Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  Before bed, I take off my wedding band.

  November 7, 1942

  Dearest Patience,

  I haven’t heard from you in weeks and this makes me sad. I also wonder if you’re sick or something is wrong and curse myself if my choice to go to prison is harder on you than I imagined.

  Please write to me and tell me you are okay. Or if you aren’t okay, tell me what you need and I will try to get someone to come help you.

  With love and concern,

  Daniel

  45

  November 14, 1942

  It’s Just the War

  I keep Dan’s last letter in the top drawer with the others. I should write to him, but I don’t know what to say. I tried to be the good, understanding wife, tried to be supportive, but my love has curdled like cow’s milk left out on the counter.

  When I try to recall our passion for each other, Hitler stands between us, shoving women and babies into a pit. It’s a vision I can’t get over, the insane megalomaniac, dressed in a brown uniform with a swastika embroidered on his red armband, his black hair slicked over his balding head, and his ridiculous little mustache. He’s a clown, but an evil one.

  Then the phone rings. “Hello,” I answer.

  “Patience, what the hell is going on? It’s Daniel.”

  “I thought you couldn’t use a telephone in prison.”

  “I never made the one call every inmate is allowed at the beginning of incarceration. Norm, the guard, set me up. What’s going on?” he demands again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Patience . . . come clean.”

  “It’s just the war.” I evade the question.

  “Any particular aspect?” he asks with sarcasm . . . “Or just general destruction and death . . . Patience, you’re hurting me,” he says more softly.

  “I’m hurting too.”

  “Well?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Patience! This isn’t like you. Come see me. Please. I need you.”

  There’s a voice in the background. “Time’s up, Hester,” a man shouts.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll come on the next visiting day.”

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  “I know. I’ll come.”

  November 15, 1942

  Butchers

  Morning dawns clear and cold with a streak of red along the eastern sky, a good day for travel. I get up before light and, with Danny’s help, feed and water the stock and chickens, then feed the kids, bundle them up, and take them to school in Hazel Patch an hour early. Mrs. Miller kindly agrees to feed them both their noon and evening meal.

  As I drive through Uniontown, Pennsylvania, on Route 43 and then across the old National Highway and down the Ohio River to Moundsville, West Virginia, I rehearse what I might say to Dan.

  “I’m not ready for a divorce, but I no longer love you”? No, that won’t do.

  How about “Our differences about the war are too divergent and I no longer respect you”? Closer to the truth, but so cold. Or the worst idea yet . . . “Sorry, I can’t be lovers with a spineless pacifist.”

  Oh, hell! What am I going to do, just live with Dan as a roommate, no longer man and wife, until the children grow up?

  By the time I get to Moundsville, clouds have swept in and my mood is just as black. I pass through security, toss a paper bag with some clean underwear and Daniel’s harmonica to the guard, and enter the visitors’ room, where Dan’s sitting at the familiar back table. He must sense my presence because before I’m even halfway across the cold concrete room, he looks up.

  “Visitor for Daniel Hester,” says a voice from the loudspeaker. Dan smiles.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come. How is everything?”

  “Fine,” I lie. “I brought you your harmonica. The kids are being good. The cows and horses are healthy,” I rattle on, fearing the silence if I shut my trap.

  “We’ve had a few vet calls, but for the most part, I refer them to Dr. Swanson in Torrington. I don’t know if the farmers and pet owners ever actually go see him or if Dr. Swanson will drive out to attend the sick animals . . . but so far no one’s complained.” The whole time I’m talking I don’t meet Dan’s gray eyes.

  “Patience?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  None of my rehearsed speeches seem worthy of this man with whom I share so much, so I just start with the story about the Jews. “You know I’ve tried to understand and accept your point of view about the war . . . but I just see things so differently, and it hurts me. I recently read a firsthand account in the Liberty Times about the Nazis killing one thousand Jews in a day in Ukraine, and it touched me deeply.

