The service begins with a short prayer by Reverend Miller that feels as if it was written for me. “Lord, in this Christmas season, when every heart should be full of joy, many of us carry heavy burdens . . . we pray to you, our savior, bring us peace, bring us hope. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
The solo by Mrs. Miller also brought tears to my eyes. It was one of Dan’s favorites.
“It came upon the midnight clear. That glorious song of old. From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold! Peace on the earth, goodwill to men . . .”
There were more prayers and then the sermon. The collection plate was passed and finally the children went up front and sang the old favorite. “Jesus loves the little children. All the children of the world. Red and yellow, brown and white, they are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.”
As we pass out of the chapel and head toward the Millers’ sturdy log home for coffee and fruitcake, the reverend puts his arm through mine to support me on the ice. “I noticed you’re limping again,” he said.
“Yes, I slipped on the ice the other morning and pulled the same muscle in my knee as a few years ago. It’s always been weak since that cow kicked me.”
“It’s a nice day and the ice will soon melt,” the preacher observes. “But it’s been a rough winter.”
“‘Erratic,’ Dan would say. ‘Just weird with ice and rain and the white hurricane.’”
“Speaking of Daniel . . . Lou Cross told me about his trouble at the prison. Patriotism is noble, but there’s no excuse for what those men did. I wonder if the guards were absent on purpose. Sheriff Hardman and I are going up to Moundsville sometime this week.”
“Dr. Greeley told me I couldn’t visit Dan in the infirmary,” I warn.
“I’m sure they’ll make an exception for his pastor,” the reverend responds with confidence. “We need to know that he’s being properly cared for. I talked to the prison chaplain and he’s going to arrange it. Moundsville is known to be one of the roughest penitentiaries in the country.”
As we slip and slosh toward the Millers’ home I tighten my arm through his. “Thank you for the prayer at the beginning of the service. It spoke to me,” I tell him.
The reverend laughs. “I wrote it for you.”
December 29, 1942
Thaw
All night the water drips from the icicles on the eaves and the creek below the house roars. In the morning, though it’s not yet January, it feels like spring. There’s an unseasonable softness to the air, and when I look in the flower beds I see little shoots of green that shouldn’t be there, early signs of daffodils sprouting.
First thing, after chores, I try again to call the lumber and feed store. This time someone answers. “Hi, Sadie,” I say. “It’s Patience Hester. I had a tree fall on the back porch during the ice storm and we can’t get in and out of the house through the back door. Can I order some more lumber?”
“I heard about the tree. This has been a hell of a winter . . . I heard about your other trouble too. Is Daniel all right?”
I swallow hard wondering how word travels so fast. “Yes, I think he’s going to be okay. You heard what happened?”
“Some flag-waving bastard beat him up, Mrs. Stenger told me.”
“Not just one man. Several. Despite Dan’s beliefs about war, you probably know that in a fair fight he can give as much as he takes.”
“Well, our prayers are with him, honey. Now, what do you need?”
I give her a list of the lumber I’ll require to rebuild the porch. “That’ll be about fifty dollars,” she says. “I can give you credit if you need it.”
“Thanks, Sadie. You’re a pal, but I have a little money coming in from rent on our house on Wild Rose Road now, so we’ll be okay.”
“I’ll try to get the order out there day after tomorrow, but you know we’re shorthanded.”
“That’s fine. And Sadie, I saw the red, white, and blue banner with four stars in your window. I understand they’re for your workers who’ve gone to war, but there’s one gold star now . . . I guess that means . . .”
“Yes, Pat McKenzie . . . You didn’t hear? He was killed during the U.S. invasion of French Africa in November. Such a shame. His mother . . .” Here I stop listening. Patrick was Sally Blum’s sweetheart!
All this time, I’ve been worried about my family; I haven’t given a thought to Becky and her family. I assumed that they were all well, living the good life, on the government payroll in Washington, D.C.
I don’t have any way to call Becky. Since she moved, she hasn’t called me, but I do know her address, so I’ll write her a letter today. And there’s something else I need to do, tell the children about what happened to their father . . . before some stranger does.
