. Prescott is doing so well now, he could probably afford the estate in Long Island that her father gave them as a wedding gift. That is, if his wife didn’t visit every couturier in New York on a weekly basis.”

  Jane tried to skirt the subject. “Has he bought his seat yet?”

  “Not so far. I heard his father-in-law offered to stake him the money, but he refused. I guess he’ll do it soon, but I know he won’t take that step until he’s got everything else covered.”

  Jane wished she could talk to him again. His enthusiasm was contagious, and she imagined herself sharing his delight at his accomplishments. But she was shut away from that forever.

  “They winter in Europe,” Anne continued, “when Prescott is able to get away from his office. If he can’t, because his brother-in-law—you know, the person who replaced you—isn’t up to handling it, his wife goes by herself. I think he seems happier and more relaxed when his wife is away.” She paused, but picked up again. “Now that I think about it,” Anne said, “he should have fallen in love with you, before you met Z.Z.’s father. You would have made a good couple and probably had a good marriage. Not that I’m wishing Z.Z. hadn’t been born, but you know what I mean.”

  They fell silent for a few minutes. Jane’s heart was aching too much to talk, and Anne seemed to have run out of things to say about Mr. Weaver. It was a relief.

  Anne sighed. “I wonder…”

  “What?”

  “What my husband will say.” Her fingers squeezing the steering wheel showed white knuckles. Jane could not bring herself to utter any words of encouragement. “I often think that if Irene had been normal, we would have had a houseful of children. How I would have loved that.”

  Her conversation then turned to her worries about Irene. “How will she feel being out in the world? And how will she learn to love her father? She sees me every week, when I wash her and dress her and read to her and we sing songs, but she has never seen Hugh.”

  “Never think that children like Irene and Z.Z. can’t learn,” Jane said. “Whatever I can do to help, I will.”

  “Thanks,” said Anne, as she got out of the car. “Let’s go talk to Hugh.”

  Hugh Canfield jumped up in surprise when Anne told him Jane was there, an angry question on his face.

  “Jane has been kind enough to help me with something,” Anne said, by way of explanation.

  “How are you?” he asked, although his clipped words did not sound warm.

  “I’m well,” said Jane. She stood straight and proud, not willing to think about this man’s opinion of her or of her child.

  “Hugh,” said Anne. “I have something to tell you.”

  Turning curious eyes from one woman to another, Hugh Canfield cleared his throat. “It was nice of you to visit, Miss Baldwin, but my wife and I have things to discuss.”

  “I’d like Jane to stay,” said Anne, going to the couch near him. She sat down, patting the cushion next to her for Jane to sit.

  “What is it?” said Mr. Canfield.

  “Hugh,” Anne began, “I have been to see Irene.”

  “As I recall, we decided that would be too painful for you.”

  Jane thought she detected an edge behind the statement.

  “No, you said it would be. I have seen her many times over the years. It is not difficult for me. What’s difficult is saying goodbye to her each time.”

  “Then you shouldn’t go see her.”

  “You don’t understand.” Anne reached for Jane’s hand, and, squeezing it, said, “I want to bring her home.”

  Mr. Canfield’s face became purple, and he leapt to his feet. “Here?”

  “Yes! This is our home.”

  “No! Absolutely not.”

  “Hugh, I am not asking you. I have listened to you for too long on this. Our daughter belongs here with us.”

  “But she is an idiot. The doctors told you she would never be normal. I won’t have her here.” He turned to Jane. “Is this your idea? Do you think that just because you brought your little bastard idiot home my wife should bring her mongoloid child into my house? How could you be so selfish?”

  Anne stood up. “You may not speak to my friend like that. Jane, please accept my apologies. I’ll take you home now.”

  “No, please,” said Jane. “I can find my own way home. You and Mr. Canfield need to talk.”

  “Good luck,” she whispered, when Anne showed her to the door. “Maybe in time he’ll accept it.”

