by Ami McKay
Archer was still moaning a bit over his bruises, but was full of charm and remorse. “Ah, my darling wife. Couldn’t stand another day without me, could you, dear?”
“After two months, you’d think she’d almost forget she was married.” Charlie crossed his arms over his chest, looking tired and angry.
I sat on the bed next to Archer, adjusting his bandages. Although I shared Charlie’s thoughts, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Archer’s sad state, even somewhat responsible. I would have said anything to make sure he was coming home. “He’s been through enough without your scolding him, Charlie.”
Mr. Gordon was kind enough to put us all up for the night. “No sense in your going back home in the dark. Plenty of room right here.”
26
THERE WAS MUCH COMMOTION in Mr. Gordon’s shop the morning of December 6. A man ran in from the street saying that a terrible disaster had fallen on Halifax. Others said the same, but no one could say exactly what had happened or what had been the cause of it all. Two local physicians came in, asking that Mr. Gordon give them all the supplies he could manage to do without. All doctors, nurses, midwives and other help were to report to the train station before noon. Charlie was quick to tell them “My sister, Dorrie, is a midwife, she’s a healer. She’ll go.”
“I don’t know, Charlie. I should get Archer back home. How much help could I be?”
One of the doctors urged, “They need every pair of hands they can get. If you have any experience at all, dressing wounds, caring for the sick…”
“I’ll go,” Charlie volunteered.
“Charlie, no.”
“I’m going, Dora, even if you won’t.”
Charlie looked at Archer as if he expected him to say he would come along as well, but Archer just shook his head and held up his bandaged arm. “I’ve got wounds of my own to tend.”
Mr. Gordon packed several boxes, putting them on the counter for the doctors. He handed a small medical bag to me. “You go on and help. I’ll look after him.”
Autumn gales can strip away an entire wharf from the shore, a storm of snow and ice can break the roof of a cattle barn, but those are things brought by nature. I have never been so frightened or humbled as when I saw the wreckage left behind by the Halifax Explosion, miles upon miles of waste brought on by man’s devotion to war.
It took a few hours to reach Halifax. (My first time on a train. My first time that far from home.) Before we came upon any signs of the disaster, we stopped along the line in Falmouth and then Windsor, where we saw masses of wounded men, women and children headed for hospitals in Truro. At least one doctor and a nurse from our party left to join them, as there were so many who were sobbing, bleeding or nearly dead already. I remember holding Charlie’s hand as we moved closer and closer to the city. I clutched it tight as glimpses of crumbled chimneys and piles of debris turned into an endless stretch of blackened homes and ruined lives. Grey clouds hung low to the ground. Bits of tarpaper floated in the sky, first dancing light and joyful like dandelion fluff, then landing here and there, becoming part of the dirty landscape. When the train could go no farther, we walked into Richmond, where the tracks loop around along the Narrows and the east end of the harbour, passing visions that I had imagined as being only a part of hell. Houses were torn in two, wide gaping holes left where walls once stood. I saw a mother and her children huddled in the corner of their home, holding their hands over a pile of burning coals, trying to hang on to what little comfort they could find. As we made our way to Camp Hill Hospital, we came upon the dead, their limbs or heads caught between floorboards, jagged pieces of metal poking through their flesh. Their bodies, their homes, their lives had gone black. Death burned and stank in the heavy, greasy air and grabbed at my lungs. Worse off than the dead were those left to wander…those looking for someone or something they could recognize. Clothes torn, their faces covered with blood and soot, they had become part of an army of grief, each one looking as ruined and lost as the next.
The hours came to nothing as the bodies moved in and out of Camp Hill. There was never a time when I could wait to see what was coming, or stop to count how many were dead. My corner of the second floor was open to everything else, doctors sawing off tattered, bloody limbs, nurses pulling sheets over bodies, voices calling out from the rows of stretchers. Please, help. I’m alive. Mama…We did what we could to comfort those around us, but it was never enough.
