That's My Baby

by Frances Itani

  Unknown to her parents, Billie had been having an intimate affair with Hallman—she referred to him only by his last name—ever since she’d taken an apartment in New York City. Her parents remained in Rochester, where they’d always lived. They had met Hallman once, when he’d accompanied Billie to Rochester, and they had instantly disapproved. He’s too old for you. He’ll bring nothing but trouble. Not that they didn’t have trouble enough in their own marriage. According to Billie, they had stayed together so long, they no longer knew how to live apart.

  Yellow leaves crunched underfoot. Tobe had his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. They walked along shore until they reached a canopy of trees, then turned to walk back so they could dance some more. Tobe nodded to people approaching from the opposite direction. Hanora leaned her body into his. As they walked, he kissed her temple, the side of her cheek. With Tobe, she was safe.

  She was also on the lookout for faces. Faces that belonged to men and women the age of her parents, faces of people her own age. Perhaps—she held her breath, this was a new thought—perhaps sisters or brothers. And why not? She would like to question the older woman who had mistaken her for someone else. She dismissed the thought, and reminded herself that this could happen to anyone. In any case, the woman had vanished.

  But Hanora remained vigilant. She was watching for hair colour. Gesture. Voice, a laugh, a likeness of any sort. She’d always been a listener, but now she had become a watcher, too. Thoughts darted through her mind. Escape routes, reasons to go off by herself to pursue . . . something. My life, she told herself. I am going to pursue my life. I can be anyone I want to become.

  She made up her mind that evening, while walking with Tobe, that she would get away. She would leave. Not forever—she didn’t want to leave Tobe forever. She would save her money until she had enough to travel, even for a short time. She was going to create an adventure of her own. She was someone different from the person she had believed herself to be, which meant that she could become someone different in fact. She had no idea how she would accomplish this.

  She would ask Billie to join her for an adventure. Tress and Kenan could hardly object. They might even think of Billie as some sort of chaperone. She was, after all, older than Hanora, and they knew nothing of Billie’s affairs. If they knew they would probably disapprove.

  Hanora would write to her cousin, knowing that Billie’s response would have everything to do with the state of her current infatuation with Hallman. She, too, might be ready for change.

  As for Hanora, she was in a state that fluctuated between disbelief and a strange sort of relief, as if she had known about her adoption all along. She would remain alert. Especially over the next months, while she was saving money. She would tell no one that her private search for her birth parents had begun. Because her search had to be exactly that. Private. Except from Tobe. Tobe was smart enough to guess, anyway. He had known her as long as she had known herself.

  FACTS ABOUT CHEESE

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF HANORA OAK

  National Cheese Week will take place Nov. 7–12, 1938.

  Cheese is a Vital Food. Serve it daily!

  WE are informed that one pound of cheese equals nearly two pounds of meat in food value. All hotel dining rooms and restaurants should be honouring National Cheese Week by serving local cheese on every menu.

  FIFTY or more salesmen representing cheese factories arrive in the city of Belleville, Ontario, every Saturday throughout the year. This is our biggest home industry, a million-dollar industry. Think of the numbers of visitors who will be here during National Cheese Week! (Guess the exact number of visitors and win a block of Old Cheddar.)

  CHEESE helps to prevent BRAIN FAG. Many people who feel “all in” at night have tried eating more cheese, and they tell us they experience a new vitality.

  NOTES from interview with Annie May, cheese factory worker:

  “We have a counter at the entrance to the factory . . . where we sell cheese by the chunk or by the slice to the locals. People from away will drive a good many miles to get here, our cheese is that special. Well, during the past summer, one elderly couple drove here every Saturday noon in their ’37 REO truck, on their way to picnic by the bay. The boys in the factory tore outside every week to look at the truck—where would you see one of those again? The owner told me only seven have been manufactured! Seven! The old couple carried in pieces of homemade bread and asked me to slice their cheese right here, while they made sandwiches. Now, you should know that we are not permitted to have onion inside the factory because of the odour, but the old couple—don’t write this down, or you’ll get us all in trouble—well, every week they brought in three slices of onion, layered between folds of waxed paper. Two were for their own sandwiches and one was for me. They got to know me and like me. So I added my slice of onion to my sandwich when I took my break. Nice change from plain cheese, bread and butter. Did one slice of onion hurt anything? Not on your life. I ate it; it wasn’t as if I left it lying around. Even so, you’d better not mention that in your article, and for cripes’ sake don’t tell my boss or I’ll be fired.”

