Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “It’s Ada,” she says, her voice even higher than usual. “I took the castor oil three times and finally I think I’m in labor.”

  “Great!” I respond. “I’ll leave the light on in the Baby Cabin.”

  Thinking I can still catch a few winks before she arrives, I’m deep into a dream about wooly little lambs when Daniel shakes me. “Patience, Sasha’s barking and a vehicle just pulled in the drive.” He rolls over and goes back to sleep, while I dress quickly, put on my specs, and before anyone can knock, I’m downstairs at the door.

  “Hello. Miss Patience, this is my husband, Ollie,” Ada announces. “We did exactly as you said and the magic worked. I’m sorry if I smell bad, I had a little accident and pooped myself on the way over.”

  “She sure did!” says the grinning young man standing beside her. “That castor oil is strong stuff and I been working it into her breasts and belly for hours. Makes me feel like I’m helping.” He sets Ada’s suitcase on the porch floor.

  “I’m sure you are helping. Come on. Let’s go back to the Baby Cabin.” I step into my shoes and lead them around to the little log house that Daniel and Isaac Blum built for me. “Are the contractions harder now?” I ask over my shoulder.

  There’s no response. And when I turn I see that Ada is leaning on Ollie, her fingers digging into his muscular arm. That answers my question. The contractions are strong. Three minutes later, just as I get the young woman cleaned up, she has another hard one.

  This time Ollie kneels on the floor behind his wife, pressing his big hands into her sacrum. He’s a short, stocky guy, with longish dark hair and a clean-shaven face. “Higher!” she says. “Rub harder!”

  “Take a big breath at the end of the next contraction, Ada. Then I want you to lie down just for a minute and be as quiet as possible while I listen to the baby’s heartbeat. I also need to examine your belly to make sure the baby’s head is still presenting. Breathe with her, Ollie.”

  The slender blond woman does what I say and stretches out on the bed. “Your baby’s heartbeat is fine,” I announce, after counting one hundred and fifty beats a minute with my metal fetoscope. “Now let me examine your belly and see what his or her position is . . .”

  I feel first just above the pubic bone and find a large hard, round object. Good! The head is down, but inspecting the abdomen I see something’s not right. Instead of the smooth outline of the back along the right or left side, there are bumps and lumps everywhere and a depression around the belly button. This baby is lying sunny-side up, meaning it’s facing the mother’s belly button, instead of her spine. The bumps and lumps are the baby’s little arms and legs.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Ada squeaks as another contraction comes on. “My back. It’s killing me. I can’t lie like this. Ow! Ow!”

  “Oh, honey babe, don’t cry like that,” Ollie says. “You’re paining me so!”

  “I’m paining you? You have no idea, mister!” Ada snaps.

  Ollie looks confused. “If you want me to leave . . .”

  “No you don’t, buddy.” That’s Ada rolling over on her hands and knees and grabbing his arm. “Rub!”

  I can’t help smiling. Clearly, the young woman is nearing the last stages of labor and her angry energy is normal.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper to Ollie. “Your sweet Ada is not possessed by the devil. She just doesn’t have the energy to be polite. She’ll be herself again as soon as she has the baby in her arms.” It’s then that I hear another vehicle in the drive and cracking the door, discover a green Plymouth just outside.

  Bitsy jumps out of Lou Cross’s Plymouth and runs to the door of the Baby Cabin. “I saw the lights. Is it Ada?” she asks. “Did the castor oil work?”

  “It did, and how!” Ollie says, looking over his shoulder, and Ada manages a smile.

  Back Labor

  Shall I stay for the birth?” Bitsy whispers. “Mr. Cross was bringing us home. Maybe Willie could crawl into bed with Little Dan.”

  “Sure, I’d like that. . . . Ada and Ollie, this is my assistant midwife, Bitsy Proudfoot. If it’s okay, I’d like her to be here. She’s the one that gave me the castor oil recipe.”

  “Fine with me,” Ada says between contractions. “I can use all the help I can get.”

