The Midwife of Hope River
Page 56
The first thing I notice is that the streets are so desolate and the traffic sparse. It’s been weeks since I’ve been to town, and Liberty is almost abandoned. A few autos pass, then a buggy pulled by a swayback mare, but other than that, there are just four out-of-work miners smoking cigarettes on the wooden benches in front of the courthouse, two blacks and two whites. One white guy whistles, and the two blacks get up and walk away. The last thing they need is to be accused of hassling a white woman.
I’m relieved when I get into and out of the County Records Room without hearing any more catcalls from the fellow outside. The only awkwardness is asking for a death certificate for the Mintz baby, but the clerk doesn’t question me, so I guess word has already gotten around. She hands me five quarters, one for each form.
Back on the street, the coins jiggling in my pocket, I think briefly of buying an ice cream cone. What would that be, five cents? But the ice cream parlor is closed. The Mountain Top Diner is closed too. Bittman’s Grocery is still operating, so I stop in and get a sack of flour, a can of lard, and five pounds of sugar, an extravagance, I’ll admit. That leaves me only two quarters in my pocketbook and it won’t last long.
Fortunately the crooked tin sign in Stenger’s Pharmacy’s front window says OPEN. When I enter the almost empty establishment, I see Mrs. Blum, the physician’s wife, asking question about Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. Her shiny blond hair frames her pale face and sets off her unusual green almond-shaped eyes. She nods as if I’m a stranger, though she’s met me many times. No “Hello Patience” or “How you doing?” I guess I’m too far beneath her.
On the newspaper stand just inside the glass door, I pull out a copy of the Torrington Times and peruse the headlines. A sudden run on the Brotherhood Bank in Berkeley Springs forced it to shut down. It’s the eighth bank in West Virginia to close in the last two weeks, and the state legislature is having a special session about the economy. This is all new to me. Without a radio or newspaper, my world has narrowed to the valley between Hope Ridge and the mountains on the other side of Hope River, and even there I don’t really know what’s going on. I don’t even know my closest neighbors, the Maddocks.
The cash register rings and snaps closed, the pharmacist hands Priscilla Blum her package, and I step up to the counter.
“Hello, Patience. What can I do for you?” I’m sure Mr. Stenger’s hoping I’ll buy something expensive: rubber gloves, brown soap, or a new hairbrush.
“Oh, I don’t need anything, Mr. Stenger. I was just wondering how your mother is doing and if she, or anyone else you might know, requires nursing.” I hesitate. “I could trade for food. Times being hard and all . . .” My cheeks glow with embarrassment, like coals from the heater stove.
Stenger rubs his small auburn goatee, stippled with gray, and burrows his fists in his white lab coat pockets.
“I thought you knew. Mama passed away this January. Got pneumonia.”
“I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t hear . . . we were snowed in most of the winter. She was a nice old lady . . . I hope she didn’t suffer.” I stare at the red sign on the wall behind him exhorting the benefits of Himrod’s Asthma Powder and clear my throat. “Know anyone else with sick relatives?”
Stenger shakes his head slowly.
“Well, if you hear of anyone . . .”
I knew it was a long shot, but I still leave disappointed. I’m on my way over to Becky’s when a Model T bounces up on the curb. Who should it be but Rebecca Myers herself.
Down by the Riverside
“Get in,” the home health nurse orders.
“Well, hi to you too! What’s up? I have my bike back at the Texaco station.” I’m thinking maybe Becky will offer to carry me home, and this time I’ll take her up on it. As we travel, I can ask her about possible employment.
“Forget your bike. I’ll bring you back later. There’s a situation down by the river. I just tried the hospital, but Dr. Blum is in Delmont at a medical meeting. Thank God I saw you.” I hop in and she makes a U-turn in the middle of Main and heads back toward the stone bridge over the Hope at the edge of town.
“What? What’s the big emergency?” I’m holding on to the door frame as she careens through the nearly empty streets.
“You’ll see.” She pulls up in the dry grass, bouncing into the gravel. “You hear that?” There’s no way to miss it, a high-pitched scream.
The vehicle sputters to a stop, we jump out, and she pulls me along through the grass heading under the bridge. The wail rises, then falls. Rises and falls.
“It’s someone crying. A kid or a woman.”
What we see next surprises me. Three men, two whites and a black, squat around a small open fire behind one of the bridge’s stone pillar. Their lean-tos, canvas supported on poles with cardboard layered over them, are arranged close together on a rise above the riverbed. These are not campers just passing through: they plan to stay for a while. The fellows jump up when they see us.
“Is someone in trouble here?” I ask authoritatively.
“This is the midwife.” Becky introduces me. Apparently she’s already met them.
The oldest guy, a man of about fifty wearing a wool cap like a paperboy, steps forward and nods toward the smaller tent. “It’s the Girlie,” he says as if that’s her name. “She’s with child. My name’s Will Carter.”
“You the baby’s pa?” I’m looking at Carter, but all the men shake their heads no. As the other fellows introduce themselves, I take in the scene. Not a pretty picture: tin cans litter the ground, a string of laundry is tied between two trees, and an old stovepipe sticks out of a metal barrel, making a cookstove.
“We ain’t kin. None of us. Girlie just joined up with us in Cool Springs. The goons at the MacIntosh spur drove us off the rails, threatened us with our lives, so we been making it cross-country, heading for Torrington. She’s on the run from her old man in Beckley. Nice little lady. Pretty damn good cook even with the hobo stove. Calls us her ‘knights in shining armor.’ Can you help her?”
