Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (45 page)

I was finally getting some pills? “Yes,” I said.

“I’ll phone in a prescription for Klonopin. It’s an anti-anxiety medication that should help you relax—it’s often used off-label for sleep conditions like this.”

Should a doctor I barely knew be prescribing me a sedative? Hadn’t he warned me about their addictive qualities?

“I’m only prescribing three tablets,” he continued. “Take one at night just before going to sleep.”

Three pills? So much for my future stay in rehab. “Okay.”

“If you’re still experiencing symptoms, I want you to come see me on Monday. But my guess is that after having one good night’s sleep, you’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. Thanks.”

After we hung up, I went straight back to the journal. Nothing was going to stop me from finishing now.

“FOR GOD’S SAKE,
where is Dr. Singer?” Angelina said, dragging herself to the bed.

I followed, holding the crying baby—still attached by the cord—and set it down gently next to her. “On his way, I suppose.”

Utterly done in, I sank down to the floor, lay flat on my back, and stared up at the ceiling.

“Olive, aren’t we supposed to cut the cord?”

I thought about that for a moment. It wasn’t an appealing proposition. “I don’t know.”

“I think it said we should in that pamphlet.”

I did not want to slice through that red pulsating thing—or get up off the floor, for that matter.

“Maybe it said you
shouldn’t
cut it,” she added. “I don’t remember.”

“Where is that pamphlet?”

“The last time I saw it, Sadie was on your cot paging through it while snickering over the illustrations.”

I enjoyed one more moment on the floor and then forced myself to stand up. As I searched through a mess of papers that had accumulated on my trunk, someone pounded on the door. I opened it and Dr. Singer burst in. “Sorry!” he said, rushing across the room and rolling up his sleeves. “Got stuck in traffic and ended up running the rest of the way.”

Angelina had said he was young, and I’d enjoyed imagining him as tall, dark, and handsome. As it was, the doctor stood at least a foot shorter than I did. He did have dark hair.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” I said, allowing only a subtle hint of sarcasm to color my voice.

“Too many people in this city,” he said, rubbing his spectacles clean with a handkerchief. “Now what do we have here?” He finally noticed. “Oh. We have a baby. Well, congratulations. Seems most of my work has already been done. I’ll just need to cut the cord and deliver the placenta.”

Angelina nodded in agreement and stared up at him with a serene smile. One would think she’d just spent the past hour at a spa. I, on the other hand, felt ready for a sanitarium. “Can I be of any assistance, Doctor? I boiled some water, as you asked.”

“Excellent,” he said, opening his medical bag. “That’s all I need. You did fine. More than you bargained for, I’m sure.”

While Angelina suffered through his final ministrations, I set about my own toilet, rushing to the water closet and then ducking behind the pink sheet to shed my soggy, stained clothes. He was finishing up when I emerged in a fresh housedress.

“Everything looks as good as one can expect,” he was telling Angelina. “Just as you predicted, your body was made for childbirth, like your mother. Did she have a history of delivering early?”

Angelina shrugged. “Early, late, right on time . . .”

“And have you chosen a name?”

“I’m thinking about the name Jane.” She looked at me.

I hadn’t expected this. “Angelina, are you sure?”

“If it’s all right with you.”

“Of course. That would be wonderful.” I whispered my thanks.

“Some bleeding will continue for the next day or two,” said Dr. Singer. “You’ll need to rest as much as possible and let yourself heal. Have you any sanitary napkins?”

“Yes. Olive, could you? In my dresser, bottom drawer. In the back.”

“Of course.” I knelt in front of her bureau, moved aside a union suit and cotton vests, and found the pads and belt, along with something else she’d stashed away: a small cardboard box labeled
RING PESSARY.

Dr. Singer was advising Angelina on how to nurse, so I took a look. Inside the box was an odd round object with a wire rim and a rubber pouch. There was also a piece of paper folded up inside with a doctor’s name and address printed on top.
Ernest Litwack, MD, 100 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
He’d written instructions explaining how the wire ring folded so it could slide inside, then unfolded to lodge in place. Afterward she was to inject a mixture of water and carbolic acid with a syringe.

If only there were a way to use this as proof that Mr. Vogel was the father rather than proof for why he wasn’t.

“As long as you nurse,” Dr. Singer was saying, “your monthly won’t return. But don’t assume you can’t get pregnant. Stranger things have happened.”

Angelina winced. “Don’t worry. That’s the last activity I’ll be interested in.”

Indeed, the events of the morning had convinced me I’d be perfectly delighted to become a childless old maid.

I put away the pessary and delivered the belt and napkin to Angelina. She accepted them without enthusiasm. “Sure was nice to forget about these for a while.”

Dr. Singer helped Angelina rise from the bed. “You’re very
swollen. Don’t be surprised if it takes a while to empty your bladder.”

While he helped her down the hallway, I hoped the baby would stay asleep. I wanted to take advantage of the interlude to speak privately with Dr. Singer. When he returned, I apologized for being a terrible host and offered him some tea. “Please do sit down. You must be exhausted after racing all the way here.”

“You’re the one who did the brunt of the work,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “Good thing she has you here to help.”

I sat opposite him. “I’ll be moving out soon, and I have to work very long hours, so she’s hired a girl to come in. I don’t know how long she’ll be able to afford that, though. It’s a shame, because the father of the baby is wealthy, but he refused to take responsibility. I wish there were a way to prove his paternity.”

“Someday that may be possible. We have a lot to learn about the science of human reproduction.”

“I have a question along those lines, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Of course.”

“I read in a book written by a medical doctor that women are most likely to conceive on the days just before and after their monthly. Angelina was told that’s the
least
fertile time. Can you tell me which version is true?”

