The Reluctant Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  Mr. Maddock indicates the closed door of a downstairs bedroom. “That way,” he instructs me. “Can the doctor drink sarsaparilla? I have some in the fridge.”

  “Sure, just set the bottle in front of him to give him the idea. And can you take off his boots?” I lay my hat and wool coat on the sofa and tap on the door. “Sarah? It’s Nurse Becky. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, come on in. I’m fine. Just a little tired. Tired of doing nothing. You know how Mr. Maddock is! He’d have me confined for the whole pregnancy, if he could.” Sarah laughs and I can’t help myself, I laugh too. She’s a pale, soft, thin woman with gold and silver hair pinned back on the sides, and she wears a hand-knit blue cardigan with darker blue flowers embroidered on the front.

  “So, are you okay? Your husband seems awfully worried.”

  “Kiddo, I’m ecstatic. When I became paralyzed and lost my first baby, we never tried to have another one, but we weren’t trying not too, either. I assumed the high fevers during my illness had just made me sterile.”

  “Another baby? You’ve given birth before?”

  “Yes, years ago. We don’t talk about it.”

  “Was it stillborn or a miscarriage?”

  “No, the baby was fine, but I was terribly ill. I had polio and the paralysis was moving up toward my chest. If it got to my diaphragm I would stop breathing. The doctors thought I was certain to die, so they talked Mr. Maddock into letting them do an emergency cesarean section and he gave our little girl to my cousin who’d never been able to get pregnant.”

  She recites all this without emotion, but when she ends I see the side of her mouth twitch one time, an expression that tells me she still feels the pain.

  “No one thought I would live, and then when I slowly recovered over the next twelve months, I couldn’t ask for the baby back, could I? What’s even sadder is that both my cousin and the little girl passed a few years later during the Spanish flu epidemic.”

  I lay my medical bag on the carpeted floor. “May I?” I say, indicating the bed.

  “Sure.” Mrs. Maddock smoothes the covers so I can sit down next to her. “So here we are with another chance,” she goes on. “My husband’s terrified, won’t let me lift a finger, but I think it’s good for women to be active during their pregnancies, don’t you?” We both look down at her skinny withered legs, white against the white coverlet. She shrugs and covers them with a lap robe.

  “Well, as active as I can be anyway. It’s not like I can go out and throw hay to the cows.” Here she gives me a pleasant smile, showing that she has a sly sense of humor. She is a sensitive, intelligent woman, someone I would like for a friend, if I had time for friendship.

  “No, I agree. Unless you’re bleeding or having pain, you should be up moving about, doing your normal activities. How far along are you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had a monthly since July. I was always regular before and I thought I was having hot flashes, though, looking back, it was a horrible summer, maybe I was just hot.”

  “Let me examine you. If you really are four or five months’ pregnant you should be showing by now. You think you felt the baby move yesterday?”

  The pale woman smiles. “Yes. Yes. We both felt it.” She pulls up her housedress and shows me her belly, which is rounded, but not the way it should be. I press down gently around her belly button. No hard, round ball of uterine muscle. I palpate lower. Still no firm ball.

  “What are you feeling for?”

  “It’s called the fundus, the top of the uterus. Where did you feel the baby move?”

  She points to an area just above the umbilicus and to the left. Too high.

  “Sarah, I don’t think you conceived this summer. I don’t know how to say this but Mr. Maddock wanted my honest opinion. I don’t think you felt movement way up there. Your uterus is still very small. You’re either not pregnant or you’re very early.” I stop to let my words sink in and am surprised to see tears well up in the woman’s green eyes. The room darkens, though there’s no change in the light, and the smile that had illuminated Sarah’s face fades.

  “So I’m not with child?” She says it like this, in the old-fashioned way.

  “Well, I’m not positive, but I’d say no, unless you just very recently conceived. Any morning sickness or breast tenderness?”

  Mrs. Maddock shakes her head no.

  “You can go to Torrington and get the A-to-Z test where they inject a baby mouse with your urine if you really want to be sure.”

