Lazaretto (3 page)

“I put in hours at a midwife's establishment. We lost a baby yesterday.”

“Awl,” Nevada said. “Sorry to hear it.”

Sylvia shrugged. “I'll be well enough about it.”

“Really? Look to me like a good cry is in order.”

“Well, that proves you don't know half of what think you do,” Sylvia said. Then she did cry. It was a continuous cry. She made loud hawking sounds that overrode the noise of Miss Ma's intermittent laughter bursts coming from the other room.

Nevada spooned up a bowl of cabbage and set it in front of Sylvia. “My grandmother puts a secret ingredient in her cabbage known to heal a broken heart. She made a extra good amount on account of the president's death and done already sent it up and down the block. No harm in sampling it.”

Sylvia took just a forkful, and shortly she was slurping it down. It was warm and slick, soothing. Nevada had started on another story about another man, and Sylvia sat back and braced herself for the laughter waiting to come.

A WEEK AND
a day after Meda gave birth, the same day that the president's casket was slated to arrive in Philadelphia, Dr. Miss declared Meda well enough to leave. Meda presented Sylvia with a parting gift, a sketch of the president wearing a playful face, winking his eye. Sylvia was impressed; Meda could tell, as Sylvia giggled and asked Meda why she chose to render him in such a way.

“Because he is my father,” Meda said.

“Ma'am?” Sylvia said, thinking she'd not heard her correctly as she looked at Meda standing there in her crisp frock, her hair pulled back in a neat bun; how pretty she was was more apparent now as her face had begun to recover from the changes pregnancy brings about; her pert nose no longer stretched wider across her face, the splotches erased from under her eyes, her eyes big and dark and innocent like a doll baby's eyes. Her posture, like her speech, was of the girls who'd been to finishing school, though Sylvia had learned during their talks the past week that Meda had been educated by the Quakers, as her mother worked for them, cleaning penitentiary cells. She appeared perfectly sane standing there, and yet she'd just made an outrageous claim.

“I served him tea when he was in Philadelphia for the Sanitary Fair June past,” Meda said to Sylvia's confused expression. “His ill-tempered wife had just yelled at him in the most horrid way and brought him to tears. I sat with him and he talked with me
and it calmed him. He called me Daughter, said that if he could have been so graced to have had a daughter, he would have hoped that she would have had my comportment. And I thought that perhaps I am his daughter.”

“But what makes you think perhaps?”

Meda turned to look at the picture of Abraham Lincoln hanging over the mantel that had helped her as she'd pushed her baby into the world. She didn't try to explain to Sylvia how, when she'd asked her mother who her father was, her mother told her, “Pick a one; pick a good one and just say he be the one.” And over the years, when Meda would relay her choice of a father, her mother most always grimaced. But just before her mother died, Meda told her that she'd chosen Mr. Lincoln for her father. “Say so? Hear tell he got some black in 'im,” her mother had said, and then she blushed. Meda thought it the blush of a woman smitten. She wondered about the blush, the possibility the blush suggested. Allowed the possibility to settle in, thinking who could know for sure anyhow.

She said that to Sylvia's confused expression now. “Because of the way things are, Sylvia, who can know for sure?” She watched the confusion on Sylvia's face slowly dissipate. Meda knew Sylvia would understand, she was a smart one. Meda, thinking now that had her baby lived, she would have given a similar reply when the question of a father came up: pick a one, pick a good one.

Sylvia did a half-curtsy. “I shall cherish this sketching always, Miss Meda. It will bring me comfort in these longs days that we must suffer through without President Lincoln, to know that there was such a playful side to him, and that you had the privilege of serving him tea.”

Sylvia hugged Meda then, and helped her into her cape and saw her through the door into the April air that was unseasonably warm.

