by Ami McKay
Down the line the women began to whisper, some wondering if someone should go and fetch my father or one of the other men down at the wharf. Others started to wonder if maybe Brady Ketch was right and if something hadn’t better be done.
Mrs. Hutner turned to the women around her. “Her own family doesn’t know what to do with her. I’ve lent a sympathetic ear to her poor aunt on more than one occasion.” She opened her eyes wide, looking half-crazy. “She’s been diagnosed with hysteria, you know.”
“Hysteria? Really.”
“She was always such a strange little girl.”
“And it only made things worse, her mother letting her live with that witch.”
“He’s right, you know—everything she touches.”
“Seems like it.”
Laird continued his ranting, holding up the line. “And she’s always puttin’ thoughts in my Ginny’s head. You think I don’t know what you done? Here I blamed it on a good man. I should have known Dr. Thomas wouldn’t give my wife so much as a drop of water without telling me first. Nearly made her barren, just like herself, with some potion she mixed up. Ginny’ll tell you. Go on, tell ’em, Ginny, these people need to know.” Ginny hung her head and looked at her feet.
Mr. Ketch leaned over the table, sneering at me. “You’d better pack your bags and say your goodbyes. It won’t be long before they comes up here to drag you off.” He put his hands up to his neck, grasping at it, his face turning red. “Before they puts your pretty face in the noose.”
Bertine had started tapping her foot the minute Brady opened his mouth. She practically kicked over the table now, shouting at him. “You best be glad I don’t hitch your feet to the back of my buggy and drag you through the Bay and down the mountain.” She straightened the lace collar on her dress and stood firm. “Of course, being the good Christian woman that I am, I wouldn’t do such a thing on the day your wife’s gone into the ground. God rest her soul. But come tomorrow, Brady Ketch, you’d better watch where you step.”
Aunt Fran came to my side and pleaded with me. “You need to leave. It’s for your own good.” She pulled on my arm and led me to the door, Brady Ketch’s words following behind.
“Go on and leave, but they’ll be comin’ for you. They’re comin’ right to your door, with the noose.”
I started to turn in the doorway, to say to Brady and everyone else that he was nothing but a lousy drunk who had no trouble selling his daughter away or beating his wife to death, but Aunt Fran stopped me. Seeing the anger in my face, she put her lips close to my ear.
“You don’t want to do that just now. Things will seem better if you go home and get some rest.” She kissed my cheek and closed the door.
40
I RAN ALL THE WAY to Spider Hill, only to find Dr. Thomas sitting at my kitchen table with the Willow Book laid open in front of him. Several bottles of Miss B.’s remedies were clustered on either side.
“Mrs. Bigelow, you look unwell. Is everything alright?”
“Get out of my house.”
“I’m afraid I have some matters to discuss with you. They are quite urgent.”
“Please leave.”
“If it were my own business it might wait for another day, but I’ve been asked by Constable McKinnon…here, sit down.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.”
“Very well, then.” He ran his fingers across the writing in the book. “Interesting reading. Is this your hand?” He picked up one of Miss B.’s bottles of cough syrup and held it up to the light. “You’ve a nice collection of herbals and other remedies. Any apothecary would be envious.” He put the bottle back on the table. “From what the constable told me of Mrs. Ketch’s death, I can see that you’ve gotten yourself in quite a lot of trouble. You stand to lose everything…this house, your family’s good name, your child.”
I thought of Miss B. and the way she’d handled things when Dr. Thomas came out to her cabin after Darcy died. When I’d asked her why she’d lied to him, saying she didn’t know anything about Mrs. Ketch’s giving birth, she said, “Sometimes it’s best to play possum with a man…until you finds out what he’s after.”
