by Ami McKay
Aunt Fran shook her head, her voice filled with disgust. “Well, I suppose she could wear mine.”
Mother made a quick reply. “She’d swim in your gown, Frannie…and besides, you’d be the first to admit, it’s rather old-fashioned looking nowadays.”
Aunt Althea tried to comfort Mother. “You know, Charlotte, I did the same thing with my dress.”
The other wives of my father’s brothers chimed in. Aunt Irene, Aunt Lil, Aunt Pauline and Aunt Tilly all admitted to taking apart their wedding gowns and piecing them into baptismal dresses. Aunt Lil giggled and added, “I made some beautiful pillow shams from part of the train too. The satin’s so nice to sleep on. Who could have guessed you’d be needing it for anything else?”
Aunt Althea turned to Aunt Fran. “Did you bring any of those ladies magazines with you?”
Aunt Fran reached under her chair and handed a stack of Ladies’ Home Journals and Butterick pattern books to me.
“What are these for?” I asked.
Aunt Althea smiled. “Pick a dress you like, and we’ll find a way to make it for you. Pauline and Tilly are the finest seamstresses around; they’ll make silk from a sow’s ear if they has to.”
On my wedding day my feet danced under the scalloped hems of fourteen delicate christening gowns. Crowned with wax orange blossoms and waves of silk tulle, I married Archer Bigelow.
At sunset, we made our way down to the cove. Hart, Charlie, Sam Gower and Uncle Web carried me on a piece of sailcloth as if I were the Queen of Sheba. Archer chased after them, threatening to steal their share of rum if they tried to steal his wife.
He fed me roasted lobster tails, raspberries and wedding cake. He held my waist tight as we danced. He told me he would always love me, and I said I’d never doubt his word. Between two fiddles and a wheezy concertina, I watched my parents at the end of the reel, Mother smiling as they met, Father bending a bit as their hands joined to form the arch. Their love is an easy, well-worn fit. Where did it come from? As a new bride, did she enjoy at least one day of bliss? A day, or two, or even a week when she was required to think of nothing else but her fragile little world of two, of husband and of wife.
Father was about to make his fifth or sixth toast of the evening when Bertine Tupper came running down the cliffs, shouting my name. “Dora, you gotta help. Sadie’s in trouble, says the baby’s comin’ right quick.”
“Where’s Wes?”
“He went to get Dr. Thomas. Sadie wouldn’t go down to Canning, said she’d never make it.”
“Where’s Miss B.?” I asked.
“Can’t find her. I went to her cabin first, then the church, then here.”
I kissed my new husband good night and asked him to look for Miss B. on his way home.
You gots to be a two-headed person. And what I means by that is you gots to think and see two things at once.
Where was Miss B.? She’d been at the wedding. She’d come to me afterwards, held my hands, her bony, familiar fingers whispering against my palms. She said she was tired, “Ain’t no place for a blind old granny at a dance…my feet gets in my own way.” I asked Charlie to walk her home, but she said she wanted to walk alone to enjoy the sunset and the warm evening. I kissed her cheeks. She whispered, “Mind her bones,” and walked away. I thought it was a blessing for my wedding night. I was wrong.
The baby’s shoulder stuck as it was coming down, and Sadie was getting tired. Where was Miss B.? If things didn’t change soon, I’d have to break the baby’s collarbone to get it out. Mind her bones. Bring them bones down. Sing ’em on down. I crossed my heart, found as many of Miss B.’s words as I could, spit on my finger and drew a cross on Sadie’s belly, singing, “Mother Mary, bless this mother, bless her child, bless this house.” I moved Sadie to the edge of the bed, so she was all but hanging off of it. Bertine sat behind her, holding her up, coaxing her along. “Come on, Sadie. A little while longer.”
I gave a firm, slow twist, bringing the baby’s shoulder to the soft of Sadie’s skin. Bertine and I both called out for her to “Push, push!” and with that, the baby slid right out. A beautiful baby boy.
