by Ami McKay
He waved as he jumped off the steps, holding his other hand over his pocket to keep his money from falling out. “Grazie, Maxine. Ciao, bella!”
Maxine ushered me through a large, open foyer and into the parlour. She took my hands and now kissed me on both cheeks. “Welcome to our humble home. So good to have you here, Dora.”
A young woman was seated on a sofa, reading. Her skin was brown, but not dark, more like the colour of Miss B.’s, café au lait. Black hair braided and piled on her head, hands graceful and reverent as she studied her open book, she looked like a queen, or the likeness of Nefertiti that serves as the handle for one of Aunt Fran’s silver spoons.
Maxine introduced us. “Judith, my love, this is Charlie’s Dora.”
Judith stared over the top of her book just long enough to say “hello.” Her mouth made the polite shape of the word, but her voice was so shy and faint that I had to imagine for myself how it sounded. Other women’s voices echoed through the house, laughing, singing, calling back and forth from room to room.
Maxine motioned for me to sit next to her on a green, velvet-covered settee. “We received a telegram yesterday—from a Mr. Hart Bigelow—announcing your arrival. Charlie is more than anxious to see you. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t mention your name.”
I looked around the room for traces left behind by my brother. “Will he be here soon?” The parlour walls were lined with bookcases and paintings, the windows framed with the finest fabrics and lace. Not a spot of dirt had been trampled into the rugs or left on the tiles in the hallway. Nothing I had seen so far gave any clue that Charlie, or any man, was living at 23 Charter. “I know he works for you, but he lives here, with you?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. Charlie’s a gentleman and a great help. He’s the man of the house, you might say. Wouldn’t you say that, Judith?”
Judith looked up again from her reading. “Hmm?”
Maxine gave her a slow, knowing wink. “Charles Rare is definitely the man of this house.”
Judith moved the book in front of her face. “Yes, Max. Yes, he sure is.”
Maxine puffed on the end of a cigarette holder, then hollowed out three smoke rings over her head. “Would you like something to drink? I think we have some lemonade in the icebox, or something a little more stiff if you need it.” This time, she winked at me. “And who could blame you if you did…you’ve come a long way from Nova Scotia, love.”
Maxine and the other women in the house were all quick to serve me. A tall, lanky young woman with paint-spattered overalls placed a plate of cold cuts and a bowl of peaches with clotted cream in front of me. She wiped her hand on the edge of the tablecloth. “Rachael. I paint.” She extended her hand to me. “Judith, Charlie and me live full-time with Max. The others come and go as they please.”
Maxine corrected her. “Judith, Charlie and I. And the tea towel over the sink is for your hands, love.” Maxine took the towel off its rack and set it on the table. “I like to think of the house as a community of artists. Writers, painters, photographers, musicians, even an actress or two have come here in pursuit of their art.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m not an artist of any sort. I don’t want to get in anyone’s way…I can stay in Charlie’s quarters.”
“There’s more than enough space here for you to have your own room. Stay as long as you like. I insist. Every woman must have a sanctuary.”
My room is on the third floor at the back corner of the house. Roses climb up a trellis to my window, and their sweet, heavy scent comes right into the room, even at night. If not for the building next door, Paddy Malloy’s Playhouse, I’d have almost forgotten that I was in the city. Rachael calls it the Trap. It’s silent during the day, but once the street lamps are lit, the music rolls through the windows and pounds under the floors. It’s pretty entertaining once you get used to it. I pulled the corner of the shade away from the window facing the alley. The buildings are so tight together that I could eat supper and shake hands with the patrons at the same time.
“Don’t open the shade on the Trap side of the room or you’ll get an eyeful.”
I let the paper blind slap against the frame. “Why is that?”
Rachael popped her finger against the inside of her cheek and whistled. “The upstairs rooms are reserved for Saturday Evening Girls gone bad. Those honeys will do anything, for a price. Old Paddy Malloy sweet-talks ’em into being his chorus girls. A few extra trips to the backrooms each week, and she thinks she’s got it made. It’s faster money than fighting war widows for a spot at a settlement house.” Rachael ran her hands up her sides and under her breasts with provocative flair. “Who needs to learn to make pottery and show proper etiquette when you’ve got your trade built right in?”
A newspaper article had been framed and hung on the wall. The headline read, “Woman Bares All for the Vote!” A photograph hung next to it. Maxine was standing naked in front of a grand building with nothing on but a “Votes for Women” sash.
“Max likes to get people talking. That was just last month, at the state house. You’d never guess her family’s a bunch of high-society snobs.”
I smiled, wondering exactly what kind of woman Charlie had gotten involved with.
“Max might be a little crazy sometimes, but she’s alright, you know. Me and Judith could’ve been over there at the Trap if it wasn’t for her. One day she came down to the Baldwin Place Orphanage and said, ‘I’d like your two oldest girls, please. Make it snappy now, before it’s time for you to let them loose on the streets.’ No one argued with her, they just handed us over, no goodbye or nothing, just sent us out with a wave and a kick in the ass. We didn’t know who she was or what she was going to do with us, but we’d had nothing for so long, we didn’t care. Thank heavens for Max.”
