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Charlotte
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DIANNA RUBBED HER SON'S tiny back, trying to soothe him.
The couple upstairs was having another row, the third in as many nights, and they didn't limit their arguments to the shouting that blared through the flimsy ceiling. They chucked things, breakable things that bounced and shattered. And, from the sharp slaps of flesh on flesh, followed by feminine howls, the husband didn’t confine his fury to inanimate objects.
The woman across the hall had advised Dianna it was a regular occurrence, and that the last man who’d attempted to quell one of the couple's disagreements had received a broken nose for his efforts—from the wife. Which deterred Dianna from speaking her mind.
She settled on the narrow daybed and opened her nightdress. The distressed infant latched on ferociously, glared at her with murky blue-green eyes, as if blaming her for the noise.
“I’m sorry, little man,” she whispered. “Truly I am.”
She hadn't expected it to be so difficult. Or lonely.
The single room with its ragged curtain separating the cramped kitchen—no more than a small hot plate and single cupboard—from the daybed, was as gloomy and foul-smelling as the garbage-heap in the alley outside the sole, and smudged, window. Worse, the only facilities were down the hall, a broom-closet-sized privy she shared with six other families.
Mother Mary had tried to dissuade her, and now, barely a week later, with the walls rattling and plaster falling she was tempted to concede, to return to the Home and trust Mother Mary to find her son a good family with a large yard. Fresh air to breathe. Swallowing hard, she brushed her fingers over the fragile pink skull dusted with fine dark hairs
He was so small. So... needy. And vulnerable. She didn't deserve him.
And he deserved better.
If not for the money she’d brought with her from Texas, and that Mother Mary had cleverly tucked into Little Man’s wraps the day they left the Home, they might both starve.
“Your mother-in-law donated this money,” read the note Mother Mary included. “And you told me to use it as I see fit. I see nothing more fitting than for you to keep yourself and the babe warm, and fed. Buy coal, and food, or I’ll write again to your husband and inform him of your dismal circumstances.”
Mother Mary didn’t issue idle threats. And the money helped. As did Nurse Granger's daily gifts of cheese, milk, and eggs. With careful management, she could manage another six or so months, but after that... She touched the delicate skin of her son's neck.
At least one of them was warm.
Reaching to tug the blanket around her shoulders, she knocked the Daily to the floor. At the same time, a loud thud resounded overhead, and was immediately followed by a roar of outrage. Closing her eyes, she exhaled.
In the morning, she’d resume scanning the employment ads. The sooner she found suitable work, the sooner she and her son could move to a better place. She couldn’t imagine another six days here, let alone six months.
A few hours later, cup of tea in one hand and her head propped by the other, Dianna blearily scanned the newsprint. The sun had yet to make it over rooftops and mop up the shadows in the street, but she was awake, reading by candlelight, forced out of bed by the little demon who felt two hours between meals was too long. Now satiated, he slept soundlessly, leaving her wide-awake and too exhausted to sleep.
She was mid-yawn when a loud knock startled her into clacking her teeth together. She frowned at the door. It was too early for Nurse Granger. She stopped by after her rounds, not before.
The knock came again, harder. “Dianna? It’s Sister Patience—”
Dianna hastened to open the door. Sister Patience’s normally serene plump visage was pinched with anxiety.
“Sister. What's wrong? Is it Charlie? Has she started her labour.”
Sister Patience, puffing breathlessly, nodded. “Mother Mary sent me to get you.”
“I'll be right there.” After ensuring the hotplate was off, Dianna swaddled her protesting son warmly, and grabbed her coat. Locking her apartment, she followed Sister Patience outside. Her heart sank at the sight of a taxi at the curb.
The nuns eschewed the use of taxis and hacks as unnecessarily frivolous, and usually walked to destinations within the city. Wheeled transport was employed only for great distances—or in the most serious circumstance when haste was of utmost importance.
“What's wrong?” Dianna said. “Is something wrong with Charlie?”
Sister Patience didn’t answer until they were seated, and the taxi underway. Then she looked at Dianna, her blue eyes round with worry.
“Mother Mary had to take Charlotte to the hospital.”
~~~
NOVEMBER 15TH, 1912
New York Infirmary for Indigent Women and Children
Stuyvesant Square
New York, New York
Water trickling with each dip, and squeeze, of the sponge, as Mother Mary bathed Charlie's wan face, was the only sound in the small room. Dianna covered her mouth.
Charlie looked dead, the bones of her face pressing up sharply under sallow skin, her arms limp at her sides, thin bed sheet enhancing the grotesque bulge in her middle. She reminded Dianna of Lara, whom Dorothy had advised, died two days after their visit.
“Mother?” Dianna whispered.
Mother Mary put a finger to her lips, but the gesture was wasted.
Charlie's eyes fluttered open. “Dianna?” she croaked.
“Hello, Charlie.” Dianna smiled brightly to cover her horror, as she pulled a chair to the bed, took Charlie's hand in both of hers. It was like cupping a paper sack of brittle sticks.
“My baby's dead,” Charlie muttered through cracked lips.
Dianna looked to Mother Mary who inclined her head, confirming Charlie's assertion.
