Mary Clark: All Through The Night

How could I have told Granddad that I got involved with a man I knew was married? She asked herself now. I couldn’t have kept the baby. There was no money to pay for help. I had years of schooling ahead of me. And if I had told him what had happened, it would have broken his heart.

As the cab made its way through the slow traffic, Sondra thought back to that wrenching time. She thought about how she had saved money to come to New York, she remembered checking into a cheap hotel on November 30th, buying the baby clothes and diapers, the bottles and formula and stroller. She had located the hospital closest to the hotel and had planned to go to the emergency room when she went into labor. She would, of course, have to give a false name and address. But the baby had come so quickly on December 3rd; there had been no time to get to the hospital.

Early in the pregnancy, she had decided that New York was where she would leave the baby. She loved the city. From her very first visit there with her granddad, she knew that someday she would live in Manhattan. She had instantly felt at home there. On that first visit, her grandfather had taken her to St. Clement’s, the church he had attended throughout his boyhood. “Whenever I wanted a special favor, I would kneel in the pew nearest Bishop Santori’s picture and his chalice,” he told her. “From them I always received comfort. Sondra, I went there when I realized there was no hope for the stiffening fingers. That was the nearest I ever came to despair.”

In the several days before the baby was born, Sondra had slipped in and out of St. Clement’s; each time she had knelt in that pew. She had watched the clergymen there; she’d seen the kindness in the face of Monsignor Ferris and knew that she could trust him to find a good home for her baby.

Where is my baby now? Sondra wondered in despair. She’d been in agony since yesterday. As soon as she checked into the hotel, she had phoned the rectory and said she was a reporter following up on the story of the baby who had been left on the stoop of the rectory on December 3rd, seven years ago.

The astonishment in the secretary’s voice had warned her of what was to come. “A baby left at St. Clement’s?! I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’ve been here twenty years, and nothing like that has ever happened.”

The cab turned onto Central Park South. I used to daydream that maybe the people who adopted the baby were pushing her in her carriage here, along the park, Sondra thought, where the baby could see the horses and carriages.

Late yesterday afternoon she had gone to the public library and called up the microfilm of the New York newspapers of December 4th, seven years ago. The only reference to St. Clement’s that day was an article about a theft there, stating that the chalice of Bishop Santori, the founding pastor to whom many of the devout prayed, had been stolen.

That’s probably why the police were there when I called that night; that’s why the monsignor was outside, Sondra thought, her distress growing. And I believed it was because they’d found the baby.

Then who had taken the baby? She had left her in a paper shopping bag for added warmth. Maybe some kids had come by and pushed the stroller away and abandoned it, without ever realizing she was there. Suppose the baby had died of exposure. I’d go to prison, Sondra thought. What would that do to Granddad? He keeps telling me that all the sacrifices he’s made over the years have been worthwhile because of what I’ve become. He’s so proud that I’ll be playing a concert at Carnegie Hall on December 23rd. It’s what he always dreamed of-first for himself, and then for me.

The celebrity-studded charity affair would introduce her to the New York critics. Yo-Yo Ma, Plácido Domingo, Kathleen Battle, Emanuel Ax and the brilliant young violinist Sondra Lewis were the main attractions. She still could hardly believe it.

“We’re here, miss,” the cabbie said, an edge in his voice. With a start, Sondra realized that his irritation was due to the fact that he’d already told her that once.

“Oh, sorry.” The fare was $3.40. She fished in her wallet for a five-dollar bill. “That’s fine,” she said, opening the door and starting to get out.

“I don’t think you really wanted to give me a forty-five dollar tip, miss.”

Sondra looked at the fifty-dollar bill the cabbie was holding out to her. “Oh, thank you,” she stammered.

“That’s a big mistake, lady. Lucky for you I don’t take advantage of pretty young women.”

As Sondra exchanged the fifty for a five-dollar bill, she thought-too bad you weren’t around when I traded my baby for my grandfather’s good opinion of me and my own chance at success.

When they reached the building on Amsterdam Avenue -formerly the Goldsmith and Son Furniture Emporium-that now housed Sister Cordelia’s clothing thrift shop, Alvirah and Willy went directly to the second floor.

It was four o’clock, and the children who regularly came to Home Base to take advantage of the after-school facilities were sitting cross-legged on the floor around Sister Maeve Marie. The large area had been transformed into a kind of bright and cheery auditorium. The faded linoleum was polished to the point that even the floorboards beneath the worn spaces glistened.

The walls were painted sunshine yellow and decorated with drawings and cutouts the children had made. Old-fashioned radiators whistled and thudded, but thanks to Willy and his near-magical ability to fix the unfixable, there was no mistaking the warmth they provided.

“Today is very special,” Sister Maeve Marie was saying. “We’re going to begin practice for our Christmas pageant.”

Willy and Alvirah slipped into seats near the staircase and watched affectionately. A regular volunteer at Home Base, Alvirah was in charge of the party that was to follow the pageant, and Willy would be playing Santa Claus.

The children’s expectant and lively eyes were riveted on Sister Maeve Marie as she explained, “Today we’re going to start learning the songs about Christmas and Chanukah that we’ll be performing at the pageant. Then we’ll study our lines.”

“Isn’t it wonderful that Cordelia and Maeve are making sure that everybody has a speaking part?” Alvirah whispered.

“Everybody? Well, let’s hope it’s a short speaking part,” Willy replied.

Alvirah smiled. “You don’t mean that.”

“Want to bet?”

“Sshh.” She patted his hand as Sister Maeve Marie read off the names of the children who would be assigned to tell the story of Chanukah. “Rachel, Barry, Sheila…”

Cordelia appeared from downstairs and, with her practiced eye, glanced over the children. Seeing mischief about, she walked over to Jerry, the lively seven-year-old who was poking the six-year-old seated next to him.

She tapped him lightly. “Keep that up, and I’ll find a new Saint Joseph,” she warned, then turned and joined Alvirah and Willy. “When I got back, there was another message from Pablo Torres,” she said. “He’d gone to bat for us, and I do believe he tried his best, but he says there was no way he could get an extension on keeping this place open. I think he was as happy as I was to hear about Bessie’s townhouse. He knows the block and said he’s sure there won’t be any problem transferring our operation there. We can even take in more kids.”

One of the volunteer salespeople at the thrift shop came rushing up the stairs. “Sister, Kate Durkin is on the phone, asking to talk to you. Hurry; she’s crying her eyes out.”

No traces remained of the festive luncheon they had enjoyed only a few hours earlier. But once again, Willy, Alvirah, Monsignor Ferris and Sister Cordelia sat at the same table they had dined at earlier in the day. Kate was with them, quietly weeping.