The Midwife of Hope River
Page 66
“Where, home? To the MacIntoshes’? Not back to the MacIntoshes’!”
“No, I mean . . . dead. She’s at the Emmanuel Funeral Home. Died two hours after she was carried to Dr. Robinson, before Bitsy even got here. Traumatic cerebral hemorrhage, he thinks, but the county coroner will have to decide. She died on Robinson’s operating table before he could do anything.” He reaches over and takes my hand, which is lying on my lap like one of Bitsy’s lifeless trout.
But she can’t be dead. Not Mary Proudfoot! She was brave and strong. A little fall down the stairs couldn’t kill her! She’s supposed to be cooking corn fritters, chicken, and biscuits forever! Suddenly I’m very hot. I want to get out of the car, but Hester has already started the engine and Dr. Robinson’s still standing on his porch, watching.
“Well, where’s Bitsy, then?” I shout, as if the vet’s hiding her. Really, I’m just angry with myself. How could I let this happen? Why did I think it was more important to get Katherine out of town and to the train station than to support Bitsy and her family? Was it because Katherine is white? If it is, I despise myself.
“Dr. Robinson thinks Bitsy’s at Reverend Miller’s out in Hazel Patch. The preacher and his wife came to get her when Robinson called. I can take you there later, but I have to go see that cow first . . . Mr. Rhodes will be madder than hell. I should have been there hours ago. If you come with me, I’ll take you to Hazel Patch afterward.” Though I desperately want to get to Bitsy, he doesn’t leave me much choice.
“Just go!” I wave my hand, indicating he should move the car . . . anywhere.
Three hours later, after a painful interlude with an angry farmer during which the vet passed a stomach tube into the ailing Jersey and relieved her blocked intestine with castor oil, we’re bumping past Hester’s farm on the way to Hazel Patch. We haven’t eaten all day and the sun has gone down, but he’s too much of a gentleman to turn in at his place and make me walk the last two miles.
When I think of it, he’s been involved in affairs that don’t concern him, with people he barely knows, for forty-eight hours: first facilitating Katherine’s escape, then searching for Mary and Bitsy, now carrying me to the pastor’s house. My sadness drags behind me like a black cape, and I can’t tell if my dark mood is sorrow at losing Mary Proudfoot, guilt over leaving Bitsy, or worry about how she must be hurting.
Thomas
We don’t get to Hazel Patch until well after dark, but the lights are still on when we drive up to the front of the pastor’s substantial log home. “Do you want to come in?” I ask Hester. I’m thinking the man must be exhausted and needs to get supper and care for his animals, but he surprises me by opening the driver’s-side door and getting out.
“I’m into it this far. I met the Millers at the Wildcat Mine cave-in, remember?”
We tap softly, and Mrs. Miller greets us. She’s wearing a long green chenille robe and has a hairnet over her head. Behind Mildred, on the fawn velvet sofa, sitting with Bitsy, are the preacher and a very tall black man who I remember from the flood at the Wildcat, the young fellow who went into the hole with Thomas and Mr. Cabrini. Only a table lamp, with a pale green silk shade, lights the room.
“Bitsy!” I rush in, fall on my knees, and take her hands to my cheeks, a supplicant begging forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry. Sorry about your mom and sorrier still for not being with you.” Bitsy smooths my hair like I’m a child. She doesn’t say anything, just wipes my wet face, then wipes her tears so that they mix together on her brown hand.
Mildred Miller pulls up two more chairs as the pastor stands to greet Hester. “Can I get you some coffee?” she offers.
“Sure,” the vet says. “Thank you.”
“None for me.” I just want to go home, take Bitsy with me, and tuck her into bed.
I look around the room. “Where’s Thomas?”
No one answers. Eyes meet each other, but they don’t meet mine.
Finally. “He’s gone into Liberty.” That’s the tall fellow on the sofa. His voice is very low, and I can’t help but notice that his Adam’s apple goes up and down when he speaks.
