Three weeks after the scene in the street, David had another dream and began to scream in the middle of the night.
“No! Stop! Stop!” By this time, I’d moved to the adjoining room, but afraid the neighbors would hear, I hurried to his bed to wake him. This was a mistake.
“No! You fucking Kraut!” Believing me to be an enemy soldier, my husband grabs me around the neck. I can’t breathe, can’t fight him off. I yank his thick beard, tear at his hands. We roll off the bed, crash to the floor, and the impact brings him around just before I pass out. Tears streaming down our faces, we lay there panting.
“This can’t go on,” David groans. “One of these nights I’ll kill you.” He crawls to the chest of drawers and pulls out a pistol wrapped in a pair of army underwear. “Here, you must sleep with this revolver under your pillow. If I come for you in the night, shoot me. . . . Don’t threaten! Shoot me. Do you understand? If you plead with me, I won’t stop.”
“David! I couldn’t!”
“You have to. I’m out of control.” He sits back on the bed and starts pulling on his clothes, first his pants, then his shirt. Forgets the boxers.
“I’ll take you to a veteran’s hospital! They must have a unit for ex-officers with bad dreams and outbursts. I’ve read about it in the paper. Thousands, maybe millions of men who saw combat have readjustment problems. They call it shell shock.”
“Never! I worked in such loony bins during training. I’d be shipped to an overcrowded asylum with the rest of the whacked-out soldiers, labeled crazy, maybe even given hydrotherapy or insulin-shock treatments. You know what those places are like, men strapped in straitjackets, in padded rooms.” He’s tying his boots, and as I reach for him, he pushes me away. “I’d rather die!”
A month later, he stole his gun back from under my pillow and put a bullet through his brain down by the Connecticut River, right where we had once danced in the moonlight. His prediction was right. He would never see me get wrinkled and old.
15
Messenger
The sun, like a giant orange, is just coming over the mountains when I wake with a bladder so full I really have to get to the outhouse. I rise and go out into a cool morning with the promise of a beautiful day, but the rumble of a truck barreling up Wild Rose Road lifts me out my reverie.
Now who could this be? I look down at my worn housedress and bare feet, then back at the vehicle pulling up at the fence, a beat-up open hack driven by a wisp of a boy, not more than fourteen.
“I’m Chester Mink. Mrs. Wade says come quick. It’s a disaster,” he hollers, then adds as an afterthought, “ma’am.”
I figure there must be some mistake. He’s probably looking for the midwife. “You have the wrong house. Patience Murphy doesn’t live here anymore. She’s Mrs. Hester now, the vet’s wife, and they live on the other side of Spruce Mountain.”
“I know that,” he responds, looking frustrated. “I been there once already and no one’s home. Mrs. Wade said to fetch you. She says come quick!”
My first reaction is to make an excuse. I’m not used to these urgent demands. It may be okay for Patience and Daniel to rush, rush, rush, but I have enough to cope with just getting through the day. I haven’t even had a cup of tea, and what will I do with Dr. Blum?
“Please, ma’am! It’s an emergency.” He jumps out of the vehicle and comes up to the porch, a thin awkward lad wearing denims that are too short, and his eyes are big in his very white face. I glance at my wristwatch. It’s seven fifteen.
Trapped
Thirty minutes later, we cross the bridge over the Hope and speed down Main. Chester hasn’t said a word and is concentrating so hard on just keeping the old truck on the road that I dare not ask any questions. Dr. Blum just bounces up and down, loosely rocking between the driver and me, holding my leather nurse’s bag.
We turn at Sycamore, and pull up in front of an immaculate two-story brick home right behind the Saved by Faith Baptist Church. As I hop out of the truck carrying my medical bag and run toward the house, I hear crying—“Eiiiiiiiiiii! Eiiiiiiiiii!”—long screams and raised voices. There must have been a terrible accident.
I don’t have long to find out. Mrs. Wade, Lilly Bittman’s mother, hurries out the front door.