THE AIR WAS
still warm and smelled of horse manure and sweet corn outside of Independence Hall, where Meda stood. Church bells rang and clashed. A cannon pulled rank with its gusty boom. Soldiers stood in formation. And under a black and silver sky that matched the casket going in, men in well-cut suits with vest-pocket timepieces gathered to view Abraham Lincoln's remains. The mayor had set aside the hours of ten in the evening till one in the morning for the city's elite to spend time with the corpse among only themselves. The presence of the soldiers held the everyday people at bay. But Meda was determined to get in, too.

This would be her only chance, as she'd just learned that Tom Benin had loaned her out for the next two weeks to an orphanage for poor white boys as part of his charitable contributions. If she would have a turn at viewing the president's remains, she'd have to figure out a means to wrestle the time away. So she proposed arriving at the orphanage that night instead of in the morning to get a jump on whatever her duties there would be, and when Tom Benin agreed, she'd taken a detour to finagle her way into Independence Hall.

She surveyed the line and tried to keep her emotions in check: partly she felt rage at this assemblage of rich white men getting exclusive time with the fallen president who'd preached equality; partly she felt grief over the sagging void where his sense of fairness had once lived and breathed; partly she felt the thunderous pressure in her breasts as if her monthly curse had come on like a cloudburst, except that it wasn't her monthly curse, it was just her breasts that ached as if all the hurt she'd ever known in her nineteen years had crowded there for an uprising that pulsed and squeezed. She pictured her hands reaching through the darkness in Dr. Miss's procedure room, reaching for her baby.

She managed through the boisterous crowds of mourners into the exclusive area where invitation-holders waited more patiently.
She advanced through the line by cutting in and saying, “Beg your pardon, need to get an urgent message to the mister,” over and over, like a chant until she arrived at the archway into the hall and a blue-sleeved arm came out and blocked her progression.

“Who would that be?” the man asked her, as he puffed his breath in her face, and she felt as if she'd been slapped.

“Mr. Tom Benin,” she said, struggling to keep her temper in check. She looked up at his lips, which appeared to move in slow motion. She balled her fists and thought what a great relief it would be to land one in his mouth, thought that such a move might even help ease the pain and pressure that she felt deep in her breasts, but she had the elegant posture of a ballerina and knew she'd damage herself more than him, so she unfurled her hands and played along.

“Point this Mr. Tom Benin out to me,” he said, and Meda looked up and down the line and each man appeared to be an exact replica of the one in front, the one behind, the one in conversation with the one adjacent. It was as if the bowels of the earth had opened in an extended torturous labor and pushed out him after identical white him, fully formed and dressed for this occasion.

“I cannot say exactly where he is.”

“Well, then I cannot exactly let you in now, can I?”

“You could if you so choose.” She stopped herself and coughed lest she call him a devil's bastard. She looked down. “His wife has taken ill,” she half-whispered.

“Let the girl in, for blazing sakes,” someone called from behind them. “Or move it to the side. You're holding the rest of us up now.”

He twitched his nose and then pulled Meda from the line and into the grand hall where the Declaration of Independence had been signed. She'd been in here once before when the Quaker women who'd schooled the colored children of those hired to
clean the penitentiary brought them here to allow them to touch for themselves the crack in the Liberty Bell. The air was markedly cooler and smelled of bergamot, from the men's eau de Cologne, and wet cowhide. Orchestral sounds of sad, slow hymns rippled just above her head as they walked next to the line and the blue arm cautioned Meda that should she be unable to point out Tom Benin, he would see that she spent the night in jail for committing perjury to an officer of the court, such as he was. “Yessuh,” she said, although she had no intention of pointing out Benin; she hoped he'd already come and gone. She just wanted to get close enough to look on Mr. Lincoln's face, was all. She knew that face by heart. She'd seen the president up close once and had memorized every detail of his face down to the mole on his cheek. She'd dreamt of him afterward and filled pages upon pages of parchment with her sketched renderings.