Mildred bustles back into the room with a tray: coffee for anyone who wants it and a glass of water for me.
“Is he making burial arrangements?” I still don’t get it, but I should have realized that no one goes to a funeral home at this time of night.
“He let out of here about nine on his burro,” Bitsy tells me. “Went to see William MacIntosh. He knows about Katherine’s escape, the bruises, and the fight. I told him I thought William must have pushed our mother down those stairs. I shouldn’t have said that. Oh, I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Child. Don’t start again!” Mrs. Miller reprimands. “You are not responsible. Let’s just pray your brother has some sense.” I slump down on the floor, leaning my back against the davenport, held between Bitsy’s knees.
“Do you want me to go back to town to look for him?” the vet asks.
“We already tried,” the young man responds.
I finally turn to him. “I’m Patience Murphy. This is Dr. Hester, the local vet.” I’ve never called him a doctor before, and I don’t know why I do now. The men nod, and Hester stands up and shakes hands.
“Byrd Bowlin,” the young fellow introduces himself. “I saw you at the Wildcat flood . . . Thomas is my friend, but he has no place going into Liberty looking for MacIntosh. It’s a good way for a black man to get his head shot off.” I know what he’s thinking. Just last year a colored miner was gunned down in Mingo County for sassing the sheriff. Nothing was even done to the lawman. They called it self-defense. But that was in the southern part of the state. Union County shares a border with Pennsylvania and is north of the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s more civilized here.
Byrd Bowlin goes on, “The reverend and I already drove all around town but couldn’t find him. We know he stopped at the colored speakeasy behind Gold’s Dry Goods. The bartender told us he was making accusations and was pretty drunk, but after that we lost his trail.” A colored speakeasy in Liberty? That must mean there’s a white juice joint too! I’m so out of touch.
“We drove by MacIntosh’s house three times,” Byrd continues, “thinking maybe we would see his burro if he was there, but the place was dark and we never could find him. Figure he stopped somewhere on his way home along Salt Lick, crawled under a tree to sleep it off.”
“No, I mean . . . dead. She’s at the Emmanuel Funeral Home. Died two hours after she was carried to Dr. Robinson, before Bitsy even got here. Traumatic cerebral hemorrhage, he thinks, but the county coroner will have to decide. She died on Robinson’s operating table before he could do anything.” He reaches over and takes my hand, which is lying on my lap like one of Bitsy’s lifeless trout.
But she can’t be dead. Not Mary Proudfoot! She was brave and strong. A little fall down the stairs couldn’t kill her! She’s supposed to be cooking corn fritters, chicken, and biscuits forever! Suddenly I’m very hot. I want to get out of the car, but Hester has already started the engine and Dr. Robinson’s still standing on his porch, watching.
“Well, where’s Bitsy, then?” I shout, as if the vet’s hiding her. Really, I’m just angry with myself. How could I let this happen? Why did I think it was more important to get Katherine out of town and to the train station than to support Bitsy and her family? Was it because Katherine is white? If it is, I despise myself.
“Dr. Robinson thinks Bitsy’s at Reverend Miller’s out in Hazel Patch. The preacher and his wife came to get her when Robinson called. I can take you there later, but I have to go see that cow first . . . Mr. Rhodes will be madder than hell. I should have been there hours ago. If you come with me, I’ll take you to Hazel Patch afterward.” Though I desperately want to get to Bitsy, he doesn’t leave me much choice.
“Just go!” I wave my hand, indicating he should move the car . . . anywhere.
Three hours later, after a painful interlude with an angry farmer during which the vet passed a stomach tube into the ailing Jersey and relieved her blocked intestine with castor oil, we’re bumping past Hester’s farm on the way to Hazel Patch. We haven’t eaten all day and the sun has gone down, but he’s too much of a gentleman to turn in at his place and make me walk the last two miles.