“Miss Becky, thank God. Come in! Come in! Dr. Blum with you? That’s fine. Chester, sit with him out here on the porch. No, walk him around town. Just make yourself scarce. . . . Come in. Come in,” she repeats, dragging me up the steps and down a long hall to the door of a bedroom. Before I enter, I take hold of her fleshy arm. “What’s happened? The screams are horrible! Chester didn’t tell me anything, didn’t say a word.”
“You’ve seen babies born, right?”
My heart does a flip-flop and I immediately feel rather faint. “You tried to find Patience?”
“Yes. Yes. Chester already called at her house, but Mr. Hester said she’s down in Oneida attending a woman in labor and she’s been there two days. He said to get you. You’re like a midwife, aren’t you? Almost a midwife?”
“My experience is limited.”
“Well, that fine, dear. We just need someone. It’s Peaches Goody,” the woman continues. “She’s only twelve. Says she didn’t know she was pregnant, then her water broke in church and there was blood all over the place. I almost believe her, that she didn’t know she was pregnant, though it sounds incredible.”
A hundred questions flood my mind: Who’s the father? How big is the baby? How big is the girl? What’s the presenting part? Is the baby likely to be full term? How long has she been in labor? I’d like to run right home, but that isn’t possible, so I take a big breath and open the bedroom door.
What I expect to see is a young woman thrashing around on the bed, but instead find two older women hovering in front of a huge oak wardrobe, one tall and thin, one short and round, neither pregnant. They turn toward me with big eyes.
“Oh, thank the Lord, you’ve come, Miss Becky!” says the tall one, whom I now recognize as the teacher, Marion Archer. Her hair is pinned back from her face and it’s a lot grayer than when I saw her five years ago.
“Thank the Lord!” echoes the other, Mrs. Goody, the round one, the Saved by Faith preacher’s wife.
“Eiiiiiiiiiii! Eiiiiiiiiii!” The wails come again, the sound of a wild animal caught in a trap, and I locate the source, the freestanding closet.
Before I even put down my bag, the round lady addresses the young woman hiding inside. “Honey babe. Peaches? Honey, please come out now. Do it for Mama. Please. The midwife is here. She’ll help you.”
I’d like to clarify the situation, tell them again that I’m a registered nurse, not a midwife or a physician, but it doesn’t seem the right time, so instead I pull Mrs. Goody across the room. She’s dressed in a tasteful plum calf-length Sunday dress.
“What’s going on?” I inquire. “Why is she hiding?”
The lady gives a long sigh. “It’s Peaches, my twelve-year-old, just a sixth grader and apparently in the family way. . . . I swear we had no idea. She’s a little chubby like me, and as far as I knew, hadn’t even started her monthlies yet. If she did, she didn’t tell me.”
Mrs. Goody wipes her tearstained red face. “I don’t know how this happened. She was outside running and playing kick the can with the other girls until a few weeks ago. Then this morning, right at the beginning of my husband’s Sunday sermon, her baby bag burst and water and blood spilled all over the place.”
“We rushed her out of the church and over here,” Mrs. Wade interjects importantly, “because I’ve attended several home deliveries, and the pastor was having after-church tea at their house.” (I’m hardly listening, still trying to picture an overweight pregnant child playing kick the can.)
“So why is she hiding?”
“She’s in pain. I don’t think she even knows where babies come from . . . and she’s afraid.”
“Can’t you force her to come out?”
“No. She’s got a wire h
anger hooked to something inside that’s holding the doors closed. I thought of getting her father to come tear the closet apart, but before we do that, can you try? Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
A preacher’s daughter, wouldn’t you know it! And the poor child now pregnant. Apparently she’d at least ovulated one time or she wouldn’t be in this state. The Reverend Goody, tall and balding, with eyes so dark they seem almost black, is familiar to me. He’s of the fire-and-brimstone variety, and Peaches must be terrified of what he’ll have to say about her pregnancy.
Blum was called to his church once, when a rattlesnake bit a visiting faith healer named Sampson Lick. He would have died for sure if Dr. Blum hadn’t pulled the poison out with his mouth; then the two of us took turns nursing the man all night. Even after he almost met his maker, we heard Mr. Lick went back to serpent handling. Dr. Blum was pissed as hell.