They sent the pregnant women back to me. They came, clutching at their bellies or holding a hand between their legs like it was all they could do to keep the child in. The sound and force of the explosion had sent them into labour, and there wasn’t much I could do to turn it back. Child after child born too soon, a dozen or more like Darcy, dying in their mothers’ arms, and even more that were born barely human, already dead. A reporter from the Halifax Journal, collecting names for the daily death roll, told me that half-ton anchors had gone sailing out of the harbour, flying over houses and crashing into factories and schools. It was a miracle any of these babies or their mothers survived. For every baby that was lost, there were just as many who would live, only to become orphans when their mothers died from shock.
The reporter said, “It’s important that you get their names, especially if you think they won’t make it. The bodies are piling up in the morgue, and we don’t know who’s who. Go through their pockets if you have to.” In all the confusion it had never occurred to me to ask. This wasn’t like anything I had experienced at home, where everyone knows everyone else and there’s never a question of who you are, or where you belong. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. It contained several paper tags, like the kind you’d attach to a parcel for delivery. “When you lose one, fill this out as best you can. It will save time in bagging the bodies and moving them to the morgue. There’s so many dead that there’s no good place to put them all. They’re using the school down on Chebucto Road for now.”
Several times a day I directed people there, people who had come searching for their loved ones at Camp Hill only to learn they were dead.
Lara, or Laura? Light brown hair, blue eyes. About 20 years. Pink waist with brown skirt, blue petticoat, black wool stockings and patent leather No. 4 laced boots. Wearing a gold locket with soldier’s picture inside. Died in childbirth. Male infant, also deceased. Stillborn.
Mrs. Hannah Jones. Brown hair, brown eyes. Approximately 25–30 years of age. Blue housedress, and brown overcoat with black armband. Wearing wedding ring and house slippers. Died in childbirth. Female infant is alive and was taken to the Halifax Infants Home. Please look for father or other relatives of Mrs. Jones. Formerly of 1245 Gottingen Street.
One birth was sadness and hope all at once. Charlie and a young soldier brought the mother to me on a stretcher, her face covered with bloody bandages, her arm strapped to her side. Colleen O’Brien was the one thing that saved me from wanting to run from that hospital and throw myself into the dirty, wrecked waters of the harbour. For all that had happened to her, she was joyful over the birth of her child. She moaned and even laughed through her labour, complaining more of the wounds to her eyes than of bearing-down pains. The baby was coming fast, so there wasn’t time to look at the dressings on her face. I told her she would have to wait.
It was a pink and healthy boy. Colleen was doing well, even chatting some with me as she worked and pushed to deliver the afterbirth. When we were finished, I propped her up in a bed in the corner so she could better hold her child.
“Can you uncover my eyes?” she asked. “I think the blood might have dried them shut.” I held warm towels to her face and gently removed the bandages. Through the blood I could see several pieces of glass buried in her swollen skin. Her eyes were barely recognizable, beyond repair. “I’m never going to see him, am I.”
I was glad she couldn’t see my tears. “You have each other, and that’s all that matters.”
“Tell me what he looks like.”
I took h
er hand and led it over his soft, dark hair. “He’s got quite a shock of hair…it’s black as coal.”
She went from one part of him to the next, counting his fingers with her hands, rubbing her cheek against his. “Go on,” she pleaded. “Don’t stop.”
“His cheeks are ruddy and his chest is broad. You can tell he’s going to be some strong.”
“Just like his papa.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I wish he were here.”
“Do you know where he is?” I was almost afraid to ask, afraid he might be dead.
“He’s in France. Who could have guessed that the trenches would be safer than Halifax?”
