The Midwife of Hope River (30 page)

I consider the folks at Hazel Patch, a good-hearted community if there ever was one, but this child is white. Would adopting a white infant be possible for black people? There might even be Jim Crow laws.

I contemplate keeping the baby myself . . . but how would I manage? What would we do with Norma when Bitsy and I had to go to a birth in bad weather? Take her out in the cold? I look down at the sleeping newborn again, touch her cheek with one finger.

“How about Gladys and Ernie Mintz?” I wonder out loud. It's only been four months since the loss of their baby. Maybe the woman could reestablish her milk supply.

The Mintzes don't have money, but they have their own farm and a cow. Unless one of the parents gets ill or injured, their family will survive. It may seem outrageous, but it could be just what Mrs. Mintz needs . . . I run upstairs to put on my second dress and white apron, wanting to impress them this time, look more like Mrs. Potts, a respectable midwife.

At the last minute I take down my red Calumet baking soda can. The weight of the stocking tucked inside is reassuring, and Katherine's gold-and-pearl pin plops out, along with Mrs. Vanderhoff's ruby ring. I thread a blue hair ribbon through the ring and tie it around the baby's neck. Maybe the Mintz family will have a way to get to Torrington to trade it for cash, or maybe they will consider it a good-luck charm. In a way, I am glad to get rid of it.

 

An hour later, with the baby swaddled in a white sheet against my chest, I trot into the Mintzes' yard and awkwardly slide off Star. The three little boys are playing with bits of wood in the dirt next to the porch, and they stop to look up at me. I straighten my dress and pat the baby. Albert, the oldest, comes around the side with a bucket of feed for the chickens.

“Here goes nothing,” I say under my breath as I approach the house. “Don't take it personally, little one, if they don't want you. I'm an orphan myself, you know. We'll figure out something.”

“Miss Murphy,” Albert says, tipping his straw hat and eyeing the bundle attached to my front.

“Your ma home?”

“Inside . . . She's poorly.”

I frown, ashamed of myself for not ever making a visit. By the time Bitsy and I left their home after the stillbirth, Mr. Mintz had stopped verbally berating me, but I still felt he blamed us for his baby's death and I'd never returned, not in all this time.

“In the back,” Albert directs, opening the screen door.

I pass through the dark hall and hesitate at the closed bedroom door. “Gladys. It's Patience, the midwife. Can I come in?” There's no answer, but I hear movement on the other side of the wall. “Gladys?”

A woman clears her throat. “Come in.” This is uttered without enthusiasm. As the door swings back, I discover the mother sitting up in bed in her nightdress, her long lank hair drooping over her shoulders, a plate of untouched beans, dandelion greens, and corn bread next to her on the bedside table.

“Good morning, Gladys. Are you doing okay?” I can see that she isn't.

“Can't seem to get my strength back,” Gladys answers with hardly enough air to get out the words. “The mister cooks for us, says I need to make new blood, to eat lots of collard greens and organ meats. He even killed three chickens and cooked up the liver and giblets, but losing our Angel has knocked something out of me. I don't think I can get it back.”

She stares out the window, her face a wall of grief, doesn't notice the bundle on my chest until it begins to mew. “What's that?” she asks. “It sounds like a kitten.”

“A newborn infant that was left to me.” I ease myself into the rocker and undo the sheet. “Her name is Angel too.” This is a fib, but it comes out like the truth. Now that I think of it, there is some resemblance to their baby. Same dark hair and little bowed mouth. I plunk the child into the grieving mother's lap, and Gladys raises her hands as if she's seen a ghost.

“Where'd you get that?”

“Another woman birthed her yesterday and left her with me. She needs a ma and a family.”

Mrs. Mintz tentatively touches the baby's hand. She picks her up, cups the infant's head, and looks at her face, then opens the blanket and inspects her body.

“Who's the mother?” she asks.

“A stranger named Annabelle. She and her husband were passing through Union County on their way north to look for work. They had three other children and got lost on the back roads. I found them near Bucks Run over by my place, where she was about to give birth in their truck, and they spent one night with us on the farm, then left before dawn without saying good-bye. Didn't get their family name. They weren't from around here.”

The baby whimpers, then begins to cry, and I notice, with interest, breast milk leaking through the woman's nightdress. Gladys swings her feet around and sets them on the floor. She holds the infant against her shoulder and pats it, the way all mothers do.

“You could feed her,” I encourage.

“There's some grits in the kitchen. Can newborn babies eat grits mixed with cow's milk? I've always breastfed before.”

“Why don't you try it?” I nod toward her front.

“Suckle the baby? I'm mostly dried up.” She glances down at her rather flat chest and sees the wet spot, a sure sign of letdown.

“Milk will sometimes come back if you have a baby to nurse. It hasn't been that long. I'm sure she knows what to do.” (I am definitely sure Angel knows what to do!)

“I'm so weak . . .”

“Not that weak. When there's a baby, a mother finds her strength. You know what you would do for your other children.”