“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“With what I’ve seen here, I think it’s clear that you have. But I can help you…if you’re willing to admit to your hand in Mrs. Ketch’s death, then I could say, as your physician, that you were under great stress, that your uninformed use of ‘home’ remedies, along with your history of hysterical illness, caused this sad, irreversible error. Think of it not only as a way to free yourself from guilt, but as a way to do a favour for so many women—putting the problems of midwifery to rest, setting the record straight. Of course, you’d have to be sent away for proper observation and rehabilitation. There’s a beautiful women’s sanitarium in Saint John, New Brunswick. They’ll pamper you, feed you wholesome foods, help you put your mind at ease. Think of the better person you’ll be in the end, returning home a better woman, a better mother. You really have no choice.”
I started to wonder if what he was saying wasn’t true. Anything’s the truth, as long as enough people believe it. I’d have given up anything, all of Miss B.’s secrets—called everything I’d learned from her a lie—as long as I could keep Wrennie. “I could take my daughter with me?”
“Well, no. You’d have to leave the child with one of her relatives.” He frowned. “Oh dear, but that causes another problem, doesn’t it? She isn’t yours by birth, now, is she?” The corners of his mouth quivered, as if he was trying not to smile. “And according to the incredible accounts I’ve heard about how she came to you, you’ve no idea who her real family is. The Orphans Home in Kentville is a perfectly suitable institution. With no records to say she’s yours, I suppose you’d have to leave her there until things could be sorted out.”
“How long would I have to stay?”
“As little as a month, or perhaps as long as a year. Occasionally it takes longer. It’s hard to say…however long it takes for you to be declared fit, sound and well.”
With that kind of help, I might as well be dead. “I’ll manage on my own.”
“Think about what you’re saying, Mrs. Bigelow.”
“No, thank you, I’ve made up my mind.”
He put on his hat and walked to the door. “You may think you have friends here, people who care about you, but I assure you, with every day that passes, there will be more and more who turn their heads away when you call their names, acting as if they never knew you.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Thomas.”
What Mother had to say
“Fran told me what happened between you and Brady Ketch down at the Seaside Centre. I wouldn’t worry yourself over it. He’s drunk half the time and was nothing but terrible to his wife. Everyone knows it. You’re a good girl, and you haven’t done anything wrong. God sees what you do. He wouldn’t have given you dear little Wrennie if you weren’t a good girl, a good mother. She’s been the sweetest thing all afternoon. You want to stay here for the night? No? Are you sure? I suppose you’re right. Best to get her to her own cradle by her mama’s bed. I’ll check on you tomorrow. Sweet dreams for my sweet girls.”
What Hart had to say
“I don’t believe a word of it, but you know as well as I do that people outside the Bay have never paid us enough respect to let us do things our own way. Seems to me that doctor’s got all kinds of things going on in his head that don’t belong there, but his mind’s made up that you’re the one who’s got to pay. Until we can set it straight, you’re better off on a little holiday to see Charlie. We’ve got to get you out of here. I’ll row you out to the Bluebird. When the tide goes out, she’s headed for Boston.”
What Bertine had to say
“Of course I’ll take care of Wrennie, and I’ll take care of things with Brady Ketch too, the rum-sucking pig. Don’t worry, I won’t let a soul lay a hand on her head. I’ll write down every little sound she
makes, every grin and coo.”
“I’d leave her with Mama, I know she’d say yes, but she’s so busy with the boys.”
“I’ll make sure she sees Wrennie whenever she likes. Anything else I should do?”
“I’ve never seen you back down from a fight, Bertine. Just be who you are, and I know she’ll be fine.”
“Wind in your sails, Dora. Wind in your sails.”
41
THE JOURNEY FROM SCOTS BAY to Boston was uneventful as I stayed below deck most of the time, huddled at the edge of a bottom berth, my head between my knees and a bucket at my feet. Father would have laughed if he’d found me in such a state, no doubt remarking that I had proved (once again) that women aren’t fitted with sea legs.
The first mate was familiar with the North End, and although unable to accompany me to my destination, he was kind enough to give me some direction as to how to reach Charlie’s residence at 23 Charter Street. “Fleet Street across North to Hanover. North on Hanover to Charter. West on Charter to 23.”
