Bellagrand

by Paullina Simons

  Suddenly light. The midwife, whose name escapes her, and the doctor, whose name escapes her, are smiling over her, and on her chest lies a squirming creature with a shock of hair and length in the limbs, and she almost hears something now, almost . . . She closes her eyes.

  When she opens them again, a man stands by her side, smiling the biggest smile of them all. He bends over and kisses her deeply. Such liberties! What is his name? She can’t recall. Oh, yes. Harry.

  “Gia,” Harry says, kissing her face, wiping her brow, beaming. “I’m sorry, but you were saying, you’re going to name the baby girl—what? I can’t remember the name we picked out for our daughter. Can you remind me?”

  Why is he smiling like that? Like the cat that ate the canary.

  Gina looks at her baby.

  It’s not a girl.

  The May 29, 1919, universe-changing total eclipse of the sun tested and proved the theory of relativity and won Albert Einstein a Nobel prize. The eclipse that made him an instant celebrity and a household name all over the world was one of the longest on record, lasting nearly seven minutes. Gina’s labor, unforeseen by everyone but Harry, lasted uncomfortably longer. The angles of a triangle no longer added up to one hundred and eighty degrees. The uneclipsed sun was low in the sky when a boy came into the world in the blue master bedroom of Bellagrand, in a mansion built for Harry’s mother by a man not Harry’s father. The boy warped space and time by the mass of his gravitational force and bent light around them.

  Two

  “IT’S A BOY!” HARRY SAID. “How can that be? Prophet Fernando told me that was impossible. So did you, the Sicilian soothsayer.” He was lying on his side on the bed next to her. There was no one else in the room but the three of them.

  Gina didn’t answer, the baby cleaned up, wrapped up, deep in her arms. “How can I have a boy?” she whispered. “I am my mother’s daughter. I only know girls. What am I going to do with a boy?”

  “I don’t know. What would you do with a girl? Feed her. Change her.”

  “What about after that?”

  “I can’t think past today.” Harry waited for just a moment. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Can I hold him?”

  “In a minute.” She coughed. “What’s wrong with my voice?”

  “Maybe you strained it.”

  “I was loud?”

  “A bit.”

  Evening fell. Night went by. Did they even sleep? The baby slept.

  She couldn’t look away from him, cradling him to her chest. She prayed for relief, for forgiveness. She prayed her thanks. She cried for her mother, she wished her mother could see him, could see her child’s child, hold her child’s child. Perhaps she still can. Gina lifted the baby into the air. He’s here, Mimoo. Our boy is here. Grazie, più misericordioso Dio.

  She tried to feed him. She tried to wake him, open his eyes. She couldn’t sleep because she was listening to his breathing. It was too quiet, and it disquieted her.

  Can I hold him?

  In a minute.

  I waited our whole marriage to have this child, she wanted to say. There is a good chance I will not have another. This may be the only time I will hold a baby.

  Me too, Gia.

  Oh, she was speaking out loud; he could hear her. She couldn’t even hear her own voice.

  In the morning Harry went downstairs. He called Boston, informed everyone, even Salvo, smoked a Cuban cigar, courtesy of Fernando, ate, read the paper. He came back upstairs with sweet bread and coffee.

  Gina had not moved from her spot on the bed, sitting halfway up on the pillows, the baby on her chest, mother and son stomach to stomach, both almost sleeping.

  Harry fell on the bed next to them, sulky like a child.

  “Careful!”

  “Maybe I can hold him?”

  “Okay. When he wakes up.” Still a rasp.

  “You’re going to ruin him.”

  “Ruin him with love?”

  “He slept on your stomach all night. As if he is still inside the womb. I know it’s nice there, but come on . . .”

  “Now he is outside.” Both her hands were on the baby. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t drink. She opened her mouth and Harry gave her drink.

  The baby was the largest the midwife had ever delivered. The baby was the largest the doctor had ever seen. There had been no complications, but the midwife had called for the doctor anyway, just in case.

