The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Seven





COLUMBIA PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL, MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1930



THE obstetrics waiting room at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital overflowed with women who spoke only their native tongues. Spanish. Portuguese. Italian. Hebrew. A handful piecing together questions in German and Polish. All of them straining against the weight of round bellies or looking weak and pale with nausea. All of them except Maria. They sat on benches against the walls or huddled in clusters, whispering and rocking from side to side, supporting their stomachs. A number of them had small children in tow or infants asleep at their breasts. Maria stood apart from them, arms wrapped around her waist, keenly aware of her emptiness.


Seven nurses sat at the reception desk in white uniforms and crisply pointed hats. Each spoke English and at least one other language and attended to the patients she could most easily communicate with. As names were rattled off, the nurses would direct the women to see a doctor. Maria assumed they served dual purposes of attendant and translator. The numbers in the waiting room never seemed to diminish. No matter how many names were called, more women trickled through the door.

Maria inched forward with the line until her turn at the reception desk arrived. The sign in front of her read CASTELLANO. A dark-haired nurse with chocolate-colored eyes waved her over.

“Nombre?”

“I speak English,” Maria said.

The nurse smiled with relief. “Well, that’s nice. You’re the second one today.” She slid a pen and paper forward. “Please fill this out. Name, age, address, and how far along in your pregnancy.”

Maria de la Luz Tarancón Simon. Thirty-two years old. Ninety-seven Orchard Street, apartment 32. She scribbled the information and pushed the clipboard back across the counter. It always seemed strange to her, that mouthful of a name. Though she had been born and raised in New York City, her parents had stayed true to their Spanish heritage and endowed her with surnames from both sides of the family. Jude found it charming. She’d always thought that she would abandon the tradition when she had children of her own. But now that the very possibility was cast into doubt, she felt sentimental about the custom.

“Are you pregnant?”

Maria looked up, startled. Was her barrenness that obvious?

“You left this blank.” The nurse pointed to the section of the form that Maria had not filled out.

“No,” she said, “I’m not.” Her entire struggle was summed up in the white space on that page. Empty form. Empty womb.

“Let’s hope the doctor can help with that.” The nurse reached out and placed a warm, wrinkled hand on Maria’s wrist. Her eyes were bright with kindness. “Now go through that door and wait on the bench outside room number eight. Set this in the slot on the door. He’ll call you in when he’s ready.”

Maria took the clipboard from her outstretched hand, gave her a grateful smile, then passed through a stark white door to the left of the reception desk. The corridor was long and narrow, with a gray-tiled floor and harsh white lighting. She found room number eight, set the clipboard into a metal bracket attached to the door, and dropped to the wooden bench to wait. She was alone in the hallway but could hear voices rising on the other side of the door.

“We don’t provide that here, miss.” The doctor’s voice, insistent.

“But I won’t be able to perform pregnant.”

“I am afraid I cannot help you.”

A wild sob. “They’ll kick me off the show. I’ll lose everything.”

The sound of compassion in his voice and his choice of words were at odds. “Perhaps what you need is a lifestyle change, not that garbage. It’s not even medicine. It’s dangerous.”

“Can you at least tell me where to go?”

Tense silence, and then, “No. I can’t. What you’re asking for is illegal.”

Her rage was almost palpable. “You think I did this to myself? You think I had a choice?”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not. You’re a man. You’re all the same.”

The door flew open and Maria jerked. She recognized the young woman at once: soft brown hair and hazel eyes and a panicked, shamed expression. The girl from Mr. Crater’s bed. She slammed the door behind her and stood in the hallway trembling. Their eyes met.

Maria eased onto her feet. She extended a hand in sympathy, but the girl knocked it away.

“Don’t.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she swiped them from her cheeks. The smile she offered was bitter and no words came with it. She rushed off down the hall.

Maria took a hesitant step after her. “You’re pregnant?”

For one short moment, Maria thought they might have been friends, that perhaps they had an understanding. The feeling quickly dissipated when the girl said, “Just leave me alone.” She pushed through the door and back into the waiting room.

Maria stood there wondering whether to run after her, but then her name was called.

“Maria de la …” The doctor paused, tripping over her name, and finally added, “Simon. This way, please.”

She followed him into the room. It was small and sparse and neat. Bare walls. An exam table covered by a clean white sheet that still had creases from being folded.

“English?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank God. I get so tired of bad translations. No fault of my nurses, of course. They do the best they can, but still. So many people. So many languages.” He patted the exam table. “Hop up.”

Maria sat on the end of the table and dangled her feet off the edge. She felt like a child.

“I’m Dr. Godfrey.” He studied the blank space on her chart. “How can I help you today?”

A blush spread across her cheeks, and she felt foolish for being there at all. Pregnancy should be a simple thing. God knows she and Jude had perfected the art of trying. “I’m not exactly sure,” she said.

“Are you pregnant? That is my specialty, you realize.”

She tried to smile but the effort fell short. “I can’t seem to get pregnant. We’ve tried.”

“For how long? Sometimes it takes a few months. Perhaps a year.” He scribbled on the chart.

“My husband and I have been trying for several years.”

His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “Is this your first time visiting a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Can I do a quick external exam? I’ll need you to lie down.”

Maria turned and lifted her legs onto the table. She lay on her back, arms at her side, as Dr. Godfrey probed her stomach with two fingers.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the waistband of her skirt.

She nodded, and he simultaneously lifted her blouse and folded her skirt down so that five inches of bare skin was exposed around her navel. He scrutinized her face while he prodded. Maria winced as his blunt fingers pressed into sensitive areas farther down.

