Mr. Gold polishes the counter and finally asks, “So, is there anything else you need, Bill? Just the smokes?”
“No, that’s it, unless you can tell me if you’ve heard anything about a pack of wild dogs roaming the area. I’d like to get a line on that story.”
“Sorry,” Mr. Gold answers, still polishing the counter. “Can’t say I’ve heard about it.”
When Billy Blaze leaves, Joseph Gold approaches me with glee. “That gentleman really loves to talk. He stops here about this time every day . . . What can I do for you, Mrs. Hester?”
“Well, I need a special present for a woman friend. The trouble is, I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Take your time. There are racks of store-bought clothes for women—blouses, sweaters, and skirts. There’s a table full of silk and nylon undergarments and stockings, but that won’t last long and I doubt I can get more.
“There’s a bookshelf lined with books some new, but some used. There’s even a bargain counter in back.”
“Thanks,” I say, heading toward the rear of the store. “I’ll just look at the bargains first.” That’s when I see it, a beautiful little clock made of dark walnut with roman numerals on the face and shiny golden pillars on the sides. Three dollars, it says on the label, and I’m so excited I tuck it under my arm and carry it around the store as if I’m afraid some other customer might snatch it. Finally, I stroll back to the counter.
“Well, hello again, Mrs. Hester. I see that lovely old timepiece caught your eye? Three dollars is a bargain.”
“Does it work?” I ask, setting it on the counter.
“Well, sure. I can vouch for it.” He winds it up. “It was my wife’s, but we got a new one.”
“I’ll take it!” I say, and open my pocketbook.
“Nothing else today, Mrs. Hester? I just got in a dozen sets of wooden dominos . . . very popular with the young people this year. Only one dollar.”
“That would be fine. I’ll take one.” I decide on the spot to get a set for Daniel. He loves games and can share it with the whole family.
Mr. Gold seems disappointed he made the sale so easily, because he wanted to haggle, but he puts the clock in a carton and slips the dominos along the side. “Save the cardboard,” he says. “We’re starting a paper and cardboard drive at the courthouse. Scrap metal too.”
“I will. And Merry Christmas. . . .”
I CLOSE MY journal, take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Daniel sleeps next to me snoring softly, the poor dear. He works so hard. I pull the covers up around his neck and I try to imagine what he would write if he kept a journal. Becky keeps one. She calls it her Nurse’s Notes, and for a while, back when he couldn’t talk, even Dr. Blum kept one.
Tomorrow night is the school Christmas program, and I wonder if Mrs. Archer will bring up Susie’s problems again. I’ve been watching my daughter and I know she’s shy, but she doesn’t get in fights and she always gets good grades. I hope the teacher and I have time to talk.
Thinking about the Christmas program I remind myself that I must make cookies and get the family’s best clothes ready. It’s nice that Dan got me an electric iron for my birthday last year. It’s a luxury, I’ll admit, but a few more work-saving machines wouldn’t hurt me.
Mrs. Wade, for example, has an electric sweeper that cleans the floor, the carpet, even furniture, by suction. I’ve never seen it, but Becky told me about it. Many wives and mothers are getting jobs now and buying their own Hoovers. Sometimes, I’m tempted to join them and then I remember that if I worked out of the home, I’d still have to do the washing, the chickens, the garden, the housework, the cooking, and take care of the kids, including Willie, until Bitsy gets off work at the woolen mill.
No, I shall just go on in the old-fashioned way. Daniel is right and he takes good care of me.
December 23, 1942
Deck the Halls
This evening, after eating a quick supper of fried ham, home-canned applesauce, and cold milk from the springhouse, we quickly dressed for the school Christmas program. The girls buttoned one another’s back buttons and Daniel tied his son’s tie. I put on a red wool sweater and a long green skirt.
“Radio says a storm’s coming in,” Daniel tells us as we get on our coats. “Dress warm. I put chains on the tires so we won’t have any trouble.”
