Chapter 4 A Letter from Dr. Larch #2
Even the townspeople of Pennacook were smart enough to imagine that Chantal must have inherited the Beaudette breasts.
Even in those baggy blouses and sloppy sweaters, the ladies of the town were observant enough to see something big under those loose-fitting tops.
Chantal Beaudette had to have big boobs, didn’t she?
A long time later—long after the Winslows would find their fourth unadopted orphan—the cruelest speculation would gain traction in the town, concerning the lack of definition to Chantal’s breasts under her floppy clothes.
What if she’d been born with only one boob, a big one? What if Chantal had a onesie?
Before the townspeople of Pennacook would become transfixed by the bosomy Beaudettes—long before Jimmy Winslow was born—the undistracted Winslows didn’t lose their focus on finding a fourth unadopted orphan.
Those wonderful French Canadians, their last two unadopted orphans, had served them well.
Understandably, the Winslows wanted another girl from the Berlin orphanage.
What exactly happened at the Androscoggin Children’s Shelter would never be adequately explained in what passed for the news in New Hampshire—not in those days.
Between the end of World War I and the beginning of World War II, orphans weren’t the only ones who felt a lack of permanence, but the Winslows understood that orphans should be allowed to take transience personally.
An orphan is simply more of a child than other children—in the way all children want the things they love to happen daily, on schedule.
For everything good that promises to last, to stay the same, an orphan is permanently longing.
When the Winslows tried to make an appointment, they were informed that the Androscoggin Children’s Shelter had closed.
The orphans were being relocated to other facilities providing care for unwanted children.
It would not console the Winslows to hear that “church groups” were offering their assistance in relocating the kids.
When the Winslows tried to contact Dr. Remillard directly, they were informed that he was no longer allowed to practice medicine in New Hampshire.
When the Winslows inquired after Nurse Bergeron and Nurse Pinette, someone rather rudely said: “Those nurses might have gone back to Canada—maybe Dr. Remillard went with them, not that anyone in Quebec would want them.”
In what passed for the news in New Hampshire, the only information the Winslows would read concerned a local Berlin physician, a Dr. Patrice Grenier, who was “on call” to the former orphanage—in case one of the kids was sick, or otherwise needed to see a doctor.
The church groups were reported to be watching over the orphaned children who had yet to be relocated.
The Winslows guessed their two orphans from the Androscoggin would know what was going on in Berlin. Lucie and Denise had always been smart girls, including when they were only fourteen or fifteen. Their two French Canadians just confirmed what the Winslows had guessed.
“Dear Dr. Remillard—they must have caught him, or one of the women he helped might have told someone!” Lucie exclaimed.
“Nurse Bergeron or Nurse Pinette would never have told anyone—it was one of those women who got knocked up, and she needed to blame someone,” Denise said.
“Dr. Remillard gave those women what they wanted—either a baby they would leave behind, or an abortion,” Lucie explained, but the Winslows had figured it out.
In that period of time, when abortion was illegal in the United States, a woman with an unwanted pregnancy might find a physician who was willing to give her an abortion in an orphanage.
A doctor in an orphanage would know what happened, or what didn’t happen, to those children who were left behind—the ones who weren’t babies, the ones who weren’t taken (like Lucie and Denise).
As for Dr. Remillard, who gave those women what they wanted, the Winslows wished him all the best—as they did Nurse Bergeron and Nurse Pinette (wherever they went, however they might manage to start a new life).
Even the townspeople of Pennacook knew a little about what was going on in some orphanages.
When a girl in high school (or in junior high school) missed six months or more of school, the ladies of the town would whisper among themselves.
You might hear one of them say the schoolgirl had gone to the orphanage.
The townspeople of Pennacook were capable of occasional common sense.
If a girl got pregnant, she would stop going to school before she started to show; she kept out of sight till she went to the orphanage and had her baby, leaving it behind.
The ladies of the town watched closely. If a girl stopped going to school for only two or three months, she still might have gone to the orphanage—not to have her baby, but to have an abortion.
Ever since illegal abortion became the status quo, the Winslows had noticed an entrenched cruelty in the townspeople of Pennacook—most of all, in the ladies of the town.
The churchwomen were the cruelest. Of an unmarried woman or girl who got pregnant, those women said: “She’s paying the piper.
” Meaning she deserved to give birth to an unwanted child—she deserved to pay for getting pregnant.
The Winslows were of the opinion that the anti-abortion crusaders (both the men and the women) didn’t care what happened to the unwanted child—not after the child was born.
What those crusaders cared about was punishing the mother.
As for the long drive north to Berlin, the Winslows weren’t going.
“Maybe it’s for the best, Tommy—there are more than enough of us to look after Honor,” Constance told her husband.
But Thomas Winslow wasn’t worried about the new baby.
With three daughters dying to look after their little sister, and their former au pair girls refusing to move on, Honor would not go uncared for.
An army of caregivers was poised to look after the Winslows’ fourth daughter.
“I already bought our tickets for the train, Connie—I thought we’d give that reader in St. Cloud’s a try,” Thomas told her. For once, he didn’t mention Maine.
“You should buy a third ticket for the train back to Pennacook, Tommy—in case there’s a girl who wants to try us,” Constance said.
“Right you are, Connie,” Thomas said. He showed her the third ticket for the train from St. Cloud’s. Constance understood how he felt compelled to help the unadopted orphans, the ones no one had taken—the wards of the state who would soon be cast out.
When Thomas Winslow first wrote to the orphanage in St. Cloud’s, Maine—describing his family’s circumstances, and their happiness with those three au pair girls who’d once been wards of the state—the orphanage physician in St. Cloud’s had not delayed in writing back.
(Thomas Winslow would say the delay had everything to do with the postal service to and from Maine.) From the date on the doctor’s letter (which Thomas showed her), Constance could see that her Tommy must have written to St. Cloud’s before the Winslows were informed that the orphanage in Berlin had closed.
Of course it pleased Constance to know her husband had a backup plan all along.
The doctor didn’t beat around the bush. His name was Wilbur Larch.
“Here in St. Cloud’s, we need to know more about your financial resources,” Dr. Larch’s letter began.
“You’re a schoolteacher, Mr. Winslow—your wife is a librarian.
With four children of your own, it would seem you’re a family of modest means.
It is commendable that you and your family have provided a college education for three former wards of the state, but how can you afford this?
Tell us how this is within your means, Mr. Winslow.
” And that wasn’t all the doctor would ask of the Winslows.
“Goodness gracious, Dr. Larch is certainly direct—isn’t he, Tommy?” Constance asked her husband.
“It’s a fair question, Connie,” Thomas answered.
As the Winslows were aware, it was a question that had long plagued the townspeople of Pennacook—not least the ladies of the town, who were dying to know where the Winslows’ money came from.
Naturally, there was no one in the town who would ask the Winslows about their family money—not as directly as Dr. Larch did.
In the class warfare that permeates small New England towns, your family money was everybody’s business—not to mention an advantage, one you didn’t deserve.
To the townspeople of Pennacook, the Winslows’ family money mattered more than their Mayflower ancestry.