December 29, 1942
Dear Becky and Isaac,
I heard recently about the death of Patrick McKenzie, the young man at the feed store, and I wanted to tell you and Sally how sorry I am. I feel bad about not writing in all this time. What has it been since you left, three months? Four? With all that’s been going on, I’ve lost track.
I don’t know if you heard that Dan refused to register for the draft and was arrested. He says he’s a complete conscientious objector and can’t cooperate with war in any way. Maybe he talked to you about it, Isaac. For a while, I was very angry. In these desperate times, with the stakes so high, it seemed, at first, a cowardly position to take.
Daniel is now in the Moundsville State Penitentiary. He’s supposed to be going to a federal prison soon, but they’ve been dragging their feet. It’s only recently that it’s become an issue. On Christmas Day he was beat up by some patriotic thugs in the prison shower. It must have been a major fight, because his arm is broken and they’re keeping him in the infirmary for his own safety.
As you can imagine, I am exhausted with all the worry, the farm work, taking care of the kids, and occasionally delivering a baby, but here’s some good news . . . Charley Roote and Mrs. Roote (formerly Mrs. Stone) have rented the house with the blue door. It is still your house, if you ever come back, but for now it’s a little income that I sorely need. Let’s not lose touch. You are my good friends.
With sympathy,
Love, Patience
December 30, 1942
Bones
Ma. Ma!” Mira slams through the front door all out of breath. “We saw a bear!” Susie and Sunny follow, also out of breath.
“Probably it was a big dog, girls. Bears hibernate in the winter. Mr. Blaze the newspaper reporter said there’s a pack of wild canines roaming Union County and before your pa went away, he told me Mr. Dresher found five of his sheep dead in a field. The pack seemed to kill for the sake of killing. They hardly touched the meat . . . Where’s Danny?”
“He’s playing Indian out in the woods. Said he was an Iroquois. That’s a tribe that used to live around here,” Sunny informs me.
“I’d better go get him. You girls stay inside for the rest of the day.”
Just in case there are bears or wild dogs roaming the countryside, I take my oak walking stick, the one that Dr. Blum made for me when he was coming out of his silence. It has flowering vines, delicately carved from one end to the other.
“Danny!” I call, heading across the yard toward the creek. Here and there I see spots of yellow and, leaning down, realize they’re dandelion flowers; strange the last week of December. This recent warm spell has caused them to bloom. From the creek, I cut into the woods.
“Danny!” That’s when I see them, footprints of a large animal. “Danny!” I call louder, but I freeze when I hear a twig snap behind me.
“Ha! Surprised you!” My son jumps out from behind a big oak. “If I was a wild Indian, you’d be dead!”
“You scared me! I want you to come home now. The girls said they saw a bear, but it was probably one of the wild dogs we’ve been hearing about.”
“It could be a bear, Ma. It’s almost like spring,” Danny co
ntradicts, but I let it go.
“Also I have something to tell you.”
“Are you and Pa getting a divorce?”
“What? No! Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I thought maybe you were so mad at him for going to prison that you might not want to be married anymore. Also, Willie heard Mr. Cross talking about Ida May. She’s Mr. Cross’s cousin and she’s divorced.”
“I know about that, honey. I know about her husband, too. He got mean when he drank. Come inside, I’m going to make some peppermint tea and we can eat a few of the Christmas cookies Mrs. Miller sent over.”
TEN MINUTES LATER we’re gathered around the kitchen table.
“Kiddos,” I say. “I have something to tell you. I’ve kept it to myself, because I didn’t want to worry you . . .” The girls’ eyes are big and round, but Danny squints as if ready for battle. “There was a fight at the prison and your father got hurt. He’s in the infirmary being taken care of by the doctor and he’s safe.” That’s all I plan to say, but Danny wants more.
“Was it Bones? The murderer? Did he attack Pa?”
“No, Bones is the one that stopped the fight. Your Pa is in the prison hospital and when he gets out, he’ll be transferred to somewhere safer, a different prison that has a lot of draft protesters. I just wanted to tell you, because people in town already know.”
