The Midwife of Hope River
Page 85
Oh, Ruben . . . I take a deep breath, blow away the sorrow. Above me a small bird in the naked branches preens in the last of the golden slanting light. Bitsy and I call her the “water bird” because of her song, like water in a brook running over the stones.
“Water bird,” I whisper, wiping my tears and pulling myself up on my knees, “these hands have killed and these hands have brought life into the world. If I were a religious woman, I would call upon God to ease my soul.”
I try to think what my prayer would be. Light of the World, take this sorry heart and cleanse it. Take my sorry self and make me new. Forgive me . . . forgive me for everything . . .
I hold my work-worn mitts up into the fading sunlight, then bend over and wash them in the clear, cold creek water, wash away the guilt and sorrow. I cup the cold water and wash my face, wash away the tears, all those tears. I once was lost, but now I’m found . . . I sing the words we sang at the Wildcat Mine cave-in, then I lean back and stare up at the evening star.
A few years ago, I would have been afraid to lie in the leaves alone in the darkening woods. Now I find peace.
40
October 5, 1930. Rainbow around the almost full moon.
Another delivery, Carlin Hummingbird, 10 pounds! The third son of Addie and Norton Hummingbird, the Indian family of Dark Hollow. The baby was born without fuss in their log cabin along the creek. Mr. Hummingbird stayed in the kitchen, and Addie was very self-sufficient. I just rocked in a chair and Bitsy tended to everything, then we did the delivery together. Very little bleeding. No tears. Mrs. Hummingbird gave me a beaded basket that will be very nice for my knitting.
Target Practice
It’s been a few cold rainy days, but around two, when the sun comes out, I see Bitsy, through the front window, lead Star out of the gate, heading, I imagine, toward the Hope River. She’s been strange lately, running over to the Wildcat Mine and to Hazel Patch nearly every day. Twice I saw her sneaking food from the cupboard wrapped in a white dishcloth. If she wants to take food to Thomas, she doesn’t need to tiptoe around. The fact is, though I haven’t really admitted this to her, I miss her company, her puttering around the house, the sound of her voice.
“Bitsy!” I lock my journal and stuff it under the cushions, then throw open the blue door. “Bitsy! Can I come?”
She shrugs. “Okay,” she says, surprised, and pulls me up on the horse behind her.
Cloudless blue sky, smell of fallen leaves, the sound of the Hope roaring over its banks in the distance . . .
We clop along Wild Rose Road, riding double, and I wave to Mrs. Maddock, who sits in her wheelchair on her front porch. She’s wearing her blank public face today, but she nods. If I hadn’t had tea with her a few weeks ago, I would never have guessed the warmth that’s inside her.
“Are you going to hunt?” I ask my companion, making reference to the gun balanced in its case over Star’s neck. “What for? Ducks? Geese? Turkey?”
“Just target practice. I don’t like to do it around the house. The sound of the rifle might irritate you.” She’s probably right. I have been a little snappy lately.
I surprise myself when I ask her, “Will you show me how?”
Since Blair Mountain, I haven’t touched a firearm and before that never, not even Ruben’s Colt revolver.
I can’t see my companion’s face because she is sitting in front of me, but her back softens, like a smile, against my chest. “Sure. I didn’t know you were interested.”
“I don’t know if I am. I just want to feel what you feel when you shoot. I know you like it, and who knows, someday I might need to hunt for myself.” Bitsy shrugs as if she can’t imagine such a thing, and that’s the end of it until we get to the dirt path that winds down to the raging water.
“I have targets set up along the bank.” We slide off Star’s back, lead her through the brush, and tie her to a small sycamore. On a rise where the willows thin out, my friend has nailed three old rusted signs to the trees: a red Coca-Cola sign with a soda jerk peeking out from behind the bottle, a green Case Tractor sign, and a Days Work Chewing Tobacco sign, all riddled with bullet holes. Scattered along the trunk of a fallen tree are tin cans, which we begin to set up.