“Eiiiiiiii. Eiiiiiiii.” The trapped animal cries again. When she stops, the house is so still you could probably hear a spider weaving its web.
Red Velvet
I take a long breath to fortify myself. This is not what I thought I was here for. I pictured a medical emergency, a sick baby, a man with a broken arm, or maybe a case of pneumonia. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll give it a try. Can you ladies step out of the room? You could call the midwife again.”
“Maybe we should remain,” says Mrs. Wade.
“No, I’d really rather try by myself.” The women look miffed, but they do what I say, and now it’s just me and the screamer.
“Peaches,” I whisper, sitting on the floor, next to the wardrobe. “Peaches. This is Becky Myers. I’m a nurse, a doctor’s nurse.” I don’t know why I say doctor’s nurse. Maybe I think it sounds more official.
“They called me to see if I could help. Are you in terrible pain?”
A muffled “yes” comes from inside the cabinet.
“If you open the door, I can try to figure out what’s wrong. Are you bleeding?”
Very quietly, she says, “There’s water or pee still coming out of me, but it’s dark in here, I can’t see. Also, my back hurts so bad. I don’t mean to scream, but it’s killing me. I think I might die. I don’t want to die.”
“Honey. Honey. You are not going to die. You are going to have a baby.”
There’s no answer for a minute, then, “I can’t have a baby. I’m a girl, not a mommy.”
I change tactics. If I can only get her to come out, maybe I can help her. For all I know the infant’s head may be crowning and she’s sitting on it.
“Are you hungry, Peaches?”
“A little . . . when I’m not paining. Oh, no! Here comes another one. My back! My back! Eiiiiiiii!” Her howl this time is even louder than before. Then she sobs, a blubbering little kid, really.
Finally, she lets up. “What would you like to eat?” I continue. “A glass of milk? A sandwich?”
“Could I have cake?” Typical kid!
“I’ll see. You start unlocking yourself and I’ll be right back. You can call me Nurse Becky.”
When I open the door into the hall, I find Mrs. Wade, Mrs. Goody, and the Archer woman hovering there, wringing their hands.
“Can Peaches have something to eat? Cake? She’d like cake. You don’t have any cake around, do you, Mrs. Wade?”
“Yes, yes. I have a red velvet cake I made for Sunday supper. Can she eat in labor?”
“Well, Dr. Blum would say no. She may throw up later. But knowing Patience, the midwife, she’d probably say yes. I’m just trying to get Peaches to come out of the closet. She really doesn’t understand what’s going on. She thinks she’s going to die.”
Peaches’s mother starts to cry again and mumbles over and over, “My poor baby. My poor baby.”
“I’m going back. . . . Tap twice on the door when the cake is ready, but please don’t come in. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”
I enter as Peaches starts her howl again, only this time it’s not quite as frantic.
“Cake on the way,” I announce cheerfully. She cuts the cry short.
“What kind?”
“Red velvet chocolate cake, Mrs. Wade’s specialty. How are you coming with the lock?” I’m surprised when the door cracks open.
Just a Girl
“You really think I’m having a baby?”
“Well, yes. I think so. It does hurt some, especially when it’s your first one, but it doesn’t hurt so bad if you understand what’s happening.”
“But I’m just a sixth grader. How could a baby get in me? Can you make the pains stop?”
“Well, maybe . . . if I could examine you. I’ll see.”
I truly have no idea what I can offer in terms of pain relief. Luckily, just then there’s a tap at the door. “That’s the cake. There’s a towel on the bed. Sit on it and we can eat while we talk.” I’m surprised when, without any more coaxing, I see one pale freckled leg appear at the closet opening, then another.
Mrs. Wade opens the door and pushes in a fancy silver tray with the cake and two glasses of cold milk. She looks at me with big eyes, silently asking how things are going, but I say nothing and close the door again.
When I turn, a short, plump girl with large breasts, a body that looks sixteen, and a baby face is sitting on a green towel on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing her Sunday dress, a sailor-type middy with a long skirt, but the skirt is all rumpled, blood streaked, and wet. Poor kid, I think.