  JANUARY 1939

  ATTEMPTS

  SHE WROTE TO THE ADOPTION AGENCY. SHE SENT letters to hospitals in the Toronto area requesting information about the birth of a baby girl with the given name Hanora, birthdate September 23, 1920.

  Information confidential.

  She contacted Children’s Aid Societies, child welfare departments, family services. She inquired about the Adoption Act.

  She had travelled to Toronto, alone, in December, hopeful of gathering information, of being given access to a birth registry.

  Documents sealed. Officials trained to deny.

  One afternoon, she visited her grandmother, Mamo Agnes, at the hotel. She took the risk of speaking alone with her, telling her that she wanted to find out information about her birth parents without hurting her mother. Telling her that she had to understand her background. She asked her grandmother, who was seventy-one, to keep their conversation confidential.

  Mamo Agnes had no information Hanora didn’t already have. She had not been told about the locket. She asked to see it, but did not recognize either locket or chain. Hanora watched her grandmother’s face and believed she was telling the truth. Mamo Agnes said that she had abided by Tress’s request to say nothing to Hanora about adoption until her parents were ready to tell her themselves.

  Hanora asked Breeda to go ahead and question her father to find out what he knew. “Be subtle,” Hanora cautioned.

  Breeda could get nothing from Calhoun. If he knew anything, he wasn’t saying. But what would he know? He rarely went to Toronto, except at the end of summer to take in the Exhibition. Hanora would have been adopted in November. Breeda asked him to think back to 1920, the year of her own birth, to try to remember what was going on at the time.

  Nothing but dead ends. Nothing Hanora did not already know.

  “I asked him if there had been any teenage girls around who became pregnant and discreetly disappeared to visit an aunt for several months,” said Breeda. “He was shocked by the question, probably because it came from his daughter,” she added. “Anyway, news like that would hardly have been published in the Post.”

  This was what Hanora wanted published in Calhoun’s paper, and in every newspaper in the province:

  Woman born September 23, 1920, Toronto, Ontario, seeks birth parents for the following reasons:

  She needs to know why she was given away.

  She would like to understand why society feels she should not ask questions about her birth, and why this secrecy must be honoured.

  She wants to find out if she was wanted or unwanted.

  If wanted, why can she not be acquainted with the circumstances of her adoption? Was her mother forced to give her up? Was this a selfless act? She has a profound feeling of empathy for her unknown birth mother.

  She wants to let her birth mother and birth father know tha
t a part of her is missing. She believes it’s possible that a part of them is missing, too.

  She wants to fill in the gaps, close the circle.

  She wants to know if she resembles anyone. She wants to know how others perceive her.

  And whose personality traits she has inherited.

  She wants her birth parents to know that she carries with her a permanent feeling of loneliness.

  She wants to meet any brothers or sisters she may have.

  She wants to reassure her birth parents that she is an important member of the family that adopted her, but she needs to know where she belongs in the larger circle, the greater world.

  Was she conceived in violence? She would rather know than not know.

  She wants to feel complete.

  She wants the questions to cease.

  She wants to move on.

  She wants to be at peace.

  She wants to know if her mother did not love her enough to keep her.

  MARCH 22, 1939

  ON THE TRAIN

  HANORA CHOSE SECOND SITTING. CLAM BOUILLON, chicken supreme with fresh mushrooms, mashed potatoes, carrots, her own pot of tea. For dessert, fig pudding with hard sauce, a piece of Canadian cheese. She felt the urge to write on the order pad: What kind of cheese is “Canadian cheese”? Our finest Ontario Cheddar? Ask me.