  “There was a baby in the story and a grandmother. They were stripped naked and had to stand in the cold at the edge of a pit where other dead Jews had already been tossed like someone’s garbage. Naked in the cold! Just so the Nazis could have their clothes! They were waiting for their names to be called, waiting for their turn to be shot in the head. The grandmother was singing to the baby, who laughed and giggled while everyone else, knowing his fate, wept silently. . . . Can you picture it? The grandmother and the baby? It was so human and touching and brought the war home.

  “These Germans are butchers, Dan. Someone has to stop them, and I don’t know why the man I love doesn’t see that. It’s like you and I are trapped in quicksand, with only our heads sticking out, each looking the other way.” I stop there, but his only answer is his foot pressing against my ankle and I jerk my foot away.

  We have come to a place where even touch cannot heal.

  WHEN I RETURN to the Olds in the prison parking lot, the low gray clouds have started to cry, and I’m crying too. What’s the point in these visits? I’m talking to a stranger.

  To save time getting home, I decide to try a shortcut Lou Cross told me about, but as I drive up Hogback Mountain, the rain turns to sleet, a wind buffets the auto, and the roads turn to ice. I stop the Olds in the middle of the two-lane and take a deep breath. On my side the steep mountain drops off a cliff. This may be one of the dumbest things I’ve done, but there’s nowhere to turn around and I can’t stop now. I have to get home.

  Putting the car in low gear, I start off again at ten miles an hour. At this rate, I’ll get to the Hope River by midnight. The wind whirls around me and a branch hits the windshield. Twice I slip sideways and finally near the top of the ridge, fighting for control, I come to a stop in a water-filled ditch.

  For a moment I lay my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m uninjured but shaking, and after I rest, I decide that I should check in the back for tire chains. It’s unlikely, since Dan went to prison in sunny September and he usually takes care of such things, but I tie my scarf under my chin, pull on my gloves, and push open the door.

  That’s when I feel the strength of the wind and cold rain. It wraps my skirt around my legs and I almost fall over, but little by little, I work my way to the rear, where I fight open the trunk and find there are no chains, not even a shovel. I’m just about to burst into tears when I feel something useful in the back corner—an old blanket—and for that I am grateful.

  Hoping someone will come along, I get back in the car and wrap the wool cover around me. I have only a quarter tank of gas, so to conserve it, I turn the engine and heater on and off again. For hours I wait. Outside, the sleet turns to snow and the wind howls.

  Holding Mrs. Kelly’s pocket watch up in the dim dashboard lights I see that it’s now nine o’clock; the Millers in Hazel Patch must be worried. For a minute, I drop my head back on the car seat, close my eyes, and start to drift off. No you don’t, Patience! I pat my cheeks and bite down on my lip. I must stay alert for any sound of an auto passing. With the Olds down in the ditch and covered by light snow, any passengers may not see me.

  To keep awake, I begin to sing old church songs. “I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield. Down by the riverside, down by the riverside, down by the riverside . .
.”

  That makes me think of Dan again and I choke on my tears. I left him in prison without even a smile. What if I freeze to death on Hogback Mountain? What if that dreadful visit was the last time I see him?

  When I look at my watch again, it’s midnight. That’s when I hear a growling sound, either a large bear or a vehicle struggling up the other side of the mountain. When I roll down the window the low growl seems louder.

  The sound dies away and comes back again, clearer and closer. Not likely a bear; it must be a vehicle! Over and over the motor roars and then stops. It roars and then stops again, sounding like someone stuck in the mud. I hear a car door slam and then voices, urgent and excited, almost desperate. Finally, I tie my scarf tighter and get out.

  “Hello! Help! Over here!” I yell, though it’s unlikely anyone can hear me. Then I have an idea. I get back in the Olds and press down on the horn. Toot. Toot. Toot. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. Toot. Toot. Toot. Over and over, I repeat the signal for save our ship. SOS. SOS. SOS.

  Lioness in Pain

  For thirty minutes I wait, warming my hands over the heater. Will the driver or passengers of the other vehicle come over the ridge to reach me, or should I struggle through the sleet, wind, and ice toward them? Finally, I decide I can’t risk them turning around and heading back down the mountain.