  Bitsy runs out to the car to thank Lou for the ride home and in the shadows of the willow tree I see them embrace. She leads Will into the farmhouse and a few minutes later she’s back in the Baby Cabin, taking off her cute little red sailor hat. She’s dressed to the nines in a red short-sleeved dress and red heels with white trim and looks more like Minnie Mouse herself than a homebirth midwife.

  “Mmmph. Mmmph. Mmmph,” Ada moans.

  “The contractions are getting closer,” Bitsy observes.

  Suddenly, Ada’s voice drops into the normal range for an adult woman and she rises up on her knees and growls the birth song. She grips Ollie’s arm and I notice he already has a tattoo of an American flag on it, with Victory in fancy letters, no doubt in preparation for the war.

  “But oh, my back! Is it supposed to hurt this bad, Miss Patience? I feel like a knife is stabbing me. The only thing that helps is when Ollie rubs hard.”

  “It’s normal,” Bitsy reassures her. “Not every woman has back pain, probably only one in four, but you’re doing great and it won’t be much longer. Maybe an hour of pushing, that’s all. If you can endure this, you can do anything.”

  “An hour!” Ada yelps. (Quite likely more, I think, but I keep that to myself.)

  “Oh, my baby doll, you can do it,” Ollie says. “God made us a baby. God will give you strength.”

  “Pray for me, husband! Pray for our son.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Bitsy. How does Ada know it’s a son?

  Three hours of pushing on her hands and knees on the cabin’s pine floor and dark hair is beginning to show at the perineum. “Come now, Ada, can you get back in bed?”

  “No. No. I can’t move. It’s coming!” She pulls on the mattress edge, but she won’t get off her hands and knees.

  “Push a little. Blow a little. Do it with her Ollie. Push a little. Blow a little,” Bitsy instructs.

  “Oil,” I request, nodding toward the little brown bottle, and Bitsy swabs some around the opening. Then suddenly the whole head is out. I check for a cord around the neck, but there isn’t one.

  “Get your hands down here, Ollie!” Bitsy orders.

  What is she doing? The man’s big bare hands are shaking, but he does what she says.

  “With the next big contraction the baby is going to turn and come out,” my assistant instructs. “All you have to do is support him, but hold on. He’ll be slippery!”

  Ollie looks at me and I nod as if this is routine, but in fact I have never seen a husband help deliver his own child before, never even dreamed of it. Perhaps this is another one of those French things.

  As predicted, with the next contraction, Ada gives it all she’s got and the baby rotates and falls into the father’s hands. I watch as Bitsy wraps her in a cotton blanket and hands her back to her pa, who holds his infant daughter in the crook of his arm with the American flag and the Victory tattoo. This would make a good poster, I think. “The soldier goes to war for our freedom, leaving his newborn baby at home.”

  Then Ollie holds the wailing infant out to his wife. “It’s a girl!” he says, tears streaming down his face.

  Tomorrow this GI will take the troop train to Torrington. He’ll march with the other inductees down the cobbled streets to the courthouse, where a barber will shave his head. He’ll be given a uniform and sworn in to the U.S. Army. In a month he’ll be on a ship to Europe or Asia, where he will carry a rifle with a bayonet and kill or be killed.

  July 1, 1942

  Baby girl, Olivia Jean Mullins, 6 pounds 5 ounces, born to Ada and Ollie Mullins of Liberty, West Virginia, at 11:05 P.M. The father was to be inducted into the army the next day so the patient’s labor was stimulated with castor oil, an old French recipe th
at Bitsy came up with.

  Ada experienced severe back labor with the baby in posterior position, but the infant delivered nicely into the father’s hands. Bleeding minimal. There was only one small tear that I had to suture. Present for the delivery were Bitsy Proudfoot and myself, proud sister midwives. We were paid one crisp five-dollar bill and promised another one when the soldier gets his first paycheck.

  29

  July 4, 1942

  Independence Day

  The Fourth of July has always been a big celebration in my family. Even when I was a kid and lived in Deerfield, Michigan, there would be a parade, and then my father and mother and I would picnic at the park on the banks of the Des Plaines River. In those days, there was a bandstand, where a small brass band, complete with tuba, played polkas, and people would dance. Sometimes there’d be a political speech.

