Dollybird (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

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My dearest Aileen,

Well, Mr. Penny fired me for being pregnant. Though I am destitute, I am happy to be out of his employ. I have found a rooming house for the meantime and a new friend named Annie. She has been wonderful. But the other women are like none I've ever met. The backwoods people of Newfoundland may be ignorant and superstitious, but these women are crass and vulgar. They are arrogant about it, too, as though these are enviable attributes. They walk between rooms barely dressed and lounge at one another's doors smoking and chatting like they haven't a care in the world. But they do. None has any better room or food or any more money than I. And men coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I don't even want to imagine. These women seem to pass every day in this degradation and not expect any more out of their lives. It's really quite sad...

i i i

What would Father think of this new housing arrangement? He'd always encouraged me to witness the
real world
, the ways in which people survived, or not. Except for Annie, those who peopled my world in Ibsen didn't appear to hold much promise. But then neither had the world offered much to those in my father's life, those sick and destitute I'd met while travelling with him.

We'd been called to a lumber camp once where a man's leg had been cut off when a tree fell the wrong way. Despite the gruesome prospects, I'd been excited. It was the first time I was allowed to ride to a case and to bring supplies of my own. I felt the picture of a country doctor, complete with black bag and coat. Father was distracted, gazing into the distance.

“When I first came here,” he mused, “I thought I could convince them to turn to God in a new way. If I could heal their bodies, maybe they'd give me their souls too.” The lines etched in his face bore testament to his efforts. “I was young and idealistic. But it didn't take long to realize the only thing I might be able to do was save them from themselves.”

I hadn't known yet what he could mean.

“They don't often want a doctor. They're very suspicious, think we practice some sort of devil's work. ‘Leave it to the Lord.' I hear that all the time.”

“But surely when they see what you can do?”

“It doesn't work that way. You've seen how isolated these people are. Forgotten by the rest of the world. I sometimes think they believe they're not worth saving.” He stopped to turn the collar up on his jacket. “They're like the detractors of
Job. Think somehow they've brought their misery upon them
selves. That they don't deserve help.”

“How can people be so stupid?”

“Don't ever say that.” His voice had been sharp. “They are ignorant, yes, but not stupid. I've seen each of these people do the work of ten men. Women included. They improvise and invent. They are quite remarkable.” He didn't seem to be speaking to me any more. “Not stupid at all.”

A shout from ahead interrupted us. The approaching rider went straight to Father. “What's the girl doing here?” He eyed me warily.

“She's my daughter and my assistant.” Father's tone took the rider by surprise. I drew myself up tall.

He hesitated only an instant before riding off, calling back over his shoulder, “Camp is just a half mile ahead. He's in the first shack on the right.”

“Shack all right,” said Father, tying our horses to the rail alongside the building. The whole thing looked like it would blow over at the wind's slightest provocation. Collecting my things from the saddlebag, I ran quickly to follow close behind Father, trying to avoid the stares of three men.

The man who'd met us was explaining, “His daughter. Won't go anywhere without her.”

I was grateful for his help until I looked up to see him raise his eyebrows, a suggestion in his eyes. The others snorted. Catching my glance he made a lewd gesture at his pants. I gasped, instantly wishing I hadn't. The men laughed loudly, and Father turned back to see my red-hot face.

“Moira.”

I rushed to his side and promptly gagged at the sight and stench in the shack. The man's leg was gone from just below the knee. He was lying on a plank two feet off the floor, his upper half covered with a thin, dirty sheet. From the stump of his severed leg a yellow-green infection had spread to above his knee. His face was whiter than the sheet drawn to his chin, shining with sweat though he shivered uncontrollably. I'd started to shake.

“I did what it said in the book here.” A voice boomed from behind us, so I jumped out of the way. “Name's Ivan. Only one here that can read. So I brung this book with me. It says to let his blood. So I did. Right above his knee there.”

