Lazaretto by Diane Mckinney-Whetstone

tragedy such as this . . .”
    â€œSh, sh, sh,” Meda said. She touched her finger to Ann’s lips to quiet her as she watched the feeling finally conjure up a word. Desire. It had been there all along as a shimmery glaze over each of the layers Meda had heaped on, hoping to hide the word from herself. She pulled Ann into a hug, then pulled her all the way into the parlor. She was astounded now at the simplicity, the smoothness of desire as she at last allowed the feel of it against the bareness of her skin. She was simultaneously bold and timid: like a charmer, a vamp, powerful and seductive; like a shy girl just needing softness, just afraid to ask, to accept. She’d never known she could be . . . what? Again there was no word, just a feeling she’d never known, of total release because how could she know it when from the time she was thirteen she’d had to keep it covered, keep it hid, because everything else was taken from her against her will, even her baby, and she believed that had she held her baby, she would have lived. But right now, here with Ann, Meda didn’t have to protect her capacity to totally let herself go. For the first time in her life she was untethered, felt as if she were floating outside of herself, unmoored and glittering. If the parlor ceiling were not there she was sure she would have touched the tender ocean that was the night sky, and gone further still, until the shimmers came in waves, and then Meda reached out for Ann and held on.
    When Meda’s extended stay at the orphanage was approaching its end, they received word that Mrs. Benin had vehemently opposed any arrangement that allowed for the boys to take up residence in her house. Meda was not surprised. Benin’s wife was a woman concerned with pedigree and would not have her home sullied on a full-time basis with almshouse orphans. Ann persuaded Meda not to accept that as the final word, insisting that in some particulars Meda had more sway over Benin than she realized, that Meda should use that power to her advantage. “In every instance once you return to that house—” Ann had said, and thenshe stopped herself and cringed as if the thought of Meda back at the Benins’ pained her. And Meda promised her that she would.
    So Meda posited to Benin that she spend Thursdays into Fridays at the orphanage, and then pack the babies up to stay with her at the Benin house over the weekends and extended holidays. She’d considered it a victory when Benin said no to Thursdays, but consented to the rest of the arrangement. She was able to further arrange her errands—she’d suggested a new milliner for Mrs. Benin, one that was closer to the orphanage, as well as a more convenient bootery and haberdasher—enabling her to procure time in between her work duties to check in on the boys. She managed time, too, to steal away with Ann, time that seemed to speed by in an instant, even as it seemed to stand still.
    THAT FIRST WEEKEND back in the Benin house felt like Christmas to Meda as she made up Linc and Bram’s sleeping space in her bedroom. She had the best sleep she’d ever had in that house. Even though her sleep was interrupted when they cried to be fed, the air in the room was like velvet, as soft as their quiet breaths—the air not disturbed by her watching for the glass doorknob to turn. Tom Benin never made his way into her room when Bram and Linc were there. It was as if they were her protectors, especially Linc, who still woke more often with his fussy self, his dark eyes always open and shining, the sight of which made Meda giggle as she’d offer him milk. “Save some for your brother,” she’d whisper. She’d decided then that they would be brothers. Even though their looks grew more opposite the older they were. Linc was dark-haired, dark-eyed with ruddy skin and hard-edged features that gave him a dramatic appearance. Bram was blond and freckled