  Since I was a union activist and a socialist in my twenties and thirties, I always thought of myself as a citizen of the world, but this year I’m as patriotic as Danny. That’s why I was as disappointed as the kids were when we heard that the parade and festivities in Liberty have been canceled.

  According to President Roosevelt, the military and the government will not take a break for the Fourth of July, nor will the Post Office, nor any war-related industry. That means the coal miners will be deep in the ground and even Bitsy will have to work cranking out wool blankets for soldiers.

  INDEPENDENCE DAY DAWNED warm and clear, the sort of sparkling day that makes you want to do something special. “We could still have a picnic down at the river,” I said to Dan. “Maybe Becky and Isaac would come and the Maddocks and the folks from Hazel Patch.”

  “Whatever you say . . .” Dan answers, a newspaper in front of his face.

  “Okay, you might as well tell me. What’s the latest horror story?”

  “The American Liberty ship Alexander Macomb was sunk on her maiden voyage east of Cape Cod by a German submarine.”

  “There are German submarines right off Cape Cod?”

  “Billy Blaze, the editor of the Times, reports there have been other attacks along the East Coast, clear down to Virginia.”

  “Do you think most people know the war is so close? New England! Cape Cod! Virginia, for God’s sake! There could be German submarines anywhere.”

  “Spies too!” Daniel gives me a sarcastic grin as if he doesn’t believe it, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

  A few phone calls later and our Fourth of July picnic is arranged on the banks of the Hope. Willie is with us today because Bitsy has to work, but I make a short drive over to Hazel Patch to spread the word. Then the preparations begin.

  Just for fun, the girls and I make a red, white, and blue Liberty cake and plan to load on whipped cream from our cow, wild strawberries, and a few blueberries from our one bush near the porch. We also make deviled eggs with homemade mayonnaise and I cook up a mess of fresh-picked green beans.

  Around three we load everyone up, dressed in patched play clothes, and drive around Salt Lick Road to the other side of Spruce Mountain. “Looks like Mr. Maddock mowed the path down to the river,” Dan says. “Must have brought his tractor down. The grass on the bank is cut short too. It’s almost like a park . . .

  “Okay, here’s the rule, kids!” He announces to all the children, including the Jackson boys, who have come with their parents and new baby from Hazel Patch. “No one can get in the water until a grown-up, who can swim, is with you. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” they all say.

  “Does that include us bigger kids? You know, the ones who already can swim?” Willie asks.

  “You bet it does. And if anyone disobeys, I’ll bust your chops!” answers Daniel.

  “Can we swim now? Will you supervise?” Danny asks.

  My husband looks at me, since I’m the organizer of this event. “Patience?”

  I glance at the timepiece around my neck. “Sure. See you in about an hour. Be careful, everyone.” Dan and the boys run for the water as I yell one more time. “Be careful!”

  I have no worries about the girls. Since her near drowning, Mira is afraid of the river as much as the twins. It’s the overconfident young males I’m concerned about.

  This time, since Lou and Bitsy are working at the woolen mill, we have no fancy folding tables, so Becky Blum and I spread the quilts on the grass. Becky is unusually quiet. “You okay?” I ask.

  She looks around and sees that Mrs. Miller, Sarah Rose Maddock, and Oriole Jackson, with her baby, are over by the vehicles laughing. “Did you hear that the CCC camp is closing?” Becky asks me.

  “What are you and Isaac going to do?”

  “Well, our last day is next week. We’ve talked about opening an office and going back into private practice. People have enough money to pay for visits now, only, it means being on call night and day. You know how that is. . . .”

  “I do. We do. Dan and I both.”

  “Or I could try to get a job with the State of West Virginia in public-health nursing. I don’t know if there are any such jobs, but maybe . . . Then Isaac and Daniel could continue working together.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, laying out plates and silverware. “So, why the long face?”

  “It’s Sally. She’s joined the WACs and she’s going to be sent to Washington, D.C., to work in the army’s secretarial pool.”