When I think of it, he’s been involved in affairs that don’t concern him, with people he barely knows, for forty-eight hours: first facilitating Katherine’s escape, then searching for Mary and Bitsy, now carrying me to the pastor’s house. My sadness drags behind me like a black cape, and I can’t tell if my dark mood is sorrow at losing Mary Proudfoot, guilt over leaving Bitsy, or worry about how she must be hurting.
Thomas
We don’t get to Hazel Patch until well after dark, but the lights are still on when we drive up to the front of the pastor’s substantial log home. “Do you want to come in?” I ask Hester. I’m thinking the man must be exhausted and needs to get supper and care for his animals, but he surprises me by opening the driver’s-side door and getting out.
“I’m into it this far. I met the Millers at the Wildcat Mine cave-in, remember?”
We tap softly, and Mrs. Miller greets us. She’s wearing a long green chenille robe and has a hairnet over her head. Behind Mildred, on the fawn velvet sofa, sitting with Bitsy, are the preacher and a very tall black man who I remember from the flood at the Wildcat, the young fellow who went into the hole with Thomas and Mr. Cabrini. Only a table lamp, with a pale green silk shade, lights the room.
“Bitsy!” I rush in, fall on my knees, and take her hands to my cheeks, a supplicant begging forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry. Sorry about your mom and sorrier still for not being with you.” Bitsy smooths my hair like I’m a child. She doesn’t say anything, just wipes my wet face, then wipes her tears so that they mix together on her brown hand.
Mildred Miller pulls up two more chairs as the pastor stands to greet Hester. “Can I get you some coffee?” she offers.
“Sure,” the vet says. “Thank you.”
“None for me.” I just want to go home, take Bitsy with me, and tuck her into bed.
I look around the room. “Where’s Thomas?”
No one answers. Eyes meet each other, but they don’t meet mine.
Finally. “He’s gone into Liberty.” That’s the tall fellow on the sofa. His voice is very low, and I can’t help but notice that his Adam’s apple goes up and down when he speaks.
Mildred bustles back into the room with a tray: coffee for anyone who wants it and a glass of water for me.
“Is he making burial arrangements?” I still don’t get it, but I should have realized that no one goes to a funeral home at this time of night.
“He let out of here about nine on his burro,” Bitsy tells me. “Went to see William MacIntosh. He knows about Katherine’s escape, the bruises, and the fight. I told him I thought William must have pushed our mother down those stairs. I shouldn’t have said that. Oh, I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Child. Don’t start again!” Mrs. Miller reprimands. “You are not responsible. Let’s just pray your brother has some sense.” I slump down on the floor, leaning my back against the davenport, held between Bitsy’s knees.
“Do you want me to go back to town to look for him?” the vet asks.
“We already tried,” the young man responds.
I finally turn to him. “I’m Patience Murphy. This is Dr. Hester, the local vet.” I’ve never called him a doctor before, and I don’t know why I do now. The men nod, and Hester stands up and shakes hands.
“Byrd Bowlin,” the young fellow introduces himself. “I saw you at the Wildcat flood . . . Thomas is my friend, but he has no place going into Liberty looking for MacIntosh. It’s a good way for a black man to get his head shot off.” I know what he’s thinking. Just last year a colored miner was gunned down in Mingo County for sassing the sheriff. Nothing was even done to the lawman. They called it self-defense. But that was in the southern part of the state. Union County shares a border with Pennsylvania and is north of the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s more civilized here.
Byrd Bowlin goes on, “The reverend and I already drove all around town but couldn’t find him. We know he stopped at the colored speakeasy behind Gold’s Dry Goods. The bartender told us he was making accusations and was pretty drunk, but after that we lost his trail.” A colored speakeasy in Liberty? That must mean there’s a white juice joint too! I’m so out of touch.
“We drove by MacIntosh’s house three times,” Byrd continues, “thinking maybe we would see his burro if he was there, but the place was dark and we never could find him. Figure he stopped somewhere on his way home along Salt Lick, crawled under a tree to sleep it off.”