She was almost at the front of the line when she heard Tom Benin call her name the way he'd always say it, with a question at the end. He never barked at her the way his wife sometimes did, though his tone was more grating because it gave her the illusion that she had a choice. Meda? Please tell them to ready the carriage, or Meda? Please deliver my boots to be shined, or Meda? Mrs. Benin is under the weather and asked me to relay that she declines her evening snack. Meda? Meda? Meda? and she'd want to shout at him, just declare my name, please, do not give it the shape of a question when we both know that you are spouting directives, not options.

She walked toward the space where her name still dangled in the air, the rise at the end of her name. “Mr. Benin,” she said as the blue arm that had dictated her path retreated in exchange for the blue of Tom Benin's eyes that stared at her straight on. He was near to the spot where the men stopped to allow the one in front a few seconds alone at the president's side, and Meda went and stood next to him.

“Meda? Has something happened? Is that why you are here?” His whispered voice was urgent.

“Yes, sir, something has happened.”

“And that would be? Meda? Has something gone wrong with Mrs. Benin?”

“No, sir, not Mrs. Benin,” she said, slowly, hoping to drag out this back and forth with him until the white-gloved soldiers standing stoic at the foot and the head of the black and silver casket motioned that it was Benin's turn, which one now did, and Meda seized it as her turn, too.

And just like that she was looking down on the president and she gasped at how lifelike he appeared, as if he were still breathing. She blinked back tears as she studied his features and could see that his eyes remained sealed, not a quiver anywhere in his long frame. His face looked exactly as she remembered it except that he was darker now, dark the way she'd made him when she'd colored in her rendition of him on the parchment paper. Especially around one cheek, a spot on his forehead. She sobbed openly now, “Poor Mr. President, I am sorry, so sorry.”

Tom Benin had already moved along. Muttered rumblings of complaint pushed into the small of Meda's back. She ignored them and focused on the orchestral “Bread of Heaven” hymn that fell over her like rain. They were at the part that says “feed me till I want no more.” She felt a warm wetness spread out along the front of her frock, and she wasn't sure if it was from her tears or if her breasts had been unable to contain all the hurt gathered there and just overflowed like a cresting gully. It was her breasts spilling over, she could tell. She pulled her shawl closer around her to hide the deepening stain, then felt a gentle tug on her arm and looked up. A tall soldier leaned toward her. “Ma'am,” he said. In all of her nineteen years she could count the other times, precisely, when she'd been called “ma'am” by a white man. Exactly once. When
she'd met the president, before he'd called her Daughter, he had called her ma'am. The soldier extended his gloved hand. “May I see you out?”

He had one glass eye and one real one. The real one was a dusky gray and seemed to twinkle, and she wondered if he'd known President Lincoln in life; he seemed the type the president would have wanted to have around him. She took his hand, and with her other hand clutched her shawl to cover the place on her frock where her breasts had leaked their fullness. She didn't know which was warmer, the feel of his hand through his glove, or the wetness settling against her chest.

She exited through a side door into a near riotous bedlam as Philadelphians of every stripe—save the moneyed, who were being allowed into the hall—shouted and cursed and threatened to storm the cordon of soldiers and police. She didn't even look around for Tom Benin; she knew that such a scene would have rankled him and that by now he had hurried into his carriage and was halfway to his Germantown mansion. She was relieved that she didn't have to go back there tonight. Her hand still tingled from where the soldier had held it, and she wondered if he had been with the president's body on the train and through all the cities, wondered if, as a result, he'd caught a bit of Mr. Lincoln's spirit as it flew away, wondered if he'd transferred it to her through the gloved hand. She started walking in the direction of the orphanage.

