The Midwife of Hope River
Page 77
“Where I lived before, we had a book on famous Negroes,” I explain.
“These young ladies are some of Mrs. Potts’s patients,” Samantha explains. “I thought they should meet you. They’re from Smoke Valley, Kentucky, and are staying with us . . . my brother’s girls. We wanted Mrs. Potts to deliver them, but now we have you.”
I feel like a leftover, lopsided red velvet cake at a cakewalk, but I don’t think she means it that way.
“When their time comes, will you and Bitsy be there?”
“We’ll plan on it,” I say, picking up where Mrs. Potts left off.
“It wasn’t so bad,” says Twyla, now an expert on childbirth. “It hurt, but you’ll do better if you relax. Try not to tighten up, that’s the secret. And don’t scream. It just scares the baby.”
36
Third Degree
On Saturday afternoon, I ride my bike down Wild Rose Road and around Salt Lick into Liberty to turn in my birth certificates at the courthouse and pick up supplies, again washing up behind the Texaco station. MacIntosh’s vehicle is nowhere to be seen.
When I have to ask the crimped gray-haired woman behind the elbow-high wooden desk for another death certificate, I cringe, but she doesn’t say anything. The coroner must fill out one for Kitty, there’s nothing about that in the midwifery code. As I leave, I spy Sheriff Hardman standing in the hall and make myself small, trying to slide past him.
“Miss Murphy?”
“Sheriff.” I nod and keep moving, but he reaches out and touches my arm.
“Can we have a word?”
“Uh, I’m sort of in a hurry . . . I need to get downstairs to consult with Mrs. Myers about a pregnant patient.” This is a total lie, but I think it sounds possible.
My excuse doesn’t work. He crooks his index finger and motions me into his office. “I just have a few questions. It won’t take long.” He sits behind his big wooden desk and motions for me to take the other chair. “Katherine MacIntosh came to me a few days before she returned to Baltimore. She feels certain her husband killed himself. Said he had threatened to do it before. I know you were close to the family. Do you have anything to add? Come clean this time. No more lies.”
I’m staring at a cluster of wanted posters arranged on the wall behind his desk half expecting to see my own mug, but there’s no one I recognize. Though the Battle at Blair Mountain seems like yesterday to me, it’s nine years ago, probably old news to the rest of the world.
“What did you want to know?”
“Everything you know.”
I take a big breath. “Well, I wasn’t really acquainted with them at first. I attended Mrs. MacIntosh in labor. You probably heard.” Hardman nods without expression. Just as I thought . . . probably everyone knows about the dead baby that came alive.
“Mr. MacIntosh was having a hard time financially. Katherine said he was burdened by debt. I didn’t learn that until later. The baby was born the day after the stock market crashed.” The lawman nods again.
“Later, after Bitsy got fired and moved in with me, Katherine ran to us twice with bruises all over her upper body. The first time, William said he was sorry, but then it happened again. The second time she came in the middle of a rainstorm, and Mr. Hester, the vet, was kind enough to drive us to Torrington to the train station. She was in the barn the morning you came up Wild Rose Road. I didn’t tell you because I thought you might try and take her home. They weren’t a happy couple. That’s all I know, except . . . well, Katherine said he’d beaten her, many times . . . and like I said, he’d done it before.”
“And Thomas Proudfoot? What do you know about him?”
I tilt my chin up. “Just that he is brave and kind and helps whoever he can and wouldn’t kill anyone. I don’t think he would, anyway. Kill someone.” Hardman picks up a pencil and taps it thoughtfully on the desk, looking at me for a long time. Outside on the street I hear a woman laugh.
“Can I go?” I consult my pocket watch on a ribbon.
“For now.”
I couldn’t get out of there faster!
Annabelle
Still sweating, only this time not from the heat and humidity, I trot down the steps, grab my bike, and head around the corner to find the grocery still open. The young Mr. Bittman greets me, takes the four quarters I’ve just received for filling out the birth certificates, and wraps up my few supplies (a bag of cornmeal, some flour, and a small box of sugar) which I secure in the basket of the bike in a feed sack. Then I head through town. Two miles past the bridge, still shaky after my encounter with the sheriff, I spot a rough truck pulled off in the grass. At first I think it might be Reverend Miller, but a white man waves wildly.
“Lady!” the guy yells. “Hey, lady!”
I stop in the dust.
“My missus. She’s carrying a child, and she’s paining bad. Is there some woman who could help us? We aren’t from around here and must have made a wrong turn.”
“I’m a midwife.”
“Oh, praise the Lord.”
“I don’t have my supplies with me, but I just live another mile and a half up the road. Is your woman far along?” He leads me to the front of the truck, where I see three towheaded children under seven sitting in the grass throwing rocks in the creek and a thin blond lady slumped in the front of the cab with her feet pressed to the dash.
The woman whips her yellow bob back and forth and growls.
I know that sound well, and I have no gloves, no soap, no scissors to cut the cord! Nothing.
“Ma’am?” I inquire, opening the passenger-side door and wondering how the hell they’d packed all the kids in. “I’m Patience Murphy, a midwife.” I turn to the husband, who grasps his dark hair in handfuls until it stands on end. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Annabelle.”
“Annabelle, I can see you’re very uncomfortable, but can you please stop pushing?” This seems ridiculous, phrased so politely. Holding back a baby when it’s down in the birth canal is like holding back an avalanche with your bare hands. “My house is just a few minutes away, and if we could get you there, I have everything we need. Can you blow, like this? Hooo! Hooo! Hooo!” I demonstrate. The mother looks at me wildly.