There’s silence around the table as the children digest this information. No one asks where Dan will be sent. No one asks what injuries he’s sustained.
Finally, Danny stands abruptly, knocks over his chair, and runs up the stairs with Three-Legs tagging behind him.
“Don’t flip your wig, Danny!” Susie yells. “There’s nothing you can do about it.” But he’s already gone.
57
January 4, 1943
Limping Along
New Year’s Eve was uneventful. Other times, when Dan was here, we’d stay up late and listen to the celebration on the radio while we drank rum toddies, but this year, I just went to bed. This is a year I don’t want to remember, but I’m sure I will. It exhausts me to think of the memories I’ll carry for the rest of my life, rocks in a knapsack.
Yesterday, a truck, with Farmers’ Lumber and Supply on the side, rumbled across the wooden bridge and into the yard. Sadie jumped out and was already unloading the lumber by the time I got there. She was wearing men’s coveralls, with heavy leather gloves and a green knit cap pulled over her short hair.
“Where’s your helper?” I asked.
“No helper. You farmers can get the POW men, but in town we only have ourselves to rely on.”
“Kids!” I called. “Come out and help!”
Sadie looked over at the demolished porch. “You’ve had a hell of a winter!” she said, wiping her brow with a red bandanna. “One blow after another. First your husband is thrown in the pen, then you have a wreck on Hogback Mountain, followed by all the storms and destruction. You’re a brave woman, Patience.”
When we were done, I asked Sadie in for a cup of joe, but she had to get going. “I have two more loads to deliver and I left the store closed,” she says, and then she’s gone.
Upstairs, I lock my bedroom door and get out my journal. Today, I’ve hit another low and am desperate to express my feelings.
“I know I shouldn’t feel this way,” I scribble. “I have much to be thankful for. We’re mostly healthy, with the exception of my hospitalized husband. We have a warm place to live and plenty of food, with the exception of sugar, coffee, and lard because of wartime rationing. We have money, though it won’t last long if I have to keep purchasing lumber. Most importantly, no one is dropping bombs on us.”
Still, despair rolls down on me like a mudslide after a two-week rain. I realized, after Sadie talked about me being brave, that it’s all a front, a role that I’m playing. Where is the proud sunflower woman who once withstood the wind? Where is the fearless comrade who marched with the unions? Where is the warrior midwife? Limping along, exhausted, holding on to her walking stick, waiting for the next blow to fall. That’s where she is.
January 5, 1943
Slaughter
This morning, when we go out to do our chores, it’s raining, and Danny and I discover the wire fence around the chicken yard has been torn down.
“Gott verdammt!” Danny curses in German, just like his pa. A few ruffled hens sit on the roof of the coop, but the rest are scattered like rags in the mud. Their beautiful red-brown bodies have been torn to pieces, ripped apart, ravaged. Here and there, a head is intact; its yellow beak shining and its red eyes still open.
One of the injured hens is alive, flapping around, spraying blood, and I almost collapse. Danny takes his pocketknife out, catches the dying chicken, and cuts her head off. “Gott verdammt!” he says again and I don’t even bother to scold him for swearing.
Not only is this an economic loss, it’s just plain sad. I loved our chickens, their soft clucking, the way they followed me when I came into the pen to feed them. They were a comfort and our friends.
“Who did this?” I cry to the mountain “Who did this? Was it a fox? Wild dogs? A bear?” Mira thought she saw a bear a few days ago, but I told her they would be hibernating. Now I wonder. The weather is unseasonably warm.
“It wasn’t a fox or a coon,” Danny says, looking at the carnage. “Either one could kill a few birds, but not so many.”
“Let’s get our chores done and get back inside,” I say. “We’ll try to catch the live chickens and put them in the barn when the rain slows. I don’t have the heart for it now.”
TWO HOURS LATER, Danny, Mira, Sunny, and I go out to clean up the mess. I let Susie stay in the house to fold laundry because she’s too tenderhearted for a job like this.
The first thing I look for in the chicken yard is the killer’s tracks, but the place is a mud pit. When Danny and I first discovered the bloodbath, we were too shocked to investigate; now the rain has washed away any evidence of the predator.