  “I heard,” I say, stopping what I’m doing.

  “I just miss her so . . .” Becky says, swallowing hard and looking off toward the river.

  When our Fourth of July feast is spread out, and the men and children come up from the river, Reverend Miller says grace.

  “Dear Father, we thank thee for the opportunity for fun and fellowship on this Fourth of July. We know that we are blessed . . .”

  I look around the group and find the boys imitating the men, standing tall, their hands at their sides, their eyes closed . . . except Dan. His eyes are open and he looks into mine. The little girls all have their hands folded under their chins, just as Mrs. Miller, Oriole Jackson, Becky, and Sarah Rose do.

  “All over the world people are suffering,” Reverend Miller goes on, “and dying for our right to be free. Protect them. Give them courage. Give them hope. Help us to do our part, collecting scrap metal, working for the Red Cross, or supporting servicemen and -women however we can. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  After our picnic, we are surprised when Mr. Maddock gets out a packet of firecrackers. Now it feels like the Fourth of July! One by one he lights them, throws them into the field, and the kids go wild feigning they’re wounded soldiers and doing dramatic death scenes.

  Around four, just as we’re loading up the Model T to go home, we see in the distance a line of vehicles approaching along the dusty road and hear the voices of men. “Over hill, over dale,” they sing. “We will hit the dusty trail as those Caissons go rolling along.”

  What’s this?

  Seven brown army trucks full of soldiers follow a jeep with two officers and stop at the intersection of Wild Rose and Salt Lick. The troops get out and form lines. They’re all dressed in camouflage, complete with heavy backpacks, rifles, and metal helmets. There must be more than a hundred and they march along the edge of the road. “Harch! One, two, three. Harch! One, two, three.”

  “Parade rest!” a sergeant yells, and the men stop smartly at attention with their legs spread apart.

  A senior officer steps forward. “At ease,” he says. “Men, this is your first opportunity to ford a river in full battle gear. There may be times when you’ll have to cross waterways in Europe . . .”

  We all stand at the side of the road watching. “Sir,” the man giving orders speaks to Daniel, possibly because he’s the tallest. “We’re from the National Guard out of Torrington. I’ve been told this stretch along the river is open land and we intend to do maneuvers here. Have I been misinformed? Is the property yours or one of your friends’?”

  Daniel is silent, just st
aring at him, and I feel the military man harden. It’s a simple enough question; why doesn’t Dan answer?

  Finally, Isaac Blum speaks up. “Officer, you’re correct. This is open land. People camp here sometimes and picnic and swim, but no one claims it. We know what you’re doing is important and we wish you well. Happy Independence Day.”

  “Happy Independence Day!” Daniel says under his breath as he stalks toward the car. “I can’t even have a goddamn day with my family and friends without thinking of the war. Now the war has come home.”

  30

  July 14, 1942

  Lost

  For the last few weeks, Daniel is like a pressure cooker about to go off. The littlest things seem to offend him, like when he went to the Farmers’ Lumber and Feed Store and Sadie told him they were out of chicken feed. He got all bent out of shape and seemed to take it personally. He hides behind the newspaper so no one will talk to him. And he’s drinking again.

  “Have you heard from Judge Wade about the draft registration?” I ask him one night when the kids are tucked in and we’re getting ready for bed.

  “Yes, I got a letter.”

  “You didn’t tell me. When was this?”

  He lets out his air like a steam locomotive. “Couple of days ago.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “I threw it in the fire.”

  “Dan!” He leans over and takes off his socks. There’s a hole in toe that needs darning. “I take it there was no good news.” He shakes his head, not looking at me. “Well, summarize, at least. What did it say?”

  “It was just another official order to come into the draft board and register, same as the first, along with a note from Judge Wade that said he’d done what he could. He’d traveled all the way into Torrington to discuss my case with the officials there. He tried to make a point that I’m a veteran of the previous war and wouldn’t be required to serve anyway, but they won’t make an exception. I still have to register like every other loyal American man. It’s what I expected.”