It was evening when I started from the docks, lonely and tired, clutching one of Miss B.’s old carpetbags. The Willow Book weighed down the bottom of it, along with the few things I’d brought with me—a second skirt and shirtwaist, my Sunday dress, one of Wrennie’s crib blankets (in hopes that it would still smell of lavender soap and her) and a purse full of coins that Hart had given me before he put me on the ship. As I looked ahead to the puzzling streets and the faces streaming by, it was all I could do not to grab the nearest lamppost and hold on for dear life. Faced with Boston, my youthful dreams of running off to a city now seemed painfully misguided, and I wondered how I would ever find my way. I breathed in, hoping to find the same salty breezes I was used to in the Bay, but the air was moist and much hotter than at home, even for August. My clothes and the braid down my back felt heavy and dirty, clinging wet to my body.
The sunset was nearly filled right up to the top, the orange-red sky sharing its glory with endless crowds of ships’ masts and row after row of houses, buildings and church steeples. The cobbled streets stretched out in every direction, never quiet or still—delivery trucks honking and sputtering as they pushed their way around people on bicycles, children playing ball, horses struggling to pull carts full of fish or fruit.
As I moved away from the harbour, the streets became narrow and dark. I picked up my pace, trying to seem as busy as everyone else, hoping not to be noticed, wanting nothing more than to get to Charlie. The heavy brick buildings that stand shoulder to shoulder were still letting off the heat of the day, holding close the smell of the wharf, of dung, of work, of sweat, of nighttime, and the garlic-laden scent of a hundred mothers cooking. Here and there street lamps came out from the walls, hanging yellow over the sidewalks. Each door front and corner brought clusters of children kicking at crumpled sheets of newspaper and tin cans that had been tossed to the curb. There were more sweet, dirty faces than I’d ever seen in one place; the girls skipping rope or playing jacks, the boys chasing one another or cluttering the stoops, laughing and teasing while they chewed on licorice whips.
Although everything about them seemed poor, from their worn shoes and soiled clothing to their arguing over a half-eaten apple, I still felt simple and naive compared to them. Even the littlest ones looked at me with curiosity and confidence, as if it would be rude for me to feel any sort of pity for them. Above the street, mothers called out to each other from the windows of the tenements, most often in what I guessed (from what I could remember of Aunt Fran’s gramophone recording, The Languages of Europe) to be Italian. Even with o’s and a’s singing through their conversations, they are much like Mama and all the other mothers I have ever known. The rhythms of their talk and their lullabies seem the same, but when they hang their laundry, it is strung between buildings, over sidewalks and gutters. When they call their children or gossip with a neighbour, it makes no sense to my ears.
For the first time in my life, I’ve gone to a place my mother’s never been. She visited Halifax, once, when she was young, to help Aunt Fran pick out her wedding gown, but never went any farther. The longer I walked, the more I longed to touch Mother’s face or to hear her sing to Wrennie. It was as if I’d become a child again, feeling the chill that comes when you step outside of your mother’s voice, too far to hear her calling, gone so far you’re sure you’ve disappeared.
By the time I got to the corner of Fleet Street and North, I couldn’t remember if the first mate had said “North to Hanover” or “North on Hanover.” Regardless of what was correct, there was so much noise coming from North Street that I chose to follow it. Trumpets and drums drowned out the other sounds of the city, heralding a march in the middle of the street. Steam rose from cart after cart along the sidewalks, sausage vendors and candymen singing and whistling songs of their wares. Flags striped in red, white and green hung over nearly every door and window. Lights dressed with tinsel had been strung in garlands overhead. Hundreds of people were crowded together. Too tired and confused to think better of it, I let myself be taken right along with them as they pushed and edged as close as they could to the object of their adoration and celebrations—a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
She was more brightly adorned than any of Miss B.’s figurines and nearly as large as Sadie Loomer. The dark-haired statue was draped in robes of gold and white and seated within a gaudy, brilliant throne, a gilded, carved canopy over her head. Yards of white and blue ribbons trailed down around her as twenty or more men moved slow and steady, carrying her on their shoulders. The calmness of her painted expression, the kindness of her eyes made me feel safe, made us all the same.