After we capture the live hens and put them in an empty stall in the barn, we take the five mostly intact dead chickens and hang them above the barn door to clean and pluck later. If nothing else we can make a big stew.
“What should we do with the rest of the remains?” Sunny asks, picking up some entrails on the end of her shovel.
“Burn them, I guess. I have no heart for digging a grave and we can’t leave the carcasses lying around to attract more night killers. Let’s bring the scrap lumber from the old barn roof and make a fire.”
For almost an hour, we throw the remains of our birds—wings, yellow legs, and whole heads—on the blaze. The stench of burning feathers and flesh is a bad one, so I send the kids inside and tend the fire myself, pulling my scarf up over my nose. Three Legs is with me, and his neck bristles as he paces back and forth.
When I go in, I get Dan’s rifle down from the highest shelf in the pantry and clean it. I’ve not used a gun since Bitsy taught me to shoot, down on the banks of the Hope River, but if I see the predator, I’ll use it.
Attack
By afternoon the sun has come out and the girls are out playing in the yard, so I pick up the phone to call the courthouse.
“Hi, Ada,” I say. “This is Patience Hester. I’m trying to arrange for a crew of POWs to come back to the farm to rebuild the porch. I don’t know if you heard. A tree fell during the ice storm. I’ve got the money now.”
“I’m sorry, Patience,” Ada says. “You know how it is. At first everyone feared the Germans, thought they were all evil Nazis. Now everyone wants them. I have a list a mile long, but I’ll put you on it. You want those same fellows? That went okay, right?”
“Yes, the barn looks good. My son, Danny, even taught them a few words of English.”
“That’s still a big problem. Only the simplest tasks can be done because no one speaks German, so the more complicated projects are sitting on hold.”
“How’s Ollie doing?” I ask. “We saw you at the live nativity s
cene on Christmas Eve.”
“Well, he’s adjusting, if that’s what you mean, and his stump is mostly healed. He loves taking care of the baby and can even change a diaper with one hand. Sometimes, he wakes in the night crying, though, and I don’t know what to do. . . .” She stops and I can hear a voice in the background.
“Hey, Patience,” she says, “I gotta go, I have another customer. I’ll call as soon as I can get you scheduled, but it won’t be for a week, maybe longer.”
I hang up and that’s when I hear barking. Looking out, I see Three Legs crouched in the yard with his fur standing up. What the hell?
“Mom!” Mira yells.
The first thing I do, when I see the dogs out the window, is head for the back door, but I’m forced to reverse my path when I realize the fallen tree still blocks the way. By the time I get to the front door, Danny is right behind me.
“Sunny, Susie, and Mira!” The three girls crouch on the lawn, clinging to one another, and Three Legs, stiff with fury, is facing four growling beasts. These are dogs, but not normal dogs. They’re rangy and matted, with white fangs that snap. The wild animals circle the children, getting closer, taking turns lunging at Three Legs, who growls back just as savagely.
“Danny, get my walking stick and bring some kind of weapon for yourself.”
“The gun, Mom?”
“No, not the gun. The dogs are in too close, I don’t want to hit Three Legs or the girls.”
“Sunny, Sue, Mira! Stand up tall. The wild dogs will be more intimidated if you don’t look so little . . . Back, you vicious varmints!” I yell, waving my hands, and when the girls rise, Mira puts her arms over her head and starts singing in the loudest voice she has.
“I’ll fly away, oh Lord. I’ll fly away. When I die, hallelujah by and by. I’ll fly away! Sing, everyone!” she orders.
I take off my apron and wave it at the animals. “Git! Git!” And for a moment the dogs slink off, but then the one that looks like a gray wolf lunges back.
Three Legs whirls and hits him with his shoulder, but with only three feet on the ground, he’s unstable and falls. The wolf dog comes back again, but Danny, running from the kitchen, without even thinking, drops the broom, strikes the wolf dog with the pole, and puts himself in the center of the ambush with the girls. Now there are four children circled by raging beasts.
Once a Midwife Page 32