“It’s coming!”
“These young ladies are some of Mrs. Potts’s patients,” Samantha explains. “I thought they should meet you. They’re from Smoke Valley, Kentucky, and are staying with us . . . my brother’s girls. We wanted Mrs. Potts to deliver them, but now we have you.”
I feel like a leftover, lopsided red velvet cake at a cakewalk, but I don’t think she means it that way.
“When their time comes, will you and Bitsy be there?”
“We’ll plan on it,” I say, picking up where Mrs. Potts left off.
“It wasn’t so bad,” says Twyla, now an expert on childbirth. “It hurt, but you’ll do better if you relax. Try not to tighten up, that’s the secret. And don’t scream. It just scares the baby.”
36
Third Degree
On Saturday afternoon, I ride my bike down Wild Rose Road and around Salt Lick into Liberty to turn in my birth certificates at the courthouse and pick up supplies, again washing up behind the Texaco station. MacIntosh’s vehicle is nowhere to be seen.
When I have to ask the crimped gray-haired woman behind the elbow-high wooden desk for another death certificate, I cringe, but she doesn’t say anything. The coroner must fill out one for Kitty, there’s nothing about that in the midwifery code. As I leave, I spy Sheriff Hardman standing in the hall and make myself small, trying to slide past him.
“Miss Murphy?”
“Sheriff.” I nod and keep moving, but he reaches out and touches my arm.
“Can we have a word?”
“Uh, I’m sort of in a hurry . . . I need to get downstairs to consult with Mrs. Myers about a pregnant patient.” This is a total lie, but I think it sounds possible.
My excuse doesn’t work. He crooks his index finger and motions me into his office. “I just have a few questions. It won’t take long.” He sits behind his big wooden desk and motions for me to take the other chair. “Katherine MacIntosh came to me a few days before she returned to Baltimore. She feels certain her husband killed himself. Said he had threatened to do it before. I know you were close to the family. Do you have anything to add? Come clean this time. No more lies.”
I’m staring at a cluster of wanted posters arranged on the wall behind his desk half expecting to see my own mug, but there’s no one I recognize. Though the Battle at Blair Mountain seems like yesterday to me, it’s nine years ago, probably old news to the rest of the world.
“What did you want to know?”
“Everything you know.”
I take a big breath. “Well, I wasn’t really acquainted with them at first. I attended Mrs. MacIntosh in labor. You probably heard.” Hardman nods without expression. Just as I thought . . . probably everyone knows about the dead baby that came alive.
“Mr. MacIntosh was having a hard time financially. Katherine said he was burdened by debt. I didn’t learn that until later. The baby was born the day after the stock market crashed.” The lawman nods again.
“Later, after Bitsy got fired and moved in with me, Katherine ran to us twice with bruises all over her upper body. The first time, William said he was sorry, but then it happened again. The second time she came in the middle of a rainstorm, and Mr. Hester, the vet, was kind enough to drive us to Torrington to the train station. She was in the barn the morning you came up Wild Rose Road. I didn’t tell you because I thought you might try and take her home. They weren’t a happy couple. That’s all I know, except . . . well, Katherine said he’d beaten her, many times . . . and like I said, he’d done it before.”
“And Thomas Proudfoot? What do you know about him?”
I tilt my chin up. “Just that he is brave and kind and helps whoever he can and wouldn’t kill anyone. I don’t think he would, anyway. Kill someone.” Hardman picks up a pencil and taps it thoughtfully on the desk, looking at me for a long time. Outside on the street I hear a woman laugh.
“Can I go?” I consult my pocket watch on a ribbon.
“For now.”
I couldn’t get out of there faster!
Annabelle
Still sweating, only this time not from the heat and humidity, I trot down the steps, grab my bike, and head around the corner to find the grocery still open. The young Mr. Bittman greets me, takes the four quarters I’ve just received for filling out the birth certificates, and wraps up my few supplies (a bag of cornmeal, some flour, and a small box of sugar) which I secure in the basket of the bike in a feed sack. Then I head through town. Two miles past the bridge, still shaky after my encounter with the sheriff, I spot a rough truck pulled off in the grass. At first I think it might be Reverend Miller, but a white man waves wildly.
“Lady!” the guy yells. “Hey, lady!”
I stop in the dust.
“My missus. She’s carrying a child, and she’s paining bad. Is there some woman who could help us? We aren’t from around here and must have made a wrong turn.”
“I’m a midwife.”
“Oh, praise the Lord.”
“I don’t have my supplies with me, but I just live another mile and a half up the road. Is your woman far along?” He leads me to the front of the truck, where I see three towheaded children under seven sitting in the grass throwing rocks in the creek and a thin blond lady slumped in the front of the cab with her feet pressed to the dash.
The woman whips her yellow bob back and forth and growls.
I know that sound well, and I have no gloves, no soap, no scissors to cut the cord! Nothing.
“Ma’am?” I inquire, opening the passenger-side door and wondering how the hell they’d packed all the kids in. “I’m Patience Murphy, a midwife.” I turn to the husband, who grasps his dark hair in handfuls until it stands on end. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Annabelle.”
“Annabelle, I can see you’re very uncomfortable, but can you please stop pushing?” This seems ridiculous, phrased so politely. Holding back a baby when it’s down in the birth canal is like holding back an avalanche with your bare hands. “My house is just a few minutes away, and if we could get you there, I have everything we need. Can you blow, like this? Hooo! Hooo! Hooo!” I demonstrate. The mother looks at me wildly.
“It’s coming!”
