The Wet Nurse's Tale by Erica Eisdorfer

yourself, girl,” and that’s all she said. And she threw my hand down and left the tent to bargain with the other young ladies on their horses. I have always remembered that time though I did not understand what it meant.
    Our father never found out where we’d gone, even though John scrapped with one of the Gypsy boys and got his nose bloodied for his trouble. Later that week we heard that one of the women in the camp died from having a baby and that the sexton wouldn’t allow her to be buried in the churchyard, though her family had plenty of money to give him. They buried her outside the gates and after a time, the Gypsies left in their wagons, with their dogs following behind.
    I thought of the Gypsies for the first time in many years as I entered the Hebrew district. I passed the dentist’s house, Mr. Abrams is his name, I thought. The streets bustled. The air smelled of spices; perhaps it was this that recalled the Gypsies to me especially. There was much to look upon and to hear: great vats of pickled cucumbers and what looked to be bits of fish in brine. To be sure, this last smelled disgusting to me, but truly I have never cared much for fish—it floats in the belly as much as in a pond. The old-clothes sellers wore their wares on their backs if they did not have a stall; one man had hats to sell all piled up on his head.
    I looked down at my weeds, that I’d been wearing since Joey died. Mrs. Holcomb had bought me this dress as a kindness. I thought perhaps it was time to change it. Mrs. Chandler gave her old frocks to her servants but of course there was none my size, ever. I found myself in front of a stall as had ladies’ used dresses on the wall; the keeper kept a stick with a hook to get them down.
    “Anything in my size, then?” said I, and he looked and indeed, there was a sprigged muslin, worn a bit, but large enough to fit. And the buttons were at the front, what’s more, which is where you need ’em in my profession. So I told him to take it down and he did, and I told him I must try it, and he showed me a curtain to get behind, and it fit. Mrs. Chandler would approve of it, I knew, as it was quite plain and well-made. We wet nurses have no need of a uniform; I can wear what I like, and that’s a blessing. It did right up, so I kept it on and paid the man near what he asked for but not all because I showed him there was a rip in the hem and a button almost loose at the waist, but it’d stay, I thought, while I took more of my walk.
    “Miss,” said the seller as I looked in my purse for a coin. “Look at this lovely ribbon, here. It matches just right, do it not? Why, this is ribbon as only a grand lady might wear.”
    I have always liked a ribbon. For those as us who cannot afford to put ourselves in smooth stuffs, like silks and satins, a little piece of ribbon is a luxury. I was feeling so gay that day! I looked at his ribbon—a lovely brown, just like the chocolate Mrs. Chandler drank for breakfast. I nodded.
    “Just a small piece,” said I. “Just a bit.”
    The seller cut a piece for me and wrapped it round and round. When he turned round for a moment, he dropped a little loose end of it onto the ground. No longer than my thumb it was, but waste not want not, I always say, so I knelt and took it up as fast as ever I could and he did not even see me. So I got my ribbon plus a extra bit and that was a piece of good luck for me.
    When I came out of the rag seller’s I found myself very near a main thoroughfare, where two streets crossed. There, just across the road from where I stood, I spied their temple. The building was large, with two stone columns. Many people were going in, and before I could stop myself, I had crossed the street and as if I knew what I was doing, I climbed the steps and entered the building.
    Reader, it was like I had been pulled there! What would my father say to such news as his own daughter inside the worship-house of the heathens. He had not himself an