Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My husband’s in the navy,” Martha finally says, lifting her chin. “He says he doesn’t want his baby born into the hands of a slacker’s wife.”

  My head swings back as if I’ve just been slapped, but before I can respond, a disturbance arises on the terrace and Martha’s father pulls her away.

  Barnyard Brawl

  Two men, dressed in light-colored slacks and dress shirts, no ties, pay their admission and swagger up the steps talking loudly.

  “Hey, you old son of a gun,” someone yells. “You missed the square dance, but there’s still lemonade and cookies.”

  “Hell, we got our own lemonade,” one of the newcomers says as he pulls out a silver flask and passes it around. Daniel, who’s standing with Mr. Jackson, looks over and at first I think he’s going to join the drunken fellows and have a swig too, but then I realize who the men are. It’s Aran Bishop and his brother George. Damn. I should have known the Bishops would come.

  The two men sidle over to my husband. “Howdy, Mr. Vet. Care for a drink?” George, the shorter of the two, snarls.

  “No thanks, George. How you doing?” Dan responds, trying to be civil. I’m paralyzed, watching the action as though on a movie screen.

  “Awww, come on,” slurs Aran. “You aren’t being very friendly.”

  Most of the men and women on the terrace, sensing trouble, move away so that Dan and Bull Jackson are in the eye of the storm, but a new fellow joins the group: Bill Blaze from the Liberty Times, wearing his photographer’s hat and carrying his camera.

  Aran Bishop puts his finger on Mr. Jackson’s chest, poking him hard. “Who’s this? You another draft dodger like Hester? Yeah! We got us a couple of draft dodgers, folks! Hear that? Two lily-livered cowards, and one is a nigger.”

  Billy Blaze grins and takes a photo. I would expect such prejudice from the Bishops, but does the reporter feel that way too? Is he part of the action or just looking for a story? Before I can work my way through the crowd, Bitsy comes flying like a bat out of hell. She positions herself between Aran Bishop and Mr. Jackson, probably thinking he wouldn’t dare hit a woman, but Aran shoves her aside and she falls on her knees on the stone floor.

  What the hell? How dare he push Bitsy? I’m on my way to the rescue just as Lou Cross shows up. Seeing Bitsy on the patio floor, he rushes over and before he can assist her up, Aran whacks him in the face.

  Lou does a head-butt in return and Aran goes down. Then Dan shoves Billy Blaze against the terrace wall and tears off a red, white, and blue bunting. George punches Bull Jackson in the gut, but Bull shoves him over. It’s a barnyard brawl! More men jump in, swinging fists, until Sheriff Hardman strides through the crowd.

  “Now, you stop this right now!” he roars like a father to a bunch of kids. No one pays any attention until he runs back to the dining hall, grabs Lilly’s glass punch bowl, and pours the lemonade all over the fighting men.

  They sputter and swear. Dan has a swollen eye, Mr. Jackson a cut lip, and Bill Blaze a bloody nose. Bitsy limps back toward the dining room holding on to Lou. Aran Bishop is still curled on his side holding his gut. The rest slink away with just bruises.

  Sheriff Hardman is totally disgusted. “What kind of men are you?” he says, pulling Aran to his feet. “The Red Cross ladies went to a lot of trouble to stage this benefit and you act like you’re having a scrap in Jim’s Tavern. I have half a mind to arrest the lot of you, but I didn’t bring a paddy wagon, so I’ll let you go this time. Now, scatter.”

  “It was Hester that started it,” George Bishop fibs like a fourth grader. “Yeah,” says his brother. “We were just trying to be friendly and he and that nigger got hostile.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Hardman says. “What I want . . . is to see you gone! Now. Pronto. I’m going into the auction and return in five minutes. By that time you thugs better take a deep breath, get control of yourselves, and disappear. All of you!”

  “SORRY,” I SAY to the Jacksons and the Millers as we walk across the big well-tended lawn to our vehicles. “We had such fun when we were dancing.”

  Mr. Jackson’s brown face is white with fury. Opal Jackson tries to smile.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” says Reverend Miller.

