The Girls with No Names

by Serena Burdick

  There was a sharp cry and the doctor said, “Breech. Hardest kind to deliver, but you did it, young lady. Look at this pink beauty you’ve brought into the world.” The midwife was holding the thing and I promptly turned my head to the wall. “Just a few minor stitches here and I’ll be on my way,” he said. Tears stung my eyes as a stab sunk into the fleshy part of my torn-open body. I clamped my teeth and clutched the sheet until he eased my legs down and adjusted the covers over them. “You’ve done good work. Get some rest, now, you hear? Mrs. Hatch is a kind woman. She’ll look after you until you find your way.”

  The doctor left me with the midwife, who cooled my forehead with a wet cloth and smiled at me from her supple, fleshy face. I thought it was the kindest smile I’d ever known and I found myself wishing she were my mama and would stay the night with me. I didn’t even mind so much when she placed that warm, slippery thing into my arms.

  “A girl.” She beamed, proud as if she was my mama. Looking at the empty bedroll on the floor she said, “You got someone to help you?” I nodded, but she looked skeptical. “It doesn’t look like you’ve got any baby clothes, or even a blanket for the little one. You prepared for this?” She jutted her chin at my chest where the baby wriggled helplessly. “You bring her to your nipple. That’s what she’s looking for.”

  I turned my eyes to the ceiling and didn’t move to help the baby. Reaching over, the midwife pinched my nipple and shoved it into the baby’s mouth. The sucking stung like the dickens.

  “Look what a good girl she is?” the midwife said. “That’s all it takes, for now. I’m going to leave you two to sleep, but I’ll be back to check on you first thing tomorrow morning. She’ll stay warm if you keep her close.”

  I waited until the midwife was gone to pull the baby off, my nipple stretching out and making a popping sound when she let go. The midwife had given me a cotton blanket, torn at one edge like she’d ripped it from a bigger one, and told me I was to wrap the baby up in it until she brought something proper over. I did it like I’d seen Papa do with the others, tucking the blanket over the baby’s feet and binding her arms to her sides. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t move. She was either sedated from feeding, or dead. I poked her, wondering why I didn’t feel any more for her than I had when she was a lump in my stomach. When she wriggled, all I could think was that I hadn’t had the good fortune of birthing a dead baby like Mama. I placed her away from me on Mama’s bunched petticoats and rolled over with my back to her, so tired the room waved around me.

  I slept in fits, the baby’s screams waking me, high-pitched and demanding. She wiggled periodically, stretched out a hand, gave a raspy howl, went silent. By midnight, I was itching out of my skin.

  I blame what happened next on the fire and those burnt girls, on Papa leaving and Mama being gone, on all my siblings lumped under the ground. The dead occupied so much space inside me, you could say it was inevitable. Or, maybe it was just my lack of sleep.

  In the middle of the night when the piercing cry of an infant started up again, I felt crazy. Not wild crazy. Dazed crazy, like someone who’s been held under water too long and survives, but shouldn’t have. All I wanted was for the screaming to stop. It never occurred to me to put the baby to my breast and set my nipple burning again. I got up and tugged my bloomers on, pulled my dress over my head and buttoned the back. My stomach was soft and bulky and would cramp in painful spasms. I put on my coat and lifted the wailing infant in my arms, holding her face to my chest to muffle the noise. Her mouth opened and she quieted, her head wobbling under my hand as I went down the dark stairs and out into the night, walking all the way to the pier on 26th Street with a throbbing pain between my legs.

  I don’t know why I went there, or what I was even doing out in the dark. All I remember was needing to get out of that godforsaken room, and since this was the last place I’d headed in the middle of the night, it seemed logical to go there again.

