Thursday, November 29th

At family gatherings late in her pregnancy, Cordelia Boal tried unsuccessfully to hide her increased mass behind an ankle-length wool dress of her own creation. Aunts, and the occasional uncle, would inquire as to the name of the baby. “And for a boy?”

David bade his wife to be kind but to avoid their entreaties. Cordelia employed curt phrases like “We haven’t yet decided,” “We’ll have to see the wee one first,” “We’ll know when we know” to shut down the conversation.

David was convinced that the underlying question was really whether this child would bear the Thompson name – a given name followed by the words Thompson Boal in rapid succession, the first diminishing the second, in his view. The Thompsons, while more benign that the hydra of Lernes, spilled out from Thompsontown and seemingly entangled themselves in the business of every homestead of the Juniata Valley. His child would be a Boal, free of the clutches of the Thompsons, at least in name.

David’s feelings, already evident as a child, had only grown stronger with time. Yes, his mother had married into the Thompson family, but that he could understand – widowed at 24, his mother had a farm to run, a house to maintain. But a year ago, his sister Jane, his Boal confidante in a house full of Thompsons, took the hand of Thomas Boal Thompson, a widower and quite possibly a swindler. Having run a mercantile in Indiana and a bank in Georgia for the planter class, farming didn’t seem to hold much interest for Thomas. He was looking for a golden ticket and David surmised that Thomas was unlike to find it in Thompsontown. His sister Jane was already carrying yet another Thompson, a baby who – God willing – would follow his own in a matter of weeks.

David and Cordelia were as prepared as they could be. They were both nervous, but did their best not to show it, especially to one another. Several days before, David’s mother had sent over her servants to stay with the two of them – the young domestic in the house and the negro fieldhand in the barn. It was a well coordinated effort; advance planning around births being a point of pride in the Thompson clan.

David’s cousin William Shippen Thompson, the namesake of William Shippen, the Philadelphia doctor with the first obstetrics practice in the colonies, cornered him at a family gathering, telling him that far fewer Thompson babies and mothers died in childbirth than was typical. “It’s the Shippen influence,” his cousin continued.

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t bother Cordelia with that information,” David said before turning away.

David and Cordelia tried to go about their daily affairs, but it was hard with these extra people around, no matter how unobtrusive they tried to be. At the kitchen table, Cordelia asked David, “Wouldn’t it be funny if today were the day?’ She had to pause in the middle of her question, since simple tasks like breathing had become a chore in the final weeks of her pregnancy.

“What’s so funny about today?” David asked.

“Jane and Thomas’s wedding. A year ago today, this house was scrubbed clean. And what gaiety there was.”

“Yes, of course.” David wasn’t much interested in discussing his sister’s wedding.

Then Cordelia grunted. “Oh my.” Her face contorted. “My water,” she groaned.

David looked at his wife, her pale face, the darkened fabric of her dress. He sprang into action. Rubbing Cordelia’s shoulders, he barked out instructions. “Nancy, have the boy fetch the doctor. There’s no time to waste. Hurry now.”

The young Scotswoman, ran out the back door, calling, “Charles! Charles, it’s time!” David could hear the crack of a whip and the clacking of hooves.

***

In the gloaming, David’s mother and sister and their Thompson husbands arrived. In the bedroom, Cordelia, exhausted, slept fitfully while Nancy, the domestic, watched over the angel in the cradle.

David greeted the guests in the parlor, the women offering silent kisses, the men, firm handshakes. David quietly shared that the doctor had arrived in time, that Cordelia had shown her mettle, that the baby was pink with a huge set of lungs.

“When can we see the little one?” David’s mother asked.

“Come with me,” David said with a wave of his hand. David’s mother was at his shoulder, his sister Jane just behind. The Thompson brothers remained in the parlor.

Peering into the cradle as the domestic retreated, Sarah Ann Boal Thompson whispered, “Those are rosy cheeks, all right!” Smiling broadly at the infant, “What name have you chosen for this little one?” Next to her, his sister Jane her hands resting on her belly, looking dreamily at her newest relation.

Staring down at his son, David said, “He’s John, just like Father.” David heard his mother’s missed breath, saw a lone tear leak from his sister’s eye.

Swaddled tightly, unable to move his arms, John Edgar Boal scrunched his nose beneath the gaze of his elders. David hadn’t mentioned his son’s middle name, another memorial to his absent father.

Cordelia, the reader in the family, had been quite taken by “The Raven,” the poem by Edgar Allan Poe. She had brought a slim volume of Poe’s poetry into their home and tried to get David to read it, which he neglected to do. Then, one morning, the chores done, the birth of his child imminent, David happened upon the book. As if in a dream, he opened its pages and read from “Lenore,” the first poem his eyes set upon.

Come! Let the burial rite be read – the funeral song be sung!

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young

A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.

Edgar Allan Poe, like David’s father, had died young. Naming his son John Edgar Boal would give voice to the man who was seldom spoken of but loomed large in his life.

David ushered Sarah Ann Boal Thompson and Jane Boal Thompson out of the bedroom and into the parlor where they would join their husbands.