Private Life (22 page)

Would he pick up the newspaper? Of course he would. Would he then thoroughly repeat

his cleanliness procedures? Not the Dr. Howard that I know. Not the crusty old man who

considers that a few dollars for the delivery of a child is not much to be earning in a day.

No, my girl, you must figure out some method for ensuring the attendance of Dr.

Bernstein."

The very next day, Andrew found her a pleasant room in a boarding house on

Ohio Street, only half a block from Dr. Bernstein's office. He took it for six months,

although they would need it at the most for two, and explained their plan to the landlady,

Mrs. Wareham. Since it was winter, and boarders were scarce, Mrs. Wareham was only

too happy to accommodate them, and since she was a kindly person with two children of

her own, she bustled about, making sure that Dr. Bernstein would have everything he

needed. Dr. Bernstein approved this arrangement, too.

By wagon and ferry, the room was about an hour and a half from their house, and

farther from the observatory. When she was at Mrs. Wareham's, she felt lonely and

wondered what was going on at her house. When she was at her house, she wondered

what she would do if she went into a precipitate labor. Dr. Bernstein had calculated her

due date--March 26--but everyone knew these calculations were more like wishes than

guesses. Every letter from her mother told her what she had to watch out for. Lavinia's

births had been either easy or terrifying, and as for Margaret's aunts, they were lucky to

be alive. It didn't matter that Beatrice and Elizabeth had "birthed like cows calving in a

field." Should Lavinia come out? She felt she should come out. If Margaret wanted her at

all, she would come out--"I'm sure I can stand the trip. I hope you aren't going to depend

on your neighbor Mrs. Lear for material assistance. She may be a charming and

entertaining woman, but from what you tell me, her ideas are very unorthodox. And the

landlady of a boarding house will not be able to give you the sort of help you need. I feel

obliged to come out, and I'm sure I am strong enough to survive the trip."

Andrew read as many books about birthing as he could, and informed her that

history was in her favor. His mother had never lost a child, her mother had never lost a

child at birth, and neither of her sisters had ever lost a child. Every evening, an hour

before the last ferry to Vallejo, he questioned her: How was she feeling? Any pains of

any kind? Any waters of any kind? Unusual movements? Unusual lack of movements?

He enlisted Hubert Lear to run to the observatory and find him at any time of the day or

night. They had several practice sessions in which she threw open her bedroom window

and shouted for Hubert, and then timed his appearance in the street and his speed to the

observatory and back. All of this was fine with Mrs. Lear, because it made Hubert feel

useful.

In the event, however, there were no difficulties. One day just before the due date,

she did, as Dr. Bernstein told her she would, feel the baby drop, and Andrew was home,

so he called a wagon, and they went to the ferry. She was ensconced in her room on Ohio

Street before noon, and early in the afternoon, she felt the first pain. Andrew ran to Dr.

Bernstein's office, and the doctor came half an hour later to examine her. Mrs. Wareham

shooed the children out, and the boarders were excited but quiet. Because of Andrew,

perhaps, Dr. Bernstein was on his mettle, and performed a perfect scientific delivery.

Once he had boiled his instruments and washed his hands for ten minutes and disinfected

them in mercury bichlorid, he stood with his hands uplifted and watched her as she

progressed. He never touched a single thing before he touched the baby, he did not have

to use forceps or chloroform, and the baby came shooting out onto a sterile rubber mat,

was wrapped in sterile wrappings, and was a boy. The birth was so quick that Margaret

was not daunted by the pains, especially after she saw the child. They named him

Alexander Mayfield Early. He was extremely large.

It was about nine that evening when Dr. Bernstein left, and Andrew and she

settled in for the night, with her in the bed (she didn't feel terribly exhausted) and Andrew

in the armchair. Alexander was wrapped in a blanket, lying in the cradle Mrs. Lear had

given them. Mrs. Wareham promised to look in on them every couple of hours, and said

Andrew could call her at any time. Andrew fell asleep, stretched out with a quilt pulled

up to his chin. The day had been fine, but the fog had moved in, and it was now chilly

and damp. The moist air made the moon, which was full, look gauzy and pale as it shone

into the room. Margaret ached all over, but she found the baby too interesting to admit of

sleep. She sat up as best she could and stared into the cradle, which was beside the bed.

She looked at his very round face, his hands, and the dark cap of hair on his head. The

room was quiet. He was quiet. He had hardly cried at all, which she wondered about, but

everyone else, even Dr. Bernstein, seemed mostly relieved at this. Mrs. Wareham had

said, "Oh, he's just worn out. And he's going to be a good baby. I can just tell." Even so,

she felt far away from Alexander, and she thought that if she could have him in her arms,

if she could curl around him like a dog, she would feel closer. She was supposed to be

sleeping, or resting, making good use of her time while she didn't have to nurse him or

care for him. Andrew sighed in his sleep and shifted position.

Margaret slipped down under her quilts and stared up at the ceiling. Things were

quiet for some time, and then Alexander gave a cry. A moment later, he started moving

about and fussing. Andrew shifted in his sleep but did not awaken, and Margaret inched

over toward the cradle and picked Alexander up. It was easy. He fit right into her arms,

and it was a pleasure to look into his little countenance. Of course, she had held babies

before. Beatrice, for one, didn't much like to hold her babies, so when they were fussy, if

they were going to be held, others would be the ones to hold them. She was plenty adept

at that little soft jiggle that babies seemed to like, and, sure enough, Alexander quieted at

once, and the bundle that he was seemed to soften in her arms and conform to her.

She had nursed him already, under the guidance of both Dr. Bernstein and

Andrew, and that seemed to have gone well enough, so when Alexander resumed

fussing--really a sort of mewing--she tried again. It was not terribly comfortable in some

ways, but it worked. And it was convenient. And it was silent and private. The last thing

she wanted was for Andrew to wake up or Mrs. Wareham to come into the room.