  With tears ready to fall, Anne looked up at Jane. “He’s had twelve years.”

  ****

  A week later, Jane and Anne went to the institution and picked up Irene. The long ride home was difficult, because Irene had never been in a car before and did not know quite how to sit still while it was moving. As soon as they got off the grounds, she moaned and became ill. They had to stop and clean her up before she was brought up in the elevator to meet her father.

  At first he wouldn’t look at her. “I told you not to do this,” he told Anne. But his curiosity seemed to get the better of him and he said to Irene, “Come here where I can see you.”

  Anne led her over to Hugh. He inspected her, scowling the whole while.

  A moment later, a small puddle formed on the floor. “She’s an animal,” he exclaimed. “Just like I told you.” He stormed into their bedroom and slammed the door. Minutes afterward, he emerged carrying a small case. “Have the rest of my things sent to the club,” he said. “Goodbye.”

  The child was terrified, both from her expedition into the outside world and by her father’s shouting. Anne and Jane changed her clothes and tried to soothe her, but it was very hard on Anne, whose marriage had just shattered.

  Anne and Hugh Canfield’s sensational divorce was finalized swiftly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Would you like more pot roast?” Jane asked, holding up the platter.

  Anne declined but took some for Irene. She carefully cut it into small pieces, allowing Irene to have them only when they were all cut. It had taken months of dinners like these to teach Irene how to eat properly in public. Sometimes she still acted as if she were in the institution, eating her food without consideration for others present.

  But she was blossoming from Anne’s love. Her light brown hair was clean and well brushed, her teeth had been repaired, and Anne had found stylish clothing to fit the small girl. She sat while her mother cut her food, swinging her patent leather Mary Janes. Her almond-shaped eyes had gone from looking dull the first time Jane saw her, to terrified the day she came home, to content.

  Most Sundays, a group gathered for dinner in the home Jane shared with her sister, Martin, and Z.Z. Mr. Dobbin, Mrs. McGill, and Anne and Irene Canfield were always invite
d, and all of them usually came. It was a warm, happy, extended family.

  Irene had become more sociable, and she acted almost as a big sister to Z.Z. The two played together after dinner was over, allowing the adults to enjoy coffee and whatever pie Mrs. McGill had brought.

  Although Jane had not gotten around to Martin yet, he grumbled, “Let me have some of that.” Jane went over and served him, piling lots of meat and potatoes on his plate. Without thanking her, he hunched over the food and shoveled it into his mouth.

  Martin was the only person who did not seem to appreciate the company of the others. As soon as he finished eating, he grunted an excuse to leave so he could buy more cigarettes. When he returned, hours later, his breath smelled of whiskey and his clothing was often rumpled.

  Jane knew all was not well with her sister’s marriage. Olivia would sit up late most nights, reading in the living room, long after Martin had retired to their bedroom. In the mornings, when Jane was unlucky enough to see him, he seemed restless, with a smoldering anger just beneath the surface. Jane did not confront her sister about what she concluded was a lack of marital intimacy, but she could not ignore it or its ramifications.

  After everyone was finished with dinner, the ladies cleared the table and Mr. Dobbin assumed the role of doting grandfather. His business was doing quite well—a line of medical uniforms had been permanently added to the factory, even before Mr. Dobbin’s new children’s clothing line. It was in great demand, especially since the postwar society was having a baby boom. Everywhere Jane looked, she realized, there was another woman in the family way.

  Mrs. McGill, while not quite filling the role of grandmother, became a beloved great aunt. She spent hours knitting sweaters for Irene and Z.Z., and more time in Jane’s apartment than in her own, babysitting, cooking, and taking care of most of the people who resided there. She did nothing for Martin, who regarded her as a meddling old woman.

  Jane and Anne washed and dried the dishes while Olivia and Mrs. McGill made the coffee and served the pie. The children had theirs first, with large glasses of milk, in the kitchen, so Olivia was kept busy watching them.