The Birth House (24 page)

“Don’t open the shade on the Trap side of the room or you’ll get an eyeful.”

I let the paper blind slap against the frame. “Why is that?”

Rachael popped her finger against the inside of her cheek and whistled. “The upstairs rooms are reserved for Saturday Evening Girls gone bad. Those honeys will do anything, for a price. Old Paddy Malloy sweet-talks ’em into being his chorus girls. A few extra trips to the back-rooms each week, and she thinks she’s got it made. It’s faster money than fighting war widows for a spot at a settlement house.” Rachael ran her hands up her sides and under her breasts with provocative flair. “Who needs to learn to make pottery and show proper etiquette when you’ve got your
trade
built right in?”

A newspaper article had been framed and hung on the wall. The headline read, “Woman Bares All for the Vote!” A photograph hung next to it. Maxine was standing naked in front of a grand building with nothing on but a “Votes for Women” sash.

“Max likes to get people talking. That was just last month, at the state house. You’d never guess her family’s a bunch of high-society snobs.”

I smiled, wondering exactly what kind of woman Charlie had gotten involved with.

“Max might be a little crazy sometimes, but she’s alright, you know. Me and Judith could’ve been over there at the Trap if it wasn’t for her. One day she came down to the Baldwin Place Orphanage and said, ‘I’d like your two oldest girls, please. Make it snappy now, before it’s time for you to let them loose on the streets.’ No one argued with her, they just handed us over, no goodbye or nothing, just sent us out with a wave and a kick in the ass. We didn’t know who she was or what she was going to do with us, but we’d had nothing for so long, we didn’t care. Thank heavens for Max.”

Mrs. Dora Bigelow

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

August 11, 1918

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

Dear Bertine,

I know that you have taken my dear little Wrennie into your home without question or a second thought. Thank you.

I miss home. I miss resting Wrennie on my hip, the scent of talc on the nape of her neck, the grasp of her tiny hand around my finger.

Most mothers would send a reminder, a list to say these are the things my baby needs, these are the things you must do. But I can’t bring myself to make such requests. You are a good friend, you are a good mother. You’ll give her all that she needs and more.

These are the things you mustn’t do:

~ Never take her out on the porch to feel the mist of the fog on her face.

~ Never tie lavender over her bed.

~ Never waltz with her, singing, “And the Band Played On”

~ Never kiss her cheek after she’s asleep and say, “Sweet dreams for a sweet girl.”

~ Never tell her, “Mommy’s coming home.”

I don’t know if I cared for her long enough to say I was a good mother, or even the right mother for her, and I don’t know if I’ll ever come home. But I’m hoping if you leave these things alone, in a matter of days or however long it takes, she’ll learn not to look for me. If you love her enough in your own way, she’ll learn to do something that I cannot—forget that I was her mother.

If Miss B. were here, she’d scold me and say this isn’t a time to feel sorry for myself. She’d tell me it was time I got on my knees and prayed. “Kissin’ the dirt’s the only way you’ll see heaven.” But I’m so far from home and everything I know that even my prayers feel like sinning.

Take care of Wrennie.

I know you will.

Yours,

Dora

~ August 12, 1918

In the middle of the night, I went to Charlie’s room and curled up next to him like we used to do when we were children. I touched his sweaty, boyish hair and counted the freckles across his nose, waiting for him to wake up. Asleep, he looked like the dear little boy who was always my playmate, my friend.

Charlie used to tell me that we were twins, only Mother had to carry me a year longer than she did him, because I needed more baking to make me sweet. I’m thankful he ran only as far as Boston and that he stopped chasing after thoughts of going off to war. He’d be dead right now, I know it. His heart is too big, his smile too bright to have survived it.

I whispered to him that I couldn’t sleep, that whenever I closed my eyes I saw the faces of the dead in Halifax, Archer’s body sinking under the dark of the water, the trail of Iris Rose’s blood on my arms, my sheets, my bed.

They’re looking for me Charlie. Brady Ketch, Laird Jessup, Trude Hutner, Dr. Thomas…. They’re all saying I killed Mrs. Ketch.

The worst part is, I don’t know if I did or not. I couldn’t save any of them, not Darcy, not Iris Rose, not Mrs. Ketch. I’ve gone over it in my mind, closed my eyes and watched myself reading Miss B.’s Willow Book, boiling down the tincture, asking Mrs. Ketch to let me watch over her until she was right again. I never imagined it might kill her.

I finally fell asleep, Charlie’s arm snug around me. “Whatever came after wasn’t your fault. You did just what Miss B. taught you. It wasn’t your fault. You have to believe that.”