~ December 26, 1917
Christmas was weary. I feel lonesome, even with Archer’s homecoming, even in our warm, cheery house. I might blame it on my thoughts of Halifax, but in my heart I know that, with or without those memories, December is a month shadowed in darkness and fear. With every lamp blazing, with oranges and stockings, ribbons and holly, whether Christians rejoice or not, this is the truth of the season. As a young girl, I felt the shock of the annunciation, my belly sinking into hurt every time I listened to Gabriel standing winged and menacing over Mary. The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee and the power of the Most High shall overshadow thee… Not once did sugar plum faeries dance through my window on Christmas Eve. Instead, my dreams were filled with the hiss of Gabriel’s whisper bringing the terrible message that heaven had made a mistake and I was to take the Blessed Virgin’s place. With a blanket over my head, I would wait for the dawn, knowing that poor Mary must have suffered more than anyone ever knew. That in that hour, she swallowed the spirit of the Christ Child down into her belly, crying into the night, knowing He would have to die. Aunt Fran, or even Reverend Pineo, might call it blasphemy, but when I told Miss B. about it, she said, “That’s a sacred dream. The blood you share with the Holy Mother is what sets you to achin’ like that. The same blood she shares with all women.”
This year, I gathered up everything I could afford and sent it to those still suffering after the explosion. The strains of the Coventry Carol seem darker than ever; candlelight and church bells cast lonely doubts on my efforts. Still, I have read in the newspapers that the children in the orphanages of Halifax are singing Christmas carols and making wishes for the New Year. Perhaps the stories Mother tells this time of year are true; perhaps the dark-masked mummer has lost the fight. Archer has promised to keep his habits in moderation, I have promised to be more devoted. I am still hoping for a child.
27
I HAD ARCHER READ Dr. John Cowan’s thoughts concerning sexual congress, hoping to bring about the best possible conditions for conception.
Dr. John Cowan’s Law of New Life
The husband and wife—lovingly united, in perfect health and strength—mutually desire to generate a pure, bright, happy, healthy love-child, having implanted in its organization the qualities of genius, chastity and holiness. If they never have heretofore exercised the spiritual of their natures, let them this morning, on bended knees, before the throne of grace, give earnest utterance to their thanks and desires.
An enjoyable walk and saunter, of an hour or more, into the pleasant morning sunshine. Breakfast at about eight o’clock—a breakfast of plain, unstimulating food. Again into the open air and bright sunshine; and for a couple of hours the husband and wife should lovingly and enthusiastically exchange thoughts, hopes and desires. Keeping their natures as is the bright sun, with not the smallest cloud intervening to darken their chamber, and in the clear light of day the New Life is conceived and generated—a new soul started into eternity.
Of course, he has his own thoughts on the matter…
Archer Bigelow’s Law of Persistence
“Say you go to the county exhibition.
“You decide to try your luck at a barker’s booth, the one with the grinning, round-bottomed carnival dolls. The object of the game is to throw the ball and knock the dolls over, right? Knock one off, you get an extra try. Knock two off, you get to take the doll home. Knock three off and you’ve won your choice of any number of fine prizes—from whirligigs to spinning tops, from teapots to china dolls. Three balls for a penny. A whole bucket of balls for three pennies. The more balls you throw, the better your chances. You’re bound to put the pigeon in the hole eventually.
“So, it stands to reason…if you, dear wife, allow me to give you the punch more often than not…we’ll have it licked. They don’t call it ‘getting knocked up’ for nothing.”
He isn’t scientific in carrying out his theory. During the run of a week, I’ll be hiked up against the door frame in the parlour, rolled in the cold of the hayloft, climbed upon first thing in the morning and taken from behind any number of times. If it works, red string and all, I’ll never be able to say exactly the how, when, or why of it.
I can’t see turning him away while I’m willing. Besides, it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. Maybe it’s my evening double dose of Miss B.’s elixir, but I find that, while in the act, if I think about the chance that it might bring forth a child, that it might change me into a mother, I forget about the pain. I can forget about almost anything that way: Archer’s leaving, his never explaining why, my never asking for a reason. I lie there and imagine him as an honest, kind, Bible-selling man and myself as a large-bellied, round-bottomed, smiling mama. I close my eyes and try to make things seem better than they are in the hopes that my persistence might make it true.
