The Birth House (25 page)

Even with children in our arms, there is always more we can do.

Kiss Wrennie for me.

Your sister, Dora

P.S. As you may have noticed, I have decided to change my name to its former state, Miss Dora Rare.

43

A
GROUP OF WOMEN
, including Rachael and Judith, read from the Greek play
Lysistrata
for an “Evening of Letters at 23 Charter Street.” Maxine read poetry from Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
, and I chose to read from Judith’s copy of
Tess of the D’Urbervilles.
It is horrible to think that we must hide these books away and limit our sharing of them to an intimate, secret group of friends. They have been “banned in Boston” by the Watch and Ward Society, and those caught with such works in their possession are subject to fines and even imprisonment. Maxine has taken to rescuing whatever books, plays and art she can get her hands on. Tonight’s selections came from a raid of her mother’s estate, where she and Charlie recovered several boxes of literature that had been collected for a book burning.

“We thanked Mother for a lovely evening, slipped out to the carriage house, loaded up the goods and sped away in my trusty Hupmobile coupe. It’s the least that woman owed me for having to sit and listen to her rattle on about the evils of
modern
music. She thinks that anyone who’s out to have a bit of fun is headed straight for hell. No wonder Daddy takes his leisure in the dark of the billiards room (he and more than a few snorts of rum). I wish I could be a little bird sitting on her shoulder when she finds the fuel for her bonfire’s gone missing.”

Most evenings I’m happy to sprawl out on my bed and write letters, or make notes in my journal. Last night there was a wet breeze pushing the blinds in and out as if it were breathing against the window frame. The shade on the Trap side glowed red. As Rachael first advised, I’ve made it a practice to always keep the blind down on this side of the room, especially since the spindles at the head of my bed rest against that window. Maxine loves to tease me about it. She often sneaks into my room of an evening and tries to get me to lift the corner of the shade like a peeping Tom. I always refuse. I find it’s enough just to lie on top of the covers with the mist of the rain coming in, bringing hints of perfume, music and Miss Honey.

Since my arrival, Miss Honey has been a busy woman. She has, by far, the most visitors at Paddy Malloy’s Playhouse, and from the sound of things, it’s a different man nearly every night. Last night’s guest had a low, appreciative hum to his voice. “Honey, you always know what I need…”

She answered, in her bright, sassy way, “That’s right, I do, and don’t you forget who’s in charge here…it’s
Miss
Honey to you.”

“That’s right, baby, that’s right.”

Echoes of the rest of Paddy’s Saturday Evening Girls drowned out Miss Honey’s musky conversation, their heels grinding and stomping on the downstairs stage, the piano rolling, talking back in heavy strides of the blues.

A good man is hard to find

You always get the other kind

Just when you think that he’s your pal

You look for him and find him foolin’ ’round some other gal

Then you rave, you even crave,

To see him laying in his grave

The wind lifted the shade to reveal that Miss Honey had left the light on. Her shadow danced over the mister’s body with heady sweet perfume. He lifted her hips, tugging at her garters and lace.

“Mmmmm, Miss Honey, that’s right, that’s right.”

So if your man is nice, take my advice

And hug him in the morning, kiss him every night

Give him plenty of lovin’, treat him right

’Cause a good man nowadays is hard to find.

Most nights for her are like this,
she
being in charge of
him,
taking her time, along with the repeated sway of glass beads calling gentle and sweet around the fringe of her bedside lamp. In these past few weeks of listening to her conduct her affairs (far more knowing and better than any of the other girls), I have wondered, is it so terrible to be in her postition? She seems so pleased, so proud of herself, and as far as I can tell, she does it all with no regret. Maybe it’s the women who are quick to be married off for the sake of marriage, the station of a name, a supposed life or even a house…maybe we are the ones who have sold ourselves for far too little a price.

In other matters of love and the fairer sex, I have recently noticed that Judith and Rachael are a pair. I came upon them in the bath while they were washing, enjoying each other with more than the laughter of two sisters. Seeing them kiss and touch one another with such tenderness was enough to keep me there, watching through a crack in the door, holding my breath, until Maxine pulled me away.