At the schoolhouse, the side parking lot is already full and we have to park in the playground, but at least we aren’t late. A few men still stand on the porch steps smoking. Lights blaze out the windows of the four-room white clapboard building and each pane is decorated with snowflakes and snowmen.
The children run off to their classrooms to prepare and Daniel and I find seats in the community room next to Becky and Dr. Blum. I’m sad that Bitsy and Willie didn’t come, but she said she’d rather stay at home than cause a big fuss because of her being the only colored person in an all-white school.
Dan relaxes back in his folding wooden chair, but I lean forward, looking around. I’ve been in the homes of many of these families and delivered some of their children.
There’s Addie and Norton Hummingbird of Dark Hollow. I delivered Carlin without difficulty. He was ten pounds, one of my biggest. There’s Lilly and B.K. Bittman. Becky delivered their daughter, Velvet.
I notice the red-haired kid from the feed store, Patrick, and that must be his mother, a worn-looking fifty-year-old also with red hair. He makes a joke and she looks up at him laughing. His younger brother and sister are both students here, and if they have red hair too, they’ll be easy to spot.
There’s Mr. and Mrs. Linkous. The lawyer, like me, is surveying the crowd and our eyes meet in recognition.
A buzz runs through the audience as Mrs. Archer, the head teacher, takes the stage. She’s wearing a long red dress that just barely fits over her ample bosom. “Shall we stand for the Pledge of Allegiance?” she says. Daniel and I look at each other. This is unusual. I don’t remember saying the pledge at other Christmas programs, but the words have more meaning in times of war. A tall boy walks out carrying the flag like a soldier in a Fourth of July parade, and we all put our hands over our hearts.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America . . .” It’s not the flag that we pledge to, I think, but what it stands for.
Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. I had to learn that poem from the Statue of Liberty in seventh grade.
When we sit back down, the curtains open on the stage and all the younger children parade out in front of a spectacular twelve-foot lighted Christmas tree. Our two white-haired twins are in the back row, next to their sister Sonya Maddock, who’s one year younger. Mira, being only in the second grade, stands up front pulling at her red plaid pleated skirt, a hand-me-down and a little too short. She looks around for us and I stand and wave.
Then Mrs. Archer taps her baton and Mrs. Goody, the Saved by Faith preacher’s wife, plays a few chords on the piano and the program begins. “Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh. O’er the fields we go . . .” The children all sway back and forth as the teacher leads them.
Mira is still twisting her skirt and now she’s put a little swing in her sway. I nudge Daniel and look up at him. He grins and gives me a wink as if he thinks it’s funny. It’s hard not to notice Mira, and I hear giggles in the audience. A man with a huge camera and a flash the size of a saucer is taking photos. It’s the newspaperman, Mr. Blaze, who wears a red Christmas sweater and his brown fedora with a little tag in the hatband that says PRESS.
Our daughter sees him and begins to sing louder. Louder and louder she sings and I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or laugh, but soon there’s no choice. It’s so funny, my gurgle turns into a honk and tears run down my face. “Jingle bells. Jingle bells . . .” the children sing. Mr. Blaze snaps more pictures. “Jingle bells. Jingle bells . . .” Mira wa
rbles.
The room isn’t big, and I’m afraid my youngest can hear us cackling. Daniel puts his arm around my shoulders to steady me, but he’s laughing too. When the choir gets to the chorus, Mira turns her volume up even louder and I can’t tell if she’s hamming it up or just enjoying herself so much she doesn’t know she’s drowning out the rest of the singers.
“Oh, jingle bells jingle bells, jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse . . . open . . . sleigh . . . Hey!” Mira shouts and throws her arms in the air.
America the Beautiful
After the comedy routine by our daughter, there’s the usual portrayal of the nativity story with Danny as one of the shepherds. Sonya Maddock and Sally Blum, the other adopted Hucknell sisters, are dressed as angels.
I’m surprised when, near the end of the program, a man in uniform from the National Guard in Delmont, comes up onstage and clears his throat for attention. “My fellow West Virginians,” he starts out. “I’m so grateful to be here tonight for this festive celebration. Even in these dark times, we need to remember that there is joy in family and friends. . . .” He pauses.