BY THE TIME
Meda reached the orphanage she had decided that she would not be cleaning ash from beneath a dirty stove, or hard-rubbing muslin shirts up and down a washboard, or beating mites from a braided rug. She didn't even clean at the Benins', beyond a little light dusting, and turning down their beds. She was more their personal help: taking dictation for Mrs. Benin's notes, keeping their clothing in good order, preparing their breakfast and lunch and snacks, as they had a special cook for dinners. No, she certainly was not doing any heavy cleaning here. Besides, she was in mourning, she told herself as she stood in the foyer with the house matron. She introduced herself to the woman and apologized profusely for waking her—the matron, a woman much younger than Meda expected, was in her nightcap and sleeping gown, with a shawl pulled over her shoulders. She began ticking off a list of tasks for Meda which included cleaning the badly coal-stained foyer floor. She was in the process of explaining that many of the regular cleaning chores had lately gone undone, when she was interrupted by the appearance of a squat woman with a red nose and large ears who ambled into the foyer. “Not another wit a infant, Ann,” she said in a brogue so thick that at first Meda could not even understand her. “Please yer know hardly can carry along wit the two new we got.” Ann shook her head, said no more babies, and the woman disappeared, as Meda's ears perked at the mention of the infants.

Meda decided then that she would claim her own duties here, which would be nothing but tending to the infants. She looked up and caught the matron's eyes so there would be no mistaking her position. “Mr. Benin said that he had on good authority from one of your benefactors that you just took in several babies, and now she's just said the identical thing, so his instructions were correct”—she paused and swallowed—“that I was to come here to help with the caretaking of the babies, especially tomorrow, to give you and the others leave to view the poor dead president.” She pulled her cloak closer around her with a snapping motion. Then she looked down, lest the woman detect she was lying; she stared at the floor and traced the outline of the worst stain.

“Two newborn, just two,” the matron said, and Meda noted that her tone was not harsh, and she had not flinched when Meda looked at her directly the way that some white women did. In fact, as Meda glanced at her now, she saw her face soften, as if she was further inviting Meda's gaze. “An infant arrived last week,” she said. “The other two days ago. But there's a host of other duties for you to undertake.”

“Yes, ma'am, I understand. And if that be your position, and again, I understand if it is, but still I 'spect I'll endeavor to find my way back to the Germantown mansion, seeing as how Mr. Benin was direct about my undertakings while I'm here, and being acquainted with him as I am, I know he does not suffer lightly the misappropriations of his charities.” Meda had not censored her word choices as she suspected this woman was the rebellious type, likely an abolitionist, likely fighting for women to be allowed to cast a vote; the type of woman who would not be put off by her learned speech. She braced herself for her verdict.

“Ah, does he not?” the matron said on a laugh as if the notion amused her. She pulled her sleeping cap from her head and let her hair tumble out. It was dark and thick and suited her
eyes, which were likewise dark, and Meda thought her a pretty woman, tall and lithe.

“But you should know that we do not spend a lot of time rocking the babies.”

“I understand, certainly,” Meda said, sensing victory. “But they surely need much more than rocking.”

“And Tom Benin's charity aside—and I certainly do not begrudge it—what those newborns really need is a wet nurse.”

“Well, no offense to him, ma'am, but since he is of the male persuasion, he likely thinks that any of my kind might be capable of performing those duties at the drop of a crumb as if we are a sort of cow. Those men are most intelligent, even as they are so ignorant of certain things it befuddles a lady's brain.” She watched a smile form at the corners of the matron's mouth, and so she took full advantage. “I have maintained since I was old enough to understand that if gentlewomen ruled the world it would be a more satisfactory place.”

“I am inclined to agree,” the matron said, “though we would no longer be gentlewomen if we were to try to keep the boorish men in line.” She allowed a complete smile to open up her face, though her face was long and slender like the rest of her. She asked Meda her name, and told her hers was Ann.

Meda curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Ann.”

“Just Ann will suffice,” she said as she showed Meda where to hang her bonnet and her cloak and shawl and pointed out the lay of the house: the older boys slept on the third floor on mats; the ones not yet ten years old were crammed into the largest room on the second floor. And the parlor on the main floor, where Meda would stay, was saved for the infants, since it was the easiest room to keep warm and just steps from the kitchen, where their food was. Ann extended her arm, directing Meda into the parlor, though she herself paused at the threshold. “I myself try not to get too attached
at this age, because often they do not make it to six weeks, which is why I personally do not rock them, or even hold them.”