  The building was quiet and dark, everyone gone to weep over gravestones instead of open coffins. The rain had stopped, but the sky was starless, the air cold and damp. At one point I looked down, forgetting all about the baby in my arms, and that’s when I saw that she was dead. In the moonlight, she looked just like that pale baby I’d put in the ground. She didn’t move or cry and I stared at her, not knowing what to do. There was no earth to dig. No hole to put her in. I rounded the back of the building where the dock yawned out over the East River, water slapping against the side of a steamboat. It smelled fishy, which made me hesitate as I dropped the bundle in my arms over the edge of the dock. She made the softest splash, and a drop of water hit the back of my hand. In that moment I thought I heard a sound, some small noise, but when I looked over the edge of the pier, the water was still and black, like nothing had been there at all. I told myself I hadn’t heard anything. But I did. I hear it still.

  I should have thrown myself into the river with her and why I didn’t, I’ll never understand. All the girls who’d been laid out in the building behind me had survived infancy and childhood, only to end up jumping away from a burning death and into the cement arms of another. Life wasn’t worth it. Drowning in that dark water would have been a blessing, but I was without emotion. I turned from the dock and thought stupidly that I might go to Marie’s now that I didn’t have the baby. There was no evidence of her other than my sagging belly.

  The street was quiet and dark. I could hear the slapping of water on the pier. Smell tar and fish rot. Not a single person was out. I hurried, thinking I looked suspicious out here all alone. I didn’t know the hour, but whatever the time, I couldn’t go to Aunt Marie’s tonight. She’d know something was wrong.

  Not knowing where else to go, I went back to my room and lay down in a silence that buzzed. I hated this room. I longed for my loft bed in the cabin, or the tiny room in the tenement with Marie’s soft snoring. It dawned on me that the midwife was coming in the morning and I’d have to explain the missing child. The inexplicable nature of what I’d done roused me out of bed and I locked the door, resting my forehead on the soft fabric of Mama’s dress before lying down, but I couldn’t sleep. I was wired, jumpy.

  Morning crept in, a weak light that erased the shadows from the walls, Mama’s ghost at the back of the door materializing as fabric and thread. A knock came, and her dress shifted slightly.

  “Signe, I have your breakfast.” Mrs. Hatch’s voice was soft, hoping not to wake the baby, most likely.

  “Thank you. You can leave it. I’m indisposed,” I called.

  “I see. Well, the midwife rang to say she’s got another birth and can’t come today. But she’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning. For now, you’re both to stay fed and warm.” There was a pause. “Are you warm enough? Is the baby nursing all right?”

  My breasts had crystalized and turned to rock in the night. “Yes, we’re perfectly fine, thank you.”

  “Very well then, eat up and I’ll be back for the tray in a bit.”

  I stood up, dizzy. The air vibrated around me, hummed and whispered. When was the last time I’d slept, or eaten? The night before Mama’s funeral, I figured.

  Quick and stealthy, I pulled in the tray and relocked the door. I forced down the food, the slimy eggs harder to manage than the dry toast that crumbled all over the bed. The milk was pleasant, cold and refreshing, and I thought of our old cow, Mandy, and her sad, soulful eyes. I wondered if she was still alive. How long did cows live for?

  When I finished, I left the empty plate in the hall so Mrs. Hatch wouldn’t question my lack of appetite. The food made me drowsy, but I fought it. I liked the glisten of exhaustion, the tingle and brightness.

  By late afternoon the air began to erode. Light popped at the corners of my eyes and it hurt to keep them open. I lay down, then, and despite my efforts, tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep I’ve ever known. I slept right through into the next day when a rapping woke me. It took me
a moment to remember where I was. I felt heavy and disarranged, like I’d been shaken and left to settle with all my parts upside down.

  “Signe?”

  I sat up. “Yes?” My voice came out heavy.

  “It’s Mrs. Hatch. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Trying to get a little sleep is all.”

  “It’s ten in the morning and you haven’t touched the tray I left outside your door. Is the baby okay?”

  “Yes. She’s sleeping. Leave the tray. I’ll get to it when I see fit.”

  There was a long pause before she said, “The midwife was here earlier but said not to wake you. She’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine.” I crawled out of bed, struggling to lace my shoes. Sleep, and the stark, bright morning, made everything sharp and real. Lord almighty, what had I done? I was sure even dropping an already dead baby into the river was criminal.