  “I don’t think so. . . . Will you tell Mr. Maddock? He will be relieved. He was so worried that having a baby would hurt me.” I stare at the woman, who wipes her moist eyes and turns toward the window.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur and then leave the room.

  At the kitchen table I find the two men silently drinking sarsaparilla. “Mr. Maddock,” I begin abruptly, wanting to get it over with. “I can’t be sure, but I don’t think your wife is pregnant. At least, if she is, she’s not far along. She hasn’t been sick or had any breast soreness, and her womb is still small.” The men look up, Blum paying special attention and Mr. Maddock looking confused.

  “But we both felt it move!”

  “I know. I know. You felt something, maybe a gas bubble, but the baby couldn’t have been as high as where Sarah showed me.”

  The man twists his lips, trying to keep from crying, then clears his throat. “Is Sarah okay? She would be a good mother. I was just so worried about the pregnancy being dangerous for her.”

  “She’s disappointed. You’d better go to her. We’ll find our way home. It’s only a mile.”

  It’s a silent walk down Wild Rose Road and around Salt Lick, but then with Blum it always is. Tiny hard raindrops pelt our faces, and at the Hope River the smoke of three campfires rises in the mist. I blow on my hands because I forgot my mittens and Dr. Blum gallantly gives me his.

  Dancing Dress

  This morning when I take Patience her breakfast she looks rather blue. I’m sure it must be torture for an energetic person like her to lie in bed all day, but sometimes she gets under my skin. At nine A.M. she’s still wearing her flannel nightgown and her hair is a mess.

  “About time to get dressed, isn’t it?”

  “What’s the point, Becky? I won’t be going anywhere. Why bother? I’ll just stay in my nightclothes.”

  “You think that will make you feel better?”

  She has copies of the Socialist Worker all over the bed. It’s become her main interest, cutting out the reports about the labor unrest, stikes here, battles there. Recently she told me about a textile workers’ strike in Rhode Island, the largest one ever. There were 420,000 men and women on the streets.

  “No, it won’t make me feel better.”

  “So what will it be, then, the red frock or blue?” I indicate two housedresses hanging on pegs next to the window.

  “Red, the blood won’t show,” she answers bitterly.

  “Speaking of dresses, I have to find one. I’ve been invited to a dance.” My news has the desired effect.

  “A date?” Patience pushes up in bed so suddenly, I worry she’ll start bleeding again. “Why didn’t you tell me? With who?”

  “Calm yourself. It isn’t a real date. Captain Wolfe at the CCC camp asked me to go with him to a benefit for Arthurdale Community. You know, Eleanor Roosevelt’s pet project, the one that was in the newspaper. All the other men have wives, and when he said the First Lady would be there, I couldn’t say no. It’s New Year’s Eve, a long time from now. Do you have anything I could wear? Maybe I should have refused.”

  “Are you kidding? You have to go. Think of it, the president’s wife right here in West Virginia! And she’s a real liberal crusader too! Leave it to me. I’ll come up with something.”

  Later in the afternoon, I take a bucket of warm water upstairs and wash my friend’s hair, which cheers her considerably. “Any bleeding?”

  “Not today.”

  “Is the baby
still moving?” Here she smiles, a burst of sunlight.

  “Of course. As old Mrs. Potts would say, ‘The infant is right lively.’ I miss Mrs. Potts. Are you going to be my midwife, Becky? I know you love childbirth!”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. “I guess . . . I visited Sarah Maddock yesterday. She thought she was pregnant. Hadn’t had a menstrual period for five months, but I don’t think she is.”

  “Was she sad?”

  “Yes, I think she was. Mr. Maddock seemed sad too, though he might have been relieved. He was so worried about his wife’s health. They both knew at forty-seven she had a chance of having a baby with problems. I told them they could go to the hospital in Torrington and have a test to be sure, but I doubt they will. The sad thing is, they thought they’d already felt movement, and I really think Sarah would like to be a mother. She’d had a baby before, did you know?”

  “I did. She told me one day when we were having tea, but I’ve seen that before, women thinking they felt the baby when there was no baby. Probably a gas bubble.”