Mrs. Dora Bigelow
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
August 11, 1918
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
Dear Bertine,
I know that you have taken my dear little Wrennie into your home without question or a second thought. Thank you.
I miss home. I miss resting Wrennie on my hip, the scent of talc on the nape of her neck, the grasp of her tiny hand around my finger.
Most mothers would send a reminder, a list to say these are the things my baby needs, these are the things you must do. But I can’t bring myself to make such requests. You are a good friend, you are a good mother. You’ll give her all that she needs and more.
These are the things you mustn’t do:
~ Never take her out on the porch to feel the mist of the fog on her face.
~ Never tie lavender over her bed.
–Never waltz with her, singing, “And the Band Played On”
~ Never kiss her cheek after she’s asleep and say, “Sweet dreams for a sweet girl.”
~ Never tell her, “Mommy’s coming home.”
I don’t know if I cared for her long enough to say I was a good mother, or even the right mother for her, and I don’t know if I’ll ever come home. But I’m hoping if you leave these things alone, in a matter of days or however long it takes, she’ll learn not to look for me. If you love her enough in your own way, she’ll learn to do something that I cannot—forget that I was her mother.
If Miss B. were here, she’d scold me and say this isn’t a time to feel sorry for myself. She’d tell me it was time I got on my knees and prayed. “Kissin’ the dirt’s the only way you’ll see heaven.” But I’m so far from home and everything I know that even my prayers feel like sinning.
Take care of Wrennie.
I know you will.
Yours,
Dora
~ August 12, 1918
In the middle of the night, I went to Charlie’s room and curled up next to him like we used to do when we were children. I touched his swe
aty, boyish hair and counted the freckles across his nose, waiting for him to wake up. Asleep, he looked like the dear little boy who was always my playmate, my friend.
Charlie used to tell me that we were twins, only Mother had to carry me a year longer than she did him, because I needed more baking to make me sweet. I’m thankful he ran only as far as Boston and that he stopped chasing after thoughts of going off to war. He’d be dead right now, I know it. His heart is too big, his smile too bright to have survived it.
I whispered to him that I couldn’t sleep, that whenever I closed my eyes I saw the faces of the dead in Halifax, Archer’s body sinking under the dark of the water, the trail of Iris Rose’s blood on my arms, my sheets, my bed.
They’re looking for me Charlie. Brady Ketch, Laird Jessup, Trude Hutner, Dr. Thomas…. They’re all saying I killed Mrs. Ketch.
The worst part is, I don’t know if I did or not. I couldn’t save any of them, not Darcy, not Iris Rose, not Mrs. Ketch. I’ve gone over it in my mind, closed my eyes and watched myself reading Miss B.’s Willow Book, boiling down the tincture, asking Mrs. Ketch to let me watch over her until she was right again. I never imagined it might kill her.
I finally fell asleep, Charlie’s arm snug around me. “Whatever came after wasn’t your fault. You did just what Miss B. taught you. It wasn’t your fault. You have to believe that.”
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
August 18, 1918
Mrs. Dora Bigelow
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
Dear Dora,
We hope this letter reaches you in Boston and finds you safe and sound.
Of course we are sick that you aren’t here with us.
Of course we are sick over the things that have been said.
Of course we will find a way to bring you home,
And give Dr. Thomas a whack on his crazy head.
That said, here is what we have been able to discover thus far from the gossip and reports that have come our way. It seems that when Experience Ketch took a tumble down the stairs, Mr. Ketch sent one of the boys down to Canning to fetch the doctor. When Dr. Thomas arrived, poor Mrs. Ketch was already dead.
Brady Ketch (the drunken bastard) claims you gave his wife some “concoction or brew” that made her “some crazy-dizzy.” He said she couldn’t help but fall. Supposedly, he has produced an empty bottle for all to see. (Nothing unusual for him.)
Dr. Thomas has been quoted in the Canning Register as saying, “This is a tragic loss for our community and the whole of womanhood. We must bring the guilty party to justice before she causes harm to countless other women and children. This is the kind of sad, inexcusable tragedy that comes when we dismiss scientific theory and cling to the ignorance of the past.”
Ginny has volunteered to visit Dr. Thomas’s office under the guise of seeking care for her unborn child. Yes, that’s right, she’s got another bun in the oven. Seems her confessing her sins to Laird were for nothing. She only swallowed half her cup of tea with mitts and spit the rest into her napkin. Sadie’s told her for all the trouble she made she’d better come up with something that will help your cause.
Wrennie is some sweet as ever. No need to worry about her.
Tell us what more we can do. We are anxious for your reply.
Bertine and your sisters in the O.K.S.
Mrs. Dora Bigelow
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
August 28, 1918
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
Dear Bertine and honourable members of the O.K.S.
Thank you for your letter.