  “Soon he’ll be too big to carry,” said Harry.

  “But not yet, right?”

  “What are you going to do then?”

  “I’ll continue to carry him.”

  “Until he is twenty? Twenty-five?”

  “Wouldn’t I be a lucky mother if he let me?”

  Harry gazed longingly at the dark-headed sleeping infant face down on Gina’s chest. “We don’t have a contingency plan for a boy,” he said. “Is Grace a boy’s name, too?”

  “No. We will call him Anthony Alexander Barrington. After my father and brother. We’ll call him Alexander.”

  “Um, don’t I get a say in this?”

  “No.”

  The boy stirred, started to cry.

  “Perhaps he’s protesting,” Harry said. “Perhaps he’d like to be called Harrison.”

  “Harrison Barrington?” She laughed throatily. Her voice seemed to be stuck in low octaves.

  “Horatio Barrington?”

  “Like Britain’s naval hero? You, a pacifist, want to name your son after a legendary military officer?”

  “No, no, you’re right, that’s so wrong.” He stared at her fondly. “I didn’t realize, my Sicilian peasant girl, you are so well versed in British military history.”

  “I studied the French Revolution at Simmons. Napoleon came right after. Remember I told you how little I thought of Max Robespierre?”

  “What does that have to do with . . .”

  “He was so somber and humorless,” she continued softly over the baby, coughing to clear her voice every sentence. “Not a hint of parody within. What woman could ever love him, I thought. He was so joyless in his murderous splendor.”

  “Um . . .”

  “But Nelson! There was a man for you. Did you know he was loved by only the most beautiful woman in England? Some say in all the world.”

  “Like me?” Harry smiled. “Ecco sei bella.”

  “You goose. No. Horatio Nelson and Emma Hamilton,” Gina said dreamily.

  “Ah, good. Another H name. How about Hamilton Barrington?”

  “At least you’re funny—unlike Robespierre.”

  “I’m not actually trying to be funny,” said Harry. “I’m trying to continue the long-standing tradition of H names in the Barrington family.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that important to you.”

  “Neither did I.” Harry paused. “Until now.”

  The baby stirred, got agitated, excited. Harry stirred, got agitated, excited.

  They lay the baby on his back on the bed, uncovered him from his swaddling blankets, bent over him.

  After a few moments of watching the boy squirm and wail, Harry spoke. “Why does he have to look exactly like you?”

  Gina kissed Harry. “He is like you in all the ways it counts, amore mio,” she said. “But why is he crying?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wants an H name?”

  “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Maybe he wants his father to hold him?”

  And finally, reluctantly, she let him.

  God! A night and part of another day had gone by, and Harry at last picked up his wriggling naked son and brought him to the open window. It was so hot. Barely a salty breeze drifted off the water. The boy quieted down, lay still, blinking up at his father, and fell back to sleep. Harry sat down in his favorite rocking chair on the balcony. “My son,” he whispered.

  “Bring him back,” Gina said.

  “In a minute.”

  “He’ll get cold.”
<
br />   “It’s ninety-five degrees out. It’s almost the temperature it was in the womb.”

  When she didn’t speak for a few minutes, Harry glanced behind him at the bed.

  She had fallen asleep, in a heap on top of the covers. Thank God. Harry refocused on the boy. The hours drifted by. “I think I’m beginning to understand why your mother won’t let go of you,” Harry whispered, his lips moving back and forth across the boy’s sleeping head. He might have fallen asleep himself, swaddling the baby with his arms. “What should we call you, son? Whisper to me the name you’d like so your mom won’t hear. What’s a good name for you? Howard Barrington? Herbert Barrington? Howie? Herbie?”

  “Anthony Alexander Barrington,” Gina called hoarsely from the bed. “And we will call him Alexander. Bring him here.” She coughed.