With hesitation the woman fumbles to open her gown, and I watch as the baby roots back and forth. Mrs. Mintz grins when the tiny girl latches on. For me, it's like meeting the real Gladys for the first time. The other one was a husk of herself.

Suddenly there's a commotion in the hall, the sound of hard boots, and the door swings open. Mr. Mintz stands there, his hands on his skinny hips, his worn patched overalls hanging from one strap. Albert, with the three little boys, follows. The youngest one worms up to the bed.

“What the hell's going on?” That's Ernest. He darts his eyes back and forth. “Haven't you caused enough pain?”

 

“Where'd you get the baby, Mama?” “Can I see?” “What's her name?” That's the kids.

I move back out of the circle. Ernest glares, then turns to his woman. A few seconds ago, he was prepared to throw me out, the meddlesome midwife wandering into the shadow of his family's tragedy, but his Gladys is breastfeeding with a Mona Lisa look on her face, pensive and sweet.

He reaches over and touches the gemstone on the ribbon around Angel's neck. “What's this?”

“A gift,” I answer.

“We ain't beholden—”

“You won't be. Someone gave the ring to me. It's a real ruby, and I'm passing it on.”

“What's her name, Ma?” That's Albert.

“She's called Angel,” Gladys whispers. “And she's ours.”

 

September 12, 1930. Waning moon in a clear violet sky.

Another birth. Feast or famine. Julie Twiss, 8 pounds, second daughter of Ferris and Mina Twiss of Lick Fork. Born after eight hours of labor. Mina's sister, who had come up from Charleston and had three babies with twilight sleep, was amazed to see a baby born so simply and easily. Mina did herself proud. She stayed out of bed for the whole labor, and then she lay down on her side and pushed her big baby out with no fuss.

I remarked to Bitsy that Mina sang the perfect birth song. Mrs. Kelly had taught me about that. If you listen, you will hear the laboring woman's voice change. Normal and chatty at first, the pitch goes up as the womb opens. When the baby comes down, the voice drops. It's universal. Italian, Polish, German, Negro, Irish, all sing the same song.

Present were Mrs. Bessie Richards, the sister from Charleston, Bitsy, and I. Paid five bucks and two whole chickens.

37

Harvest

A busy time for us, the last two weeks, as we pick and can beans, tomatoes, yellow squash and make applesauce, sunup to sundown. On frames of wood covered with cheesecloth, we also dry apples, rose hips, and corn. We've even picked and hung, under the porch, huge bunches of pennyroyal, mint, shepherd's purse, tansy, comfrey, valerian, blue cohosh, and lavender.

The potatoes are the easiest to preserve and will keep in the root cellar, along with the carrots, beets, and onions that we'll dig in a fortnight. The winter squash, acorn and butternut, will be stored in the attic along with onions and strings of red pepper, which need to be kept cool but dry.

It is my greatest pleasure to see our stores grow. Well, maybe not my
greatest
pleasure; there was that night with Hester, but the vet and I have not talked since the thunderstorm. The only times I've even seen him since were at Mrs. Potts's funeral, though we didn't talk then, and weeks later, when Bitsy and I went to Union County Fair.

 

We decided that we should enter some of our winter squash and rode Star, carrying our produce in gunnysacks over her sides. The trip was the longest we've taken, a break from our daily hard labor, and our butternut squash won a blue ribbon and a two-dollar bill donated by the Ladies Home Society. I told Bitsy she should enter her new batch of blackberry wine, but she said they don't have a category for wine since Prohibition.

Hester was in the animal tent when we passed him, judging woolly lambs and half-grown goats. He nodded but didn't come over. I don't know what I wanted him to do: leave the group of men, gather me in his arms, and press his body against me? What was I thinking when I stood naked with him in the rain?

The trouble is, I wasn't thinking! The whiskey and his kindness, after Kitty Hart's horrible death, swept me away. “It is what it is.” That's what Mrs. Kelly would say. “It is what it is.”

 

“Bitsy! Miss Patience!” I look all around. “Up here!”

Bitsy laughs and points up toward the Ferris wheel. Swinging precariously in a yellow gondola are Twyla with Sojourner and Harriet, the two pregnant girls from Hazel Patch. “What in the Sam Hill are they doing up there?” I ask my friend.

“Having fun.”

“But they are mothers, or almost mothers.”

“They can still have fun.”

“But where's baby Mathew? The judge . . . the judge didn't give him away, did he?”

Bitsy slips her arm through mine, and her warmth flows through me. She has never done that in public before. When I think of it, she's never done it anywhere before, not even at home.

“Twyla and Mathew live with the Millers now. It was my idea. She cleans the church and works on the farm for her keep. Then Samantha takes care of Mathew in the mornings so Twyla can go to school. They visit Nancy every Saturday.”

My mouth is still open. Bitsy pushes my chin up and laughs. “It was my idea, and I took care of it,” she says and laughs again.

