I pulled the top and bottom of my pear apart. In each portion spread a star of seeds. The wonder of that moment with Johan pierced me.
Love had seemed my birthright then. I had believed he loved me. With the slender knife in my hand, I thought of terrible things—of bringing Charlotte to the street, where someone would find her, then cutting myself—of how, under those pear trees, without impedance, I could bleed and die.
I stared at my small darling, considering.
But if I let us both live, I thought, then one day I could share with Charlotte this vision of a simple pear.
The notion had a startling relevance as I held my blade aloft, examining its sharpened edge, considering what force it had in my despairing hand.
I turned the knife back to the pear. With only my attachments to Charlotte and to this world’s beauty as my reasons, I wrenched myself from thoughts of death and the relief it promised. I decided to slice the pear into bites and nourish myself with it, so that I would continue to produce milk for the bundled person asleep at my side.
I crunched. The unripe fruit offered a hint of its future sweetness. My chewing slowed until I lacked the strength for one more chew; I sank into a state of unawareness and then into a dreamless sleep.
Eventually, my eyes opened to the chattering of a pair of squirrels. The larger one was clutching the remains of my pear in its bony paws, gnawing at it with quick ferocity. A smaller squirrel lunged, intent on stealing the morsel, but the larger one leaped over the attacker’s back and raced up a tree. It stopped at a nest where the trunks of the two trees met and intertwined, then disappeared inside.
I raised my eyes higher, seeing how the trunks and branches were so intermingled that the two trees lived as one. Having begun their lives so very close, their only way to continue upward had been to join. There was no dividing them.
A nerve twinged in my chest. I pictured Father, solemn Father, sitting half the night before the embers of a fading fire as Mother’s condition worsened. By the time she’d died, his every movement pulled from a dwindling store of strength.
I’d blamed him for falling into his cousin’s arms. Yet in a blink, I understood his reason—not that he hadn’t truly loved Mother, but that they had loved each other so entirely that their trunks and branches had grown together. With her gone, he couldn’t stand alone.
And I can’t, either. I’ve clung to Charlotte.
We spent the hot afternoon hours in the shade, resting and recovering. I took that opportunity to change my clothing, since only blank walls overlooked us. But I had not one clean item for Charlotte, who was sweating in her blanket wrap. Then small red ants reached Charlotte’s face and bit her, which made her scream; they climbed to attack the delicate flesh of my neck. This was no lasting refuge.
On our way back to the station, we passed a house on a quiet alley with its back shutters closed; on its clothesline hung three white baby gowns, embroidered by some mother’s careful hand. A craving overtook me. While praying for forgiveness—though knowing this to be a specious and a cowardly prayer—I ran up and took the simplest gown, along with a pail that had clean water in it. Behind the woodpile I crouched to wash off Charlotte’s squirming body. Then I covered my child with the raiment another woman had made for hers, as if that raiment could bring us the security we lacked. I nearly sobbed with relief when Charlotte patted my chest and grinned, more clean and comfortable in her purloined garment.
When I returned the pail, a woman coming out the back door saw me and hollered. I ran off, ashamed.
I’d stolen more than a gown. I’d made her clothesline into a place where she’d fear to hang good clothes for years to come.
This was two days ago, perhaps the day before that. Daily I grind away more dignity on the millstone I’m circling.
Against a station wall, I write a page, then bat away the flies. Their winged black bodies swarm Charlotte and me, feasting on our sweat and grime.
Leaning to kiss her scalp, I inhale the subtle fragrance of her being.
NOTEBOOK NINE
Sixth Month 18
It’s late evening. I have a safe place to sleep and a thrilling plan!
Just hours ago I was seated on the Belgian block on Chestnut Street, alongside others without homes, chewing on a discarded sausage from a paper packet. I got out Albert’s handkerchief and wiped my oily mouth. A large theater sat across the street, and on its marquis were the words SARAH BERNHARDT, LA LIBERTé. I was wondering who this free woman was when a police wagon pulled up!
Two policemen were instantly upon the crowd of vagrants, grabbing and shoving, pushing at us with sticks. I dropped my food and tucked the handkerchief into my pocket. Caught in a throng that moved toward the police wagon, I hung on with difficulty to Charlotte and the valise.
The big, blue-coated men pushed several children and an inebriated man into their covered wagon. These unfortunate ones took spaces on the plank benches, skirting a woman’s body that appeared unconscious. Others cried and pleaded, tried to run, or fought to free themselves from the policemen’s grip. Then the hairy, sweating arm of a policeman yoked my neck. He pulled me toward the wagon’s yawning entrance.
“What is thee doing?” I tried to pull away.
“Takin’ ya to de station house,” he growled. “A magistrate’ll find work for ya.”
“I have work!” I said. “I only stopped here for a rest!”
The man rolled his eyes. “Dat’s what dey all say. If we took ’em at dere word, we’d have nuttin’ but scum on de streets.” He shoved me toward the wagon, then released me to slap his stick on the arms of children seeking to climb out. I tried to move away, but he grabbed me again. Charlotte squawked from within her shawl sling.
“Watch out for my baby!”
“Oh, ya got a bastard, heh?” He snickered.
I pulled against his force; he bent and put his arms behind my thighs, then lifted me. I struggled to keep hold of my valise. At that moment, an imperious voice rang across the street—and toward us came striding none other than Clementina, her shoulders thrust back, her head erect in a high-crowned hat. She must have come to see la Liberté.
“I asked you, sir, what are you doing to this woman?” she said.
“She’ll be goin’ to de almshouse or de workhouse, ma’am. Why, d’ya know ’er?”
“Certainly I know her.” Clementina scowled. “She was in my employ. A good woman she is, with no business in your wagon.”
Astounded, I gave her the nearest that a terrified person could to a grateful smile.
Another policeman replied, his spectacles halfway down his nose from his exertions. “If she’s no longer in your employ,” he observed, “then she’s most likely a vagrant. We’re bound by law to take her.”