Ivan pointed to somewhere near where the infection had spread. His hands were huge and filthy. All of him was huge and filthy. Most striking was his large bald head, shining like a lamppost. His wide grin was filled with black, rotting teeth. He looked around with pride, enjoying his newfound role as camp medic.

“Bloodletting. Dear God,” muttered Father.

“Says here it will ‘eliminate the cause of disease.'” Ivan sounded out each word as he read. “Any imbalance in the morbid humours: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm.” He looked up. “I figured that oughta cover it 'til you got here.”

“Thank you, Ivan is it? We'll look after it from here then.” Father gave me a long look, as though grounding himself, then nodded at the man on the bed. “Just talk to him and wipe his face now, will you?”

When the sponge touched his face, the man opened his eyes and grabbed my forearm with shocking strength. He squeezed harder as Father probed his wound, until I could barely feel my fingers, until I thought I might lose my arm too. I had to distract him.

“What's your name then?”

“Beaver.”

“Now what kind of name is that?”

“Not my real name.” Each word was a clipped breath.

“Try breathing deeply. More oxygen. It'll help with the pain.” I wasn't actually sure if it was true for anything but childbirth, but I had to say something. Slowly I worked my arm out of his clenched fingers. “What's your real name?”

“James. I don't want to live. Tell the doctor to give me something to make me die. Quick.”

“We can't do that.” The request was not uncommon, death seen as the only ready solution to end the pain. “You just have to hold on until we get you fixed up. You'll be all right.” His face was anguished. “Do you have a family?”

James started to cry. “You let me die, damn it.” He tried to push himself up on one elbow. “She can't marry nobody else if I'm still alive. And then who'll provide for them?” He looked about wildly, frantic to make himself understood. “I can't work without my leg. You let me die. It's the only way. They'll starve...” His voice drifted as he passed out. I looked to Father, tears pressing against my eyelids.

“We can't do anything about it now, Moira.”

We amputated above the knee to stop the infection. There'd been no chloroform, no cocaine for James. Father hadn't received supplies from Edinburgh for weeks, and so the men held James down as Father began to saw. James woke, his screams finding their way around the leather strap in his mouth, filling the room, searing into my head to rest behind my eyes. The psalms Father had badgered me to memorize through every idle moment would not come. I closed my eyes to the scene and pictured our fine drawing room.

“Oh Lord, reprove me not in your anger,” I started. “Nor chastise me in your wrath. Have pity on me, O Lord, for I am languishing: heal me, Oh Lord, for my body is in terror: My soul, too, is utterly...”

Ivan retched and his vomit stained my boots. I tried something less morbid. “When I behold your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you set in place – What is
man that you should be mindful of him, or the son of man...?”

James finally passed out and I sighed heavenward, thankful for whatever benevolence might be out there. All three men ran out of the shack, clutching their hands over their mouths.

We applied a poultice and bandaged the stump. James woke to the vision of his new life cursing, screaming he wanted to die, since we'd killed him anyway and his whole family too. This last was directed at me, his eyes wild, frightening. The men urged whiskey down his throat until he passed out again. All night I held his hand and sponged his face, visions of a skeletal family accompanying me in and out of consciousness. We emerged from the shack exhausted, the sun just beginning to burn off the morning fog. Father left written instructions with Ivan. Looking back I could see Ivan's lips moving, slowly sounding out the words. He would take James back to his family as soon as James was able to travel.

The ride home was long and cold. My stomach clenched at the thought of a dirty home filled with howling children waiting for their father to bring home money and food. Instead, he would come back disfigured and useless.

“I'll see if the church can help,” Father said absently, then sighed. “It'll be all right, Moira. We did everything we could.”

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The letter I'd been writing lay on the table in front of me along with the memory of James's fierce, shattered will to do the right thing, even to die. Sitting now in this horrid place, I remembered with vivid clarity what I'd been too preoccupied to notice that morning on the way home from the camp – the
countryside had displayed a frightening beauty, and the granite
and limestone outcrops loomed over us as we rode by, the bright green mosses and contrasting red berries a stark contrast to my own plainness, my failure to help the legless man heard in the whispering sound of the waves.