“Where do you get these cans?” I break the silence. “We haven’t had any store-bought food since that Heinz soup Hester gave us when he was injured.”
“Mildred saves them for me.”
“Mildred Miller? She knows you shoot?”
“Sure, I bring them a rabbit now and then. She makes a stew almost like Mama’s.” This surprises me, as if Bitsy has another life, one I don’t know about.
“Okay,” I say, banishing my dark reflections and adjusting my wire-rimmed specs. “Let’s get going. What do I do?”
Bitsy is a patient teacher. She shows me how to load the rifle. She demonstrates how to stand sideways and aim through the sight. She shoots off a few rounds, perfectly knocking the cans off the logs.
“Now you try. Tuck the stock into your right shoulder where it fits.”
I experiment with a few places, but nothing seems right.
“Here,” she says and places the gun where she thinks it should be. “You’ll have to get used to it. Put your other hand under the body of the rifle, aim down the barrel, then pull the trigger.”
I squint, dreading the loud noise.
“Hold it tight against your shoulder! Don’t let it slip, or it will kick you in the arm.”
I swallow. Why is this so hard? It’s supposed to be fun.
Boom! The Favorite Sweet Corn can flips off the log!
“I hit it!” I’m dancing around.
“Hey, watch the gun!”
That clears my head. “Pretty good, huh?”
Bitsy smiles at my enthusiasm. “A born cracker shot.”
“Can I do it again?”
All afternoon, we take turns back and forth. My first shot, it turns out, was beginner’s luck. It takes eleven more before I hit another can. “We better not waste any more bullets,” I say, cutting short the practice. “You might need them for hunting.”
“It’s okay. Byrd will give me some more.” Byrd Bowlin again! I plunk down on the log, and Bitsy sits next to me, putting the rifle back into its case.
“It’s serious with him, isn’t it?”
She shrugs and gets a faraway look in her eyes. “He’s my family now.” That hurts a little. I thought I was Bitsy’s family. “Thomas isn’t coming back, and Ma has gone to the other side.”
“Water bird,” I whisper, wiping my tears and pulling myself up on my knees, “these hands have killed and these hands have brought life into the world. If I were a religious woman, I would call upon God to ease my soul.”
I try to think what my prayer would be. Light of the World, take this sorry heart and cleanse it. Take my sorry self and make me new. Forgive me . . . forgive me for everything . . .
I hold my work-worn mitts up into the fading sunlight, then bend over and wash them in the clear, cold creek water, wash away the guilt and sorrow. I cup the cold water and wash my face, wash away the tears, all those tears. I once was lost, but now I’m found . . . I sing the words we sang at the Wildcat Mine cave-in, then I lean back and stare up at the evening star.
A few years ago, I would have been afraid to lie in the leaves alone in the darkening woods. Now I find peace.
40
October 5, 1930. Rainbow around the almost full moon.
Another delivery, Carlin Hummingbird, 10 pounds! The third son of Addie and Norton Hummingbird, the Indian family of Dark Hollow. The baby was born without fuss in their log cabin along the creek. Mr. Hummingbird stayed in the kitchen, and Addie was very self-sufficient. I just rocked in a chair and Bitsy tended to everything, then we did the delivery together. Very little bleeding. No tears. Mrs. Hummingbird gave me a beaded basket that will be very nice for my knitting.
Target Practice
It’s been a few cold rainy days, but around two, when the sun comes out, I see Bitsy, through the front window, lead Star out of the gate, heading, I imagine, toward the Hope River. She’s been strange lately, running over to the Wildcat Mine and to Hazel Patch nearly every day. Twice I saw her sneaking food from the cupboard wrapped in a white dishcloth. If she wants to take food to Thomas, she doesn’t need to tiptoe around. The fact is, though I haven’t really admitted this to her, I miss her company, her puttering around the house, the sound of her voice.