  Holding my pocketbook under my coat, I set out, but it’s hard going. In the pitch-black, I can’t see my feet and the surface of the road is uneven. My hands and face are stiff with cold. Twice I slip on the ice, fall, and bang my sore knee.

  “Hello!” I shout. “Hello!” Over and over, but there’s no answer, so I change my tune.

  “Over hill, over dale, we will hit the dusty trail,” I sing at the top of my lungs like the soldiers on the Fourth of July. “As those Caissons go rolling along!”

  Just as I’m beginning to think I’ve hallucinated the whole thing, I’m relieved to see headlights through the trees and the outline of a big truck with one wheel buried to the axle and held up by a good-sized log. When I get closer I see the writing on the side of the truck: DELMONT COAL.

  “Hello!” I call. “Can you help me?” I don’t know why I ask this. It’s clear these travelers are as stuck as I am, but maybe they have food or more blankets. Just as I’m about to tap on the window, a wail rips the night, a woman’s voice, screaming, pleading, louder and fiercer than the wind.

  “Hey!” I boldly rap on the frost-covered window. “Hello in there! Is someone in trouble?” It sounds like a woman is being violated. The scream comes again, a lioness in pain.

  “What the hell’s going on in there?!” I roar in a manly, gruff voice that I haven’t used since the KKK tried to burn down my house on Wild Rose Road. “Open up. This is the law!”

  “No! No!” the woman keeps screaming while I pound. Still no response, and I really don’t know what to do. I find myself trembling, whether from fear or cold I’m not sure. Maybe I should get out of here! Maybe they’ll come after me next, but I can’t do that, leave a fellow sister behind! I was once nearly raped myself.

  Then the cry comes again, but this time an octave lower and I recognize it at once for what it is . . . the sound of imminent birth.

  “No. No. No,” a woman’s voice calls. “It’s coming. Something’s coming.”

  46

  Felicia

  I bang on the door again, this time using my own female voice. “Hello! Hello! I’m not the law, I’m a midwife. I can help!”

  Finally the driver rolls down the window and a man says in a strong Italian accent, “Praise Mother Mary! Is it true, a midwife coming from heaven above? We thought we were just hearing the voices of the storm. It’s my wife, Felicia. She’s in terrible pain. We were trying to get to the hospital in Torrington. Go to the other door and I’ll try to let you in. . . . Felicia,” I hear the man implore, “please calm yourself. Let me reach over you. God has sent us a midwife.”

  “It’s coming. Oh. Oh. Oh. Martino, I can’t move!”

  “You must, mi amore. You must. Think of the baby. The midwife will help you.”

  “Let me in. Felicia! You know me. I’m Patience Hester, the nurse at the coal-mine disaster. You helped me set up the clinic.”

  “Uhhhhhg,” she groans. “I can’t! It’s coming. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhg!”

  “Felicia, don’t push!” I yell into the wind. “Blow. You’ll tear yourself if you push too hard when the head delivers. Get through this contraction, then before the next one, open the door and let me in.”

  I don’t know what I think I’m going to do. I have no sterile gloves or oil to prevent tears. I don’t even know if the couple has a blanket to wrap the baby in.

  Finally, someone pulls on the handle from inside and the vehicle door cracks open. There’s a high running board, but I manage to pull myself up and squeeze in. “My angel,” Felicia says to me, tears streaming down her face. “My angel from heaven!”

  She’s lying crossways on the seat with her back pressed into her husband’s chest and her long dark hair is draped over his shoulders. Martino turns the overhead light on and I see that Felicia’s face is sweaty and flushed. Then a hard contraction hits her and she digs her feet into me, almost pushing me out the door again.

  “Martino,” I address the father, glancing at the gas gauge and observing that it’s close to empty. “I know you have to conserve fuel, but, just for the next hour, can you really crank the heat? I’ll help Felicia get out of her trousers, boots, and heavy wool jacket.”

