The Midwife of Hope River
Page 36
Now Prudy’s in the tub, warm liquid up to her chest, and I kneel at the side, pouring water over her back. “Is your pain less, Prudy? I haven’t heard you cry for a while.”
“Yes. It must be the warm water. Here comes another one!” She throws her head back and commands me, “Pour faster! Pour more!” I’m rinsing her with a copper dipper as fast as I can, and this time there’s no screaming, only a low “Muhhhhhhh!”
Her moan makes me think of Moonlight. I’ve completely forgotten my pregnant cow, and she needs to be fed and watered. I know only one person I can ask for help, and my obligations to him are growing.
“Bitsy,” I call. She’s still in the bedroom, still lying low, and for the first time I realize why. Her presence here is awkward with the society women of Liberty. Only a few months ago, she served them tea in the MacIntoshes’ parlor.
“Can you sit with Prudy? Just pour water over her back and shoulders when she has a pain. She’ll tell you what she wants.”
I trot downstairs, and when I enter the kitchen, all heads go up. Becky, at the sink, half turns. Mr. Ott is there too, and he drags himself from deep between the pages of the Torrington Times, a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table and a lighted cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
“Prudy’s fine. Bitsy’s staying with her. The bath is relaxing her. Do you have a phone?” I spit this all out in a hurry because I want to get back to my patient.
“Well, I never,” I hear Mrs. Wade whisper. “Taking a bath in labor, and that nigger girl with her!”
I steam at the comment but again bite my tongue. No use getting in a fight. It wouldn’t change their minds anyway. Black and white miners and their families have worked together for decades, but these upper-class women probably never had a Negro friend—or a Negro servant, either, in many cases. Most West Virginia families don’t use nannies or maids. At most, they might have a cook and a hired hand, usually someone off of a farm and most likely white.
Mr. Ott scrapes his chair back and walks me to the telephone in the front hall.
“I have to get someone to take care of my livestock.” I say this as if I have a whole herd, when really it’s only Moonlight and the chicks. Taking hold of the crank, I twist it three times the way I saw Hester do. A woman’s voice answers.
“Is this Susie?” I take a guess at the name and apparently get it right. “This is Patience Murphy, the midwife. I’m at Mr. Ott’s home. I need to speak to Daniel Hester, the veterinarian on Salt Lick. I don’t know the number. Can you connect me?”
“One moment.” There’s a buzzing in the background and then four short rings. The vet finally answers.
“Hester here. Large and Small Animals.” This makes me smile.
“Murphy here. Large and Small Women.” I can’t help it. It’s funny.
“Patience?” I like it that he uses my first name.
“Sorry. Just a little joke. Listen, Bitsy and I are in Liberty with a patient in labor. The woman, Mrs. Ott, the mayor’s wife, is going to have a baby tonight, and—well, I hate to do this, but you’re the only one I know to ask. Could you go over and feed and water Moonlight? Since she’s with child, I don’t want her to have to go hungry all night.”
“With child?”
“You know what I mean. I’ll repay you whatever you want.” I rephrase this. “I mean, I’ll go with you to an emergency call or whatever . . .”
“Yeah, I can do that. You want me to feed the chickens too?”
“Would you?”
An ear-splitting roar comes from upstairs.
“Patience!” Bitsy hollers. All heads go up, and Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Blum collide in the doorway.
“Stay!” I hiss at them as I drop the phone on its cord and take the stairs two at a time.
“Prudy! Don’t push! Tell her to blow, Bitsy!”
In the bathroom, I grab the woman’s chin. “Prudy, don’t push! We have to get you back in bed!”
Prudy whips her head back and forth to say no, her wet hair flying, spraying us with water like one of my beagles just out of the creek. She grabs the side of the tub and bears down again. I hold her chin tighter. “Listen to me, Prudy! Blow like this. Whoo, whoo. Bitsy, my satchel!”