“Can you tell me about your monthly cycles. Are they regular?”

“Rarely. They come and go as they please. It makes me hopeful that I’ve finally gotten pregnant. But I always start.”

“Do you have pain or bloating throughout the month?”

Maria pondered. That was like asking a woman if she had breasts. Pain and bloating seemed to come with the territory of being a woman. “Yes. But it usually doesn’t stop me from working.”

“You’re quite thin. Any troubles with appetite? Or fatigue?”

“I work two jobs for very demanding employers,” she said. “I don’t have a choice but to be fatigued.” The expression on his face was troubled enough that she asked, “Is something wrong with me?”

“Not necessarily. But I would like to do an internal exam just in case.”

Maria tugged at her waistband. “Will I have to …?”

“Yes. I’ll need you to disrobe.”

“My husband is the only man who’s ever seen me naked.”

“Would you like me to get a nurse?”

“If you don’t mind.”

In many ways, Dr. Godfrey looked like her father. His hair had once been dark but was now run through with silver and receding, and his eyes were a translucent gray. He looked kind and tired and old but truly concerned.


“That woman just now …”

“You heard that?”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“Yes. I suppose it must seem horrible for a woman in your position to hear another ask me to induce miscarriage.”

She looked at her feet and whispered, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

Dr. Godfrey opened his medical bag and set it on the table next to her. “It rains on the just and the unjust, Mrs. Simon. That’s the first thing you learn in my profession. There is no fair. Nor is there the ability to help everyone.”

“You wouldn’t help her.”

He sighed. “Have you ever watched a woman bleed to death?”

“No.”

“Or die of sepsis?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I have. And apart from the health risks, I’d lose my medical license just for writing the prescription—not that she could even get it filled. Fem-A-Gyn induces a severe uterine hemorrhage. It’s unsafe. And illegal. I sympathize with her. Truly, I do. But I am forced to pick and choose every day who I am able to help. Besides,” he said, “I have no doubt she will find what she’s looking for. They usually do.”

“Can you help me?”

He drew a stethoscope and a small metal contraption from the bag. “I hope so. But I’ll have to do that exam first. Are you comfortable with me performing it today?”

His clipboard sat on the empty chair. It held a thick pile of forms. Hers rested on the top. “Yes.”

“Good. Why don’t you undress, and I’ll go fetch the nurse.” He pulled a sheet from the shelf on the wall and handed it to her. “You can cover up with this.”

The moment Dr. Godfrey left the room, Maria jumped off the table and grabbed the clipboard. She found exactly what she was looking for on the form beneath hers: Sally Lou Ritz’s personal information. She took the paper and stuffed it in her purse. Then she set the clipboard back on the chair.

When Dr. Godfrey returned, Maria lay on the table, the sheet covering the lower half of her body.

…


RITZI took the No. 9 subway at 168th Street and settled in for the ride back to Midtown. She had chosen Columbia Presbyterian Hospital because it was so far removed from everyone and everything she knew. Or at least that’s what she’d thought. But now she had a failed errand and Crater’s maid to deal with. It was supposed to be a simple appointment. Nothing to worry about. She’d assumed that if the doctor on staff wouldn’t provide the medicine, then he’d refer her to someone who would. It happened all the time. Three of the girls on the show had bragged about getting Fem-A-Gen suppositories that year. They would know where to go, but Ritzi couldn’t ask them. She couldn’t let anyone know she was pregnant. Not yet. They’d all suspect Crater. The affair was a poorly kept secret, and Ritzi’s only claim to honor was that she’d refused to discuss him when teased or prodded. Not that any of that mattered now, of course.

Ritzi leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes as the train slipped away from the station. She hadn’t known when she first arrived in New York that vinegar and lemon juice on a sponge could be used to prevent pregnancy. That conversation in the dressing room had caused no small amount of embarrassment on her part and a great deal of teasing afterward. The most shocking revelation was learning that most of the showgirls preferred Coca-Cola as a douche. Administered immediately after sex, it was, apparently, quite effective. No need for those extremes, however: diaphragms and condoms were easy enough to come by for the resourceful. Vivian usually kept a small supply of condoms in their shared bathroom. But they’d been out when it counted.

Twenty minutes later, Ritzi stepped out of the train at the Forty-Second Street station. She leaned against a column, one hand clutching her stomach and the other pressed against her eyes. She waited until the train moved on to the next stop, and then she rushed to the edge of the platform and vomited onto the tracks.


STELLA nodded as she read Fred’s letter. Less than a page long, and written in quick, legible print, it confirmed her suspicions: Joe’s associates intended to cover up his disappearance.

Mrs. Crater,

I looked through the apartment late last night and everything appears to be in order. I haven’t seen Mr. Crater but everyone says he’s been around and is all right. They don’t seem keen on my being here, though. Mr. Rifkind asked me not to hang around too much because it might provoke suspicion among the reporters. They say it could hurt his chances for reelection if we stir up a lot of talk about him being missing. Mr. Crater’s legal secretary, Joseph Mara, said there would be possible “detrimental effects” from any undue publicity. I’m not exactly sure what that means or why it would stop them from looking around but I find it curious.

Sorry I don’t have better news. I’ll return to the lake in a few days.

Fred

Stella wadded the letter into a ball and dropped it to the bottom of the trash can. No matter now. What’s done is done. She pulled the cold coffee grounds from the pot and dumped them on top of Fred’s missive.