to survive the trip.”
Andrew read as many books about birthing as he could, and informed her that history was in her favor. His mother had never lost a child, her mother had never lost a child at birth, and neither of her sisters had ever lost a child. Every evening, an hour before the last ferry to Vallejo, he questioned her: How was she feeling? Any pains of any kind? Any waters of any kind? Unusual movements? Unusual lack of movements? He enlisted Hubert Lear to run to the observatory and find him at any time of the day or night. They had several practice sessions in which she threw open her bedroom window and shouted for Hubert, and then timed his appearance in the street and his speed to the observatory and back. All of this was fine with Mrs. Lear, because it made Hubert feel useful.
In the event, however, there were no difficulties. One day just before the due date, she did, as Dr. Bernstein told her she would, feel the baby drop, and Andrew was home, so he called a wagon, and they went to the ferry. She was ensconced in her room on Ohio Street before noon, and early in the afternoon, she felt the first pain. Andrew ran to Dr. Bernstein’s office, and the doctor came half an hour later to examine her. Mrs. Wareham shooed the children out, and the boarders were excited but quiet. Because of Andrew, perhaps, Dr. Bernstein was on his mettle, and performed a perfect scientific delivery. Once he had boiled his instruments and washed his hands for ten minutes and disinfected them in mercury bichlorid, he stood with his hands uplifted and watched her as she progressed. He never touched a single thing before he touched the baby, he did not have to use forceps or chloroform, and the baby came shooting out onto a sterile rubber mat, was wrapped in sterile wrappings, and was a boy. The birth was so quick that Margaret was not daunted by the pains, especially after she saw the child. They named him Alexander Mayfield Early. He was extremely large.
It was about nine that evening when Dr. Bernstein left, and Andrew and she settled in for the night, with her in the bed (she didn’t feel terribly exhausted) and Andrew in the armchair. Alexander was wrapped in a blanket, lying in the cradle Mrs. Lear had given them. Mrs. Wareham promised to look in on them every couple of hours, and said Andrew could call her at any time. Andrew fell asleep, stretched out with a quilt pulled up to his chin. The day had been fine, but the fog had moved in, and it was now chilly and damp. The moist air made the moon, which was full, look gauzy and pale as it shone into the room. Margaret ached all over, but she found the baby too interesting to admit of sleep. She sat up as best she could and stared into the cradle, which was beside the bed. She looked at his very round face, his hands, and the dark cap of hair on his head. The room was quiet. He was quiet. He had hardly cried at all, which she wondered about, but everyone else, even Dr. Bernstein, seemed mostly relieved at this. Mrs. Wareham had said, “Oh, he’s just worn out. And he’s going to be a good baby. I can just tell.” Even so, she felt far away from Alexander, and she thought that if she could have him in her arms, if she could curl around him like a dog, she would feel closer. She was supposed to be sleeping, or resting, making good use of her time while she didn’t have to nurse him or care for him. Andrew sighed in his sleep and shifted position.
Margaret slipped down under her quilts and stared up at the ceiling. Things were quiet for some time, and then Alexander gave a cry. A moment later, he started moving about and fussing. Andrew shifted in his sleep but did not awaken, and Margaret inched over toward the cradle and picked Alexander up. It was easy. He fit right into her arms, and it was a pleasure to look into his little countenance. Of course, she had held babies before. Beatrice, for one, didn’t much like to hold her babies, so when they were fussy, if they were going to be held, others would be the ones to hold them.