“Bitsy!” I lock my journal and stuff it under the cushions, then throw open the blue door. “Bitsy! Can I come?”
She shrugs. “Okay,” she says, surprised, and pulls me up on the horse behind her.
Cloudless blue sky, smell of fallen leaves, the sound of the Hope roaring over its banks in the distance . . .
We clop along Wild Rose Road, riding double, and I wave to Mrs. Maddock, who sits in her wheelchair on her front porch. She’s wearing her blank public face today, but she nods. If I hadn’t had tea with her a few weeks ago, I would never have guessed the warmth that’s inside her.
“Are you going to hunt?” I ask my companion, making reference to the gun balanced in its case over Star’s neck. “What for? Ducks? Geese? Turkey?”
“Just target practice. I don’t like to do it around the house. The sound of the rifle might irritate you.” She’s probably right. I have been a little snappy lately.
I surprise myself when I ask her, “Will you show me how?”
Since Blair Mountain, I haven’t touched a firearm and before that never, not even Ruben’s Colt revolver.
I can’t see my companion’s face because she is sitting in front of me, but her back softens, like a smile, against my chest. “Sure. I didn’t know you were interested.”
“I don’t know if I am. I just want to feel what you feel when you shoot. I know you like it, and who knows, someday I might need to hunt for myself.” Bitsy shrugs as if she can’t imagine such a thing, and that’s the end of it until we get to the dirt path that winds down to the raging water.
“I have targets set up along the bank.” We slide off Star’s back, lead her through the brush, and tie her to a small sycamore. On a rise where the willows thin out, my friend has nailed three old rusted signs to the trees: a red Coca-Cola sign with a soda jerk peeking out from behind the bottle, a green Case Tractor sign, and a Days Work Chewing Tobacco sign, all riddled with bullet holes. Scattered along the trunk of a fallen tree are tin cans, which we begin to set up.
“Where do you get these cans?” I break the silence. “We haven’t had any store-bought food since that Heinz soup Hester gave us when he was injured.”
“Mildred saves them for me.”
“Mildred Miller? She knows you shoot?”
“Sure, I bring them a rabbit now and then. She makes a stew almost like Mama’s.” This surprises me, as if Bitsy has another life, one I don’t know about.
“Okay,” I say, banishing my dark reflections and adjusting my wire-rimmed specs. “Let’s get going. What do I do?”
Bitsy is a patient teacher. She shows me how to load the rifle. She demonstrates how to stand sideways and aim through the sight. She shoots off a few rounds, perfectly knocking the cans off the logs.
“Now you try. Tuck the stock into your right shoulder where it fits.”
I experiment with a few places, but nothing seems right.
“Here,” she says and places the gun where she thinks it should be. “You’ll have to get used to it. Put your other hand under the body of the rifle, aim down the barrel, then pull the trigger.”
I squint, dreading the loud noise.
“Hold it tight against your shoulder! Don’t let it slip, or it will kick you in the arm.”
I swallow. Why is this so hard? It’s supposed to be fun.
Boom! The Favorite Sweet Corn can flips off the log!
“I hit it!” I’m dancing around.
“Hey, watch the gun!”
That clears my head. “Pretty good, huh?”
Bitsy smiles at my enthusiasm. “A born cracker shot.”
“Can I do it again?”
All afternoon, we take turns back and forth. My first shot, it turns out, was beginner’s luck. It takes eleven more before I hit another can. “We better not waste any more bullets,” I say, cutting short the practice. “You might need them for hunting.”
“It’s okay. Byrd will give me some more.” Byrd Bowlin again! I plunk down on the log, and Bitsy sits next to me, putting the rifle back into its case.
“It’s serious with him, isn’t it?”
She shrugs and gets a faraway look in her eyes. “He’s my family now.” That hurts a little. I thought I was Bitsy’s family. “Thomas isn’t coming back, and Ma has gone to the other side.”