“Oh, Charlie,” Dianna said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I'm gonna die, too,” Charlie rasped. “It poisoned me. That's what—” She licked her chapped lips— “the doctor said.”
Mother Mary offered no denial as she placed the bowl of water aside, got to her feet. “I'll be in the hall.”
“You gotta help my sisters, Dianna,” Charlie rasped when Mother Mary was gone. “Get 'em away from my da.”
“Your sisters?”
Charlie moved her head in a flicker of assent. “Pa gave me my baby. I don't want him to give Katie or Amelia a baby.”
Dianna's skin prickled. Was Charlie saying what she thought she was saying?
Charlie coughed, sucked for air, her bony chest rattling with the effort. When she finally caught her breath, she stared at Dianna, eyes blazing with fever and regret. “I killed my baby, Dianna. I was afraid it’d get too big. I didn't want it to get too big. I didn’t want it to hurt. I stopped eating. I killed my baby, Dianna—”
“No.” Dianna squeezed her hand. “No, you didn’t Charlie.”
“Help my sisters, Dianna. Please.” Charlie coughed. “Get them away from Pa. But not an orphanage. They'll be split up—” She coughed again, gagged, eyes widening, as gurgling issued from her parted lips.
“Charlie? Charlie? Mother!”
Mother Mary rushed in. Dianna gestured helplessly to the bed. A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Get the docteur,” Mother Mary ordered. “And Father Persons.” She looked at Dianna. “Help me. We need to put her on her side.”
While Dianna braced Charlie by shoulder and hip, Mother Mary pounded Charlie’s skeletal ribcage.
“What are you doing?” Dianna asked.
“Loosening the phlegm, so she can breathe. Lay her back now. Charlotte?”
Charlie gazed, sightless, at the ceiling.
“Again.”
Dianna helped roll Charlie, and Mother Mary resumed striking her between her bony shoulder blades. The doctor bustled in, shoved Charlotte flat, listened to her chest. Very slowly, he raised his gaze to Mother Mary’s, shook her head.
The small room echoed with a keening moan, as Dianna pressed Charlie's small hand to her cheek.
“No,” she begged. “Please God, no.”
“I'm sorry, Dianna.” Mother Mary laid a hand on her arm. “She's gone.”
The stench of ammonia and death lingered in Dianna's nostrils long after Mother Mary led her from the hospital. She spent the night in the Home's infirmary, refused to allow the nuns to take her son to the nursery, needing his perfect, anchoring presence, snuggled in the bed with her. She awoke to find him gone.
Frantic, she pawed through the bedclothes. “My baby? Where is he? Where's my baby?”
“Over here.” Mother Mary rose from a chair in the corner of the room. “I took him away, before you could hurt him.”
Dianna fell back on her pillow, relieved at the sight of the towel-wrapped bundle in Mother Mary's arms, angel-white against the black robes.
Holding the infant in the crook of her arm, Mother Mary frowned. “You were crying. Calling for Charlie.”
Dianna bit her lower lip. “Oh, Mother. She... told me. She told me who fathered her baby. She asked me to make sure he doesn't do the same to her sisters.” She held the Mother Superior's gaze, praying the other woman would understand, what she could not find the heart, to say.
Mother Mary’s sharp gaze narrowed. “You mean—”
Closing her eyes, Dianna nodded, and whispered, “Her father.”
“Mon Dieu! It is as I feared. Here, take him.”
Dianna opened her eyes, accepted her son.
“I must help those poor girls.” Mother Mary turned away.
“Help?” Dianna propped her son against her shoulder, patted his small back. “How?”
“I must get them away from that vile man, to someplace safe of course.”
“Not an orphanage. Charlie begged me not to let them go to an orphanage.”
“There might not be a choice. If we can’t locate other family willing to take them in—”
“I'll take them.”
“What?” Mother Mary looked at Dianna. “Don't be ridiculous. You've enough to worry about.”
She did. And what had compelled her to blurt out the words, she had no idea, other than her own guilt at having failed Charlie. Maybe if she’d opened up to her, befriended her, as Mother Mary had asked, the poor child might still be alive.
“I promised Charlie.”
“Not all promises can be kept,” Mother Mary said.
“Still, I must try.”
“How?” Mother Mary scowled. “There are few men wealthy enough—and willing—to accept a ready-made family, of one child. And you refuse to go to him. Do you really believe you will find another man willing to take in you, and three children?”
Dianna compressed her lips. “I have money—”
“Not enough to feed and shelter yourself, and three children, for very long. And you can’t put them at risk, to satisfy your own selfish desire to prove everyone wrong.”
“I'm not trying to prove anyone wrong. I’m just trying to—help. I only want to help.” Help stop the fear. Help make the pain go away.
Yours, or theirs?
As though divining her thought, Mother Mary touched her cheek gently.
“You have a big heart, Dianna. And it’s commendable you want to help Charlie’s sisters. But it’s not help if you put yourself, and them, at risk. It’s reckless. Help yourself first, Child. Get yourself to a position where you’re able to help, without harming yourself or anyone else. Then, and only then, can you truly offer the aid you’re only able to wish for, now.”