The Orphan and the Mouse (9 page)

For now, she deserved a snack.

She was rounding a corner on the pathway to the larder when she smelled something unexpected: fresh droppings that were not her own.

She stopped. She looked around. She spotted the source . . . and tried to explain it away. Maybe the droppings were older than they smelled? Maybe she just hadn't noticed them before?

But all the time, she knew the truth. An intruder had entered her territory. A male.

Historically, the Cherry Street colony had been forced to defend its shelter repeatedly against raids and even outright
invasion. Under Randolph's predecessor, defensive capabilities had been improved such that the colony gained a reputation for impregnability, deterring any potential attack. While Mary herself had been born in an era of unprecedented peace, she knew that Randolph had allowed colony defenses to deteriorate.

Did the intruder represent a force hoping to conquer a poorly defended colony? Or did he know that Mary was in fact all alone?

Her mind in turmoil, Mary heard scuttling nearby, turned her head, and beheld an unfamiliar male with the wild look of the outdoors about him, rangy, muscular, and untidy compared to the males of the territory, who were well fed and committed to good grooming.

This was a marauder mouse for sure—a pirate, a raider, a dangerous outlaw. Squealing would be to no avail. Mary looked around for a weapon but found nothing useful.

Meanwhile, the male skipped the formalities. “As I live and breathe! You scared me half to death! But tell me, where has everyone got to?”

Mary hardly knew how to reply.

“Predator got your tongue?
Ha ha ha ha ha!
” said the male.

So okay, maybe this fellow wasn't the advance guard of an enemy force. In fact, he seemed more ridiculous than threatening. But he wasn't making a good impression, either. Mary looked him up and down, then raised her pure-white whiskers and gave the traditional greeting for a stranger: “Did you travel far?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”
said the male. “How courteous you are. Yes, rather far. And there's no need to worry, my dear. I am not scouting an invasion. In fact, I am a member of the Cherry Street colony, same as—I infer—you are. So where'd everybody go, anyhow?”

Not wanting to reveal she was an exile, Mary answered with a question: “If you're a member of the colony, then why are you traveling alone?”

“I might ask why you're alone as well,” said the male. “An outcast, are you? Not dangerous, I trust? You're right to be prudent, you know, a defenseless damsel in your position.”

Mary arched her back, raised her hackles, and glared. Who was he to call her a defenseless damsel? Hadn't she just faced down a predator?

Her assertive posture did not have the desired effect. In fact, it was met with another blaring
“Ha ha ha ha ha!”
followed by “Look, can we go somewhere to chat? There's hours yet till daylight, and I'd love to get off my paws. I'll be glad to tell you where I came from, my whole life story. But just now I'm peckish, and from the looks of the larder—I hope you don't mind that I peeked—you're admirably stocked with comestibles.”

Hmph
, Mary thought.
And yet—maybe I've misjudged him? An uncivilized rodent would have eaten first and asked questions later
. “Yes, of course. You must forgive my manners. My name is Mary Mouse.”

The male raised his whiskers and dipped his snout. “My name,” he said, “is Andrew.”

While Mary and the intruder chatted, Mrs. George slept. In the morning, she came downstairs as usual, sat at her desk with her coffee and newspaper, and prepared to face the challenges of the coming day. Among her talents was lying, and this morning she would put that talent to use. Later, she would make time at last to meet privately with Carolyn.

From Matron, Mrs. George knew that Carolyn had not been her usual cheerful self since the insult—and this would not do. The children relied on Carolyn's good humor. And so did Mrs. George.

How to make the child feel better? How to restore her confidence?

Mulling over these questions, Mrs. George had an idea that made her smile. Maybe the lack of a baby nurse would not be so hard on Polly after all. Carolyn had a maternal streak. It was one of the qualities that drew the other children to her. The coincidence, she thought, just might work out very neatly.

As usual after breakfast, Mrs. George made her announcements to the staff and the children. Then she set the time to
meet with Carolyn and returned to her office with Matron Polly. There the two reviewed the schedule at the lying-in hospital. It was eight-fifteen now; healthy babies were brought to their mothers for nursing between nine and ten. It would take Mrs. George fifteen minutes by car to get to the hospital. Polly's associate would meet her outside.

From her wallet, Mrs. George withdrew the envelopes she had prepared Monday morning and gave them to the matron, who put them in the pocket of her apron. “Thank you, ma'am,” she said, but there was a frown on her face.

Mrs. George raised her eyebrows. “I've given you what we agreed on.”

“Yes, ma'am. Only . . . well, it's a nasty business, and—”

Mrs. George cut her off. “This is an inopportune time to lose heart, Polly. We have done this before.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“We are giving the child an opportunity.”

Polly did not look certain but repeated, “Yes, ma'am.”

Polly and Mrs. George had first become acquainted two decades before, shortly after Mrs. George moved to Philadelphia. At the time, Polly was the young and foolish girlfriend of a speakeasy's proprietor. When she became pregnant, he departed for parts unknown, never knowing his baby had been miscarried.

Polly was heartbroken at the loss of her beau and the loss of her child. Her life improved when Mrs. George became headmistress at Cherry Street and invited her to live in and
oversee the girls. Mrs. George rightly anticipated that Polly's placid disposition was well suited to working with children . . . and to working for Mrs. George.