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

August 18, 1918

Mrs. Dora Bigelow

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

Dear Dora,

We hope this letter reaches you in Boston and finds you safe and sound.

Of course we are sick that you aren’t here with us.

Of course we are sick over the things that have been said.

Of course we will find a way to bring you home,

And give Dr. Thomas a whack on his crazy head.

That said, here is what we have been able to discover thus far from the gossip and reports that have come our way. It seems that when Experience Ketch took a tumble down the stairs, Mr. Ketch sent one of the boys down to Canning to fetch the doctor. When Dr. Thomas arrived, poor Mrs. Ketch was already dead.

Brady Ketch (the drunken bastard) claims you gave his wife some “concoction or brew” that made her “some crazy-dizzy.” He said she couldn’t help but fall. Supposedly, he has produced an empty bottle for all to see. (Nothing unusual for him.)

Dr. Thomas has been quoted in the
Canning Register
as saying, “This is a tragic loss for our community and the whole of womanhood. We must bring the guilty party to justice before she causes harm to countless other women and children. This is the kind of sad, inexcusable tragedy that comes when we dismiss scientific theory and cling to the ignorance of the past.”

Ginny has volunteered to visit Dr. Thomas’s office under the guise of seeking care for her unborn child. Yes, that’s right, she’s got another bun in the oven. Seems her confessing her sins to Laird were for nothing. She only swallowed half her cup of tea with mitts and spit the rest into her napkin. Sadie’s told her for all the trouble she made she’d better come up with something that will help your cause.

Wrennie is some sweet as ever. No need to worry about her.

Tell us what more we can do. We are anxious for your reply.

Bertine and your sisters in the O.K.S.

Mrs. Dora Bigelow

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

August 28, 1918

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

Dear Bertine and honourable members of the O.K.S.

Thank you for your letter.

I’m not sure what to make of Mr. Ketch’s tale. The truth of the matter is, I did give Experience Ketch a bottle of tincture. An infusion of herbs to make her lose a baby she didn’t want. I advised her that she should stay with me to make certain it had the desired effect, but she insisted on returning home that same day. What is confusing to me is that I can’t imagine the tincture would make her dizzy enough to take a fatal spill. She’d be prone to bleed to death before she’d fall down the stairs. A quick check between her legs would’ve proved if I am the one to blame, but it’s too late for that.

This is all I can give you. Judging by the way my words look guilty on the page, I guess I won’t be home anytime soon. Do not put your names or families in harm’s way over this. If someone comes to your door, you might be better off to “forget” I was your friend.

Kiss Wrennie for me.

Yours, Dora

42

T
HE DAY AFTER MY ARRIVAL,
Maxine declared that I should have my very own “Independence Day, Dora’s day to meet Boston.” First, I was treated to a long soak in the most luxurious tub I have ever seen. It is a smooth white porcelain creation that curves out longer than my toes can reach and seems to sit atop four golden scallop shells. Running water from a tap. French milled soaps of lavender and rose. These things made me forget, if only for a little while, that I ever had a care in the world. Rachael cut my hair, leaving it bobbed just below my ears. Judith lent me a dress in the most modern style, a floral, sheer thing. It has a straight skirt, with long slits on either side. Maxine says they’re for dancing. “You never know when you might want to do the Turkey Trot!” She put a smart new hat on my head and rouged my lips, and we all went “out on the town” with Charlie.

My brother’s reaction to all this fuss was just as I’d expect, teasing and funny as ever: “Why, Dorrie, you look like a
real lady.
I hardly knew ya.”

Maxine responded with her own wit. “That’s the point, dear Charles. Today your sister’s whomever she decides to be.” She held my chin in her hand and looked me up and down. “Please make it anything besides Bigelow
,
you’ve far too curious a face for such a dower name.”

Judith chimed in. “I think you mean to say
dowdy.
” Maxine winked at me. “No, I believe I’m right in saying it’s
dower.
Perhaps you’d like to follow the Boston tradition and be known by the name of your birth? I find the name Rare suits you perfectly.” And so I was introduced as Miss Dora Rare all through the streets of Boston. From the steps of Christ Church to St. Stephen’s Church, up one side of Hanover Street and back down the other. Maxine has thrown my faded dress and black stockings into the trash. I wonder what Mother would say?

I wish I were half as confident as Max. It’s clear that she has no doubts about who she is. It’s in the way she dresses, in the cut of every word she says. She carries the city inside her, and the city, in return, carries her. Perhaps Boston will give some of its swagger to me. So far, it’s just insisting I stay afloat.