  I listened for the retreat of Mrs. Hatch, and then stuck my head into the hallway, making sure no one was about before snatching a hunk of bread from the tray and hurrying outside. Rain lingered on the sidewalks. Puddles glinted. Massive, white clouds floated above the buildings like a double world resting on top of this one. If only I could disappear into that soft world, I thought, as the one I was in felt brittle as bone.

  I walked with no clear direction, the stitches between my legs stinging as my thighs rubbed together. I wished I had money for a proper meal. I’d finished the bread and my stomach still pinched with hunger. I thought of going to Mulberry Street. Maybe Renzo was sitting on his crate smoking in the courtyard. I could confess what I’d done. Burden him. Make him sorry he hadn’t stuck by me. Or I could pretend I’d never had a baby and walk right past him to Aunt Marie’s. She wanted me back. She said so, and now there was nothing left to humiliate Mama.

  The sick reality of my situation kept me walking all day, despite the pain between my legs. I went up and down streets I’d never seen, watching cars and carriages rumble past, people swirling every which way like a directionless tide, the sun shifting the shadows of the buildings from one side of the street to the other. My stomach muscles felt torn and strung out, but the hunger pains were gone and I was only slightly light-headed from lack of food and water. The worst thing was the milk leaking from my breasts and wetting the front of my dress. I was grateful my coat fit over them. I buttoned it all the way up, shoved my hands into my pockets and kept my eyes on the ground.

  It was dark by the time I made my way to Columbus Circle. Not until I stood in front of Ernesto did I realize I’d come intentionally, deluding myself that I could find solace in my cousin’s kind, familiar face. His big eyes widened in surprise, and we looked dumbly at each other, neither one of us knowing what to say. A well-dressed man peeled a newspaper from the stack by Ernesto’s feet and dropped a coin in my cousin’s ink-stained hand, rolling the newspaper into a tube as he walked away.

  Ernesto tossed the coin in the air, finding the nerve to say, “I’m sorry about your mama.”

  “I’m sorry about your sisters.”

  “Seems silly saying sorry.” The coin somersaulted through the air, smacking his palm. “It’s so much bigger than sorry, but I don’t have the words.”

  “Neither do I.” There was an uncomfortable silence before I noticed Ernesto was without his brother. “Where’s Little Pietro?”

  “Mama keeps him home now.”

  “How does she afford it?”

  “Armando’s come home.”

  “That’s good, I suppose. It didn’t work out with the woman?”

  “I guess not. He didn’t say.”

  Another man stopped to buy a paper, dropping his money in Ernesto’s hand without looking at him.

  My eyes wandered to the stack and I heard Ernesto ask, “You doing all right?” at the very moment I read the headline: FISHERMAN PULLS INFANT FROM THE EAST RIVER. My breath froze. I reached for the paper. A baby girl was found drowned in the East River at 3am yesterday morning, April 6, 1911. Police are attempting to trace the fabric the baby was wrapped in and imploring anyone with information regarding this heinous crime to come forward. There was no picture of the baby, just the torn cotton blanket displayed in a small square next to the words.

  I dropped the paper and ran, Ernesto’s voice fading away as he called after me. I darted around people. A woman gasped as I cut in front of her and turned blindly down a street, running until I doubled over with a sharp cramp in my side. A warm trickle ran down my leg and I wondered if my stitches had ripped open. Drowned. How did they know that? Was there water in her lungs? Her lungs would have filled with water even if she had died before, wouldn’t they? It didn’t matter. I’d hang, I thought, propelling myself forward and barreling down the sidewalk, no longer dazed, but frighteningly lucid. I had planned to tell Mrs. Hatch and the midwife I’d given the baby to an orphanage. They’d never believe me now. The midwife had torn that cotton blanket herself. She’d know exactly whose it was.

  I thought of the photograph I’d left behind, Mama and me staring out with stern, colorless faces. My picture would be all over the newspapers. Marie would find out, Renzo and his mother. I wasn’t a Casciloi, but they’d never live down the scandal. I had failed Mama again. Signe Hagen convicted of murder. In the end it was Papa’s good name I’d ruin.

