There had been pap boats in Gerda’s hovel, too, and three infants sharing one woman’s milk; how had Charlotte survived ten days there? Gerda must have given the babies other liquids. Charlotte was far weaker this time. And the red sore frightened me. I pointed.
“That comes from diapers left on too long.” The doctor squeezed the borders of the sore gingerly; Charlotte made a puling sound. “The liquid being clear is reassuring,” he said, “but I’ll give you lanolin to help it heal.” He placed a hand on her forehead and behind her neck. “No fever.” He felt the sides of her groin and neck. “No swelling. She’s suffered neglect and a bad diet, probably nothing more. But if she develops a rash or a fever, or if your milk doesn’t resolve the diarrhea and dehydration within two days, you must have a physician treat her.”
Clinics for the poor had been one of our Meeting’s causes. I’d find one, if need be.
“You’ll want to keep her in the dark,” the doctor continued. “Don’t hold her often; it’s too stimulating. Feed her small amounts at first, then one complete side, then a full feeding every two hours. Wash her bottom and dry it well at every diaper change, and bathe her daily.” He took the cap from her head and searched her scalp. “No lice. That’s lucky. In any case, let’s get her cleaned before you go.”
The nurse he’d spoken to at the door brought us a pan of water, a cloth, and soap. I slid Charlotte in, and her pinched features eased slightly at the touch of water. As I bathed her limbs and frame, wincing at the sight of her, I thought how difficult it would be to follow the doctor’s instructions without a place to live. My distress must have shown, for the doctor brought his oval face nearer to mine, so that I could smell the bitter coffee on his breath.
“What she needs most,” he said, “are your milk and love.”
His words relieved me as I dressed Charlotte in a clean binder and diaper that the nurse supplied. The doctor recommended against swathing in tight cloths—“It’s barbaric”—and gave me a blanket to wrap her in, along with a tiny jar of lanolin, two diaper pins, and four diapers from a heap of them. As he handed me these precious things, I looked at his face, noting the nicks on his cheeks from hurried shaving, the tired eyes.
“You’ve saved my daughter,” I said.
He sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve saved her, with your persistence. But she’ll need weeks to recover. Any longer here and she might have—there’s no use to say. That’s why we’re closing this nursery next month and putting the foundlings into private homes. The staff here tries to help more than to harm, but when it comes to foundlings…” He patted my arm. “It’s lucky your baby has you.”
He escorted us to the door and bowed goodbye, his manner more dejected than glad.
I understood. Even as I rejoiced at holding Lotte to me, and committed myself to her recovery, I grieved for the many infants we’d left behind.
*
With Lotte as quiet as a stone at my chest, I caught streetcars downtown. On a bench I ate from Miss Baker’s pound cake and suffered to watch my baby’s dulled face. Then I fashioned a sling from my shawl and placed Charlotte inside, partly to help her rest, partly to keep her from public inspection.
I searched for somewhere quiet as I walked the downtown streets. Whenever I peeked inside the sling, Charlotte’s expression looked pained—which was no wonder, given the mayhem. Drivers cracked whips and yelled commands; police tried with shrill whistles to prevent collisions; street vendors announced their services and wares; and farm animals made their way, two by two, with farmers prodding them home from market. As I walked, moving toward the river, the day’s heat yielded to a cooler evening. I welcomed the cool but dreaded the onset of darkness, having never spent a night without shelter.
A stream at the far edge of a coal yard appeared to offer refuge. I crossed the empty yard, then sat on a rock and watched the stream meander into the Schuylkill River a short way off. I woke Charlotte with kisses and put her to me for a few moments’ sucking. Then I undressed her and washed urine from her buttocks with splashes from the clear stream—glad for her strength when she protested at the water’s chill. I dried her, applied lanolin, clothed her, and placed her in the sling. She went to sleep. We’d spend our night beside the stream, I decided.
As the bruised-orange sunset poured over the darkening river, I poured the coins and bills from my purse to count them. A scrambling noise emerged from a short distance away, where a tin roof leaned across coal heaps. I stayed put, expecting nothing larger than a skunk or a raccoon to emerge. But a squat man ducked out, his wide hand rubbing his eyes; under one arm he gripped a crutch, which took the place of his missing leg. He turned his meaty body and came pounding toward us, letting out peculiar utterances.
I gathered everything and ran. I outpaced him by so much that he gave up pursuing. But I dreaded to risk another such encounter. So I listened for the bells of streetcar horses and pursued their clanging to a more populated area. I took up a steady, pointless marching, this time finding reassurance in the press of other people and conveyances. Charlotte slept, regardless.
Darkness grew. I nursed Charlotte in little amounts when privacy was possible. In a prosperous section, lamplighters began to walk from orb to orb, creating gaseous haloes against the darkness. Fancy folk traipsed down the well-scrubbed stoops of their homes; they stepped into carriages, and muscular horses moved them toward their night’s adventures. I continued moving my feet in succession. The monotony might have put me into a sort of trance, were it not for the spasms traveling my arms and neck from the unrelenting weight of Charlotte and the valise.
She wasn’t vomiting, thank goodness. But her diarrhea and the sore required frequent changes, and already I had no more clean diapers and no dry blanket. A rag-seller with a burdened cart sold me fabric that I cut up with my penknife. At a public fountain I gulped cool water. Once, faint with hunger and weariness, I sat on a stoop to rest and ate the last of the cake from Miss Baker. Asked by a housemaid to move along, I walked some more. The stillness of the baby against my chest was like a knife pricking me. From its little cuts oozed my sorrow and my guilt.
Midnight neared. Out of the taverns and saloons came swaggering the men of high and low society, lewd and careless. Many turned their heads about as if seeking something. Women who’d previously seemed stranded against the buildings began to respond like marionettes whom the night’s crude music brought to life. Some were dressed no differently than average factory girls, and perhaps were such; these ones stepped slowly forward, as if reluctant to succeed in drawing their quarry. Others wore festive hats and gowns and had paste jewelry at their necks and ears; these went boldly on display, approaching men with waggling gaits.
“Won’t ya have a drink with me?” one called.
“Lonely, Johnny?” asked another.