her left till it bled, and keened from five o’clock every afternoon on until the whole building seemed to shake … Blanche was delirious and vomiting by the time Arthur carried the infant away to ask Madame Johanna’s advice. His decisiveness filled Blanche with gratitude, especially when Madame found some compatriots of her own, the Hoffmans, to take P’tit in at once. Even though Blanche hurt twice as much when P’tit was gone—her left breast swelling up like something out of a dime museum, so ugly that she refused to let Arthur set eyes on her without a wrap for a week—it was such a relief, being quiet, alone with the pain.
Jenny’s scrutinizing the carte de visite. “But you said for his health. What’s wrong with him?”
Blanche blinks at the blunt question. “Nothing.” Nothing in particular, that is. True to his name, P’tit’s still tiny, except for the huge eyes. There’s a lassitude to him, a dullness that disappoints her. But Blanche’s siblings were all older than her, so what does she know about how babies should be? At least his belly’s round; when she reports this to Arthur, he always says it’s proof that P’tit must be eating well at the Hoffmans’. “It’s the done thing, you know, back home,” she says, her voice defensive.
“Is it?”
“You wouldn’t remember, because you left so young. One never sees a baby in Paris; they don’t thrive in cities. And rents are so high, mothers have to work … We were all farmed out to country folk,” she goes on, struggling to remember the name of the woman who looked after her. “I barely set eyes on my family till I was—” Three? Four? Blanche doesn’t recall how old she was, the day she was brought back. Just the feeling of being deposited among strangers, in that narrow house on the urban islet of Ile Saint-Louis that, she was informed, was home.
“So how old is your P’tit now?” asks Jenny, setting the picture back on the table.
“Almost—” Blanche reckons the months in her head, and is startled. Last week. How could the date have gone right by without her noticing? Was she drunk that day—drunker than usual? “Just about a year,” she says vaguely. Oh, well, never mind; a one-year-old doesn’t know what a birthday is.
“Do you visit much?” asks Jenny, putting on her waistcoat.
What a talent this one has for putting her nose in other people’s business. And her finger on sore points. “A nurse from the farm brings him,” says Blanche, as if answering the question.
Not to 815 Sacramento Street; P’tit hasn’t been back here since Arthur took him away to Madame. The nurse totes him in a basket to meet Blanche at the House of Mirrors. In the early months it was every week, without fail, even before Blanche had her health back. Of course she missed her little one; what kind of unnatural mother would she have been if she hadn’t missed him? Arthur came with her; two or three times, anyway. These days, the visits have slid to once a month, more or less, without Blanche recalling who set that schedule. They bore her and leave her vaguely uneasy. Blanche smiles and nods at her son’s slightly misshapen face for a quarter of an hour, privately wondering why he’s got a faint reek about him despite being trussed up in layers of starched linen. She once asked the taciturn, uniformed nurse, who looked offended and told her that was how they smelled, infants. Blanche doesn’t make the mistake of trying to pick P’tit up anymore; some babies just won’t stand for being fussed over, according to the nurse, who should know, Blanche supposes. She always brings him a molasses stick to suck, at least.
If she weren’t so busy all the time … It’ll be different when P’tit is old enough to respond more to her company, or at least recognize her. She’s just waiting till he’s got some spark in him, till he could be said to be thriving. Till he’s grown into the makings of a son worthy of the name of P’tit
Jenny’s scrutinizing the carte de visite. “But you said for his health. What’s wrong with him?”
Blanche blinks at the blunt question. “Nothing.” Nothing in particular, that is. True to his name, P’tit’s still tiny, except for the huge eyes. There’s a lassitude to him, a dullness that disappoints her. But Blanche’s siblings were all older than her, so what does she know about how babies should be? At least his belly’s round; when she reports this to Arthur, he always says it’s proof that P’tit must be eating well at the Hoffmans’. “It’s the done thing, you know, back home,” she says, her voice defensive.
“Is it?”
“You wouldn’t remember, because you left so young. One never sees a baby in Paris; they don’t thrive in cities. And rents are so high, mothers have to work … We were all farmed out to country folk,” she goes on, struggling to remember the name of the woman who looked after her. “I barely set eyes on my family till I was—” Three? Four? Blanche doesn’t recall how old she was, the day she was brought back. Just the feeling of being deposited among strangers, in that narrow house on the urban islet of Ile Saint-Louis that, she was informed, was home.
“So how old is your P’tit now?” asks Jenny, setting the picture back on the table.
“Almost—” Blanche reckons the months in her head, and is startled. Last week. How could the date have gone right by without her noticing? Was she drunk that day—drunker than usual? “Just about a year,” she says vaguely. Oh, well, never mind; a one-year-old doesn’t know what a birthday is.
“Do you visit much?” asks Jenny, putting on her waistcoat.
What a talent this one has for putting her nose in other people’s business. And her finger on sore points. “A nurse from the farm brings him,” says Blanche, as if answering the question.
Not to 815 Sacramento Street; P’tit hasn’t been back here since Arthur took him away to Madame. The nurse totes him in a basket to meet Blanche at the House of Mirrors. In the early months it was every week, without fail, even before Blanche had her health back. Of course she missed her little one; what kind of unnatural mother would she have been if she hadn’t missed him? Arthur came with her; two or three times, anyway. These days, the visits have slid to once a month, more or less, without Blanche recalling who set that schedule. They bore her and leave her vaguely uneasy. Blanche smiles and nods at her son’s slightly misshapen face for a quarter of an hour, privately wondering why he’s got a faint reek about him despite being trussed up in layers of starched linen. She once asked the taciturn, uniformed nurse, who looked offended and told her that was how they smelled, infants. Blanche doesn’t make the mistake of trying to pick P’tit up anymore; some babies just won’t stand for being fussed over, according to the nurse, who should know, Blanche supposes. She always brings him a molasses stick to suck, at least.
If she weren’t so busy all the time … It’ll be different when P’tit is old enough to respond more to her company, or at least recognize her. She’s just waiting till he’s got some spark in him, till he could be said to be thriving. Till he’s grown into the makings of a son worthy of the name of P’tit
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