“Let them have their ‘Boston Marriage,’ I say. Even the mother of temperance, Miss Frances Willard herself, had a constant companion in her dear friend Anna. I guess that bicycle she was always going on about couldn’t afford her a good enough ride.” The sounds of splashing and laughter spilled out into the hallway. Max raised her eyebrow and grinned. “No matter what form it takes, love is always a glorious thing, wouldn’t you say, Miss Rare?”

I smiled and nodded, wishing I hadn’t wasted myself with Archer. Although I can’t stop my heart from wanting it, I hold little hope that I’ll ever find love or even true affection now that my white dress days are gone.

Miss Dora Rare

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

September 16, 1918

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

Dear Bertine,

As you may already know, influenza is making its way through Boston and spreading to other places in America. I suppose it will come to Nova Scotia as well, if it hasn’t already arrived. I’m worried, especially for the children of the Bay, for Wrennie. As soon as you hear of it being anywhere close, please take care in following my advice:

~ Close the road to the Bay.

~ Don’t allow visitors from away.

~ Make gauze or muslin masks for the men to wear at the wharf and for anyone who must go down the mountain to Canning.

~ Have the men strip off their clothes before coming in the house.

~ Wash hands with hot water and soap.

These measures may seem foolish, but if you could see how many shrouded bodies are brought out of houses each day, you would understand. If someone does come down with it in the Bay, open my place as a sick house. No sense in a whole family suffering from this terrible disease.

Yours,

Dora

44

A
CASE OF INFLUENZA
brought me to Miss B.’s, once. It came on with a fever too stubborn for even Mother to cure. She tried everything to bring on a sweat to break the fever, including Father’s suggestion of wrapping salt herring around the back of my neck (a tradition passed on to him by a peg-legged sailor from Inverness County). When the herring didn’t take and the fever threatened to go higher, Mother bundled me in blankets and gave me up to Miss B.’s care.

“First, she done need a cold bath—to shock the fever—then a dose of onion syrup and a right good rubbin’ with castor oil.” Miss B. sent my mother away and told her to come back in the morning. “A mother’s worry don’t do no good. She has your love, that’s all she needs. Go home.” Mother wrung her hands, kissed my burning forehead and left.

Miss B. dragged a large tub in from the dooryard and placed it in front of the woodstove. I watched through drowsy eyes as she fetched bucket after bucket of water, her shoulders tight and rounded with age, the grip of her fingers crooked and determined. “This ain’t nothing, you know, your illness.” She smiled as she poured Epsom salts in the water. “You turned fourteen this spring, no?” She circled the salt through until it dissolved, shaking her hands, flipping drops of water on the milky surface.

I nodded and answered, “Yes, my birthday was—”

“First of May,” she finished for me. “I remember…I gathered the May dew the day you was born. You carried a caul on your eyes as you passed through. Such a beauty you was! Dark hair, pink skin, not wrinkled and ugly like most. There was no mistakin’, you were blessed with something that day…” She motioned for me to get into the tub. “A fever’s just a gift, tapping you on the shoulder. It’s when you don’t pay attention that it sets out to kill you.”

I lowered myself into the bath, body shaking, skin bubbling with gooseflesh. She dowsed my head and face with bowlfuls of water until I was spitting and gasping for air. Painful and cold, I felt my heart opening and shutting, getting smaller and smaller, turning into a tight, frozen fist. Eyes wide, mouth open, I wheezed out any heat that was left inside. She tilted my head back and spooned two large doses of onion syrup down my throat. The taste was wretched, but I was too weak to spit up the thick, dark mixture of molasses, onions and garlic. She took my hand and led me to the bed, her voice singing soft and low as her hands worked the warm oil into my clammy flesh.

My hands are His hands,

My hands are His hands,

Palma Christi,

Palma Christi,

The Hands of Christ.