Suddenly covered in goosebumps, I climbed into bed. Such a rich landscape and the degradation of the people so complete. How could anyone succeed?

From my bed I could just see out the window. Past the outhouses, the moon rose, a perfect globe lighting the sleeping homes of Ibsen. Silhouettes of horses, barely distinguishable except for the occasional tossed head or flicked tail, melded into one as they tucked into each other against the cold. The real world. The expansive landscape and huge skies of the prairie had not proven any more friendly than the forests of home. My world had become dark and foreign, peopled by characters as deeply haunted as James. My being here was unimaginable, yet here I was.

Tomorrow I would start as helper cook downstairs, a way to earn at least part of my keep. Annie begged the job from the landlord on my behalf, appealing to his kinder self on account of my being pregnant. Blowing out the bedside lantern, I huddled under the covers and fell into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER 10

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A door banged
somewhere down the hall. Not again. Every
night for three nights they'd screamed at one another, coming
home late from the Ibsen Hotel, each accusing the other of absconding with her beau. It was hard to believe either of them could actually attract a man.

“You stay the hell away from him.” The voice belonged to Katy, a tiny woman with long dark hair, a hooked nose and cold grey eyes. Diminutive, yet frightening.

More noises in the hall were followed by a sudden thud against the wall. Slowly I opened the door and poked my head out. Lynn was lying on the floor, limbs askew, blood pouring from her nose. Throwing the door wide, I stepped out to help her.

“Get the hell back in your room,” Katy hollered from behind me. “This is none of your goddamn business. You want I should belt you one too?” I turned, but could only gape at her. Katy suddenly shouted, “Boo!”

A short scream leapt from my mouth and I scooted back into my room, latching the door and leaning against it. Katy's laughter followed, and suddenly I was shaking. What did I owe Lynn anyway? Just days before, she'd accused me of stealing her boots, as though I would steal anything, let alone ragged old boots from a stranger. Annie said to pay Lynn no mind, that she was a good person, her mind a little fragile. Especially since her mother's necklace was stolen, the only remaining piece of a set she'd been pawning to feed herself. Still, I resented having tried to help her.

When it was quiet, I poked my head out again. Everyone was gone. I felt like a turtle, afraid of anything but its own shell. I had to see Annie. At least she understood this place, the women, how to get what she needed and stay out of trouble. As I crept down the hall, my belly preceded me, conspicuous even under my housecoat.

We'd agreed on three quick knocks. But in my distracted state, I forgot to wait for the appropriate reply and shoved the sticky door open to slip in.

“Moira, no!” I heard it just as the door closed.

A man's bare and hairy backside greeted me, Annie on all fours in front of him. They were on the bed, the man in paroxysms, tufts of pubic hair and dangling breasts visible between their two sets of legs. I couldn't move, didn't know if the man was aware of me yet. I stared in shock until Annie twisted around to peer at me, took one hand off the bed and waved wildly toward the door, gesturing at me to get out. Spinning back, I grasped the bent nail serving as a latch. Too large for the frame, the door stuck. I gave it a yank. The latch slipped from my fingers. I tried again. In that eternity the door finally opened. Glancing back, I saw the man turn, and our eyes met. His were cruel and unwavering. It was Mr. Penny.

I was not a turtle. Dashing down the hall, feet thudding, I scrambled into my room and banged the door. Mr. Penny could easily barrel through the weak latch. All my senses strained to hear him, the vision of his backside and eyes burning my eyelids. I felt dirty, a co-conspirator, Annie's look so normal, as if I'd simply walked in on her at an inopportune moment, like an “oops, pardon me” would suffice to absolve me of the sin of bad timing.