 

Horse Power

No breeze today. No rain at all for two weeks, and the already brown locust leaves rattle in the dry wind. When we were at the fair, we learned that farmers are already using this year's hay, which is meant for winter, to feed their livestock. That news reminded me that I must get in a supply of feed for our own cows and Star. With the local shortage we can't afford to buy it; the price will be too high. Of course, I still have Katherine's golden moon pin, but it's the old story, there's no way to pawn it.

Bitsy says I worry too much. “The Lord will provide,” she says. “Like with Twyla and Mathew. They needed a home, and the Lord provided.” And maybe she's right. Yesterday we received a gift I could never have imagined.

 

“Do you know how to make a sweet persimmon pie?” Bitsy asks me. “A little sugar, a few eggs, and a nice crust with lard . . .” We are planning our supper of pie, pie, and more pie, along with some cold milk, as we wind our way home from the river, where we've picked a basket of the soft orange fruit.

Rounding the corner of the barn, riding double on Star, the first thing we see is a shiny black sedan just outside the picket fence. My thought is, it must be the law again, but Bitsy doesn't think so.

“Company,” she comments, sliding off the horse and leading her to the water trough by the spring. “It must be Miss Katherine. I thought she was in Baltimore.”

“Or William back to haunt us,” I quip, recognizing the Olds-mobile I once drove when Hester and I took Katherine to the B&O station, only it looks a lot better than last time. The black metal gleams, and the chrome has been polished.

I run up the porch and throw open the door, expecting to see Katherine and the baby waiting for us on the sofa, but there's no one there. “Katherine?” No response. “Katherine?”

Funny. Maybe they went for a walk.

Bitsy joins me on the steps, setting the basket of persimmons down. “Where'd they go?”

“Beats me.” I pick up a small box with a ribbon sitting on the rail. “What's this?” We both raise our eyebrows, staring down at the gift, and I call one last time, not wanting to spoil our friend's surprise. “Katherine?!” There's still no answer, so I tear the package open.

A gold key on a gold key chain with the Masons' symbol on it and a note in a fine woman's hand falls out. Carefully, I unfold the linen stationery and read aloud while Bitsy picks up the key.

 

Dear Patience and Bitsy,

I didn't get a chance at Mary's service to thank you properly for all you have done for me and little Willie. I truly believe I owe my life to you and to Mary too. That may seem dramatic, but William's drinking and outbursts were escalating, and if I hadn't gotten away, I have no doubt that someday I'd have been beaten to death.

I told you, Patience, that he'd threatened to commit suicide before. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he threatened and pleaded right up to the end. The last time we talked by phone, a few days before his suicide, he said we were married forever and if I didn't come home I'd regret it.

I told him firmly that his life was his own. My life was mine, and I would never come back. That's why he killed himself, I'm sure of it. Before I left Liberty, I told all this to Sheriff Hardman, and I think he accepts it. The last thing I want is for Thomas to be blamed.

Enclosed in this box are the keys to William's car. I want you to have it. Mr. Linkous, the lawyer handling what's left of our estate, said he would find a driver and bring it to you when he got it fixed.

Thank you again with all my heart, Katherine and Bitsy and Thomas too. I will never forget you. You gave me hope. You gave me my life back.

 

Love,

Katherine

I fold the letter, put it back into the envelope, and let out a sigh. “You never know, do you?” My companion isn't so reflective. She leaps off the porch and heads for the auto.

“Let's take her out for a spin!” She cranks up the engine and revs it to life.

An auto of our own! I run my hand along the black metal. It's not new, maybe ten years old, but never would I have expected such a gift. Like royalty, with the windows open, we drive down Wild Rose Road, around Salt Lick, into Liberty, and home again, a big circle.

 

Looking back, our hour-long excursion in our wonderful wheels wasn't the greatest idea. We sputtered home on an almost empty tank and ended up having to push the Olds into the barn.

If we had been watching the multiple brass gauges and dials, we would have noticed the E for empty. Obviously, Bitsy and I will have to bone up on our motoring skills before we take the auto out again, and that may not be for a while. Katherine, in her expression of gratitude, had forgotten that we have no money for gasoline. At ten cents a gallon, it is out of our reach.

 

September 17, 1930. Moon behind clouds and I have lost track.

Frost on the garden. Baby boy, Morgan, 7 pounds 4 ounces, to Sojourner Perry, aged 18. No vaginal tears, No problems. She will go back to Kentucky when her lying-in is over. Baby took to the breast right away. The family gave us $3.00 for coal or for hay.

 

September 24, 1930. Harvest moon, not one week later, another baby.

Sojourner's little sister, Harriet Perry, delivered a baby girl, Dilly, only 5 pounds. Looked about a month early but breathed and cried vigorously. Mrs. Miller got right in there with warmed blankets, and I'm sure the baby will be fine.

Harriet didn't want to breastfeed, but with such a tiny baby I told her she had to or Dilly might die. After she tried it, she was okay. Mrs. Miller, the reverend's wife, gave us another $2.00 and a cord of wood.