When she was done, she spit on her finger and traced the sign of the cross on my chest. She fed me brown flour coffee and wrapped me in a thick dark quilt made from worn pieces of wool and velvet, her goose-footed stitches holding together the nooks and crannies. Like a map to heaven, it was covered with flowing patterns of roses, doves and hands pointing their wise fingers to God.

˜ September 19, 1918

Boston is being laid to waste by the Spanish Influenza. Each day there are more doors bearing warning signs or a hopeless, sad curtain of black crepe. As with the Halifax Explosion, people are quick to place the blame on the Germans, spreading rumours that secret agents are roaming the city and turning influenza germs loose in theatres and dance halls. They are looking for the source of their fear and grief, for a place to point a finger. The truth is worse than their imaginings—there is no one to blame, no way to stop it and no way to tell who will be next. Official statements are in the paper every day. “Avoid crowds, especially movie houses, dance halls and pubs. Avoid anyone with a cold or cough. Avoid nervous and physical exhaustion. Avoid tight clothing and shoes. Do not dance. Cover face when coughing or sneezing and do not spit in public. Chew food carefully.”

It’s been spreading through the girls at the Trap. Three days ago the sign was nailed to the door:

Today I heard Miss Honey coughing through her open window. I lifted the blind to look for her and noticed blue smoke curling out under the screens. I called to her, worried that the place had caught fire. “You need help?”

She opened the window, and more smoke billowed out. “Yeah, send somebody to shoot me.”

“Why’s there so much smoke, is there a fire?”

“Naw, just ole Paddy. He heard if you put sulphur and sugar in the ash bucket while the coals are still hot, it chases the flu away. I don’t know if it’ll work, but he might as well try. Half of us feel dead already, and the doctor refuses to call.”

“You can’t get anyone to help you?”

“We sent for two or three different ones, and they all say the same: ‘
Those
kinds of places with
those
kinds of girls are the worst offenders in spreading it around.’ Ain’t nobody care if a whore like me gets her six feet.”

I told her to tell Mr. Malloy to stop his smoke treatment and let in some fresh air. From the obituaries that have been running in the paper, I can see it’s not the influenza that does people in, it’s the pneumonia that settles in their lungs after. This afternoon I made a pot of chicken soup and handed it to Miss Honey through our windows. It’s the only safe way I can think of to help right now, as I can’t risk any sort of exposure. I will continue to give advice and send what I can in hopes that they are all strong enough to pull through.

˜ September 23, 1918

Maxine is bedridden. She came down with it two days ago after having spent the evening at a suffrage meeting in the Back Bay. I have insisted that I be the only one to attend to her, since neither Judith nor Rachael has any experience in caring for the sick. Charlie will be the one to go out and get whatever we might need, following my rules of always wearing a mask, never shaking hands and stripping off his clothes on the back porch and knocking for a bucket of hot, soapy water before he comes in the house.

The ladies of the Trap are recovering. One girl was lost; her heart practically burst in her chest after the fever had passed. I’m happy to report that Miss Honey has mended. She came to call today, bearing a small bouquet of asters and brown-eyed Susans. I couldn’t let her in, but she stood under Maxine’s window, singing her song after song. “Sugar Blues” was Max’s favourite, and despite feeling weak and feverish, she managed to whistle and applaud Miss Honey’s efforts. Charlie comes home each evening carrying a new-found cure from the pharmacy. They are useless, made mostly of soda water and boric acid.

I’m sticking with Miss B.’s advice:
Aspirin if the fever gets to where they’s gonna have fits. You can always tell it too…theys skin gets hot and dry, feelin’ thin like paper. If that don’t work, then dunk ’em in cold water.
So far, Max is getting by. She goes back and forth between fever and chills, and she can only hold down tea and broth. She says her whole body aches “like I was run down by the 6:15 train.” I asked her if she’d rather have a doctor, but she refused. “Charlie says you were born a healer; that’s enough for me.” I’ve sent him off to Pastene’s to get a jug of castor oil.
It’s gotta come from a believer. Don’t get it no place else.
“Tell Mrs. Pastene you need cold-pressed oil,
Palma Christi,
not the stuff you spoon down the throat.”