Sometimes I even get to the point where I’m tempted to pray, to ask the Virgin Mary to see fit to bring me a baby, but since I’ve never had a talent for remembering psalms, I make little conversations with Miss B. in my mind instead. Praying twice removed, asking her to call on Mary to call on God on my behalf, is the only sort of prayer I imagine might be appropriate during intimate relations.
28
THE NEWS THAT SOMETHING was wrong with Ginny Jessup came from Sadie at the first Occasional Knitters meeting of the New Year. “I stopped by the house to leave off some apples. The baby was under the kitchen table, whimpering, his little face covered in soot. Ginny wasn’t doing anything about it…she was just sitting at the table, holding her head, her eyes all dark and sore. When I asked her what was the matter, she said ‘Don’t know’ and started to cry. I tried to help, but she threw me out, said she didn’t want my apples or my pity, so I turned around and went home…I left the apples, of course.”
By the time I paid Ginny a visit, things had only gotten worse. The kitchen table was coated in flour with a mass of tough, past-risen bread dough stuck in the centre. Three baskets were sitting in the corner, two overflowing with laundry, the other cradling her baby boy as he napped. Half-bundled in one of his father’s shirts, he smelled of soiled diapers and sour milk.
Poor Ginny acted glad to see me and embarrassed all at once. She was quick to invite me to sit, offering tea, flitting around, shoving the morning’s breakfast scraps into a large pot already crusted with boiled-over porridge. She stood with the cupboards open, staring at the shelves, searching for something more to offer. “I’m afraid I don’t have any biscuits made, but if you’ll stay awhile, I’ll bake molasses cookies.”
The little boy yawned and opened his eyes. I smiled at him, and he started to teeter his way towards me. “Well, look at that, not quite a year old and Baby Jessup’s walking! Aren’t you a big boy? I had no idea.” I held out my arms and he climbed up on my lap. “I guess it’s been awhile since I’ve seen you—not since before Christmas? He sure can get around, Ginny. How long has he been doing that?”
“Since before Christmas, I guess.” She took a tea towel and began to dust the flour off the table, frowning as most of it drifted to the floor. She shuffled her feet through it, trying to make it disappear. “You’d think his learning to walk would make things easier, but it doesn’t.”
“Ginny, is there anything I can do for you? Sadie Loomer said…”
“Sadie? What’s she got to say about anything? Just ’cause she
’s got three babies at home, she thinks she knows everything about everything.”
“I don’t think she meant anything by it. She wanted to help, that’s all.”
“She can mind her nosy apple-picking self. Those apples she brought were half rotten, you know.” Slow tears fell from her cheek, wetting the front of her stained dress. “She’s got no right to judge. She’s no better than anybody else. Those apples won’t make more than three quarts of sauce, and it’ll probably turn and bust the lids right off the jars before spring. She’s got no right.”
I brushed the hair away from her eyes and wiped her face with my handkerchief. The clean white cloth caught smudges of dirt from the dark creases around her eyes. She’s not much older than I am, but she holds the look of a used-up wife. Still having the form of a girl, but holding her chin down, her shoulders slouched, as if she believes it’s not proper or worth the effort to smile. “How long has it been since you’ve had a good night’s sleep?”
She hid her face in her hands. “The baby’s underfoot all the time, wanting to nurse or be held. I swear, when he’s not in my arms or sleeping, he’s crying.”
“What does Laird say about all this?”
“Of course, he’s some sore at the baby’s fussing all the time. Usually he takes it as long as he can and then goes out the door, but not without saying he might as well go off to war so he can get a little peace and quiet. Then he kisses me and says he’s only teasing, that he’s only going down to Jack Tupper’s place for a bit and would I wait up for him, since he’d like to have another boy before he gets too old to bounce them on his knees. Another boy…like I can order it up from Eaton’s. Another baby. He wants another baby.”