“Is she alone in there?”
“We ain’t got no womenfolk,” the young colored man explains.
“No money either,” the third guy mumbles.
The cry comes again, followed by a whimper. Becky pulls on my sleeve. “You better check her.”
I’m relieved when I get into and out of the County Records Room without hearing any more catcalls from the fellow outside. The only awkwardness is asking for a death certificate for the Mintz baby, but the clerk doesn’t question me, so I guess word has already gotten around. She hands me five quarters, one for each form.
Back on the street, the coins jiggling in my pocket, I think briefly of buying an ice cream cone. What would that be, five cents? But the ice cream parlor is closed. The Mountain Top Diner is closed too. Bittman’s Grocery is still operating, so I stop in and get a sack of flour, a can of lard, and five pounds of sugar, an extravagance, I’ll admit. That leaves me only two quarters in my pocketbook and it won’t last long.
Fortunately the crooked tin sign in Stenger’s Pharmacy’s front window says OPEN. When I enter the almost empty establishment, I see Mrs. Blum, the physician’s wife, asking question about Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. Her shiny blond hair frames her pale face and sets off her unusual green almond-shaped eyes. She nods as if I’m a stranger, though she’s met me many times. No “Hello Patience” or “How you doing?” I guess I’m too far beneath her.
On the newspaper stand just inside the glass door, I pull out a copy of the Torrington Times and peruse the headlines. A sudden run on the Brotherhood Bank in Berkeley Springs forced it to shut down. It’s the eighth bank in West Virginia to close in the last two weeks, and the state legislature is having a special session about the economy. This is all new to me. Without a radio or newspaper, my world has narrowed to the valley between Hope Ridge and the mountains on the other side of Hope River, and even there I don’t really know what’s going on. I don’t even know my closest neighbors, the Maddocks.
The cash register rings and snaps closed, the pharmacist hands Priscilla Blum her package, and I step up to the counter.
“Hello, Patience. What can I do for you?” I’m sure Mr. Stenger’s hoping I’ll buy something expensive: rubber gloves, brown soap, or a new hairbrush.
“Oh, I don’t need anything, Mr. Stenger. I was just wondering how your mother is doing and if she, or anyone else you might know, requires nursing.” I hesitate. “I could trade for food. Times being hard and all . . .” My cheeks glow with embarrassment, like coals from the heater stove.
Stenger rubs his small auburn goatee, stippled with gray, and burrows his fists in his white lab coat pockets.
“I thought you knew. Mama passed away this January. Got pneumonia.”
“I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t hear . . . we were snowed in most of the winter. She was a nice old lady . . . I hope she didn’t suffer.” I stare at the red sign on the wall behind him exhorting the benefits of Himrod’s Asthma Powder and clear my throat. “Know anyone else with sick relatives?”
Stenger shakes his head slowly.
“Well, if you hear of anyone . . .”
I knew it was a long shot, but I still leave disappointed. I’m on my way over to Becky’s when a Model T bounces up on the curb. Who should it be but Rebecca Myers herself.
Down by the Riverside
“Get in,” the home health nurse orders.
“Well, hi to you too! What’s up? I have my bike back at the Texaco station.” I’m thinking maybe Becky will offer to carry me home, and this time I’ll take her up on it. As we travel, I can ask her about possible employment.
“Forget your bike. I’ll bring you back later. There’s a situation down by the river. I just tried the hospital, but Dr. Blum is in Delmont at a medical meeting. Thank God I saw you.” I hop in and she makes a U-turn in the middle of Main and heads back toward the stone bridge over the Hope at the edge of town.
“What? What’s the big emergency?” I’m holding on to the door frame as she careens through the nearly empty streets.
“You’ll see.” She pulls up in the dry grass, bouncing into the gravel. “You hear that?” There’s no way to miss it, a high-pitched scream.
The vehicle sputters to a stop, we jump out, and she pulls me along through the grass heading under the bridge. The wail rises, then falls. Rises and falls.
“It’s someone crying. A kid or a woman.”
What we see next surprises me. Three men, two whites and a black, squat around a small open fire behind one of the bridge’s stone pillar. Their lean-tos, canvas supported on poles with cardboard layered over them, are arranged close together on a rise above the riverbed. These are not campers just passing through: they plan to stay for a while. The fellows jump up when they see us.
“Is someone in trouble here?” I ask authoritatively.
“This is the midwife.” Becky introduces me. Apparently she’s already met them.
The oldest guy, a man of about fifty wearing a wool cap like a paperboy, steps forward and nods toward the smaller tent. “It’s the Girlie,” he says as if that’s her name. “She’s with child. My name’s Will Carter.”
“You the baby’s pa?” I’m looking at Carter, but all the men shake their heads no. As the other fellows introduce themselves, I take in the scene. Not a pretty picture: tin cans litter the ground, a string of laundry is tied between two trees, and an old stovepipe sticks out of a metal barrel, making a cookstove.
“We ain’t kin. None of us. Girlie just joined up with us in Cool Springs. The goons at the MacIntosh spur drove us off the rails, threatened us with our lives, so we been making it cross-country, heading for Torrington. She’s on the run from her old man in Beckley. Nice little lady. Pretty damn good cook even with the hobo stove. Calls us her ‘knights in shining armor.’ Can you help her?”
“Is she alone in there?”
“We ain’t got no womenfolk,” the young colored man explains.
“No money either,” the third guy mumbles.
The cry comes again, followed by a whimper. Becky pulls on my sleeve. “You better check her.”