It’s been a few weeks since then, and the more I hear my old name said, the more I wonder if it even belongs to me anymore. Except for having the Willow Book under my bed and Charlie in a room down the hall, everything that was ever mine is gone (or so far away that it might as well be). In my first few nights here, I lay in my bed, the windows open wide, listening. Once, I thought I could hear the tide, the kind, familiar voice of the moon, but it was only the constant hum that echoes between the buildings and the mechanical roar of the elevated train.

This afternoon, we all went to Copps Hill for a picnic. It is a pretty place, filled with trees and well-groomed lawns, one of the oldest burial grounds in Boston. Its beauty is not the same as at home, where the green of everything (the grass, the woods, the moss on the rocks) gets its way. Even the fields that are plowed in the Bay aren’t anywhere near square. We plant around the trees and let the brooks mind their own business. Houses are built to sway with the wind, the women dance with the moon. Here, the harbour has walls and the buildings grow faster than the trees. People run place to place, always busy, always brisk. They are the tide.

At first I thought it an odd thing to take our lunch among epitaphs and stone angels, but Maxine explained it as a long-standing tradition: “It’s lucky to visit the dead, so long as you bring merriment and libations.” With that, she pulled a large silver flask out of the picnic basket, poured a few drops on the ground and clanked it against a faded, leaning tombstone. “To the wee Thomas Copp, may he rest in peace.”

Thomas

Son to David Copp & Obedience his wife

Aged 2 years and 3 quarters

Died July ye 25

1678

She took another drink from her flask and passed it on to Rachael. “Between temperance teetotalers and the Watch and Ward Society, poor old Beantown has all but lost its sizzle.
Gött in Himmel,
I never thought I’d see the day you couldn’t get a decent bottle of beer in this town.” She gestured to a large building in the distance. “Here’s to Mr. Burkardt’s brewery…shut down in the name of patriotism.”

She turned to me. “Has Charles told you the story of how he came to be in my employ?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’ve been wondering about that.”

Maxine grinned. “See, I
knew
she had a curious face.” She turned to Charlie. “Will you tell it, Charles, or shall I?”

Charlie had his mouth full of bread. “You can.”

Maxine sat herself between Charlie and me, one hand on Charlie’s knee, the other holding my hand. “It was February, and my dear friend Helen Ruth, knowing it had been far too long since I had been anywhere outside of the snow-crusted streets of the city, invited me to spend the weekend in the woods. Just as we were communing with the ghosts of Emerson and Thoreau, Helen’s husband, Babe, and a half dozen of his closest drinking buddies joined us at the cabin on Willis Pond.”

Max winked at Charlie. “Charles came shortly after, delivering a secret cache of Mr. Burkhardt’s Red Sox Beer
.
Mr. Ruth, being the gracious host he’s known to be, invited Charlie to stay. As the night wore on and the bottles were tipped, I was asked to honour the party with a song or two.

“The next thing I knew, Babe picked me up, plopped me on top of the player piano and set the crank to spinning. Just as I launched into ‘Somebody Stole My Gal,’ four of his cohorts began to roll the thing out the door, carrying me away to the middle of the frozen pond.” Maxine closed her eyes and swayed back and forth. “What a beautiful night it was. My voice was clear, and I remember the full moon shining white through the trees. A few other guests slipped out around the piano to dance while I sang, ‘Good-bye Broadway, Hello France.’”

Charlie interrupted Maxine’s tale, grinning. “It was ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game,’ and I wouldn’t call it singing.”

Rachael laughed, spitting whiskey all over the ground. Judith slapped her arm while Rachael elbowed her, and said, “Well, he’s right, she can’t sing.”

Maxine rolled her eyes and continued with dramatic flair. “Just as we reached the chorus, Charlie cried out, ‘Everyone off the ice, she’s gonna go!’ It was madness—people were scurrying and slipping their way to the edge of the pond, while I was stranded on top of the piano.”

Charlie whispered in my direction. “She didn’t even notice—she just kept on singing.”

Maxine cleared her throat and went on. “Your dear brother Charles came to my rescue and skated me away in his arms, gliding along in his boots as if he were Hans Brinker. The piano, however, met an unfortunate end and sank to the murky bottom of Willis Pond.” She kissed Charlie firmly on the lips. “I owe this man my life. The least I could do was give him a job and a place to stay. He’s my lucky star.”

As we left for home, Maxine pointed out three children who were dancing around a wishing stone in the corner of the graveyard. We watched them as they skipped, merrily singing,
“Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”
When they were done, they each took a turn sitting on top of the stone, eyes closed, one finger to the sky, one finger to granite.

Maxine insisted we do the same. “Nine times ‘round, widdershins, and then sit on the stone and make your wish.”

Charlie wished for another kiss from Maxine.

Maxine wished for a kiss from Rudolph Valentino, but Charlie kissed her anyway.