  Dan and I don’t wait for Bitsy, knowing she’ll get a ride back to Hazel Patch with Lou. We just take off in the Olds for home. It isn’t until we’re crossing the stone bridge over the Hope that either of us speaks. “Does your eye hurt?” I ask.

  “Not as much as you’d think. I just feel choked with anger. It’s a good thing Bill Hardman broke up the fight. If I’d gotten my hands around Aran’s neck, I might have choked him to death. Don’t say anything about this to the kids, will you?” he adds.

  “I won’t, but maybe you should. People will talk, you know . . . a big brawl like that. Bill Blaze was there. It might even get in the paper.”

  “Mmmmmmm,” Daniel mumbles, shaking his head in a way that tells me nothing, then we bump along in silence.

  We’re already on Salt Lick when the wind, heavy with rain, blasts down the valley. A branch hits the side of the Olds. Thunder echoes off Spruce Mountain. The windshield wipers can barely keep up, but still we drive on.

  36

  August 28, 1942

  Down by the Riverside

  It’s been five days since we last saw our dog, Sasha, and we’ve searched everywhere. This morning we finally gave up. I knew he was getting on in years, but he didn’t seem that infirm and he followed Dan everywhere. My husband says it sometimes happens like that, an old hound will just go out in the woods, lie down, and die.

  This morning, the kids were crying and I felt like crying myself. Instead, we had a ceremony to celebrate our departed friend and all sat around saying nice things about Sasha.

  “I liked the way he’d ride around in the Model T with me when I had to go out on vet calls at night,” Dan said.

  “I liked how he snuggled with me on the carpet when we listened to The Lone Ranger,” Mira offered.

  “I always felt safe when he was around,” Susie whispered. It went on like this for ten minutes and then we all drew pictures of Sasha and I taped them up on the kitchen wall.

  Three Legs, the dog we inherited from the Blums, groaned under the table. He missed his pal too.

  Later, we went to church at Hazel Patch, the first time we’ve been there since Easter, and at times I was so touched by the scripture and hymns, I got tears in my eyes.

  “I’M GOING TO lay down my sword and shield. Down by the riverside, down by the riverside,” we sing, my husband’s deep voice the loudest, and it seems as if Reverend Miller’s prayer is just for me: “Be strong and fear not, for God is here and he will not fail thee.”

  Afterward, Reverend Miller takes Dan and me over to one of the picnic tables in the churchyard. “Is it true, Dan,” he asks, “that you plan to refuse military service if you’re drafted?”

  “It is,” Dan answers proudly, but I hang my head.

  When I look up, the pastor is staring not at Daniel but me. He takes a long breath. “And is there a conflict in the marriage about this?”

  My husband turns, waiting for my answer. “I understand Dan’s decision,” I finally respond. “But it’s hard for me. If I were a man, I would fight. I know the Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ but we have to stop Hitler. I’m also afraid of so many things. I’m afraid that eventually Dan will be arrested and I don’t know how that will affect the children and me.

  “It will be hard, to say the least. . . . I’m afraid about all the work on the farm and how I will cope. I’m afraid we won’t have enough money. I’m afraid that Danny will start acting out and I won’t be able to handle him. I’m afraid that people will shun us.

  “Sometimes, to be honest, I’m at my breaking point, I’m so scared.” Dan puts his arm around me and I’m about to go on when Mrs. Miller calls from their log house to say coffee and cake are on the table.


  “I guess we have to go,” the reverend says. “If you want to talk again, together or alone, I’m available. And Dan, if you’d consider applying for conscientious objector status, I’d write a letter of support as your pastor. There’s a legitimate place for religious noncombatants now, doing community service or working as medics. It’s not like the Great War, where the government put every objector in prison.”

  “Thank you,” says Dan. “I’d better check on the kids.” He squeezes my hand and lopes off to the field, where the boys, and also the girls this time, are playing army.

  “Die!” says Mira, brandishing a stick that doubles as her sword (a little out of date for this war).

  Be strong and fear not. I silently repeat the reverend’s prayer.

  “In a way, it feels good to have people know what we are going through,” I tell Dan as we sit on the porch the next morning. “I haven’t really talked to anyone, not even Bitsy or Becky, before she left. I guess I should. I just don’t know what to say. It hurts that you and I don’t feel the same about the war.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dan says. Then the phone rings.