  “That’s what I said. Is there something I should have done differently? I hated to disappointment them. What if I’m wrong?”

  There’s a pause, long enough to hear a red-tailed hawk in the distance, and Patience pushes out a sigh. “I don’t think there was anything else you could do. She’s pregnant or she’s not, and either way, I think she’ll be okay. We are all stronger than we think.”

  October 21, 1934

  “We are all stronger than we think.” That’s what Patience said, but are we? Faced with grief and guilt, even the toughest person can crumble. I cite myself as an example.

  I was never a sensitive soul. Thick-skinned, you might say. I took care of people, but didn’t particularly care about them, even Pris, my wife. She was a beautiful woman, and her beauty fascinated me, like a crystal ornament twirling in the sunlight, but I wouldn’t call it love. It’s only now that I can admit that.

  24

  Results

  “I just hope none of the Bishops’ cattle have a positive test,” the vet worries as we bump down the rutted road onto the the Bishop farm. There’s a wet wind, but we’ve dressed for the weather, with knit caps, winter jackets, and long flannel underwear.

  As they promised, the men have the animals ready in the barn, and all four of the Bishop brothers are present so there’s no job for me except to circumvent a fight.

  “Cigarette?” Cora asks, holding out a pack of Pall Malls. Her light brown hair is long and lank with bangs down to her eyebrows, and her voice is low for a woman. Probably the cigarettes.

  “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” We’re sitting on a bale of hay watching the men work, and she puts the cigarettes away as if she’s made a social blunder.

  “I’ve always been afraid to smoke,” I admit.

  “My gran says it’s good for you, that the smoke clears your lungs.”

  “Lots of people say that.”

  “Hey, watch it, George!” Beef yells at a man who seems to be his younger brother. “You stomped on my foot.”

  “Well, sorrrrrry!” George mocks him. It’s cold in the barn and steam comes out of his large red mouth.

  “They say you’re a nurse.” That’s Cora.

  “Yes, I work part-time at White Rock CCC Camp.”

  “The Bishop men hate the CCC camp. Hate the boys there too. Say they’re a bunch of pansies, parading around in uniform as if they were some kind of heroes.”

  “They’re just regular fellows, earning money for their families and staying off the streets. Young men get into mischief if they don’t have work to do.”

  “The Bishops hate them because the camps are run by the government. They hate anything to do with the government, hate Roosevelt, hate Herman Kump, the governor. I hate them too. The feds killed my pa. He was a moonshiner, until they gunned him down. This was back during Prohibition.” The girl rattles on as if she’s had no one to talk to for months. “That’s how I came to live here. The Bishop brothers were moonshiners like Pappy and took me in when he died. Now I’m Aran’s woman. Do you think we could still have a baby? Him being older like?”

  My attention is on the men.

  “Number twenty-three?” Beef snarls, looking up from his notebook. “Speak up, George. You got rocks in your mouth?”

  “I said twenty-five!”

  “Well, shout it out.”

  “Fuck you! It ain’t easy pulling on a cow’s ear while reading a metal clip.”

  “Do they always go on like this? The brothers?”

  “Yeah. They’re a quarrelsome bunch. You get used to it.” Cora pulls the pack of Pall Malls out again and lights one, then pinches the wooden match head to be sure it’s not hot before flipping it across the barn floor.

  “So, you think I could still have a baby even if Aran’s an old man?”

  “How old is he? He looks fit.”

  “Forty-five.”

  “I would say yes. Does he want to be a father?”

  The woman smiles shyly and blows smoke over her head so it won’t get in my eyes. “Yes, he does. Is there anything special I should do?”

  “Goddammit!” It’s Earl, the bald one this time, the one who looks like Beef without hair. Things are getting tense, and there are still eight more cows to go. So far all the injection sites are negative.

  I turn back to Cora. “Well, you want to eat a lot of healthy food, milk, meat, vegetables, corn bread, and beans. Then you want to have relations often.” I don’t know why I don’t say intercourse. It’s not like Cora is a church lady or something.

  “Like every day?”

  “No, three times a week would be fine. Also, don’t drink moonshine.”

  “Not at all?” Cora asks.