“Yummy!” she says, reaching out for her plate. I sit down next to her and pick up my glass of milk. There must be something I can do for her pain. Dr. Blum always gave the mothers morphine, but that’s not going to happen.
I again try to imagine what Patience would do, but realize I know little of her methods except the breathing when the head is crowning . . . and the use of oil.
“Oh, no! Here comes the pain again!” Peaches cries. “Are you sure I’m not going to die?” She begins to shake her hands in front of her as if they’ve both gone to sleep. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Eiiiii!” I reach over and touch her belly, which is round and hard under about two inches of fat.
“Peaches, feel your belly. See how hard it is? That’s your baby trying to come out.”
“Don’t say that, Nurse Becky! There can’t be a baby!”
Birds and the Bees
For the next ten minutes, interrupted by contractions, I try to explain the female reproductive system.
“But how did a baby get in there?” the girl asks. Good question.
“A man or an older boy has to get his penis inside or near a girl’s privates. Then he puts in some seeds and the baby grows.”
Peaches looks horrified. “It was only a dare. Don’t tell my mama!”
“Did you do that with a boy, honey? It’s okay. I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to.”
“One time last fall, a long time ago, we were playing hide-and-seek in the dark, and my friend Molly’s cousin from Beckley dared me to let his privates touch my privates. He didn’t put his snake inside, but he rubbed it on me and afterward I was wet. I hit him in the face because I thought he’d peed on me.” Now we are getting to the heart of it.
Another contraction but at least she’s not screaming.
“Mama will hate me. She will be so mad. There have been other girls in the church that had babies, but they were in high school. I’m just a kid. You think it was the boy and his seed? Not Jesus?”
“I think it was the boy, yes.”
“Miss Becky. I don’t feel so good. I’m going to puke.”
I grab a pillow to catch the vomit and protect the flowered carpet.
“Oh, no! Now I have to pooh!”
I go very still. We have nothing ready for the birth! And again I haven’t even listened to the fetal heartbeat.
“I’ll be right back, honey,” I say, hoping to sound calm. “I think your baby might come soon and I need to get some things ready for the birth.”
“Mrs. Wade! Mrs. Goody!” I call, running out in the hall.
“Bring warm water. Bring clean linen and something to wrap the baby in!”
Behind me in the bedroom there’s a low groan.
When I step back in the room with my bag, Peaches is squatting over the potty. “Ughhhh!” she groans. No crying now. Just nature taking over.
July 27, 1934
6-pound, 9-ounce female infant born to Peaches Goody, the daughter of Reverend Goody and Mrs. Goody, after two hours of pushing. Patience wasn’t there, and I had to do the whole delivery by myself from start to finish. Present were Mrs. Goody, Mrs. Wade, and Mrs. Archer.
The hardest part was dealing with the patient, a 12-year-old child who didn’t know she was pregnant or even how she got pregnant. She screamed through the first half of labor, but was amazing once she began to push. Peaches had one small tear, which I repaired as best I could. Blood loss was minimal.
Afterward I looked around and everyone was crying, even the new mother, whether for joy or for sorrow, I couldn’t tell, but I cried too. Some will say it’s a tragedy, a child giving birth to another child, but who knows what happiness this new life may bring.
I was surprised when Mrs. Goody dug in her pocketbook and gave me ten dollars, a welcome gift!
16
Threat
It has been ten weeks since I started transporting groceries for the Bittmans and during that time, the number of my customers has steadily declined. It worries me that my only source of income will dry up, and I’m sure it’s a sign of the worsening economy. If it weren’t for Peaches Goody’s delivery, we’d really be strapped.
Even Willa has stopped needing my services, probably because her husband has been laid off and is home with his truck. Daniel said he saw him coming out of Bittman’s with a big carton of groceries and another time going into the saloon in the back alley, but the vet looked away and didn’t make eye contact, trying to pretend that nothing had happened on that infamous Fourth of July.
The Reluctant Midwife Page 12