  “Daniel Hester, veterinarian,” he answers in his formal way. “Elroy! What’s going on? . . . Oh . . .”

  Listening to the one-sided conversation, I wonder who Elroy is; a farmer I’ve never met?

  “So what happens now?” Dan continues his side of the conversation. “Okay, thanks. I guess all I can do is wait.”

  “What?” I ask when he hangs up.

  “That was one of the men from Ahimsa. Ben and Martin were arrested by the feds this morning. . . . A couple of guys from Buffalo were picked up yesterday. Apparently the courts are starting to move.” He stands and rolls up his shirt sleeves. “There may not be much time,” he says with a jaw of steel. “I’ve got to harvest the corn. . . .”

  August 31, 1942

  Secrets

  For two days we harvest corn as if our lives depend upon it. Then, while Danny and Dan are outside digging potatoes, the girls help me shuck and preserve the yellow gold in glass mason jars. As we work we sing a satirical song by the comic Spike Jones.

  “When Der Fuehrer says we is de master race, we’ll Heil (pbbbbttt), Heil (pbbbbttt) right in Der Fuehrer’s face! Not to love Der Fuehrer is a great disgrace. So we Heil (pbbbbttt), Heil (pbbbbttt) right in Der Fuehrer’s face!” Mira thinks the fart noise is hilarious and wants to sing it over and over.

  It’s early for harvesting potatoes. They could stay in the ground for another month and grow bigger, but I understand Dan’s urgency. If the draft board is coming for him, he wants to lighten my load and get as much stored up for winter as possible. Toward afternoon, I’m surprised when the Indian motorbike roars into the drive.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Bitsy as she takes off her leather motorcycle helmet. “I thought you had to work.” Willie is dressed in a helmet just like hers and he puts his in the sidecar and limps off to find Danny.

  “The mill is shut down again for a few days. They’re bringing in some new equipment that will boost production.”

  “I’m just taking a break before cleaning the cellar. You want a cup of cold peppermint tea?”

  “Sure.” She throws an old copy of the Liberty Times on the table. “Did you see this?”

  I glance at the headlines. MASSIVE BRAWL BREAKS UP RED CROSS AUCTION. Underneath is an action photo that shows Dan punching a man that I assume must be Aran Bishop.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Massive brawl? Read it to me.”

  “A major fight erupted at the Arthurdale Inn Friday evening as men fought to defend their patriotic pride.” Bitsy pauses to sip tea. “Local veterinarian and draft protester Daniel Hester threw the first punch and more followed as approximately fifty men fought to defend their right to free speech. Blood was spent and one victim was taken to the hospital in Torrington. Sheriff William Hardman arrested several combatants. Women and children were crying . . .”

  I hold up my hand. “What a bunch of hooey! Let me look at that. Did you see anyone injured enough to go to the hospital? Maybe a few people were crying. . . . And really there weren’t more than a dozen men in the fight.”

  Bitsy shakes her head in disgust. “It would be hilarious if it wasn’t a bunch of lies. I’m going to throw it in the kindling box.”

  “Wait a minute. Did you see this?” Underneath the article about the Red Cross brawl is a smaller piece about wild dogs running throughout Union County. “One of the dogs, referred to as vicious beasts, is reported to have attacked a child in Burnt Town. Oh my God. It says she was the eight-year-old daughter of Earl and Daisy Spraggs, and she was taken to the hospital in Torrington. . . . The article warns residents that if they see a wild dog to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Poor Daisy Spraggs! I wonder if this happened during the square dance. Go ahead and burn the paper now. I don’t want the kids to see Daniel’s picture or read the story.”

  I stare across the table at my friend. It’s either the country air or hard work at the woolen mill, but she looks so fit and strong. When she first came back to Union County she was a skinny little thing, but her face has filled out and she’s got some muscles; even her breasts are bigger.

  “We haven’t had much time to talk lately, have we? I guess by now you’ve heard that Dan is refusing to register for the draft. He’s not a draft dodger or anything like that; he says he’s a non-cooperator out of conscience.” Here I catch myself rolling my eyes and digging my fingernails into my palms. I’d promised myself to be more supportive.