  “Women who drink too much alcohol have funny-looking offspring and they’re not too smart.”

  “What should I drink?”

  “Milk. It’s good for your baby’s bones and, also, the midwife says, raspberry tea. You can pick the leaves now if you can find a stand of berries, then put them in a tea ball or a little bag of gauze to steep in boiled water. Do you have a tea ball, one of those little metal things on a chain that you dip in your cup?”

  “Aran will get me one.” The woman’s pale face lights up. “He loves me that much!”

  “Last cow,” yells Hester. He leans over her flank, studying the area that he’d shaved three days ago. “Blum,” he calls. “What do you think?”

  “Why the fuck are you asking him?” Beef complains. “You’re the vet. He’s just a walking vegetable.” The whole group is tense because they know if there’s one positive result the cow will be sent to the slaughterhouse and the rest of the herd quarantined for a month.

  “The doc doesn’t speak but that doesn’t mean he’s dumb.” Daniel defends his friend with a jaw as tight as a steel bear trap. “He’s given the Mantoux test to hundreds of soldiers at Walter Reed. This animal has a red spot that’s almost five millimeters.”

  The barn is silent. Even the cattle have stopped mooing. Blum leans over and stares at the mark while we all hold our breath, and then shakes his head no, meaning it’s not reactive.

  “Woo-hoo!” the brothers crow, and throw their hats in the air.

  “I’m getting cold. Are we almost done?” I stand and do a fake shiver, ready to get us out of the Bishops’ barn before a real quarrel starts.

  Daniel takes the hint. “I’ll send the forms into the West Virginia Department of Agriculture. Clean bill of health for your herd, Aran. Congratulations, everyone! They look good.”

  “Thanks,” says Earl.

  “Sorry we gave you a hard time,” offers Walter.

  Beef just turns around and plods away. There’s something familiar about that walk, a discouraged look, and I wonder if Beef is troubled by nightmares of explosions in trenches, men crying, and blood.

  November 9, 1934

  Working with Daniel is a comfort to me, and I wonder at the ease between us, an ease I haven’t f
elt for a long time. We work for the most part in silence and that’s part of it. I’ve been mute so long, my tongue is frozen in place, and words only come out when there is some kind of pressure.

  At times, it seems to me, the loss of Priscilla and the death of the drug detail man on the same day were my undoing; one I thought I loved and one I knew I hated. The confluence of those feelings propelled me into such horror that I just shut the doors on life and went away. It’s easy enough to do. Easier than suicide.

  Tax Sale

  It’s a raw day as I head for the camp and I’m surprised as I pass Mrs. Stone’s place to see a line of trucks and horse-drawn vehicles heading into her drive. Curious, I decide to follow them. At the gate there’s a sign: FARM AUCTION. MOUNTAIN FEDERAL BANK.

  Since my grocery deliveries have dried up, I haven’t visited the old lady once in more than a month and now my heart freezes. How could I have let this happen? If I had been Patience, I would have raised holy hell about the gas company’s harassment. I would have driven to Charleston and picketed on the steps of the State Capitol until I got justice, but now it’s too late.

  I park behind a cart with two mules and wander over to the barn where a crowd of fifty men has churned the grass into black mud. These neighbors, I think, are like vultures, here to take advantage of Mrs. Stone’s weakness. I don’t exactly know how these sales work, but I figure someone’s about to get Mrs. Stone’s property for a song, and it probably involves the gas company.

  Near the barn door, the old lady stands next to the auctioneer, a stout fellow with a wide face, wearing glasses and a bow tie. She’s dressed smartly in a gray coat with a gray lambswool collar. They consult a document laid out on an old wooden table. Standing over on the porch of the house is Sheriff Hardman and two suits from the bank. The sale begins when a man in a denim jacket brings out a nanny goat and two frolicking kids with droopy ears.

  The auctioneer steps up on a podium. “We’ll start this tax sale with the stock, then the machinery, then the land, and lastly the contents of the house. What am I offered for this good milker, a purebred Nubian that gives a gallon of milk a day and her two offspring, all in excellent health?