Dr. Thomas arrived, too late to catch the baby or the afterbirth. He took off his coat and paced around the house, grumbling about women not knowing what’s best for themselves. “Since she chose to have the child at home, I’m afraid I’ll have to limit the care I give her. I’ll examine both Mrs. Loomer and the child, and then I’ll have to be on my way.”
Wes pulled the doctor aside, his two sleepy toddlers clinging to his legs. “You won’t be back to look in on her again? We already paid.”
“Yes, but the certificate clearly states that the mother’s confinement and care are to be attended to at the Canning Maternity Home.”
Bertine came into the kitchen where the men were standing. “Dora and I will see to her. And I’m sure when Miss B. comes around she’ll look in on her too.”
“Are you a relation of Mrs. Loomer’s?”
“No, but—”
“As Miss Rare can tell you, I don’t allow visitors of any sort at the maternity home. I don’t recommend it for home births either. Health concerns, you understand.” He turned to Wes. “I really must be on my way.”
Bertine stood in the bedroom doorway, her large arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping as she stared the doctor down. “Dora’s done a fine job here. I don’t know that Sadie or her baby needs you poking at them.”
Dr. Thomas ignored her and pushed his way into the bedroom.
Sadie held her child tight. “Anyone can see, we’re fine. No need to touch.”
Dr. Thomas shook his head. “Good luck to you both, then.” He looked at me. “Good night, Miss Rare.”
Bertine said, “It’s Mrs. Bigelow. Dora just got married tonight.”
He tipped his hat as he walked out the door. “Well, I wish I could congratulate you under better circumstances.” He looked me up and down, noticing my wedding dress, now stained with blood and afterbirth. “I’m sure you made a lovely bride. Good night.”
Bertine and I made tea and porridge for Sadie, then tucked the other children in for the night. Wes was standing nearby as I got ready to leave.
“Sorry about your dress.”
I smiled. “Why don’t you go on in and see that new boy of yours. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
It was nearly dawn by the time I got to Spider Hill. My dear husband was snoring in our bed, still in his wedding suit, hog-tied. Hart was sitting in a rocker, his head lolled back in sleep and the weathered handle of a broadaxe cradled to his chest. He mumbled and stirred, his eyes opening to narrow slits.
“What’s that? Dorrie, that you?”
“Yes, Hart.” I motioned to the bed. “You trying to keep him in?”
“More like keeping Grace Hutner out.” He yawned, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Now there’s a girl who can’t hold a drop. Boy, she put on a show…pounding at the door. She called Archie a yellow-bellied witch-loving coward, and kept going on and on, yelling about how this should have been her house.”
“Oh dear.”
“Don’t worry. She won’t be back. Her father came and dragged her off, swearing right and left that he was going to send her to live with his sister in Halifax.”
I knelt down by the side of the bed and started to untie Archer’s wrists.
“I wouldn’t do that. He’ll be some mad when he wakes up. Best just to let him sleep it off and wake up compromised.”
If I hadn’t smelled his stale breath and seen his face twitch, I would have thought he was dead. “Did he check on Miss B.?”
“No. He couldn’t get himself home, let alone make his way to Miss Babineau’s.”
I left my soiled dress hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, changed into fresh clothing and walked to Miss B.’s.
~ July 12, 1917
I knew something was wrong before I even got to the door. A letter sat on the table, next to the Willow Book and five strands of rosary be
ads, all laid out and waiting.
Dear Dora,
My, what good we’ve made of each other. I would never have known of Miss Austen without you, never had a notion of what it was like to have a home in this place. You made these humble walls sing.
A long time’s past since I made my way here from the Bayou. Now it’s time to take a walk to my next place, my last place, my home-goin’. If I done it right, this life, then you don’t gonna see me no more, that’s all.
You don’t gonna cry, neither. You got to say a prayer instead. That’s the way of the traiteur. We make our tears into prayers…not to beg or plead with God, but to remember the stuff we are made of. Same as Mother Mary, or your smart little Missy Austen, we’re all the same, same as the moon, the stars and the sea.