  She ate everything set before her.

  She wanted to linger among her fellow travellers, all of them unknown. She missed her parents, thought of the tearful farewells that morning. She called up her strengths, reminded herself that adventure lay ahead. She squirmed; her girdle was tight, uncomfortable. She was not ready to retire to her compartment. She tried not to yield to the sway of the train, tried to ignore the looks of the steward, who hovered, ready to clear her place.

  She glanced at the couple across the aisle; they were behaving as if embarrassed to be together. The man was in his thirties, grinning nervously, his eye teeth pointing like nibs. In contrast, the woman was all softness. Dove-grey hat pushed back over curls—the only woman in the dining car to wear a hat to dinner. She was fussing with her table napkin. She folded, unfolded, scrunched it inside her fist, dabbed at her lips.

  The two were speaking rapidly but in low voices. No, no. Leave it be. Leave it, I said. Dishes rattled in the galley.

  Hanora sipped at her tea. Watched tiny waterspouts erupt around the inside of the cup. Rested an elbow on the linen tablecloth, lifted the silver-plated teapot to feel the measure of its weight. Lifted milk jug and sugar bowl in slow motion. Poured a second cup of tea just as the steward ushered two women to her table. One beside, the other across. “I hope we aren’t disturbing. These seem to be the only seats available.” The one beside introduced herself as Marie. The other was her sister Annette. The steward seated them without a glance in Hanora’s direction.

  She was happy to meet anyone at all, and shifted in her seat as if she were the one joining the table. The women picked up their pencils and ordering pads, apparently entirely comfortable in dining cars on iron wheels. They ordered fish, put down their pencils and began to talk about themselves. They were returning to New York after visiting a third sister in Montreal. “Our fiancés died in the Great War,” said Annette, as if she must explain from the outset. “We’ve never married. So many men didn’t come home, you know.” They looked at each other glumly and Hanora thought of her father, who had come home, but wounded, damaged. She’d never understood for certain just how extensive the inner damage really was. Her mother, who had known him since childhood, had provided few details. Hanora had pieced together what she could, but the topic was seldom discussed.

  Marie perked up and began to talk about their sister, Mona, who worked as a seamstress for Holt Renfrew. Mona’s talent, she said, was astonishing. Any grand store would be lucky to hire her, and she’d had offers. Everyone wanted her. But she was loyal to Holt.

  “Mind,” said Annette, “she can’t afford Holt’s clothing for herself, even though she sits in a room, surrounded by mirrors, and stitches their clothing all day. You’ll never guess what she does. She takes an envelope of Holt’s tags home and sews them into the outfits she buys at other stores—stores that aren’t so dear.”

  “She has a sense of style,” said Marie. “Dresses, a tailored jacket I’d love to own. A dress for dancing, another for dining. Her closet is filled to bursting with clothing tagged from Holt’s.”

  Annette picked up the story. “We love visiting Montreal. Mona lives with her husband—he’s a bookkeeper—in an apartment right downtown. Their place is too small for visitors, and that is our lovely excuse to stay at the Windsor. The corridors are wide enough to allow for a horse and carriage, if ever one could get into the hotel. Every time we come to Canada, we treat ourselves to a special dinner in the hotel dining room. Our little luxury. Our gift to ourselves.”

  Hanora laughed along with the sisters, while continuing to glance at the man and woman across the aisle. Maybe they’d met recently and were headed for a passionate tryst. Not in a compartment as small as hers. Not likely. They had probably booked into a bedroom for two. When she returned to the sleeping car—Pullman, she told herself; call it a Pullman—she would pull out her notebook and record details and observations of her first-ever experience on an overnight train.

