The Midwife of Hope River (11 page)

17

Runaway

All day it rains, turning the snow to mush, and I do nothing but reread the first three chapters of DeLee's
Obstetrics
and wonder when Bitsy will return. I am beginning to wonder
if
she will return. I expected her right after New Year's, and it's already the fourth. If she doesn't come back, I will be sad. I've gotten used to her.

It's well after dark when, lying on the sofa, I close my eyes for a moment and have
another
dream! This one is about the veterinarian. An indignity! What's he doing inside my head?

In the dream it's summer. Hester and I are lying in the loft of a dark barn. Not my barn, another larger one, with light that comes in through the cracks in the rough-cut oak boards. Our bodies, still clothed, are pressed together. Nothing else happens, but when I wake, my heart's pounding and I try to remember what his body felt like.

 

A few minutes later, I hear the drone of a motor coming up Wild Rose Road and then banging at the door. As usual, the first thing I think of is the law, like that night the feds came looking for Ruben and we hid him in the attic, or the other time, after he died, when they came looking for me. Turned out they just had some questions about the IWW at Westinghouse, but Mrs. Kelly and I were so scared we didn't go out for three days, and not long after, we left the city for good.

I grab my red kimono and hurry to the window. A dark coupe is parked at the fence. The pounding starts up again.

“Miss Patience! Don't be afraid. It's Bitsy and Miss Katherine.”

“Oh, Bitsy! You
did
scare me!”

I open the door, to find Bitsy assisting Mrs. MacIntosh up the steps. When I help her out of her long cream coat with a fur collar, Katherine turns away.

“Where's Mr. MacIntosh?” I ask. “Where's the baby?”

“He wouldn't let me have him.” The mother looks up. Her eyes are both black, there's a bruise on her cheek, and her face is red from crying.

“Did William do this?”

“He didn't mean to. He was drinking and got angry because I wouldn't come to his room and play cards with him.”

“Cards?” This seems an exaggerated response, though I know men have put women under the ground for less.

“Not just cards. He meant something else.” She flops herself into the rocker, and as I put more wood into the heater stove, I notice her arm. Big bruises, with finger marks, circle both wrists.

“Oh, Katherine! Can you move your hand?” The woman waves a little. You can see that it hurts; her wrists are probably sprained but not broken. I place the green patchwork pillow on her lap and rest her forearm over it, then busy myself making hot water for valerian tea, a nerve relaxant that seems warranted for all of us. I also make up some warm comfrey compresses. There must be more bruises hidden under her clothes. She looks like the loser in a prizefight with Jack Dempsey.

 

Bitsy is stomping the snow off her boots. On the floor by the door sits one of Katherine's monogrammed linen pillowcases, stuffed, I assume with a few clothes and toiletries. I bring in the tea and help Katherine lie down on the sofa. Bitsy covers her with the flying goose quilt and props her head up on the pillow.

Questions buzz through my head like yellow jackets when you kick up a nest, but it seems wrong to ask for the blow-by-blow details. Katherine will tell me tomorrow—if she can talk about it.

“We stole the car,” Bitsy announces. “Mama stood in the bedroom door and blocked Mr. MacIntosh's way, but we had to leave the baby. He wouldn't let go of him.” I can picture Mary Proudfoot facing the mister down. She's as tall as he is and thirty pounds heavier. I don't worry about little Willie; as soon as his father passes out, Mary will get her hands on him and feed him cow's milk or cereal.

“He'll be awful pissed,” Bitsy continues, “when he finds his precious Oldsmobile is gone. Probably call the sheriff.”

“We'll worry about that in the morning.” I glance out the window to see if anyone's coming. “Who drove?”

“I did.” That's Bitsy. “Miss Katherine showed me what to do. We took it real slow. That's why we got here so late.” I look at Bitsy with new respect; her fearlessness amazes me. It took me a year to learn how to drive; Ruben taught me. That was back when he had an auto, on loan from the union.