Offert ou pas, Dieu est ici.
Bidden or not, God is here.
Marie Babineau
I believe it’s possible Miss B. just vanished. Every day she had been getting closer to it, praying, calling out to heaven, raising her arms up to the sky, making herself lighter and lighter, her dress trailing after her like feathers, until she might have flown away.
There were many times that I thought to myself I’d do anything not to end up like her, to keep from being pushed aside like some sad have-not, forced to live alone in a leaning, aching, rundown shack. That was before I came to know her. Many times over these past few weeks, while everything seemed to be ending for her and beginning for me, I wished that the moon she worshipped each night would come and put some of Miss B. in me—that I’d wake up wise, with silvery prayers on my lips, saying whatever was on my mind (whenever I wanted). Next to Mother’s sensibility, she seemed half an angel, half fright, somehow always knowing what I needed.
After reading her note, I felt more tired than sad. Tired of the day, of having to tend to Sadie’s birth alone, of fighting with Dr. Thomas, tired at the thought that the time had come to leave this place behind and act like someone’s wife. I lit candles all around the Blessed Mother, singing “Ave Maria” and praying that Miss B.’s soul would have a safe journey home. I twisted her rosaries around my neck and sat in her old rocker, pulling her quilt around me, crying until I fell asleep.
I dreamed of her laughter and the scent of coffee brewing in the morning, of the crooked handwriting that lined the pages of the Willow Book, every statue and likeness of the Holy Mother singing her prayers to me as I slept. I dreamed that I had come back to what was left of the place, set it on fire to burn to the ground, the flames bursting high up into the night. Shadowy men shovelled seaweed around the edges of the fire to make sure it didn’t spread, bringing things they didn’t want anymore, a broken-down buggy seat, rotten apple barrels, used-up lobster traps. Then the women came. They cried over Miss B. while they held their children tight. They stood next to each other, sharing stories of the births they had under her care. I held my mother’s hand and rested my head on her shoulder while Miss B.’s ghost flew all around us, singing.
They gonna need you, Dora.
They need you. You gotta keep them safe.
The Midwife’s Gift
from the Willow Book
Along the Bayou Blaize Le Jeune there lived a country midwife, a howdie or sage femme as some liked to call them. One night when she done got herself ready for sleeping, a swamp man came to the door. He was someone she’d never seen before and would never see again. He said to her, calling her name in almost a song, “Grann-ee Bonne, there’s a woman down the river who’s a-calling for you. She’s a-howling and spitting, bringing her baby down soon.” That granny, she tried to get a proper dress on, but the swamp man wouldn’t let her. All he’d let her bring was a ball of cotton to tie the cord. He picked her up, right off the stoop, and carried her out to his flat-bottom boat that was waiting on the river.
Most times, Granny Bonne would know just where she was headed. She’d travelled all up and down that river to bring women’s babies up, floating along in her canoe that she paddled for herself. But there weren’t no moon that night, and the bayou was dark as blindness. She asked the stranger where they was going. He wouldn’t say another word. When they got to the place, it seemed nice enough. A cozy cabin with a fire lit, and a lamp all bright and cheerful in the window. Granny Bonne went in and found the woman already “in the straw.” Before long the baby came, a fine child indeed, causing his mama no trouble at all. The father of the house played the fiddle, the aunties gathered round and danced, and the mother sang sweet and low, sweet and low. Granny Bonne was about to dress the child when one of the aunties came to her, carrying a little pot of salve. The auntie pulled the cork and the scent of magnolias came right out. She gave old Granny Bonne a rhyme to follow,
I give to you this salve,
As precious as a rose
Anoint the child from end to end,
From his wee fingers to his toes.