Mrs. George had endured Polly's second thoughts before. Now she spoke firmly. “You and the nurse have earned your money. At the same time, should you ever be tempted to tell what you know, you can expect the authorities to deal with you harshly. Not everyone sees our enterprise in its proper light.”

Matron Polly swallowed. “No, ma'am.”

“Is the nursery ready?” asked Mrs. George.

“Nearly.”

“Go and finish up with it, then. I'll be back before lunchtime.”

Shortly after nine o'clock, Mrs. George drove her Nash sedan across the Schuylkill River to the lying-in hospital in West Philadelphia. The sky was blue and the air not so humid as usual. Mrs. George's white dress and jacket, which resembled a nurse's uniform, remained crisp and professional.

In 1949 most women delivered their babies in hospitals, just as they do today. Other details, however, were quite different. In the special hospitals for mothers and babies, which were called maternity or lying-in hospitals, the doctors were all men and the nurses all women. After delivery, mother and baby typically remained hospitalized for an entire week. One reason was that painkillers given during labor lingered in the body, leaving new mothers drowsy and confused.

Because visiting hours were strictly limited, many mothers felt isolated from friends and family. It would have been unthinkable for anyone other than medical staff to be present during birth.

The lying-in hospital Mrs. George sought was a two-story brick building that took up half a city block. In accordance with instructions received from Polly, Mrs. George drove past the entrance and made a left onto a side street, then a second left into
an alley. There she parked in front of a delivery van and waited a few moments until a stout gray-haired woman dressed in a nurse's uniform emerged from a back entrance and looked around.

Mrs. George took a clipboard with a typed page on it from the passenger seat and alighted from the car. Without introducing herself, she said, “You must be Polly's acquaintance.”

“I am Mrs. Babst.” The woman eyed Mrs. George up and down. “Now, about the money . . .”

“Polly will see to that. I'm sure she explained?” Mrs. George's smile was icy and serene.

Mrs. Babst hesitated, but only for a moment. “Follow me.”

This particular hospital, which served the poor of the city, was busy and not especially clean. Gray-brown streaks dappled the walls and speckled the dingy linoleum floor.

Once their babies were born, new mothers were taken to a room with as many as a dozen beds. The babies, in turn, went to the hospital nursery, to be brought to their mothers four times a day for feeding. Those who cried were given only a pacifier, with the result that the baby nursery was a noisy place.

Besides alerting Polly to the birth of a desirable baby, Mrs. Babst was being paid to see to it that his mother had a private room.

The two women passed several nurses and orderlies in the hallway, all of them too harried to pay any attention. Finally, Mrs. Babst stopped in front of an open door and said to Mrs. George, “She's in here.” Then she stepped inside. “Mrs. Dimitri?”

In fact, “Mrs.” Dimitri had never been married, a shameful
situation for a mother at that time. For propriety's sake, the staff called all the mothers “Mrs.”

Mrs. Dimitri was pale, with sunken dark eyes and uncombed hair. The shoulder of her green hospital gown was pulled down so she could nurse her baby, a flannel-blanketed bundle held securely to her chest.

Mrs. George had seen enough new mothers to know that this one's exhausted appearance was normal. In fact, she was relieved to see that the girl looked healthy, with no sign on her cheeks of the spots that could indicate tuberculosis. Her good health boded well for the baby's, a satisfaction to Mrs. George, who preferred not to purvey damaged goods, especially to a buyer as important as Miss Grahame.

“This is the lady I told you about,” said Mrs. Babst to Mrs. Dimitri.

“Oh. Yes?” Mrs. Dimitri's puzzled expression said she didn't remember being told about a lady.

“Yes,” Mrs. Babst assented. “You just go along and do what she says, now. I have to see to other patients.”

Mrs. Babst left without looking back. Mrs. George approached the bed.

“Hello, dear. How are you feeling?” Mrs. George had perfected a brisk, soft-spoken way of addressing new mothers.

“Tired, but they tell me it's normal. Are you a nurse?”

Mrs. George studied the girl, who looked young enough to be in school. “Of course. And I just need your handsome blond boy for a few tests. They won't take long.”

The baby was nursing and was held tight in his mother's arms. At first Mrs. George couldn't see his face and had to trust that Polly's friend hadn't let her down, that this was an unblemished, straight-limbed infant good-looking enough to satisfy a movie star.

“He is my handsome boy,” Mrs. Dimitri said. “And I'm going to raise him right. That's the important thing, isn't it, Nurse?”

“Certainly it is. Now, I just need your signature on this document. It says you give permission for the tests.”

Instead of reaching for the pen, Mrs. Dimitri closed her eyes and lay back against the pillows. “All right. Just let me think a minute. It's all been so much, and I'm so tired.”

“I understand, dear,” said Mrs. George. “But this is easy. Open your eyes, and I'll show you where to sign. You can write your name, can't you?”

“What kind of tests?” Mrs. Dimitri's eyes remained closed.

“Routine procedures. They won't hurt. The city requires it.”

“No needles?” Mrs. Dimitri said.

Mrs. George became aware of time passing. At any moment, some meddlesome doctor or clerk might come in and ask to see the papers in her hand. “Nothing like that,” she said. “But I am on a schedule, Mrs. Dimitri. The sooner I take him, the sooner I can bring him back.”