Before long, the crowd seemed to have reached Mary’s destination. They stood, waiting, in front of the steps of a large building. All went silent as two young girls dressed as angels came forward, standing on the steps, giving prayers and Ave Marias to the Virgin Mother. As they finished, people began to look up. Mothers held their hands to their hearts, and fathers with small children on their shoulders pointed to a window on the third storey of the building.
Standing on a sill was another young girl, her head crowned with candles, her angel’s robes of white satin rippling in the breeze. Without warning, she stretched out her arms and leapt, her body slowly flying down to greet the statue, while two large men stood on the rooftop, working the ropes and pulleys attached to her. She hovered over the crowd, singing blessings to Mary before being hoisted back up to her perch. With that, the trumpets again began to play, the crowd cheered, and confetti showered down all around me.
Standing there, surrounded by unfamiliar voices and bodies, I began to feel dizzy and weak. Having come off the boat, going too long without food, finding myself frightened, amazed and breathless in such a strange, crowded place, I began to tremble. Afraid I might fall and be trampled, I reached for the person nearest to me, a young, dark-eyed boy, who looked to be around the age of thirteen, maybe fourteen. He held me up, speaking to me in Italian at first, but when he could see that I didn’t understand, he said, “Only English?” I nodded. He then led me to the steps of a nearby storefront. “You lost?” I nodded again and pulled a postcard out of my bag and pointed to Charlie’s address. He smiled and took my hand. “I take you there.”
For a moment I thought it might not be wise to follow this stranger, but there was something in his face that made me think of my brothers and of home. Honesty. Goodness. Laughter.
We walked down Hanover Street. The buildings were decked with awnings and large lettered signs, and window after window was filled with baskets and barrels…fish, bread, rounds of cheese, pickles, plump ripe tomatoes and peaches, long thin noodles strung on racks to dry. My guide pointed to the sign over a large grocer’s shop: PASTENE’S. He pointed to himself, his oversized pants hanging loose from his suspenders, the fuzzy hint of what would one day become a moustache turning upward as he grinned. “Lorenzo Pastene.” On our way to Charter Street, he explained (in deliberate, thoughtful English
) that I had stumbled across the Fisherman’s Feast of the Madonna del Soccorso, Our Lady of Help. Miss B. would have loved her. Not only are the fishermen of Sciacca, Sicily, devoted to her, but she also carries a large wooden club in her right hand, the weapon she used to beat a devil away after it tried to steal a little boy from his mother. The Madonna then hid the boy in her robes, and together they stood on the beast until it was dead.
Number 23 Charter Street was something of a puzzle: an ample, grand, ivy-covered home with stained glass windowpanes in the door and three magnificent dormers across the top; not where you’d expect a fish-throwing boy like Charlie to land upon arriving in Boston. In its own way, the house seemed out of place as well. It was neat, seeming to be freshly painted and unlike any other home I’d seen on my way. A gracious, well-dressed beauty, settled between tall, wanting tenements and storefronts.
The woman from Charlie’s picture, Miss Maxine Cabott, greeted us at the door. She is a marvellous, brazen-looking woman, and even more remarkable in person than in Charlie’s picture. She was dressed in a fine vest and the tailored trousers of a man, and her sleek auburn hair had been cut short and tucked behind her ears. She’s older than Charlie by far—thirty, at least, I’d guess—and next to Wrennie’s, her eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. They are sometimes grey, sometimes blue, but always searching, as if she’s trying to look right inside you. She kissed the boy on both cheeks. “Ah, Lorenzo! What have you brought to my door?” She laughed as she teased him, running her finger across his top lip. “What, no peaches anywhere but there?”
He blushed as he took the cap from his head and addressed her. “She’s Dora, for Charlie. I help her find her way.”
Maxine slipped a handful of coins into his shirt pocket. “Grazie, Lorenzo. Tell your mama hello for me.”