Now, before the auntie could say “don’t,” a moon moth was fluttering on Granny Bonne’s cheek, leaving the dust of its wings in her eye. She brushed the thing from her face and rubbed the itch. What else could she do? And then, amazed she was…seeing with one eye what she always thought was there, and with the other something more like magic. It weren’t no cabin she was took to. She’d been whisked away to a faerie hole, down under the willows, moss hanging all around, lights coming from fireflies and foxfire. Gathered all around her were the tiny folk. One on each shoulder, grinning. Three more was in her lap, tickling the baby’s ears. Granny let go a squeak, dropping the pot to the ground. Right away, the auntie knew what had happened and told Granny Bonne that if she promised to never tell a soul where the faeries kept themselves, she could have any wish she wanted.
Granny Bonne thought and thought. She didn’t want riches or desire fancy clothes fit for a queen. She didn’t even wish for a grand house or better land, since she knew all these things could be taken away. She held out her hands to the auntie and said, “These are all I’ve got. Make my hands so’s they’ll always be of some use.” The auntie blew into her hands comfort and good ness, tales and tears, and Granny Bonne got her wish.
20
THE FIRST THING I DID upon settling into the house on Spider Hill was to move every furnishing (even if it was only an inch)—the bed, the sofa, the kitchen table, every chair, lamp, plant stand, rug and vase—that the Widow Bigelow had placed “just so.” After that, I made several trips to Miss B.’s, bringing back all the memories I could heap onto her old handcart. Archer complained, saying we didn’t have room for hand-me-downs. When I tried to put Miss B.’s rocker in the parlour, he said, “At least put it where others won’t see it. It’s an insult to my mother’s generosity.”
He was especially mean when he found me filling a cupboard with jars of remedies and herbs. “I thought I told you to give it up.”
“What if someone needs help?”
“That’s what doctors are for.”
“What if it’s the middle of the night? Miss B. always had something on hand.”
“Stop talking like the old woman ever made a bit of difference. I tasted the stuff she used to give Mother for her rheumatism…it was nothing but sugar-soaked wine. Half the time a person’s sickness is all in the head, especially with women. Mother’s always taking to bed with this or that. It’s all the same. Just an excuse to get attention.”
“If I get rid of it, then it won’t be there for someone who might need it. What if they can’t get to the doctor? What if a child has the croup, or a woman’s got morning sickness? Miss B.’s not around to—”
When he saw that I was about to cry, he pulled me into his arms. “Alright, you can keep your little potions. Out of plain sight, though.” He brushed the hair away from my neck, his voice convincing and low. “I hope you’ve made it clear to the other women around here that you’re no longer in the baby business.” He took my hand and slid it down the front of his pants. “You’ve got other duties to see to.”
I knew little about my husband until I lay wi
th him. It started the same every night, his lips finding mine in the dark, his hands groping their way around my body, but soon there was nothing gentle left between us, nothing to stop him from forcing his sweaty, cruel body against mine. “It’s supposed to hurt the first time. This is how a man makes a woman his own: he ‘breaks her in’ and then she’s all his.” Archer feels a wife should be willing and happy to take her husband in any time he likes, that he’s allowed to be demanding and restless, never giving me a day’s rest for the pain or bleeding. I’ve tried offering him warm milk and a hot bath before bed, hoping he’ll forget his needs and fall asleep, but he persists, saying it’s his nature. “It’s what gives me the rights to call myself a man.” Nothing prepared me for this, for the shame that comes from not wanting to give him whatever he wants, not knowing how to be a wife, wishing he’d just leave me alone. I give in when I don’t want to, until he has my hands over my head and my legs wide open, leaving me seasick and empty. When it’s over, I search for roses in the shadows on the wallpaper while his snoring goes on and on, reminding me that he’s been satisfied.
I tried talking to Mother about it, but it came out all wrong. Her cheeks turned red; she thought I was asking if it was possible for a woman to want marital relations too often. “Oh, Dorrie, dear, don’t you worry about that. You might as well enjoy it while you have no children to tend to.” Then she whispered, half hiding behind her knitting as she spoke. “Your father and I clung to each other every chance we got, some days it was everywheres but our own bed…the hayloft, in the belly of a worn-out skiff, out at Lady’s Cove…” She stopped when I dropped several stitches and the cuff of the mitt I was working on began to unravel.