˜ September 25, 1918

She’s suffering today. Once we got through the worst of the fever, she started coughing, struggling for air, her chest heaving and tight. I’ve been putting mustard plaster on her throat and chest, oil packs on her body, and have even started singing Miss B.’s old songs and prayers. Charlie’s face is desperate when he asks after her. I think he loves Maxine more than she knows. I can’t lose her.

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

September 21, 1918

Miss Dora Rare

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

Dear Dora,

Come home! Come home to Wrennie! Come home to us! We are going to ring the bells in the church tonight in celebration of your innocence. Hart came to the Bay tonight with the good news from the fire hall down in Canning.

It seems that after all this time of trying to take care of his brood without a wife, Brady Ketch gave up his sanity. He packed the children up (the ones he could find) and took them down to the town square in Canning and tried to sell them off, asking $25 for the ones who could do hard labour and $10 for the little ones. This made quite a scene and soon after he started people began to gather. Hart, who was down the mountain delivering barrels of smoked herring, was among those in the crowd. Well, as soon as he figured out what was going on, he quickly went to fetch the constable, the same Constable McKinnon who has been looking for you. The two men managed to shackle Brady’s hands and feet and carried him away to the fire hall so he could dry out. Once the children had some warm food in their bellies and saw that their father wasn’t able to lay his hands on them, they spoke right up, telling the constable and anyone else who would listen the truth about what happened to their mother. (I put in a clipping from the
Canning Register
so you can read it for yourself.)

Here’s a note from Ginny:

Dora, I hope you’ll be home for my baby’s arrival. Mrs. Sarah Deft’s cousin, over in Halls Harbour, had baby number three under the care of Dr. Thomas at the Canning Maternity Home last week. He said her labour was taking too long, so he cut her and gave her ether! She required quite a few stitches, and the ether made her sick. The baby’s fine, a boy, some big, but she said she’d rather have had her baby at home. They’ll have to sell their best milk cow to pay the bill. (Sound familiar?) My figure is changing every day, and the wee one is making his presence known by kicking quite vigorously, especially in the middle of the night. I say “his” because when Hardy came to shoe the horses he guessed I was carrying a boy. Said, “He’s travelling right low.” You know as well as I, a blacksmith’s never wrong at guessing babies.

I will admit I’ve been feeling rather strange. More swelling, even in my face. Headaches and a few flashes of light whenever I stand up too quickly, but Dr. Thomas says it is normal. “Get more exercise and stop reading so much.” Is there anything else to do?

So far we have no cases of the influenza to report in the Bay, although Jack Tupper’s brother down in Kentville passed over from it just yesterday. We have been taking your advice and are being cautious. Send word of your homecoming so we can put clean sheets on your bed and flowers on your doorstep.

Come home soon! Bertine and Ginny

Children Freed from Murdering Father

T
his writer has just learned of shocking news from Canning. Ten children, who have been held captive in their father’s house for over a month, have told authorities of their harrowing experience. The father, Mr. Brady Ketch of Deer Glen, has been charged with the murder of his late wife, Experience Ketch.

On August 2, the dear little souls looked on as their father brutally beat their mother and then pushed her down the stairs. Mr. Ketch had formerly explained his wife’s untimely death as due to poisoning from a tainted home-remedy administered by a midwife, a Mrs. Dora Bigelow of Scots Bay.

The children are currently residing at the Methodist orphanage in Kentville. However, this writer is happy to report that an offer of adoption has been made by Reverend and Mrs. Joseph Pineo. They hope to take all ten children into their home as soon as the proper arrangements have been made.

The Canning Register,

September 22, 1918

Miss Dora Rare

23 Charter Street

North End, Boston,

Massachusetts

U.S.A.

September 29, 1918

Mrs. Bertine Tupper

Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

Canada

Dear Bertine,

What news from the Bay! While I am sad that the Ketch children were made to suffer for so long, I am happy that they will have a new family and a new life without the abuse of their father.