“On the other hand, we must not forget that we are fighting a war now, a war against tyranny, a war to protect our liberty, our democracy, and our way of life. It’s not just our brave servicemen that are fighting. It is all of us on the home front, even here in Union County.
“In time there may be rationing as there was in the Great War in England. We’ll need volunteers for the Red Cross to roll bandages and knit socks for the soldiers. Some of you may be asked to be part of your local defense council, but I want to tell you about something you can do today.
“Uncle Sam is asking us all to buy war bonds. The bonds are an investment in democracy. You can buy them at your local bank for $18.75, and when the war is over you’ll get back $25.00. That’s an investment that will help protect your family and also be a savings you can count on when we’re victorious. . . .”
He lifts his head with pride and goes on. “In a few minutes, some of the boys are going to hand out a savings card for every family. The card has slots for seventy-five quarters. When it’s full, you’ll have enough for a bond.”
Young men in khaki uniforms and smart military hats begin to move down the aisles and I notice that nearly everyone takes a card. For a second I think Dan’s going to wave them on, but when I nudge him he puts one in his pocket. What’s wrong with him, for God’s sake? Even if he doesn’t approve of the war, he should at least be patriotic.
Then Peaches Goody comes onstage. Becky attended Peaches in labor when I was on bed rest for Mira. The young lady was only twelve and didn’t even know she was pregnant. She must be eighteen now and she wears a lovely long dark green velvet dress and has her hair up in curls like the singer Kate Smith.
Mrs. Goody, her mother, plays a few chords and Peaches begins an Irving Berlin song: “God bless America, land that I love! Stand beside her and guide her through the night with the light from above.”
Everyone in the audience stands and comes in on the chorus, those who can sing and those who can only croak. “From the mountains, to the prairies—to the oceans white with foam . . .” I wipe my eyes and look at Dan, wondering if he’s as moved as I am, but his face is as lifeless as an image on Mount Rushmore. . . . “God bless America—my home sweet home!”
AN HOUR LATER we’re all packed in the cold car and on our way home through the snow. I wasn’t sure whether to scold Mira for her antics or not. She was certainly disruptive . . . but we were all having such a good time enjoying the Christmas party that I didn’t have the heart.
I’d also thought of chewing Dan out about his lack of enthusiasm for our country, but then Mrs. Archer pulled me into a corner and started going on about poor Susie’s problems.
“I don’t know what to do with her,” the buxom lady said. “I’m at my wits’ end. . . . She does a fine job on her homework, so I know she’s capable, but she won’t respond to any questions in class. When I ask her to recite, she just stares at her desktop.
“Now, Sunny, her twin, is just the opposite. She waves her hand like a flag and wants to answer every question. And today was the final straw. Susie refused to get up and go to the blackboard to do a math problem and I made her stand in the corner and then she urinated! An eleven-year-old emptied herself right on the floor like a toddler!”
“She does that sometimes when she’s scared. . . . It was just an accident . . .” I started to explain, but Mrs. Archer cut me off.
“I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Hester! I just can’t have it. I’m sure the other children tease her. Maybe she needs to go to a special school or something. The Children’s Home Society has a place for slow children near Elkins.”
“Mrs. Archer! You just said she’s bright. There is no way . . .”
Accident
You’re awfully quiet,” Dan whispers. Mira, stuffed between Daniel and me on the front seat, is already asleep. “You okay?” I shake my head and he frowns, but I can’t tell him here, with the kids in the car, about Susie peeing on the floor and Mrs. Archer’s suggestion that she needs to be in a special school. I’m surprised that none of the other kids told me about what happened in class. Maybe they didn’t want to spoil the evening because they know how furious I get when one of my children, or any child, is mistreated.
The snow blows in sideways and the wind jolts us so hard, my husband has to swing the Olds back into the road. Ahead, it’s all white, but I’ve always been confident in Daniel’s driving and I just stare passively at the feathery flakes as they sweep through the headlights.