But I knew what I'd seen. Vomit filled my mouth and I rushed to the wash basin. Soon the dry heaves quieted and I sat down on the narrow cot. The house was quiet: Mr. Penny probably gone, Annie cleaning herself up. I remembered the note I'd discovered in his pocket and shuddered. I'd become the friend of a whore. How could I have let that happen? How could Annie let it? I hadn't allowed myself to believe she might be doing what the other girls so obviously were. And with such a pig. But then they were all pigs.

I felt a kick on my left side as the baby rearranged its limbs, seeking a more comfortable position, maybe finding its thumb. This was the world it would be brought into. I was sick again, rinsed my mouth and threw the whole mess out the window. Desperation constricted my throat and tightened my stomach. I had to leave, but was so hopelessly alone. Afraid to go. Afraid to stay.

For the first time since leaving home, I longed for Mother, the realization shocking. She'd been so harsh, yet it was her cold, reasoning voice that could bring the world into perspective. I needed her to convince me that somehow this would turn out all right; I'd survive pregnancy and poverty and parturition, and I'd be able to feed and clothe this child and find it a good home. But now I had no one, the isolation overwhelming.

When sleep finally saved me, I dreamed that Evan peered at me from Annie's bed, his embrace tight around my friend, who became only a stricken stranger. The dream transformed Mr. Penny's mocking face into Evan's. The transformation did not change the cruelty in his eyes.

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“How did you think I afforded to live, to stay here?” Annie looked at me like I was at best naïve, at worst an imbecile.

After days of avoiding her, I answered the familiar knock at the door, fearing a three-headed monster. But it was the same Annie, blonde hair pulled into a girlish ponytail, eyes bearing just a hint of sadness.

“Well.” I closed my eyes against the tears threatening. “I don't know. I thought you were different from the other girls, that you worked somewhere else. Maybe family money?” It sounded ridiculous.

“Hmmph.” Annie snorted. “Not all of us are so lucky.”

I shrank back. “Wait a minute. I've got nothing from home. Nothing.”

“Yeah, but you know you can go back. When that baby is born...,” Annie gestured at my belly, “you can go back to Mommy and Daddy and all the comforts of home.”

“I don't know that I want to.”

“Well, I don't have the choice.” Annie's glare dared me to argue. I lowered my eyes.

“It was the shock.” Shame filled my chest. Annie was the first person to react to me without judgment or dismissal, to
give real comfort. Yet I'd been only marginally aware my friend
might have her own sad story, and she might need compassion in return. I'd been frantically sorry for myself while Annie's terrible reality moved on unnoticed and unacknowledged. I was not a good friend. Quietly, I went to the door and pulled her into the room.

“How do you manage...” I blushed and hurried on. “What about diseases? And so many women die in childbirth. It's so dangerous for you.”

“We have our ways,” Annie shrugged. “Condoms made of linen or animal gut. And there's a new thing called a womb veil. As though a veil is all it takes.” Her laugh was a short bark. “And I use a douche I make up in the kitchen.”

I gasped then, like a little girl. How had my father kept such basic things from me?

“Lynn thought she was pregnant a few months back. We used pennyroyal to induce her.” She looked up then. “It's okay, Moira. We all know what to do.”

“But Annie, is there nothing else you can do? Nowhere to go?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you're smart and beautiful.”

“What does that matter out here?” Annie was less angry, more resigned. “Look, I'll be fine. I am what I am. I'm not unhappy.” A weak smile flitted across her face. “It's not bliss. But mostly they treat me well.” At my flinch, she repeated, “But I'm not unhappy.”

Hugging her, I whispered into her hair, “But I wish you could be blissfully happy.”

“Maybe I choose not to be.”

“I don't know if it's about choice.”

“Sure it is. Like right now.” Annie grinned. “You're choosing to be my friend despite what you know.”

“Yes.”

“But you could choose differently and then you'd never know what I found.” She laughed mischievously. “I found a job for you.”

“Oh my goodness.” I could hardly breathe. “Where?”

“You could be a dollybird.”