Rachael wished for Mr. Ruth and the Red Sox to win the World Series.

Judith wished for more days like today.

I wished for Wrennie to always be happy.

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

September 5, 1918

Mrs. Dora Bigelow

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

Dear Dora,

We’d be more than willing to dig up Mrs. Ketch if it’s the only way to prove your innocence. Our ears are to the ground, waiting to hear whatever else we can learn. Anything for you, dear sister.

Ginny came back from Canning with a funny story, I’ll hand the pen to her to tell.

Hello Dora,

How is life treating you in steamy old Boston-town? I am missing you terribly and have the highest hopes that you will be home in time for my new baby’s arrival. I have found that Dr. Thomas relies on books and charts more than he relies on his heart. I went in last week to tell him that I have been suffering from ongoing bouts of morning sickness. (It had gotten to the point where I was unable to keep much of any food down.) He said he’d have me cured in no time using “the latest in obstetrical theory,” something called “the suggestive method.”

He came to the house and ordered everyone out, even Laird. Then he did the strangest thing…he brought the soup tureen from my grandmother’s china set (the only thing of value I brought with me when I married and moved to the Bay) and placed it in the middle of the bed. He ordered me to use it as my sick bowl. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to get sick all over my granny’s china. Can you imagine what it might do to the gilding? I turned to the side of the bed and got sick on his shoes instead!

He says that morning sickness is neurotic in nature, the pregnant woman’s way of gaining attention from a husband who is uncomfortable with his wife’s condition. “Very common and nothing to worry about.”

Laird told him “a pregnant wife ain’t nothing compared to a pregnant cow.” I’m not sure what he meant by that. Anyways, not to worry, I’m feeling much better. My only complaints now are swollen ankles and hands, as well as an occasional headache. “Very common and nothing to worry about. Eat more bread and less meat.” So says Dr. Thomas.

By the way, even if the doctor turns out to be right in all things medical, I’m still sane enough to figure out that he and Brady Ketch are thick as thieves. Laird’s mentioned in the past that Brady’s taken Dr. Thomas hunting, but I didn’t think anything of it until the last time I was down to Canning and Mrs. Thomas invited me to their home for tea. To my shock and sadness, the head of Miss B.’s beloved white doe had been stuffed and mounted, and was staring at me from above the mantel in the parlour. We are wondering what Brady got in return.

Much love to you,

Your sisters in crime, Ginny and Bertine

˜ September 12, 1918

The news of the white doe brought tears to my eyes. I guess Dr. Thomas won’t be happy until he’s taken every last thing that mattered to Miss B. My heart aches tonight as if I’ve lost her all over again.

Ginny’s comments about the doctor’s care also concern me. I can’t see how his advice will help. In fact, I think it’s likely to make things worse. Still, she’s prone to fretting and my telling her my thoughts on the matter may set her off. I’ll send happy words and a little advice from Miss B. and leave it at that for now.

Miss Dora Rare

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

September 14, 1918

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

Dear Bertine and my sisters in the O.K.S.,

Thank you for your recent letter and for standing by me through my exile. A special thanks to Ginny for her account of Dr. Thomas’s “suggestive method.” Just the thought of the good doctor’s surprise at Ginny’s “reaction” to his treatment was enough to bring a smile to my lips. I have a feeling that he’s left quite puzzled when the results are not as he expected them to be. Let’s hope this mishap leaves him wondering. Curiosity in medicine (and life) is essential…it nobly takes up where doctrine leaves off. Tea and rest, Ginny, and don’t forget to put your feet up.

Life in Boston is bursting with activity. The other women in this house are somewhat wild with their lives (and their words), especially the woman who runs the place, Miss Maxine Cabott. She is supported by family wealth and treats the rest of us with more than our share of whatever we might need, filling the house with glorious bouquets, our bellies with food, our hands and our minds with literature. How Charlie came to be her errand boy is a tale in itself that I could only do justice by telling you in person. While I can’t say exactly what it is she does, I can tell you that she’s had her heart broken at least once in her life, that her beauty is glamorous and brooding and that she always has her hand in something, “stirring the pot” as Miss B. would say.

Tonight, Maxine is hosting a suffragist meeting. We are preparing hundreds of postcards to be sent to those senators who still oppose women getting the vote. I’ll admit, I carry some pride in knowing that women are already persons of consequence in Nova Scotia. Sadly, though, I can see now that I never did enough to take any credit for our victory. Why is it that I have often thought to myself how unfair life has been for women, or for the men who are made to fight in the trenches, but have never been strong or bold enough to protest? Women have been imprisoned, have died for these rights, while I was complacent, happy enough to sit at home and knit.