Katherine MacIntosh hasn't uttered a word since she told me about refusing to “play cards.” “Is there anything you need, Katherine? Do you want to wash up? We can help you.”

“My chest,” she says. “I'm so uncomfortable. The baby still nurses every few hours.”

Cripes!
I've been so concerned about the woman's bruises, I hadn't even thought about her breast milk. I reach over and touch Katherine's cheek, wipe the tears off her face. “Can I check? If you're engorged, we have to get the milk out or you'll get an infection. Here, sit up.”

I pull her yellow cashmere sweater up to her chin, undo her brassiere, and find that her breasts are as hard as baseballs.

“Bitsy, get a shallow bowl and more warm compresses. Do you think you can express the milk, Katherine? Or do you need our help? We have to get it out somehow, and we don't have a baby to help us.”

The beaten woman shakes her head and lifts her sprained wrists, opening and closing her fingers with difficulty to show that she can barely move them.

“Well, Bitsy and I will have to do it, then. Is it okay?” Katherine shrugs and I help her lean forward so her breasts hang down. We surround them with warm compresses; then I teach Bitsy how to grasp the nipple between thumb and fingertip and squeeze down. Milk drips into the bowl and mixes with Katherine's tears.

Some people would say that this is too strange, to be milking another woman like a cow, but I am a midwife, a former wet nurse. I'm used to touching women's bodies and have taught many mothers to breastfeed. For Bitsy, granted, it must be odd, but she's always interested in learning new things and midwifery may be her calling.

When we're done, we put the bowl of breast milk in the kitchen and cover it with a pie pan; then I carry it out to the springhouse. I'm not sure what we're saving it for, but human milk, since my days as a milkmaid, has always seems like liquid gold to me.

 

“You can sleep in my bed, if you want, Miss Katherine,” Bitsy tells our exhausted guest. “I'll change the sheets real quick.” She puts the dogs out to pee and banks the fire.

Katherine declines, maybe because she wouldn't want to sleep in a colored person's bed but more likely because it would hurt too much to get up the stairs. Regardless, we tuck her back under the quilt.

 

It's a bad night. Twice I get up to put wood on the fire and look out the window, apprehensive about what the next day will bring. I open my diary and write by candlelight. Will Mr. MacIntosh really send the sheriff after Katherine and arrest her and Bitsy for stealing his car? Or will he be too ashamed about assaulting his wife to get the law involved? Next door in her bedroom, Bitsy grinds her teeth in her sleep, something she does when she's upset. My friend is probably worried too. She's the driver of a stolen car—a Negro driver of a stolen car.

I toss and turn, wake, and fall asleep again, studying the problem of what I should do. We need to get the mother and baby back together, but is it safe? I have no doubt that William's as thick as thieves with the constable and all the lawyers in town. And what will the repercussions for Mary and Bitsy be?

William could claim that Katherine went hysterical on him and he had to fight her off, was only defending himself and the baby. The only witnesses would be the two black females, who are not likely to be listened to. I don't know what the wife-beating statutes in West Virginia are, but in some states it's considered a husband's right to keep his woman in line with a whack or beating.

 

In the deepest part of the night an idea takes shape, and first thing in the morning, I take Bitsy aside and explain my intentions: “I am going to go around the mountain by road to the vet's and call the MacIntoshes'. If Mary answers, I'll ask if it's safe to bring Katherine home.

“If William answers . . . I don't know what I'll do; see if he's concerned about Katherine or is still in a rage. If he's drunk or angry . . . well, my strategy hasn't gone that far. I'm just hoping things have calmed down and we can bring Katherine home to the baby.”

“After we return the Olds to Liberty how will
we
get home?” Bitsy wonders aloud.

“Good point. Maybe Mr. MacIntosh will be so ashamed he'll drive us. Or maybe I could ask Mr. Stenger, the pharmacist. Or maybe we'll walk . . . It's only fifteen miles.”