I never would’ve believed I could engage in such a frank discussion with a man, even a doctor, but after what I’d just witnessed, it seemed perfectly natural.

“Most scientists now agree that midcycle, fourteen days after menstruation commences, is the most likely time for conception to take place.”

“The
most
likely. Not the least?”

“Correct.”

“So my source was wrong.” I stared out the window, thinking
how easily I could’ve been the pregnant one. I would’ve lost my job, suffered the humiliation of being judged, endured the agony of birth and the uncertainty of its outcome.

Though it was possible that Dr. Singer had it wrong and Dr. Galbraith was right.

“However,” he added, “I should mention that you can’t narrow it down so definitely. It’s possible for the egg to become fertilized at any time of the month. The sperm can live up to a week in the woman.”

“Is that so? I don’t know why all this information can’t be readily available to women.”

“God knows it should be,” he said, shaking his head. “Too many people believe withdrawal is a reliable way to prevent pregnancy. I should have a word about that with your friend.”

“She knows all about that,” I said, “and she did take precautions.”

“I see. Condoms are usually fairly reliable, but there is no guarantee.”

“She used something else.” I retrieved the box from her drawer and handed it to him.

Upon opening it up, he shook his head. “For pity’s sake.”

“What’s wrong?”

“This is useless. Completely ineffective.”

“Are you sure? It was given to her by a doctor. His name is on that piece of paper.”

Dr. Singer looked. “Ernest Litwack. I know that old coot. Someone ought to make him retire.”

“He also gave her instructions for some sort of rinse.” I pointed to the other piece of paper in the box.

He read it and sighed. “That rinse is more likely to cause inflammation than anything else.”

“Really. How interesting.”

“Unfortunately, there are many in my profession who never advanced their knowledge past what they learned in the previous century.”

“This might actually be good news.” As I mulled the ramifications, my heart almost beat out of my chest. “Dr. Singer, do you think . . . Is it possible to take legal action against a man who refuses to acknowledge he’s a baby’s father?”

“Yes, but the mother has to go before a judge and somehow prove the man is the father.”

“You mean by having some sort of witness?”

“People who would vouch for her character. Also letters or documents, that sort of thing. Anything that might help to convince the judge.”

“I imagine Dr. Litwack would loathe being involved in a scandal that might harm his reputation—especially one that occurred because he believes in an outmoded form of preventing conception. Do you agree?”

“He’s on the board of trustees at the New York Polyclinic Medical School, so I would say that’s a safe assumption.” Dr. Singer caught on to my train of thought. “The entire process can be horribly embarrassing for everyone involved. That can make the option of settling quietly, out of court, a very attractive one.”

“May I ask one more question, Dr. Singer?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you know the name of a good lawyer . . . one who isn’t too expensive?”

Dr. Singer thought a moment. “As a matter of fact, I do. And if it did become necessary, I’d be happy to testify that no doctor worth his salt would still be recommending the use of a pessary with a rinse of carbolic acid.”

“Oh, Dr. Singer, if only you would, that would be grand.” We were smiling at each other over the prospect of our coup when
Jane broke out into furious wails. I approached the bed along with Dr. Singer. Her small cheeks were bright pink, and the little mouth was twisted into a grimace as if protesting all the injustices of the world.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“She’s thirsty. Go ahead, pick her up. I’ll get some water.”

“Me? Pick her up?” I stared at Jane as if she were a ticking bomb. “I don’t know how.”

“Nothing to it,” he said, pouring some of the water I’d boiled earlier into one of the glass bottles Angelina had ready. “Just be sure to support the head.”

I scooped her up very carefully, surprised by how light and flimsy she felt. The creature seemed to sense my lack of confidence and screamed louder.

Dr. Singer held out the bottle to me. I held out the baby to him. “Please, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “holding a baby is a cinch compared to delivering one.”

I could see he was enjoying my terror and would not indulge me. Shifting Jane to one arm, I took the bottle and poked the nipple into her mouth. As soon as she realized it was there, she latched on to the rubber. I watched in silence as she sucked for dear life.

September 18, 1908

Today is my one-year anniversary of moving to New York. Never could I have imagined what a tumultuous year it would be. I’ve been working harder than ever, and then Angelina still needs me, and I’ve become quite attached to Jane. Now that she’s gained a few pounds, I do believe she’s the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen. I haven’t even begun to look for my own apartment.

Life ought to become a bit easier now, at least I hope so. Angelina hired a lawyer recommended by Dr. Singer. Dr. Litwack refused to involve himself in a trial, and Mr. Vogel decided to settle quickly. I would like to think some part of him wanted to do the right thing. Jane will be receiving a sum of money for monthly living expenses, and Mr. Vogel has added a codicil to his will granting her a portion of his real estate holdings. He insists it be kept secret until his death. Our lawyer has cautioned us that Mr. Vogel’s other heirs might then contest the will.

Since my account in this journal would ring true, I decided to tell Angelina of its existence. The lawyer told me it could prove useful to help establish the legitimacy of Jane’s connection to Mr. Vogel. Angelina was grateful to know about it and promised never to peek inside. I do cringe at the idea of anyone reading my words—especially her. She still doesn’t know about my night with Joe. That’s why I’ve decided to hide it away, safe and sound, in case it should be needed, but protected from curious eyes.

And so this is my last entry. I feel as though I ought to say good-bye. But who might I be saying good-bye to? I do wonder what someone from the future might think of us simpletons living at the turn of the century. Perhaps the day will come when women exist in the world as equals to men. If only I could be alive long enough to see it.