“What’s that?” Dan shouts, and slams on the brakes. There’s a single red taillight in the ditch and someone is waving. I start to get out, but he motions me to stay. “I’ll go,” he says. “Someone’s had an accident.”
I wipe the steam from the passenger window and try to see out. “What’s happening?” Danny asks from the backseat. “Why’d we stop?”
“I don’t know. Your pa’s checking. Someone ran off the road. I can’t see because the snow is so heavy.”
White. White. Whirling white and the windshield wipers flip back and forth. “Should I get out to help?” Danny asks.
“No, they’re coming . . . two people with your father.” As the dark shapes move toward us, I realize it’s someone we know and one of them is limping.
“Bitsy! Willie! Are you okay?” Bitsy stumbles through the snow toward the car wearing her leather helmet and an old army trench coat, probably from the Great War. She’s crying and Willie has his arm around her. “Are you hurt, Willie?” I call.
“It’s just my knee. I banged it,” he answers.
“Just a little. Bruised. Nothing’s broken but my motorcycle. It’s just that I can’t get to work without it and I’ll lose my job. Negro women are always the last to be hired and the first to be fired.”
“What the hell were doing out like this at night?” I start to scold her, then think better of it. “How long have you been out in the cold?” I change my tone. “You must be freezing.”
“There’s an old lady on the colored side of the tracks in Liberty, someone my mother, Big Mary, used to know. We took her some Christmas cookies and stayed later than we meant to. It wasn’t snowing when we started for home.”
“We’ve been trying to pull the motorcycle out,” Willie adds, “but we weren’t getting anywhere. We were hoping you would come along after the school thing.”
“Come on, now. Get in the car. Get warm.” I open the back door and have Willie scoot in with the kids.
“It’s my job!” Bitsy says again. “I have to get to work in the morning. If I don’t, I’ll get fired. They won’t give me any slack.” There are tears in her eyes and I brush the snow off her face, then I push her into the front seat and go back to the motorcycle that’s resting on its side. “How bad is it?” I ask Daniel. He’s squatting down in the snow.
“Looks like she slid into the ditch and was th
rown off. Will was strapped into the sidecar. I can’t tell in the dark if the fender’s bent of it’s something worse. They just need to come home with us and bed down for the night. I’ll come back in the morning with the tractor.”
“Bitsy’s worried about losing her job if she misses work,” I explain.
“Who’s the foreman?” Dan asks. “They can’t expect her to get to the woolen mill in weather like this.”
“She thinks because she’s a woman and colored, she’ll be canned.”
“What time is it?” Dan asks as we walk back to the car.
“It must be almost ten. Why.”
“I’ll call her foreman when we get to the house.”
“Bitsy won’t want you to.”
“Why?” Daniel looks surprised.
“Well . . . she’s very independent. It’s not like you’re her husband or father.”
He shakes his head as if he still doesn’t get it. “Well, I’ll drive her to work then. She can’t argue with that.”
11
December 24, 1942
Visitor
Daniel has spent most of the day working on Bitsy’s motorcycle while I finished wrapping my presents, and at four, just as he’s getting ready to go get Bitsy at the woolen mill, the phone rings.
“Daniel Hester,” he answers. “Who?” He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Sure. . . . Well, thank you. . . . It was nothing. Bitsy is our neighbor and friend. . . . We’d appreciate that. . . . You positive it won’t be out of his way? . . . That’s fine then. . . . Thanks again. Bye.”
“Who was that?” Willie asks when he hears Bitsy’s name.
“It was Mr. Vipperman of the Vipperman Woolen Mill!”
“Is Bitsy okay?” Willie asks anxiously. “We flew into the ditch pretty hard.”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Vipperman even gave her high praise. They appreciated her making it to work this morning. With the snowstorm, about half the employees didn’t show up. He thanked me for driving her and said his foreman will drive her home.
Once a Midwife Page 6