  I thought of all those little lives we laid in the ground together. All those babies he’d hoped and prayed would live and here I’d gone and snuffed the life out of a perfectly good one for no reason.

  I ended up on Green Street, walking past the burnt Asch Building and the restaurant where I’d vomited on the sidewalk. A couple came out of the door laughing as if nothing bad had ever happened here. The blood was washed away, and people traipsed without a care over the squares where the bodies had fallen. The only reminder of the fire was the blown-off top of the Asch Building, and a collapsed fire escape hanging like a mangled arm from its side. I looked at the charred, crumbled wreckage debating whether it’d be best to jump into the river from the dock, or over the side of the Brooklyn Bridge. I was clearheaded enough to do it now. I turned away from the building, deciding it didn’t matter where I jumped. Either way, I couldn’t swim and the water would take me quickly.

  Heading east with my head down, deep in thought and moving quickly, I rounded the corner of 12th Avenue and walked smack into a man in a long black coat, his bowler hat falling to the ground.

  “Good gracious!” he cried, catching hold of me as I lost my balance and stumbled into him. The impact was dizzying and I tried to steady myself and pull away, but the man kept a firm hold on my wrist. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but when he released me I slid to the ground as if my legs were made of jelly. I let out an embarrassed laugh. “How stupid of me.”

  The man crouched beside me. He was pleasant to look at, with a slight build and delicate, perfectly placed features. He picked up his hat, dangling it from the end of his fingers. “The sidewalk is not the best place to sit this time of day. Come.” He offered his arm, hoisting me to my feet. “A bit of food might do the trick, yes?” he said, guiding me down the street.

  I was too shaken to protest, or think past putting one foot in front of the other. At the end of the block the man opened a door and we entered a smoke-filled room, chaotic with noise and the sour smell of sweat and cigars. I looked around wondering how I could be so easily waylaid from my intention to jump into the river.

  “This place isn’t for everyone,” the man said loudly in my ear. “But you don’t look like a girl who’s used to the finer things in life.”

  This insult smacked me in the gut. How the hell did he know what I was used to? I shifted my weight off his arm as he guided me to a slick, wooden bar where men and women mingled on high stools, swigging drinks and twirling cigarettes. A row of round tables, each with a lamp that gave off a dim, red glow, lined
the wall up to a back room where loud music played over the ruckus of laughter and conversation.

  Instead of ordering food, the man ordered me a drink that I coughed and sputtered out over the front of my coat. “Put some color back into those cheeks.” He laughed, reaching an arrogant hand to the top button of my coat and carefully undoing it. I hoped he didn’t notice the milk crusted over the front of my dress as he drew the coat from my shoulders and draped it over his arm. He was petite nosed and refined. Not at all the sort of man I imagined frequented a place like this.

  “Never mind the drink. It’s all about the music.” He took my hand and drew me past the tables to the back room where a colored man sat at a piano, his fingers flying over the keys. The floor vibrated under my feet as people danced in ways I’d never seen.

  The man cupped his hand over my ear and shouted, “Scott Joplin. The king of ragtime.” His breath smelled of whisky. Something I remembered Papa drinking once in a while.

  Without missing a beat, he took off his coat and hat, plucked my drink from my hand, dropped it all into the arms of a passing waiter and drew me onto the dance floor.

  The only music I knew was Papa’s violin, and the Cascilois’ singing around the dinner table. I certainly didn’t know how to dance, but the man grabbed hold of my hips and moved them in quick, jerky motions that somehow made sense. Everything fell away as the music vibrated up my legs and the floor rolled under my feet. The alcohol still burned in my throat and made me feel like I was floating. I was no longer hungry or tired and the pain between my legs had faded to a dull ache. I didn’t even mind the man’s hands roaming where they shouldn’t. It reminded me of how good it felt to be with Renzo. I forgot all about my plan to jump into the river. And it was the first full hour since I’d woken that morning that I hadn’t thought about what I’d done and the bad things that were coming.