  On her way back to her compartment, she passed a door that was partly ajar and heard a man singing softly while strumming an instrument, perhaps a mandolin. Low, deep voice, almost gravelly. She could see outstretched legs, shiny caramel-coloured shoes, royal-blue socks, but not his face; he must have been sitting sideways on the edge of his bed. He was singing “Goodnight, Irene” and she joined in silently, the lyrics repeating in her head as if a sleepy country band had taken over her mind.

  While she’d been eating fig pudding in the dining car, the attendant had been busy in her compartment. He’d flattened the armchair, stowed the cushions on the floor and pulled down the bed from the recess behind the seat. Her tiny room was now converted to a pallet for sleep. She was sorry she hadn’t been there to watch.

  She locked the door, then removed her pumps and shoved them into the square metal locker overhead. Peeled off skirt, blouse, stockings and tight girdle—all of this while seated on the mattress. With the girdle off, she could breathe again. “Damn, damn,” she said aloud. “I should be writing about constrictive undergarments, about designers who create clothes that bind and torture. But who would publish such an article? Damn again.”

  She stretched her legs until her bare feet pressed against the wall. Her father had told her before she left, “You’ll be feet toward engine if you’re travelling Pullman.” He had not once left Deseronto since coming home from the Great War, but there wasn’t much he didn’t know about trains. She flung her stockings over a hook above the bed. The pouched-out heels swayed overhead and she laughed, thinking of the ads about SA—stocking appeal.

  Do you have runs? Snaky seams? Puckery heels?

  She was guilty of having puckery heels. She should be guarding her stocking appeal by using a special soap that would “save elasticity.” She knew very well that ads kept newspapers running, but she wondered why Calhoun did not discriminate when he ran them in the Post.

  Men of 30, 40, 50 who want vim and vigour for their rundown bodies! Try tablets of raw oyster stimulants.

  There wasn’t a man in her town who would take raw oyster stimulants—at least she couldn’t think of one. Maybe men with rundown bodies had secret lives she didn’t know about. Maybe they sent away for products that were delivered furtively, by mail. If Tobe were with her, she would ask and he would tell what he knew. “Vim and vigour” and “raw oyster stimulants” were definitely about sex. Who else would discuss such things with her but Tobe? She and Tobe had done their own experimenting, in private, and this did not involve raw oyster stimulants.

  The train lurched and she glanced at her reflection in the compartment window. The person she saw was Hanora Oak, half-undressed, gold locke
t around the neck. A locket once owned by a mother she did not know. She had little information beyond what she’d been given the previous September. She made a point of wearing the locket hidden beneath her dress or blouse or sweater. To spare Tress and Kenan? She couldn’t have said exactly why. They must have seen part of the chain; they must have known she had it on every day.

  During her December Toronto trip, she had made an attempt to ask innocent-sounding questions of a great-aunt in that city. But lips had narrowed and closed. The aunt knew nothing. The answer remained the same. Adoption records are sealed. Your mother adopted you here in the city, that’s all I know. Hanora believed her. What would this aunt know of a stranger giving up her baby for adoption?

  She had also hoped to find the office of the adoption agency the way it had been in 1920. She pored through old city directories and came up with a street name but learned that the agency had moved years before. Still, she located and walked to the old address and stood on a city street looking up at a row of third-storey windows. She might have changed families in one of those rooms. Unless she’d been adopted from an orphanage. From the vague information Tress had imparted, Hanora understood that her birth mother had given her up directly. The day she was told, on her birthday, she had not visualized an orphanage. There had to have been a middle person. She wanted answers, but found it difficult to question her parents because she did not want to upset them. They had provided as much information as they felt obliged to do, and that was the end of the discussion.

  From the street, Hanora had stared up and willed the building to release the memories it held. She entered, pretending to have a destination, and took an elevator to the third floor. From inside the cage of the ascending elevator, she passed Ladies’ Wholesale Linens, where women worked at long tables in an open room that took up the entire second floor. Maybe her birth mother had been a seamstress. She stepped off the elevator and found herself facing two offices: a partnership of accountants, an import business. Nothing else.