When the contraction is over, I explain to the mother, as well as her friends, now standing at the lavatory door, what’s happening. “That was an urge to push. You never felt it before because in the hospital you had twilight sleep and then gas as the doctor pulled the baby out. We need to get you out of the tub and back—”
Before I can finish, Prudy growls again and instinctively pulls her legs back. This is not the prim woman who has lace doilies layered over every surface in the house. Bitsy runs for my gloves, and I struggle into them.
I know that there’s no way we can get the patient out of the tub, down the hall, and into bed in time. This is her second baby. The train has left the station and is heading downhill, so I just lean over the tub’s side reach into the warm water, put my hands around the infant’s head, and hold on. Within less than a minute, the baby is born. I lift him up out of the warm water, cord still attached, and he cries as soon as he hits the cold air. “Towel?” I request casually, as if this happens all the time. I look up and see Becky, beaming and holding out a clean cloth, all the pain and worry of the last few hours now wiped from her face.
“My baby. My baby,” Prudy insists, her arms stretched out. What harm can it do? I give the sobbing woman her still wet infant.
“Keep all of him under the warm water, except his little face.” Becky takes back the towel and gasps at the idea of submerging the baby, but the infant stops screaming and opens one eye to take in his world.
Bitsy hands me the scissors, and I trim the cord. When I turn to drop the scissors into the sink, I’m surprised to see Mr. Ott in the doorway too, wiping his eyes, gazing at Prudy and their new son. “I love you,” he mouths as his wife looks up. Their eyes fall into each other’s and the rest of us fade, like the blurred images on the edge of an old family photo. “I love you,” he says again, louder.
February 25, 1930. Dark sliver of a moon.
Birth of Harrison Ott, 7 pounds, 12 ounces, second child of Mrs. Prudy Ott and J. B. Ott of Liberty. An eight-hour labor with very frightened mother. Prudy’s last baby was born in Boone Memorial Hospital with twilight sleep, gas, and forceps. This baby was born in the bathtub! The water seemed to relax the mother. Baby did fine. I talked about this with Bitsy later. When you think about it, the baby has been in the water all along. It probably felt comfy to him.
“Yes. It must be the warm water. Here comes another one!” She throws her head back and commands me, “Pour faster! Pour more!” I’m rinsing her with a copper dipper as fast as I can, and this time there’s no screaming, only a low “Muhhhhhhh!”
Her moan makes me think of Moonlight. I’ve completely forgotten my pregnant cow, and she needs to be fed and watered. I know only one person I can ask for help, and my obligations to him are growing.
“Bitsy,” I call. She’s still in the bedroom, still lying low, and for the first time I realize why. Her presence here is awkward with the society women of Liberty. Only a few months ago, she served them tea in the MacIntoshes’ parlor.
“Can you sit with Prudy? Just pour water over her back and shoulders when she has a pain. She’ll tell you what she wants.”
I trot downstairs, and when I enter the kitchen, all heads go up. Becky, at the sink, half turns. Mr. Ott is there too, and he drags himself from deep between the pages of the Torrington Times, a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table and a lighted cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
“Prudy’s fine. Bitsy’s staying with her. The bath is relaxing her. Do you have a phone?” I spit this all out in a hurry because I want to get back to my patient.
“Well, I never,” I hear Mrs. Wade whisper. “Taking a bath in labor, and that nigger girl with her!”
I steam at the comment but again bite my tongue. No use getting in a fight. It wouldn’t change their minds anyway. Black and white miners and their families have worked together for decades, but these upper-class women probably never had a Negro friend—or a Negro servant, either, in many cases. Most West Virginia families don’t use nannies or maids. At most, they might have a cook and a hired hand, usually someone off of a farm and most likely white.
Mr. Ott scrapes his chair back and walks me to the telephone in the front hall.
“I have to get someone to take care of my livestock.” I say this as if I have a whole herd, when really it’s only Moonlight and the chicks. Taking hold of the crank, I twist it three times the way I saw Hester do. A woman’s voice answers.
