Chapter 12 #2
Past the costume jewelry. Up a flight of stairs to lingerie, and suddenly she didn’t feel like buying anything.
She felt foolish for even dreaming that she might one day be a regular shopper at Wanamaker’s, Gimbels, Bloomingdale’s.
She’d grow old and unloved in the dark, surrounded by musty old books.
She took the stairs up to the third floor, strolled through ladies’ shoes, but didn’t stop.
It wasn’t until she found herself climbing the next set of stairs with no real purpose in mind that she realized where her feet were taking her.
To the same spot every time she came to Wanamaker’s.
The skywalk that connected this half of Wanamaker’s to the second store across Ninth Street.
It had been a marvel when it was constructed, a way to walk above the street rather than going down and outside to continue your shopping.
She stopped halfway across and looked down over the street. As children they had taken as much delight in standing on the
skywalk and watching the people below as they had in the actual shopping.
It was something they always did with their mother. Olivia, Celia, and her. Just the four of them. And then, after Olivia
went away to school, just the three of them.
It was fun to shop in those days, especially at Christmas, when everything was decorated, and smelled so wonderful, and they
were happy. On special occasions she might make a trip with Mama alone. They’d have lunch upstairs, just Mama and her in the
big restaurant, like ladies. The lady their mother was, and the lady Daphne hoped one day to become.
The thought dumped a cloud over her reminiscences. She was twenty years old and hadn’t even met someone she wanted to spend
her life with. Time was running out. She didn’t have career expectations; she didn’t want any. She wanted . . .
Below her, someone in the passing crowd caught her eye.
She recognized the dark hair, the way the girl angled between the other pedestrians.
Daphne blinked to make sure. She wasn’t mistaken.
That was Celia hurrying down the avenue.
Where on earth could she be going? Not to Wanamaker’s, Daphne would have waited for her.
Celia didn’t stop but kept hurrying south.
Daphne had to lean close to the window to follow her. For a moment she lost her in the crowd, but she caught sight of her
again just as Celia took the steps down to the subway station; she was carrying her old knitting bag.
On second thought, Daphne was glad Celia wasn’t looking for her. It would be so lowering to walk through the aisles of luxuries
with her sister and that tatty bag.
Still, where on earth could she possibly be going?
Celia clutched her knitting bag and the remnants of her work as a women’s health advocate in her lap as the train rattled
through the darkness toward the Lower East Side. Normally, Selena would be making this trip or connecting with one of the
other contacts who would make the trip. But she didn’t know how to get in touch with Selena outside of the Tellers’ shop.
And the raid Wednesday night had ended that.
It had ended a lot of things. But not her determination. You had to be willing to take risks to get things done. Especially
when there were evil forces working against you. She’d been careful. Making sure she wasn’t being followed. Even by her own
family. They had no idea what she was doing in her spare time. If anything, Daphne would assume that she was meeting a young
man. Celia didn’t really know any young men outside her work at the Arcadia or her after-work activities with Yannis.
But she wouldn’t dare put Yannis or his father and mother at risk. She’d have to find a new printing source. And she needed to deliver what she had of her last printing job, knowing that what Yannis had managed to leave wasn’t nearly enough.
By the time she finally climbed back into the sunny day, her teeth and bones felt like they had been dislocated. She blinked
against the sun. She still had a ways to go. Ten blocks, she figured, along Grand Street. She could wait for a trolley or
she could walk. She needed the exercise. And she needed penance. Not for what she’d been doing—she felt no shame about that—but
for jeopardizing others. If it had been she who had compromised their operation.
She was quite heated when she finally reached the block of the settlement house. It seemed to consist of several houses, and
for a moment she wished she hadn’t been so impatient and perhaps reckless to make contact. How would she ever find Selena?
As she stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the row of neat brick row houses, a group of young women with babies and small
children entered one of the houses. Celia ran across the street and followed them up the steps.
The group had already disappeared by the time Celia stepped into the entry hall, but the sound of children singing, babies
crying, and women chattering came from several doorways.
