buckwheat cakes, and she paused
for a moment to watch the bright golden eye of the butter melt into
the darker gold liquid. "I heard Miss Travers and Mother talking
about it. They said the doctor killed the baby. It was a boy."
"Killed him?"
"Mmmmm-huh, that's
what they said. Everybody knew there was terrible trouble because
Mother screamed for so long, but the doctor didn't know what to do.
He had all these sheets draped over her, but he didn't know what to
do. And so when the baby came out backward, the cord strangled him. I
thought Mother would never stop crying. For months and months she
cried. She cried after the miscarriages, too."
"I don't know about
those."
"Practically every
year she didn't have a baby, she had a miscarriage, almost regular as
everything. Until a couple years ago anyway." Seemingly
undisturbed by the information she had imparted, Esther ran her spoon
around her plate, licked maple syrup from it, and spoke again. "Over
on Van Lennen Street, there's a lady whose baby died when it was just
a few weeks old. She was so upset, she had the photographer come and
take pictures of it. But of course its eyes were closed, so she
painted them in. I've seen the picture. It's very strange."
"Oh, and another thing
that happened--this wasn't very long ago--was, they found a baby in a
privy vault downtown. Dead, of course. They still don't know who
threw it in there, but somebody who didn't want it, that's for sure."
"Esther, there are
some very nice, very wonderful things about having children, too."
"Oh, I know, I know. I
didn't mean to be unpleasant. I just thought you'd be interested. No,
I know there are nice things. Miss Travers tells me that too."
She looked at Sophie out of the corner of her eye, a fey smile on her
lips. "Of course, she's never had any children either."
Before Sophie could protest, "Esther went on, "No, I know
the nice things. Really I do." She was not smiling now. "I
remember a story my mother told me. She said when I was born there
were a few seconds when she first saw me that she didn't know who I
was, whether I was here, or she was me. It was like we were both each
other." She looked directly at Sophie, her eyes suspiciously
bright. "When I told Miss Travers that story, Sally laughed, and
so Miss Travers sent her from the room."
Sophie had trouble thinking
what to say. "Maybe Sally was jealous because it was your
story," she tried finally. But that was inadequate, ignoring the
most important part of Esther's confidence. "It's very precious
to you, isn't it, the memory of what your mother said."
Esther nodded, and one of
the tears which had been gathering along her lower lids slipped down
her face.
They had both finished, so
they got up and walked into the drawing room, Sophie with her arm
around Esther, her hand resting on the girl's shoulder. "I like
the way you've done your hair," she said. It was pulled back on
the sides and hung in loose curls down the back.
"Oh, do you really? I
saw it in 'Godey's'..." She stopped in mid-sentence and looked
up guiltily.
"I don't care if you
read 'Godey's,' Esther." When the girl still seemed unsure,
Sophie assumed an air of mock severity. "As long as you're
reading 'Dymond's Ladies' Magazine' too, of course." She ran her
hand down a curl and let it twine around her finger. Then she patted
Esther on the shoulder. "A reporter from the 'Clarion' will be
here soon, a young man I promised to see."
Esther gave a quick nod,
and while Sophie sat down, the girl went to the mantelpiece and began
rearranging things on it. Soon she moved to the floor, where she
began making a pattern with objects from the mantelpiece. She was
sitting with her legs bent in inverted V's, and when she leaned back
on her arms to consider her arrangement, Sophie saw that the front of
her dress strained slightly. Her breasts were growing, and Sophie
wondered if she had begun to menstruate yet. And if she had, would
she tell her about it? Would her odd matter-of-factness
for a moment to watch the bright golden eye of the butter melt into
the darker gold liquid. "I heard Miss Travers and Mother talking
about it. They said the doctor killed the baby. It was a boy."
"Killed him?"
"Mmmmm-huh, that's
what they said. Everybody knew there was terrible trouble because
Mother screamed for so long, but the doctor didn't know what to do.
He had all these sheets draped over her, but he didn't know what to
do. And so when the baby came out backward, the cord strangled him. I
thought Mother would never stop crying. For months and months she
cried. She cried after the miscarriages, too."
"I don't know about
those."
"Practically every
year she didn't have a baby, she had a miscarriage, almost regular as
everything. Until a couple years ago anyway." Seemingly
undisturbed by the information she had imparted, Esther ran her spoon
around her plate, licked maple syrup from it, and spoke again. "Over
on Van Lennen Street, there's a lady whose baby died when it was just
a few weeks old. She was so upset, she had the photographer come and
take pictures of it. But of course its eyes were closed, so she
painted them in. I've seen the picture. It's very strange."
"Oh, and another thing
that happened--this wasn't very long ago--was, they found a baby in a
privy vault downtown. Dead, of course. They still don't know who
threw it in there, but somebody who didn't want it, that's for sure."
"Esther, there are
some very nice, very wonderful things about having children, too."
"Oh, I know, I know. I
didn't mean to be unpleasant. I just thought you'd be interested. No,
I know there are nice things. Miss Travers tells me that too."
She looked at Sophie out of the corner of her eye, a fey smile on her
lips. "Of course, she's never had any children either."
Before Sophie could protest, "Esther went on, "No, I know
the nice things. Really I do." She was not smiling now. "I
remember a story my mother told me. She said when I was born there
were a few seconds when she first saw me that she didn't know who I
was, whether I was here, or she was me. It was like we were both each
other." She looked directly at Sophie, her eyes suspiciously
bright. "When I told Miss Travers that story, Sally laughed, and
so Miss Travers sent her from the room."
Sophie had trouble thinking
what to say. "Maybe Sally was jealous because it was your
story," she tried finally. But that was inadequate, ignoring the
most important part of Esther's confidence. "It's very precious
to you, isn't it, the memory of what your mother said."
Esther nodded, and one of
the tears which had been gathering along her lower lids slipped down
her face.
They had both finished, so
they got up and walked into the drawing room, Sophie with her arm
around Esther, her hand resting on the girl's shoulder. "I like
the way you've done your hair," she said. It was pulled back on
the sides and hung in loose curls down the back.
"Oh, do you really? I
saw it in 'Godey's'..." She stopped in mid-sentence and looked
up guiltily.
"I don't care if you
read 'Godey's,' Esther." When the girl still seemed unsure,
Sophie assumed an air of mock severity. "As long as you're
reading 'Dymond's Ladies' Magazine' too, of course." She ran her
hand down a curl and let it twine around her finger. Then she patted
Esther on the shoulder. "A reporter from the 'Clarion' will be
here soon, a young man I promised to see."
Esther gave a quick nod,
and while Sophie sat down, the girl went to the mantelpiece and began
rearranging things on it. Soon she moved to the floor, where she
began making a pattern with objects from the mantelpiece. She was
sitting with her legs bent in inverted V's, and when she leaned back
on her arms to consider her arrangement, Sophie saw that the front of
her dress strained slightly. Her breasts were growing, and Sophie
wondered if she had begun to menstruate yet. And if she had, would
she tell her about it? Would her odd matter-of-factness
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