Bitsy gives me a deadpan look. She's doubtful about hiking home in the cold, and I don't blame her.

“You want me to drive you to the vet's?” she offers.

“No, I can drive. My late husband taught me.” I realize I've never talked to Bitsy about Ruben. “Anyway, someone has to stay with Katherine. If William MacIntosh shows up, turn the dogs on him and keep the door locked. I'll be back as quick as I can.”

 

The ride around Hope Mountain turns out to be harrowing. On the slick part, coming down the hill past Maddock's, I skid into a ditch but am able to gun my way out. The mud is thawing and the snow is slush, which actually makes the conditions worse. How Bitsy and Katherine made it home in the dark is hard to imagine.

As I approach the vet's drive, I begin to wonder what I'll do if he's not home. As usual, that hadn't occurred to me. He could be out on a visit or in his office in town. I'm relieved when I see his Ford in the drive.

I bump over his wooden bridge and park next to it. Both cars now show the weather. William MacIntosh's pride and joy, the once shiny black Oldsmobile, is covered in grime. I notice that Hester's vehicle has chains on the tires, probably a good idea.

I slam the Olds's door, and before I can think what I'm going to say, Daniel Hester sticks his head out the kitchen door. He's wearing a flowered apron and wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“What are
you
doing here?” he asks by way of a greeting. It's the first time we've seen each other since Christmas Eve. He nods at the vehicle. “Your car?” He knows it's not; he's just being funny.

I tilt my chin. “No. It's my friend Katherine's. I wonder if I could use your phone? I need to call the MacIntosh residence in town. It's sort of an emergency.” I don't want him to think I came for a visit.

Hester shrugs. “Sure.”

 

At the stone threshold of the back door, I stomp my feet and walk into a bright kitchen that's seen better days. Dirty dishes are piled on every surface. The vet points out a wooden telephone box on the wall, but my glasses have steamed and it takes me a minute before I can see.

“Where's your housekeeper?” I ask, indicating the condition of the room.

“She left me. Her husband got work down near Beckley. King Coal closed last week and MacIntosh Number Three, near Delmont, too. It's just as well. I couldn't afford her anymore. When money's tight, people only call a vet if they're desperate.”

He takes down the black receiver and cranks the phone for me, unembarrassed about the feminine apron. The brass bells on the front seem especially loud, but it's been a while since I've used a telephone.

“Susie,” the vet says, speaking louder than normal into the metal horn on the front of the oak box. He motions me forward. “Yeah, this is Dan Hester out on Salt Lick. . . . I'm fine. . . . How are you? Can you give me the MacIntosh residence in Liberty? That's—” He snaps his fingers, and I hand him the slip of paper that Bitsy gave me. “That's 247.”

I take a deep breath. The phone rings once, twice, then three times. Finally there's a click, and a low female voice comes on. He hands me the receiver.

“MacIntosh residence.”

“Mary, is that you?”

“Yes?”

“It's Patience.”

“Where are you, girl? Are Bitsy and Miss Katherine with you? They took outta here so fast last night, I didn't get a chance to ask where they were headed. Is the missus okay?”

“She's pretty busted up.” I look over at Hester to see if he's listening. I know that he is, despite his concentration on the soap bubbles in the sink.

“Is it safe to bring her home?”

“Lordy, child, I hope so. I've never seen the mister like this before. He threw all the whiskey out of the house and has been crying all morning. I gave him a talking to and told him he didn't deserve that nice wife and baby and he'd be lucky if Miss Katherine didn't go back to her mother in Baltimore. Then he blubbered some more. I've seen him push Katherine around before, but this was the worst. He has one foot in a hell of his own making.”

“We were worried he might call the cops about the car.”

“Nah, he wouldn't do that. Wouldn't want to lose face by admitting his family has troubles. Tries to keep up a front, you know, though everyone in Union County understands MacIntosh Consolidated is finished.”