I’m not sure what to make of Mr. Ketch’s tale. The truth of the matter is, I did give Experience Ketch a bottle of tincture. An infusion of herbs to make her lose a baby she didn’t want. I advised her that she should stay with me to make certain it had the desired effect, but she insisted on returning home that same day. What is confusing to me is that I can’t imagine the tincture would make her dizzy enough to take a fatal spill. She’d be prone to bleed to death before she’d fall down the stairs. A quick check between her legs would’ve proved if I am the one to blame, but it’s too late for that.
This is all I can give you. Judging by the way my words look guilty on the page, I guess I won’t be home anytime soon. Do not put your names or families in harm’s way over this. If someone comes to your door, you might be better off to “forget” I was your friend.
Kiss Wrennie for me.
Yours, Dora
42
THE DAY AFTER MY ARRIVAL, Maxine declared that I should have my very own “Independence Day, Dora’s day to meet Boston.” First, I was treated to a long soak in the most luxurious tub I have ever seen. It is a smooth white porcelain creation that curves out longer than my toes can reach and seems to sit atop four golden scallop shells. Running water from a tap. French milled soaps of lavender and rose. These things made me forget, if only for a little while, that I ever had a care in the world. Rachael cut my hair, leaving it bobbed just below my ears. Judith lent me a dress in the most modern style, a floral, sheer thing. It has a straight skirt, with long slits on either side. Maxine says they’re for dancing. “You never know when you might want to do the Turkey Trot!” She put a smart new hat on my head and rouged my lips, and we all went “out on the town” with Charlie.
My brother’s reaction to all this fuss was just as I’d expect, teasing and funny as ever: “Why, Dorrie, you look like a real lady. I hardly knew ya.”
Maxine responded with her own wit. “That’s the point, dear Charles. Today your sister’s whomever she decides to be.” She held my chin in her hand and looked me up and down. “Please make it anything besides Bigelow, you’ve far too curious a face for such a dower name.”
Judith chimed in. “I think you mean to say dowdy.” Maxine winked at me. “No, I believe I’m right in saying it’s dower. Perhaps you’d like to follow the Boston tradition and be known by the name of your birth? I find the name Rare suits you perfectly.” And so I was introduced as Miss Dora Rare all through the streets of Boston. From the steps of Christ Church to St. Stephen’s Church, up one side of Hanover Street and back down the other. Maxine has thrown my faded dress and black stockings into the trash. I wonder what Mother would say?
I wish I were half as confident as Max. It’s clear that she has no doubts about who she is. It’s in the way she dresses, in the cut of every word she says. She carries the city inside her, and the city, in return, carries her. Perhaps Boston will give some of its swagger to me. So far, it’s just insisting I stay afloat.
It’s been a few weeks since then, and the more I hear my old name said, the more I wonder if it even belongs to me anymore. Except for having the Willow Book under my bed and Charlie in a room down the hall, everything that was ever mine is gone (or so far away that it might as well be). In my first few nights here, I lay in my bed, the windows open wide, listening. Once, I thought I could hear the tide, the kind, familiar voice of the moon, but it was only the constant hum that echoes between the buildings and the mechanical roar of the elevated train.
This afternoon, we all went to Copps Hill for a picnic. It is a pretty place, filled with trees and well-groomed lawns, one of the oldest burial grounds in Boston. Its beauty is not the same as at home, where the green of everything (the grass, the woods, the moss on the rocks) gets its way. Even the fields that are plowed in the Bay aren’t anywhere near square. We plant around the trees and let the brooks mind their own business. Houses are built to sway with the wind, the women dance with the moon. Here, the harbour has walls and the buildings grow faster than the trees. People run place to place, always busy, always brisk. They are the tide.
At first I thought it an odd thing to take our lunch among ep
itaphs and stone angels, but Maxine explained it as a long-standing tradition: “It’s lucky to visit the dead, so long as you bring merriment and libations.” With that, she pulled a large silver flask out of the picnic basket, poured a few drops on the ground and clanked it against a faded, leaning tombstone. “To the wee Thomas Copp, may he rest in peace.”
Thomas
Son to David Copp & Obedience his wife
Aged 2 years and 3 quarters
Died July ye 25
1678
She took another drink from her flask and passed it on to Rachael. “Between temperance teetotalers and the Watch and Ward Society, poor old Beantown has all but lost its sizzle. Gött in Himmel, I never thought I’d see the day you couldn’t get a decent bottle of beer in this town.” She gestured to a large building in the distance. “Here’s to Mr. Burkardt’s brewery…shut down in the name of patriotism.”
She turned to me. “Has Charles told you the story of how he came to be in my employ?”
I shook my head. “No, but I’ve been wondering about that.”
Maxine grinned. “See, I knew she had a curious face.” She turned to Charlie. “Will you tell it, Charles, or shall I?”
Charlie had his mouth full of bread. “You can.”
Maxine sat herself between Charlie and me, one hand on Charlie’s knee, the other holding my hand. “It was February, and my dear friend Helen Ruth, knowing it had been far too long since I had been anywhere outside of the snow-crusted streets of the city, invited me to spend the weekend in the woods. Just as we were communing with the ghosts of Emerson and Thoreau, Helen’s husband, Babe, and a half dozen of his closest drinking buddies joined us at the cabin on Willis Pond.”
