The Wet Nurse's Tale by Erica Eisdorfer Page B

own, “I will crush your parts with a brick while you sleep. Do you understand that I mean what I say?” He whimpered and refused to answer so I twisted tighter. “Say, ‘Yes, sister, ’ ” said I, til he did. He walked away glowering, but I could see him recall to himself the way I had been and realize that I had not changed, babe or no babe. Later, I made him a special tart from cherries my mother had dried from the springtime and smiled when I handed it to him. I was pleased to see that respect for me had crept back into his gaze as well it should for I am his older sister. Anyhow, I see no call to shrink and mewl when I’m as big as any boy and fiercer than most.

    Reader: we are told it was payment for Eve’s sin to suffer so when babies come, and so may it be. Twas torture for me, that’s sure. But when the midwife handed me my Joey, I thought no more of the pain and the muck of it, for I was all over with love for the little mite that I had pushed into her arms. Twas then and will always be a miracle, whether it’s them high ladies or us low girls that do it.
    Perhaps overhearing my shrieks had lessened my father’s anger to me. Maybe I yelled a tiny bit louder than what I needed to do, just so the screams would reach him in the cowshed where I hoped he sat. In the end, though, it must have been the baby’s aspect that took the murder out of him. He would not even cast a glance toward the mite for the first week but then, once he laid eyes upon his sweet face, he softened some. “My first grandchild and a bastard,” he said aloud to me as if he hated me, but I didn’t care what he said when I saw him like the look of my Joey.
    There hadn’t been a baby in the house for a year. When we were all growing up, there was always one in the cradle, and sometimes two, if my mother had one of her own. She’d nurse hers until they were old enough to eat a little solid food, and at the same time she’d nurse the paying babies til they were old enough to be replaced. There was always a paying baby so she never dried up. It’s just like a cow works, if you want to know. If there’s suckling, there’s milk.
    I’d remembered her words when we went home to bury Ellen. “Well, Susan, this one’s a foundling, and they don’t pay much,” she’d said when I asked her about the one in the cradle. “I’m past forty years now and the wrinkles in my face frighten away the clients. I know it: I look as if my milk is sour and perhaps it is. They want someone younger and plumper anyhow.”
    She’d looked sad when she said it but then we were all sad.

    When my baby, who I’d named Joey, was about four weeks old, we had a visitor.
    “How de do,” called a voice from over the door. We had the upper part open and Mother told Ada to see who called, as her hands were all amuck from the kneading and I was just dozing for a minute after having been up at night with the baby. I waked right up when the lady came in though, for the novelty of the new face. Even my father, who was at home, stood and bowed his head when Ada showed the guest in.
    “Oh, sorry to bother,” said the lady to my mother. “Are you Mrs. Rose, then? I am Mrs. Potts, niece to Sarah Carter that lives over near church. Can you spare a moment?”
    After she was all welcomed in and sat down, we all agreed that old Sarah was a good soul and that the day was cold but fine and that we’d none of us never seen such a winter for turnips. And then she told us why she’d come.
    “I work up in Aubrey,” said Mrs. Potts, “as cook for a very nice young family, the Holcombs is what they’re called. Mr. Holcomb works at his father-in-law’s business, which is dye making, and they do a very good deal of trade. Why, half the time, Mr. Holcomb is late for supper but when he’s not, they eat very fancy and often with guests. I’m up at dawn with them, is what I can tell you.”
    We all listened politely.
    She continued. “Now, Mrs. Holcomb, the dear, just had