The strange became familiar. Once he was in her arms, she was reminded that he

had not "arrived." Maybe to Andrew and Dr. Bernstein there was an arrival, but for her he

had been here a long time. He had now become visible, that was all. The movements he

was making were exactly like movements he had made the day before, but visible. The

face turned toward her now was the same face that had been invisible yesterday, but now

she could peruse it. He was also a he. He had always been a he, only now she knew it.

She felt a momentary, almost enjoyable pang--that girl, that Anna, that face vanished to

the same distant world where that other face had gone, the face of the first baby.

Alexander's face was here, turned toward her. His eyes were open. His lips, when he

pulled away from her, formed a small triangle. As she looked at this face, she grew more

and more interested in it, more and more curious about it, more and more drawn to it. She

felt it change before her eyes from a strange face to a known face, and, more than that, a

face she could not stop conning. She stroked his forehead and the crown of his head as

gently as she could, and felt that new sensation against the skin of her hand, the smooth

warmth--not of
a
baby, but of her baby. It was interesting to look at his head. Inside that

head was also something new. Out of that head, things would blossom. That things

blossomed out of her head or Andrew's head seemed utterly mundane, but that soon this

would happen with this brand-new head struck her as astonishing.

Her love for Alexander developed right then, an almost physical sensation.

Margaret was not a fanciful person, but she felt it as a kind of invisible swelling, infusing

all her tissues, that she had never felt before. If she said she loved her mother or her

sisters, what she was talking about was familiarity and habit. If she said she loved Mrs.

Early, what she was talking about was delight and admiration. If she said she loved

Andrew, what she was talking about were the necessary arrangements of her life,

sometimes mysterious, sometimes pleasurable. But if she said she loved Alexander, what

she was talking about was a bodily transformation. It was as if he were a dye and she was

white wool. Looking at him and holding him dyed her through and through. As she was

thinking this, she must have dropped off to sleep, progressing bit by bit from staring at

him to dreaming of him, both states utterly peaceful.

Then came the shock. Here beside her was a female voice that was making an

exclamation, and she woke up at once. Something had happened to Alexander, and it was

her fault. But as she opened her eyes, she saw that it was very early morning--the room

was hardly light--and Mrs. Wareham was standing beside her. Alexander was propped in

the crook of her elbow. She was not lying on him, nor had he fallen out of the bed. Mrs.

Wareham was now over beside the window, and she opened the shade. Having done so,

she came back to the bed and bent down. She was peering at Alexander, and she

involuntarily pulled him toward her, which caused Margaret to embrace him more tightly.

When Mrs. Wareham stood up, Margaret saw her stare at her in alarm for a moment.

Then she said, in a soft but urgent voice, "Dear, the baby is yeller. The baby is yeller as

an egg yolk. You need to--"

Andrew was on his feet.

"The child is jaundiced?"

"Well, my land. He is. That's not so unusual, but ..." She stood with her hands on

her hips, staring up at Andrew, and he stared down at her. Mrs. Wareham said, "Now,

Captain, you go on down to Dr. Bernstein's house. He's going to want to know about this,

and I'll make Mama some tea and some nice dry toast. Go on, now." She said this lightly,

with a shooing motion, as if she weren't saying anything frightening after all, and Andrew

pulled on his boots and left the room instantly. She came over to Margaret and put her

hand on Margaret's forehead. She said, "You're fine. No fever. You're just fine." She put

her hand on Alexander's forehead, then his cheek. She said, "I don't know if you're a

praying woman, but you might start."

Margaret had been staring at Mrs. Wareham, but now she looked at Alexander.

His eyes were open, and the whites of them were indeed yellowish--she could see it more

clearly by the moment as the room brightened. Mrs. Wareham sighed, and shook her

head, then left the room. A few minutes later, she returned with a cup of tea and a plate.

She said, "Now, you give me the child, dear, and I'll hold him while you take something.

Just a little something."

She did what she was told, sipping the tea while she watched the other woman

walk him back and forth between the bed and the window, humming and making kissing

noises. She said, "You eat all the toast, Mama. You are going to need it." When Margaret

had done so, Mrs. Wareham handed Alexander back to her. His eyes were still open, but

he was making no sounds of any kind. Margaret tightened her grip a bit, as if to envelop

him. Mrs. Wareham went out, only to return with some more coal for the fire. She opened

the door of the stove, heaved the coal into it, and opened the damper, then went out again

without saying anything more. For whatever reason, it was only then that Margaret began

to feel real fear. Outside the window, the morning fog was thick. She could not even see

the green wall of the house next door. When Andrew returned with Dr. Bernstein, they

both paused a moment after they removed their coats and hats to rub their hands and

cheeks. Mrs. Wareham brought in a basin of hot water, and after rolling up his sleeves,

the doctor washed his hands very carefully, then held them up in the warm air to dry.

Margaret stared at his face, but it was impassive, waiting. She looked at Andrew. Surely

they had talked on the way and Andrew knew what Dr. Bernstein expected, if anything.

But Andrew, too, looked blank.

Dr. Bernstein took Alexander away from her, laid him on the bed, then

unwrapped him. He smoothed the infant fingers over his own forefinger, and stared at the

tiny fingernails. He felt around Alexander's jaw. He lifted both his arms and gently set

them against his little chest. He touched the chest with his forefinger several times, then

ran his hands over Alexander's chest and belly. He lifted and spread his legs, then put

them back together. He bent closer to the child and stared at him, or maybe he sniffed

him. His look was as intent as she'd ever seen on anyone. He looked at the soles of his