Meda nodded. “How are they being fed?”

“I'm told that the blue-eyed one has a fairly steady appetite and takes the feeding bottle without complaint. The dark-eyed one is more difficult to satisfy, he wakes more often, has a more cantankerous nature.”

“Well, they both seem to be sound sleepers right about now,” Meda said, as she held herself back from peering into the cradles. She looked at the fainting couch instead. An expression of longing, she guessed, attached itself to her face at that moment because Ann told her to help herself to a seat.

“Do they have names?” Meda asked, not moving. She wouldn't risk ruining the connection she'd made with Ann by sitting while Ann was still standing.

“They've not been assigned names yet.”

“Any knowledge of who their parents were?”

Ann lowered her head, and her voice, as if the babies could hear and understand, and told Meda that one of the babies was found by a constable trying to nab a tax cheat. The constable had hid in an alley where river rats nested and heard the gasping cries of the hours-old baby. Thinking it a rat, he reached for his billy club and in the process dropped his lamp, and that illuminated the baby's face, which was still shrouded in placenta.

Meda placed her hand to her mouth, horrified. “I know,” Ann said. “It is difficult to imagine. The other at least came hand-delivered and swaddled the way a newborn ought to be.”

Meda wanted to ask who had delivered them, but she did not press. It was not as if one or the other was her child. Her baby died. And anyhow, her baby had been a girl. She did, however, ask Ann if names for the boys should occur to her was she free to call them such.

Ann told her to take the liberty to call them what she wished. She would adjust the notations in the log to reflect whatever names Meda selected. She backed out of the parlor doorway, saying that since it was well past midnight, she'd need to get at least some sleep before venturing out to pay respects to the president, and that Meda would find the feeding apparatus in the kitchen; and as for herself, she could use the couch for her bed.

And just like that, Meda was alone with the silent breaths of the newborns, which smelled sweet and sour like half-curdled cream. She pulled back the thick, knotty drapes to let in the silver starlight. She wanted to laugh out loud that she'd actually maneuvered time off from cleaning this house. She started moving toward the fainting couch, but one of the infants was beginning to stir and the cradle made tapping sounds, and then she could hear the screeches coming from the back of the baby's throat that cut through the air and made her chest hurt. She went to the cradle and lifted him up. As Ann had foretold, it was the dark-eyed boy. She held him at arm's length as he tried to twist himself into the shape of a ball. “You got eyes like Mr. Lincoln,” she whispered. “That's what I'ma name you—Lincoln.” She pulled him in closer and let him rest against her arm as she walked to the other cradle and peeked in. The other baby was still as death and she leaned her face in to make sure he was breathing. “You not too bad-looking yourself,” she cooed into the cradle. “Fact is, you kinda pleasant-looking. I'ma call you Abraham.” The one she'd just named Lincoln was moving spastically and pushing his fist into his mouth, and Meda began unbuttoning her frock at the top and went to the fainting couch. She finally sat. This sit felt so good, as if she'd gone to Heaven and was sitting with Jesus, except that Lincoln had worked up a cry that was shaped like a twister. She'd completely undone her frock at the top and now she reached in and down and lifted out her breast and touched it to Lincoln's
cheek. He turned his head with such a ferocity that it made Meda giggle. He clamped down and sucked hard. Meda winced at the initial stab of pain that cried in her breasts, and then the aha, the relief, the sweet, sweet relief as this baby drank and drank. “You a hungry something, aren't you, Lincoln?” she whispered as she covered the soft spot on his head with the flap of her frock. She cuddled him even closer as the black and silver air tunneled in through the window, and Lincoln took her milk until he was satisfied and then fell asleep against her breast.