  “Uh-oh. She’s awake.” Harry put his hands over his son’s ears. “Now, don’t you listen to that croaky Sicilian voice telling you what to do. You name yourself anything you want. What name would you like? Harvey? Hector?”

  “Alexander,” said Gina. “Bring him to me. He needs to eat.”

  “Just because only your mom can feed you, don’t let that sway you,” he whispered into the boy’s head. “You and I can do many other things together. Fun things.”

  “Nothing fun yet because I have to feed him.”

  Slowly Harry brought the boy back to her. “Hector is a fine strong name.”

  “If you’re Greek and on the losing side of a protracted battle, then yes. Otherwise no. Hand him over.” She reached for him. “You know what’s a fine strong name? Alexander.” Finally he was back in her arms. She smiled, kissing his head, pulling down her gown, adjusting him to her breast. “The conqueror of the world.”

  “My son is not a fighter,” said Harry. “So he can’t be a conqueror.”

  “He’s not going to be a Hector either.”

  On the third day her milk had come in. Both Harry and Gina were astonished by the copious quantity of it. For the first few days the boy had been cranky and struggling at the breast. They couldn’t tell if he was getting enough nourishment. They feared he wasn’t. What meager sustenance he had been getting was thin and lemon in color. Suddenly a waterfall of abundant warm white milk flowed from her breasts into his mouth. The child became immediately tranquil, his appetite sated.

  Harry brought his own face to Gina’s breasts after a feeding.

  “Amore mio,” she whispered, “you haven’t shaved in days. What are you doing?”

  With his stubble he scraped her stomach lightly, where the baby had been. He licked the underside of her breasts where the sweet milk was still warm and sticky. He fondled her carefully, happily. He kissed her brown arms from her wrists to her shoulder. He kissed her full breasts.

  “Don’t touch the nipples, please, mio tesoro. I’ll scream. Downstairs the servants will think you’re doing unspeakable things to me.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When can I touch all of you? Come on, undress, take off your gown.”

  “You can’t touch me, Harry. You heard the doctor. No conjugal activity until I heal.”

  “I’m sure by conjugal he meant paying the bills or something. How long did he really say?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Four weeks! Are you insane?”

  She leveled him with a look. “You were in jail longer than that, Harry.”

  “That was then,” Harry said. “My new self is like my self of old, full of wedded abundance. Please help.”

  “I won’t help now.” She smiled. “The baby is here.”

  “We might need to . . . when is he not going to be here?”

  “Never.”

  “Exactly. We might need to work around him.”

  Afterward, they resumed other marital prerogatives, like argument.

  “How about Absalom?” Harry smiled in contentment, curling up, touching the boy’s cheek. “Do you want to be Absalom, my son, my son?”

  Gina stared at him puzzled from the pillows. “What in the world could you possibly know about Absalom, caro?”

  “What, you think all I do is read Max Eastman?”

  “Look at the books on our shelves. I know that’s all you read.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off his baby. “Sometimes I peek inside your little books, too.”

  “My little books?” She laughed, coughed. “You mean my little Bible?”

  He shrugged, sidled up to the boy, cradled him. “I started reading Samuel for the battles. I kept reading for the naughtiness. There’s quite a lot of it in Samuel. What about Samuel?”

  “No.”

  “David?”

  “No.”

  “Solomon?”

  “No.”

  Harry thought of one last H name. “Homer!” he exclaimed. “Homer Barrington. A journeyman, a warrior, straight from the Greeks. That’s good, right? Perhaps our son can also embark on an odyssey.”

  “Perhaps,” Gina said, unwavering to the end. “But he will embark on it named Alexander.”

  Three

  ESTHER AND ROSA STORMED the house not seven days after Alexander was born.

  In the master bedroom the three women bent over the baby in genuflection. On their knees in front of the bed, they stared at him open-mouthed. They adjusted him, centered him in the middle of the four-poster bed, uncovered him, and now all four adults leaned over him, gaping, murmuring, appraising.