“Is this Susie?” I take a guess at the name and apparently get it right. “This is Patience Murphy, the midwife. I’m at Mr. Ott’s home. I need to speak to Daniel Hester, the veterinarian on Salt Lick. I don’t know the number. Can you connect me?”
“One moment.” There’s a buzzing in the background and then four short rings. The vet finally answers.
“Hester here. Large and Small Animals.” This makes me smile.
“Murphy here. Large and Small Women.” I can’t help it. It’s funny.
“Patience?” I like it that he uses my first name.
“Sorry. Just a little joke. Listen, Bitsy and I are in Liberty with a patient in labor. The woman, Mrs. Ott, the mayor’s wife, is going to have a baby tonight, and—well, I hate to do this, but you’re the only one I know to ask. Could you go over and feed and water Moonlight? Since she’s with child, I don’t want her to have to go hungry all night.”
“With child?”
“You know what I mean. I’ll repay you whatever you want.” I rephrase this. “I mean, I’ll go with you to an emergency call or whatever . . .”
“Yeah, I can do that. You want me to feed the chickens too?”
“Would you?”
An ear-splitting roar comes from upstairs.
“Patience!” Bitsy hollers. All heads go up, and Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Blum collide in the doorway.
“Stay!” I hiss at them as I drop the phone on its cord and take the stairs two at a time.
“Prudy! Don’t push! Tell her to blow, Bitsy!”
In the bathroom, I grab the woman’s chin. “Prudy, don’t push! We have to get you back in bed!”
Prudy whips her head back and forth to say no, her wet hair flying, spraying us with water like one of my beagles just out of the creek. She grabs the side of the tub and bears down again. I hold her chin tighter. “Listen to me, Prudy! Blow like this. Whoo, whoo. Bitsy, my satchel!”
When the contraction is over, I explain to the mother, as well as her friends, now standing at the lavatory door, what’s happening. “That was an urge to push. You never felt it before because in the hospital you had twilight sleep and then gas as the doctor pulled the baby out. We need to get you out of the tub and back—”
Before I can finish, Prudy growls again and instinctively pulls her legs back. This is not the prim woman who has lace doilies layered over every surface in the house. Bitsy runs for my gloves, and I struggle into them.
I know that there’s no way we can get the patient out of the tub, down the hall, and into bed in time. This is her second baby. The train has left the station and is heading downhill, so I just lean over the tub’s side reach into the warm water, put my hands around the infant’s head, and hold on. Within less than a minute, the baby is born. I lift him up out of the warm water, cord still attached, and he cries as soon as he hits the cold air. “Towel?” I request casually, as if this happens all the time. I look up and see Becky, beaming and holding out a clean cloth, all the pain and worry of the last few hours now wiped from her face.
“My baby. My baby,” Prudy insists, her arms stretched out. What harm can it do? I give the sobbing woman her still wet infant.
“Keep all of him under the warm water, except his little face.” Becky takes back the towel and gasps at the idea of submerging the baby, but the infant stops screaming and opens one eye to take in his world.
Bitsy hands me the scissors, and I trim the cord. When I turn to drop the scissors into the sink, I’m surprised to see Mr. Ott in the doorway too, wiping his eyes, gazing at Prudy and their new son. “I love you,” he mouths as his wife looks up. Their eyes fall into each other’s and the rest of us fade, like the blurred images on the edge of an old family photo. “I love you,” he says again, louder.
February 25, 1930. Dark sliver of a moon.
Birth of Harrison Ott, 7 pounds, 12 ounces, second child of Mrs. Prudy Ott and J. B. Ott of Liberty. An eight-hour labor with very frightened mother. Prudy’s last baby was born in Boone Memorial Hospital with twilight sleep, gas, and forceps. This baby was born in the bathtub! The water seemed to relax the mother. Baby did fine. I talked about this with Bitsy later. When you think about it, the baby has been in the water all along. It probably felt comfy to him.