  “The Reverend Miller shared with the congregation that Dan is a principled man and that your family was facing hard times. He didn’t say much else, but he urged us, regardless of our personal political beliefs, to be as supportive as possible. We prayed for your family.”

  Bitsy’s matter-of-fact words give me comfort. It helps to talk about what’s happening and to know that she doesn’t think Dan’s a coward.

  I remember that even back in the Great War there were radicals who objected to the draft. Eugene Debs, the union organizer and my late husband’s friend, gave an antiwar speech and got ten years in prison for sedition. Ten years, just for giving a speech!

  After our iced tea and talk, I feel a little better. At least Bitsy didn’t reject us and the Millers are being supportive. My friend asks what she can do to help with the harvest and we go down to the root cellar and begin the cleanup. Baskets of potatoes and squash are waiting on the back porch, all boxed up and ready to store.

  “It’s nice to work together again, Bitsy,” I say as we sweep the old straw out of the lower wooden bins. “This is like when we lived on Wild Rose Road. . . . I know you make good money at the woolen mill, but sometimes don’t you wish you could stay home like before?”

  “That time may come,” Bitsy says, looking away.

  I turn my head sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m three months pregnant.”

  “Oh, Bitsy! What will you do?”

  My friend smiles. “Have a baby, I guess. Lou and I are very happy.”

  “Will you try to marry?” I ask, sitting down on a bucket and pushing over a wooden box for my friend. In the dim cellar, I study her with a midwife’s eyes. No wonder her face has filled out and her breasts have enlarged. How could I miss it?

  “Well, that’s the hard part. In West Virginia, interracial marriage is illegal. Those who violate the law are subject to a hundred-dollar fine and jail for up to a year. Those who perform an interracial marriage ceremony will be fined two hundred dollars.”

  “You could go to another state. We’re not far from Pennsylvania. Segregation has been against the law there since the 1870s. No separate schools. No separate restaurants or movie theaters. I’m not sure about marriage. Does anyone else know you’re pregnant?”

  “Mrs. Miller and the reverend. We haven’t told anyone else. It’s not just white people that will be upset. Some coloreds don’t like mixing either. Don
’t tell anyone, okay? Not until we decide what to do.”

  “Not even Dan?”

  She shakes her head no. “Not even Dan.”

  Autumn

  37

  September 3, 1942

  Winds of Change

  You smell good,” I tell Dan, snuggling up to him. “Even though it’ll be hard with the farm and the kids and helping women with childbirth, I’m just going to have to be brave. I’ve been through hard times before, haven’t I? It’s your smell and your warmth that I’ll most miss.”

  He runs his hand down my back and when I look over, I see tears in his eyes. Dan’s not a big crier. In fact, I’ve only heard him cry a handful of times. Once was when his mother in New York state died. He felt so bad, because he hadn’t visited for a year. The other time was when I got pregnant with Mira and he thought I could die, and then recently when he told me about the German boy’s brown eyes, how he can’t forget them.

  With the tip of my point finger, I wipe the tears down the side of his face and kiss him on the cheek. “Are you scared about going to jail?”

  “No. In some ways it will be a relief. The waiting is the hard part, the waiting and not knowing. I told the kids what’s coming when we were out in the barn.”

  Here I half rise on my elbow. “Without me? What did they say?”

  “Danny was silent. Willie said he was proud of me for standing up for my beliefs, even though he doesn’t agree. Mira tried to catch a butterfly. At seven, I don’t think she understood. Susie cried and Sunny gave me a hug and told me she’d visit me every day if I go to jail. I don’t think she understands I might not be locked up in Liberty.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no federal prison in West Virginia, maybe somewhere in Maryland or Pennsylvania. Lots of the resisters get sent to Ashland, Kentucky.”

  “Oh, Dan. I wish I’d known. I’m like Sunny; I thought we could at least visit. When I worked with the unions, many of my friends were jailed, but they were always held somewhere local and usually for only a few days. Now, I really am scared. Everyone thinks I’m so strong, but I’m not.”