Celia stood chewing her lip, then took the initiative and peeked into the front room. A dozen or so women were seated in rows
of chairs watching a young woman in a white shirtwaist and gabardine skirt demonstrate how to bathe a baby using a life-size
rubber doll and explaining how to treat diaper rash, impetigo, cradle cap, and a number of conditions Celia was unfamiliar
with.
One of the women who was seated on the end of the row saw Celia and came out to meet her.
“Welcome, is this your first time at the settlement?”
Celia nodded, suddenly aware that she had no idea whom to trust with her pamphlets, or even if she could trust anyone at all.
She just knew they were destined for the settlement house.
“Do you need help?” asked the woman, taking in Celia’s appearance. “Or have you come to volunteer?”
“I’ve . . . Actually, I’m looking for Selena or Camille.”
“You’re a friend of theirs?”
“Yes,” Celia said, sensing a slight withdrawal. “We have similar interests.”
“Selena isn’t here today, but Camille is in the back. I’ll take you to her.”
Celia expelled a barely camouflaged sigh of relief.
“I’m Bertha, by the way,” the woman said as she guided Celia down the hall.
“Celia.”
The woman smiled. “Ah, here we are. Our visiting nurses program. We may have to wait a minute.” She gestured Celia through
a set of double doors and into a room where there was a lively discussion about the outbreak of pink eye on Water Street.
Various suggestions were made as to containment and treatment.
After a few minutes all the participants rose, and a discussion broke out among the individual nurses. Camille saw Bertha
and Celia and hurried over. Her eyebrows knit in question.
“Thank you, Bertha.”
Bertha, taking the hint, smiled and left.
“Celia, is something amiss? Selena is . . .”
“She’s fine, as far as I know, but”—Celia lowered her voice—“the printing shop we’ve been using was raided. Nothing was found. But he’s . . . well, he’s concerned for his family. . . . I’m afraid we’ll have to find another printer. I’m not sure where to go next.”
“That is a problem. Why don’t we go down to my office, where we can speak in private? You look like you could use a glass of water.”
“I could, thank you. Those were visiting nurses you were talking to?” Celia asked as they walked through the row house.
“Yes. You know, Margaret worked as a nurse here when she first moved to the city, oh, must have been ten years ago. What she
saw inspired her movement. We’re proud to be a part of that.” She slowed as they passed a room where pregnant women of all
ages sat in a semicircle asking questions of another woman who stood in front of a blackboard, chalk in hand, making a list
of the feelings they were sharing.
“Another class in the importance of a positive attitude.”
Camille showed Celia into her office, a small but efficient space at the end of the hall. She crossed to a counter and poured
out a glass of water, which Celia accepted and drank.
Camille gestured to a chair, and they both sat down. “Now, explain what has happened.”
“We can no longer use our regular printer. But I brought the basic birth control sheet with me. And a few extra vitamin printouts.
They were rejects, but I think you can still use them. Some of them got mucked about, and we didn’t get to finish the number
you needed. But I didn’t know when I would see Selena again. And I thought it was important to deliver what I could.”
“It is. And I thank you for making the trip. Your pamphlet will be a great help. Some weeks there are so many women in need of succor, guidance, or advice that they barely fit in the room. Some as young as twelve or thirteen; others in their forties, with little chance of bringing a healthy child into the world. We do what we can, have classes in prenatal care. Most we can help, even educate, but some wait too long. It’s an unending—”
Camille stood suddenly. “Did you know that doctors are not even allowed to discuss contraception or abortion, even if the
woman will die giving birth? What are doctors for? To let their patients succumb because of some man’s stupidity, or to save
lives?”
She visibly shook herself. “Sorry. It can be a bit overwhelming some days. We just lost a young girl, too young and sickly
to withstand childbirth or even, as it turned out, life. We were all terribly affected by it. She’d been one of the children
who grew up in our programs, but even that can’t protect them on the streets or from abusive family members.
“But we have many successes, young women who are learning to take care of themselves so they can take better care of their
children, so they can plan their pregnancies instead of being forced into a constant treadmill of bearing children and getting
weaker with each one.
“In the afternoon, we have classes for school-age children and daytime childcare, sports for boys, clinics. You should come
down for a real tour someday.”