The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [68]
Labor pains began at seven. Wet bed. Broke waters or some such term. Writer unfamiliar, even today, with obstetrical lingo. “Our Father who art in heaven,” said Clarissa. Prayed continuously. Pain arduous. First experience with such things. Held wife in arms when seizures commenced. Sallow-faced landlady waited in next room. Sound of rocking chair. “Put blanket over her mouth,” she said. “They’ll hear her up at the Dexter place.” Most violent seizure at eleven. Suddenly saw blood, baby’s head. Landlady rushed in. Drove me away. Called henpecked husband to bring water, rags, etc. Much coming and going. Sallow-faced landlady emerged at 2 A.M. “You have a little daughter,” says she. Magical transformation! Butter wouldn’t melt in mouth. Went in to see baby. Sleeping in soapbox. Clarissa also sleeping. Kissed brow. Sat in chair until morning. Went for walk on beach. Clouds shaped like curved ribbing of scallop shell. Light pouring off sea into same. Form of sky still vivid in memory. Returned to room on tiptoe. Opened door. Clarissa in bed, smiling. Masses of dark hair. Baby at breast, swollen with milk. Writer cried for first time since leaving West River. “Don’t cry,” Clarissa says. “I’m happy.”
Heavy step of sallow-faced landlady. Transformation still in order. “God bless you, you dear, sweet little girl,” she says to the baby. High, squeaky voice. “Look at her dear little fingers,” says she. “Look at her dear little toes. I’ll take her now.” “Let her suck for a little while,” says Clarissa. “Let her finish her dinner,” says I. “Well, you ain’t going to take the baby with you,” says she, “and since you ain’t going to take the baby with you and since she ain’t going to be your baby there’s no point in your suckling her.” “Let her suck for a little while longer,” says Clarissa. “I’m not one to judge others,” says she, “and I don’t put my nose in their business but if you hadn’t done wrong you wouldn’t be coming out here to have your baby in this Godforsaken place and when a baby drinks milk from a mother who’s done wrong all the wickedness and sinfulness and lustfulness goes right into the baby through its mother’s milk,” says she. “You’ve got a wicked tongue,” I said, “and we’d appreciate it if you’d leave us alone now.” “Let her suck for a little while longer,” Clarissa said. “I’m only doing what I’m paid to do,” she said, “and what’s more she’s God’s little creature and it ain’t fair to have her imbibing all the weaknesses of another the first thing in her life.” “Leave us alone,” I said. “She’s right, Leander,” Clarissa said and she took the child off her pretty breast and gave it to the intruder. Then she turned her face away and cried.
She cried all the day long; she cried all night. She cried the bed full of tears. In the morning I helped her dress. She was too weak to dress herself, too weak even to lift her dark hair, and I lifted it for her and held it while she put it up with pins. There was a nine-o’clock train to Boston and I sent a message for a livery to pick us up in time to get it. Then I packed the valises and carried them out to the side of the road. Then I heard the landlady screaming: “You, you, where is she?” Oh, she looked then like a harpy. “She’s run away. Go up to the Dexters’, go up the Dexter path. I’ll go down by the shell road. We’ve got to head her off.” Off she goes in her muddy boots. Off goes former livery-stable proprietor with his manure fork. Pursued quarry over horizon. Heard baby crying in garden. Whimper, really. She had flown; but she had not gone far.
Pear tree in garden pruned to look like fountain, sunshade perhaps. Graceful tent of leaves. Under this she sat. Bodice unbuttoned. Camisole unlaced. Child at breast. Fretful crying. Did not speak; she and me. Eyes only. No explanations, names even. Child sucking, but crying also. A little rain began to fall; but not on us. Pear tree served as adequate shelter. Baby fell asleep. How long we sat there I don’t know. Half hour perhaps. Watched oyster-shell road darken in rain. Still no drops touched us. “I have more tears than milk,”