Even the once-fresh breezes off Lake Michigan were like the hot, moist panting of a heaving beast. Pressed under a close white sky, the air grew spongy. Clydesdales strained at their harnesses. Flanks foaming, heads down, they plowed the streets dragging water barrels, beer kegs and huge blocks of ice. Rains brought sucking mud but no relief. “Still we must be clean and fresh for our ladies,” Madame Hélène insisted. So twice weekly in Mrs. Gaveston’s kitchen I pumped water, scrubbed my garments, and hung them out to dry. The next evening I did ironing, stoking a coal fire to heat and reheat the flatirons. Sweat rolled down my face and arms as I mopped myself with kitchen rags, careful not to stain the crisp calico. Fine ladies wanted no reminder of the city’s milling crowds, prairie dust and mucky streets or the heady stew of smells from packed streetcars and immigrant markets where I bought healing roots and herbs. Certainly they did not want to imagine the stifling tenements of those who used Signora D’Angelo’s clinic.