  “What are you staring at?” Harry wanted to know. “What?”

  “We’re just studying him.”

  “Like a telescope pointed at the Alpha Centauri,” Harry said. “He is perfect, isn’t he?”

  “He is,” said Esther in wonder. “But he’s not like our family. We were all born bald. Look at his black hair.”

  “In our family,” said Gina, “we were all born with hair. That’s the Sicilian way.”

  Esther glanced at Gina, in a peach silk robe with her wild auburn mane loosely braided. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  “I don’t know.” Gina shrugged. “I can’t seem to get it back.”

  Esther turned her gaze to her nephew.

  “What is he doing now? What is that?”

  “Nothing,” said Gina. “He’s yawning. It’s normal.”

  “Why is he yawning? Does he do that often? Maybe he needs to sleep.”

  “He just woke up.”

  “Then why did he do that yawn thing?”

  With amusement Harry eyed his sister. “What is happening to you?”

  “Nothing,” she said, trying to sound brusque. “What are you looking at?”

  “You’re staring at him as if he is the second coming,” said Harry.

  “What do you mean, the second?” said Gina.

  “Esther, why are you sniffling?” Harry ran his hands through his hair. “Why does one infant make all the grown-ups around him devolve into babies?”

  “Esther, pay no attention to your brother,” Gina said. “Would you like to hold him?”

  “May I?”

  “Of course.” Gina wrapped the boy in a covering, picked him up, and handed him to her sister-in-law. “Anytime.”

  “Oh, Esther can hold him anytime?” said Harry, poking Gina in the ribs.

  For a few minutes Esther didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, she just held the baby, trying to keep the tears away.

  Harry threw up his hands.

  Gina handed Esther a handkerchief. “Did you forget your handkerchief, Esther?” she said quietly, mildly, fondly. “Like me?”

  “Never you mind that.” Esther regained her composure. “I really think,” she said, “he is the most beautiful child that’s ever been born.”

  “It’s not a matter of conjecture,” said Harry. “It’s simply fact.”

  “What are we going to name him?”

  “We?” said Gina. “Alexander.”

  “What?” Esther held the infant closer.

  “That’s what I
said,” said Harry.

  Esther shook her head, as if the matter were settled. “No one calls a child that in Boston,” she said firmly.

  “Are we in Boston?”

  “In America, then. You’re still in America, aren’t you? What are you really calling him? We have to think about this seriously. Naming a child is very important.”

  “I agree,” Gina said. “We have been given this duty by God. Man names things. And we don’t have to think about it at all. We are naming him Anthony Alexander. We will call him Alexander.”

  “You just said that man names . . .”

  “I meant that inclusively.”

  “No, no.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Esther turned away from Gina as if shielding the infant from an intruder. “Please be serious. Harold, don’t just stand there. Talk some sense into your wife while I attend to your child.”

  Harry opened his hands interrogatively. “Esther, why are you getting difficult with me, calling me Harold?”

  “Are you not the child’s father?”

  “What does that have to do with anything? As if I have any say in naming him.”

  Rosa and Esther nearly required smelling salts.

  “Esther,” Gina said, taking her baby from Esther’s unwilling arms. “My father was Anthony Alexander. My oldest brother was Anthony Alexander. My son will be Anthony Alexander.”

  “The Third?”

  Gina shook her head. “They had Italian names. Antonio Alessandro. He will have the first American name.”

  Rosa piped up. “Have you considered other possibilities? So many wonderful names for children these days. William. Walter.”

  Gina’s gaze shifted downward, adoring on her baby. “He is not a William or a Walter. Look at him. He is an Alexander.” Il mio bambino. Il mio figlio.

  “No use arguing, Esther,” Harry said. “You’re just wasting the air I have already wasted. Would you like some lunch? I’ll ring for Emilio.”

  “Well, I’m not going to call him Alexander,” Esther declared. “Never. I’ll call him Xander.” By her side, Rosa kept sniffling.