  I’ve delivered a baby outside in a flower garden. I’ve delivered babies with the mothers squatting on the floor. I’ve even delivered a baby in a bathtub, but this is the first one in a car, and I try to think how to manage it.

  Finally, I maneuver Felicia around to face forward with her heels on the dashboard and I force my bad leg to bend so I can kneel next to the door. I’m not surprised to see a small hairy scalp at the opening.

  “Is it alive?” Martino whispers.

  “I don’t know. . . . Put your hand on her belly. Sometimes when I tickle the scalp it causes the infant to move.” Pulling up Felicia’s plaid shirt, I use two fingers to briskly stroke the little head and watch as her abdomen bumps and then rolls. Feeling it, Martino flashes his smile. “Praise God!” he says, lifting his hand, kissing his palm, and breaking into a grin. He’s a handsome man with short black hair, large brown eyes, and a roundish face.

  “Oh, no. Here it comes again!” Felicia cries. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhg!” I watch as the head moves another half inch into this world. “Oh, hold me. Hold me!” Felicia begs.

  Her husband puts his arm around her, but I know what she really means. Hold her bottom that feels like it’s about to split open. So I put my hands around the emerging head like a crown and apply gentle pressure as the head slides out.

  I check for a cord. Martino makes the sign of the cross. Then I gently push the head down so the top shoulder comes out, then lift up and next thing you know, I’m holding a wailing baby boy in my arms.

  “Sorry, no blanket,” Martino says.

  Felicia, who has collapsed back onto the seat, reaches out. “My sweet bambino! Come to Mama!” She takes the infant, as confident as an experienced mother, pulls up her shirt and brassiere, and lays the baby on her chest. Martino takes off his jacket and covers them both. He takes off his knit cap too and tenderly covers the infant’s wet hair. I still kneel on the floor of the cab, as if praying. The prayer has two words: “Thank you.”

  A Shift in the Wind

  After I’d delivered the placenta and wrapped it in my bandanna, still attached to the baby’s cord, we gobbled up all the sandwiches and oranges that Felicia had packed for her husband’s lunch at the hospital.

  Then, sitting in the dark cab, Martino told me how hard it is working in the mines, being Italian. Some of the men are suspicious and see him as the enemy, since Italy fights with the Germans and Japanese. “I tell you, Miss Patience, with all my heart I am an American!” he declares, and po
ints to a little American flag on the dashboard. Since then we’ve been sleeping.

  A few hours later, Martino wakes me. “Do you hear?” he whispers.

  “What?” I shake the net of dreams from my head and look at my pocket watch. You can tell dawn is coming and we’ve been asleep for hours.

  “The wind has shifted. It’s not blowing so hard.” The new father cranks the steaming driver’s-side window down and peeks out. “I hear a motor.”

  Now I’m awake! Could help really be on the way? When Martino rolls the driver’s-side window back up, I roll mine down. Far in the distance I hear the sound of a motor coming up the Hope River side of the mountain. For a moment, I imagine it’s Daniel come to the rescue and then I remember that he’s locked away in the pokey.

  “I’m getting out. If we miss this vehicle, we may be here another day. You stay with Felicia and the baby,” I say to Martino, and carefully step onto the edge of what used to be the road and is now a trail of slick mud and ice.

  From a mile away, I hear the motor getting louder as it climbs, then I smell the exhaust fumes. Finally, two big headlights shine through the trees. In the dim dawn light, I can even see colors and I recognize the vehicle at once.

  It is Mr. Maddock’s green John Deere tractor. He comes slowly, his black hat tied on with a blue scarf knit by his wife, Sarah. Standing on the tractor behind him is Lou Cross in a camouflage jumpsuit, and following them is the Liberty ambulance.

  They stop when they see us. “Halt!” Lou yells turning back toward the van. “It’s Patience!” I’m so flooded with relief I stagger toward them and fall on my face. Mr. Maddock turns off the engine. Then Bitsy hops out of the van with a thermos of hot tea and Sheriff Hardman gets out and bends over me.