I untied the stays and picked up her thin and trembling form, then knelt to collect the blanket and clothes piled by her crate. I felt I had to leave immediately—as if I were a thief. The other babies looked desperate, worse than mine, with bulging eyes, and limbs that lacked the will to move. But I only said a prayer for them, sick at heart and sorry, then rushed out to the street.
I stood on the packed dirt, my stunned baby blinking against me. From his perch behind the horse, the carriage driver stared. An old man was resting on a log before the next shack over, smoking a pipe and stroking his whitish-yellow beard. He spit to the ground, then called to me.
“That yer baby?”
I nodded. “Can thee tell Gerda I’ve taken the baby named Charlotte away?” By then Charlotte was rooting at my shirt, causing my clogged breasts to ache. I opened the carriage door and raised my foot to a step.
“Gerda might not notice yer baby’s gone,” the old man called, “and she won’t know the name.” He took the pipe from his lips and gave a dry laugh, more like coughing. “Don’t know why a lady like you would hire a baby farmer. Undertaker’s here least once a month.” He shook his head side to side, then took a puff from his pipe, concluding, “Public Health oughta shut ’er down.”
Indeed. Charlotte writhed against me, seeking milk. I felt my breasts responding. “Report her to Public Health,” I urged the man, “for the sake of the babies.”
He puffed and said nothing.
Children were touching their palms to the carriage, to its green sides warmed by the sun. Several had tied shreds of cloth to its tall wheels, which would give them some amusement when the wheels began to turn. The driver shooed them off as I shut the door and dropped to the cushioned bench.
As we began to move away, I pulled the curtains closed. In the filtered light I held my baby to me and kissed her, my tears wetting her grimy face. Her body shook, and she gave a terrible wail.
If hearts could break, mine would have then. For I had my answer as to how she’d fared: she’d suffered our time apart with all the force of her little being.
Her clothes smelled of smoke and dampness, her diaper stank, and her breath bore the odor of alcohol, betraying Gerda’s medicinal method of quieting babies. But her scalp held a hint of her real smell, slight and sweet. As I kept my nose to her head and inhaled, my breasts began to release their milk! She attached eagerly to my unwounded side and choked at the volume but kept sucking until her belly grew taut. Then she fell to sleep, like a baby kitten.
On arriving back to my room, I undressed her. Her ribs were visible, and her arms and legs were far thinner. Beneath her sodden, stinking diaper was an aggravated rash, red in front and worse in back. She vomited onto her chest and gave out unhappy cries as I washed her with a cloth and cool water from a pitcher, then patted her dry. I used Frau V.’s calendula and comfrey salve to dress the rash.
When I finished, as if applying a salve to me, she stared lovingly upward, made whole by our reunion. But I despised myself for putting her in the care of a woman I’d never met. If Margaret hadn’t gone to Gerda’s—I cringed to think. If my darling had died…
She wears no diaper now, since her rash will heal better in the air. Frau V. told me this when she came upstairs to examine Charlotte. Based on the lack of fever and the keenness remaining in her eyes, the cook predicted that she’ll gain her weight back quickly.
I believe she will recover. It must be so.
I find myself intoxicated by her face at rest—the flawless skin and its faint flush of pink, the delicate dusting of red-blond hairs at her temples, the nostrils that puff slightly with each breath, the bud-like lips so softly parted. Upon my lap, this treasure sleeps a leaden sleep.
Fifth Month 3
Payday was two days ago, the first of the month, and Clementina had nothing for me. To start, for the time I was sick, she considers me not to have been in her employ. “Surely you understand,” she said, hardly giving me a glance as I stood before her desk, the last in line. Worse still is that she docked all my remaining pay for the doctor’s visit and medicine, and I owe her fifty cents more. Frau V. and Margaret got their money, and of course I don’t begrudge them. Yet it was awfully hard of Clementina to give me not one cent for all my efforts since I’ve arrived here. And even though Dr. Snowe examined me and pronounced my milk safe for Henry, and I’ve begun feeding both babies, the mistress says she’ll pay but half my wage until my bastard is accommodated elsewhere. I haven’t dared to put Charlotte in her sight, but I did protest that she’s still thin. The lady was unmoved.
“Inside this house,” she said, “your care belongs to Henry.” She said to obtain newspapers and find a place for Charlotte right away.
She fails to understand any position but her own. What to her are defensible shifts in our financial arrangement have the effect of leaving me penniless. She feels no obligation to consider others apart from how they serve her.
And how am I to pay a wet nurse to take my Charlotte?
Clementina and her doctor forbade me meat and sweets; I relished a chunk of ham and a slice of pecan pie in the kitchen.
Today Henry’s umbilical cord stump fell off—a little late, observed Frau V. while she poured warm water into a kitchen basin. We gave the slippery fellow his first bath, which startled and pleased him.
There’s more to tell. Frau V. called for me before supper, and I went to the kitchen by the back stairs, carrying Charlotte. The cook washed her hands and dried them, then sat at the table. Charlotte watched with some of her former alertness but elicited only a fleeting smile from the cook, who had something else occupying her mind.
“Sit down,” she said, gesturing. “I know what I’m talking about.” Her face pushed out, daring me to defy her.
“Yes?” I sat as directed.
“I spoke with the mistress about your situation. You must contact your baby’s father to demand support, as a condition of your employment. Either that, or you must begin a civil suit against him.”
Why would Clementina care? She certainly doesn’t care a whit about Charlotte. I said this, and here is Frau V’s interpretation. The lady may not understand why I keep my child, but she does value my services and character. When Frau V. suggested to her that my life following this employment would likely be disastrous, a spark kindled in her heart.
With Charlotte in my arms and her eyes moving from the cook to me, I had the courage to speak honestly. I said I appreciated their concern but was not prepared to reveal the existence of our baby in a letter to Johan—which might only increase his wish to stay away. Nor would I seek restitution in a court proceeding that would be published in the newspapers. I offered instead to write my brother through the post office, as she’d earlier told me was possible. If he sent news, then I’d decide whether to write Johan with a request for support.