The Birth House

by Ami McKay

  “Mum always called it the ‘lover’s hook,’ other women I know just call it thrummin’. Whatever you wants to call it, it gives any sock, mitt or hat twice as much warmth. Mum and my aunties made a batch for my brother’s company, and now the rest of the regiment’s asking for them as well. The boys on the front pay or trade whatever they can for them.” Bertine turned a finished sock inside out, the fleecy thrums all fluffed out from her neat rows, her voice boasting. “They’ve even been reported to have made their way as far as Egypt. I’ll bet no woman from the Bay can say that much for her socks.”

  Mabel suggested we knit the initials O.K.S. into each pair, “just to leave our mark.” I added a band of white around the cuffs of mine, a private prayer for peace. Between knits and purls the women from away became comfortable and wild with their talk, their thoughts moving from one thing to the next, fearless and far short of what Aunt Fran would consider proper. As the children settled in, the conversation shifted from bemoaning the wet autumn gales to the best and most effective way to “get with child.”

  “The trick is, don’t get up ’til morning.” Sadie was rocking her baby back and forth in a large round-bottomed basket at her feet. “Whatever you do, don’t stand up until you have to or you’ll lose the seed.” Sadie’s wiry and strong for such a tiny woman, always with laughter in her sea-grey eyes, her tongue as quick and wry as that of any sailor. With a wink and a grin she’ll lead you to words you hadn’t intended on saying, news you’d just as soon not share. “Speaking of lovers, how’s that new husband of yours faring on the road, Dora?”

  I bowed my head, pretending to have lost count of my stitches. “Fine. He’s just fine.”

  “I guess you must miss him terribly.” The baby’s eyes fluttered and closed as Sadie clacked the needles between her fingers. “If I had a man that handsome, I know I would—”

  Bertine frowned at Sadie and shook her head no.

  “What’s that face for, Bertine? I didn’t mean anything by it. All I was saying is Archer Bigelow’s a fair-looking fellow. Don’t you act like you haven’t noticed.”

  Bertine’s face turned red.

  “And…I seem to recall hearing you say on more than one occasion that you’d guess he was clean enough to eat off of.”

  Mabel snorted, trying to hold back her laughter. “Stop it, Sadie, you’ll have Dora in knots and fits, and me about to wet myself.”

  Bertine patted my knee to get my attention and then cupped her large breasts with her hands. “Don’t worry, Dorrie. Sadie makes up for what she hasn’t got by being rough as a cob, the little whore.”

  “Call me a whore all you like, Mrs. Tupper. My granny always said, it’s bad girls and whores that’s the only ones who like it. And I’ve been liking it just fine since I was fourteen.”

  Mabel stopped laughing and bounced her baby on her lap. “My mother took me aside the night before my wedding and told me, ‘Mabel, dear, after the wedding’s over, your husband’s going to take you home. Something’s going to happen to you, and you won’t like it.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was telling me a little too late.”

  Bertine sighed. “I don’t mind it, I guess. But I’ve given up trying too hard at it. With Hardy, it’s like one of those carousel rides—you get on and the minute you decide you like the music, it’s a lovely ride, you’d like to go round again…just when I start to feel like I’m getting someplace, he’s done.”

  Feeling bold, I asked, “But don’t you have to try, if you want a child to come from it?”

  “These days I only try when I want it to be over nice and fast. Like when I’ve got pots to scrub in the kitchen, or I think the babies will hear and I’ll have to be up with them all night. But it doesn’t matter what I do: once my courses come back, all Hardy will have to do is shake my hand, look at me sideways, and I’ll have another little bun in the oven.”

  Mabel took a sip of tea and blushed. “God forgive me for saying it, but no man can do you better than you can do for yourself. If you think he’s got to make you happy before you can have his child, you’ll be stuck like Sarah, waiting for an angel. She was too picky, and old Abraham just couldn’t seem to please her. That’s the part of the story that doesn’t get told, that’s all.”

  Bertine nodded. “It’s true. I knew a woman like that once. She went to some old howdie-witch who told her to tie three knots in a red string, wrap it around her waist and let her husband take her from behind, like a dog.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Sure enough. She’s long dead now, but not before she had three sets of twins.”

  Sadie shook her head in disbelief. “If you want to enjoy yourself, get up on top. Now there’s a ride. Of course, if it’s a baby you want, then it’s best if you’re on the bottom. Make yourself a nice firm pillow filled with buckwheat. Put it under your hips so when he climbs on top of you, he’ll go in, right deep. Pull him to you when he groans. Think of dancing; think of reaching for him from the inside out. Think of the last time you were truly surprised—you might even find you like it. The trick is, don’t get up ’til morning.”

  23

  ONCE AUNT FRAN got wind of the Occasional Knitters Society, she decided to start hosting “family teas” on Sunday afternoons for Mother, Precious and me. As much as I try to refuse her invitations, Precious’s fifteenth birthday fell on a Sunday and I couldn’t stand to disappoint her sweet, fragile, china-doll heart.

  I brought her my volume of Heart Throbs, 1905: The Old Scrapbook, a graduation gift from Miss Gertrude Coffill, the spinster schoolteacher of Scots Bay.

  Heart throbs—yes, heart throbs of happiness, heart throbs of courage, heart throbs that make us feel better. Those things that appeal to you must appeal to others; that note of inspiration laid aside—bring it forth and let us make a magazine that will speak the language of the heart as well as of the mind. I want you to send me these clippings to show me what kind of stories interest you, your mother, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters. I want to know just what kind of short, pithy articles you would select if you were sitting here with me at my editorial desk. You are constantly reading stories and anecdotes in the magazines, books, newspapers or religious periodicals. Perhaps you have clipped them or pasted them in your scrapbook, or you may have remembered where you have seen such a story and said to yourself, “Well, that’s about as bright as it could be.” That’s the kind of story I want.

  I have placed on deposit with the First National Bank of Boston ten thousand dollars. This money to be held in trust until the time specified below, when it will be divided among those who help me. To ten persons sending in the best clippings, I will give each one

  A PILE OF SILVER DOLLARS AS HIGH

  AS EACH SUCCESSFUL CONTESTANT

  Miss Coffill’s sister Anabelle was one of the lucky ten that was measured for a prize. She married and moved away to New Hampshire some years ago, but no school year goes by without Miss Coffill telling some part of her sister’s story. “Annabelle was a wee, beautiful girl. The day that telegram arrived was the one day she wished she were more like her tall, homely sister.” It’s through Annabelle’s unfortunate lack of height that the children of Scots Bay have learned to figure sums:

  If there are fifteen silver dollars to every inch,

  And Annabelle measures four feet, three and a half inches

  Then how much was her prize?

  After we found the answer, we went on to measure each other, and after that we went home and measured our parents. Charlie went so far as to measure our fat old sow—ear to foot, snout to tail. Then he climbed on the roof of the barn and measured that too. Miss Coffill was too polite to say so, but we all knew what she wanted us to think…if we were worth more than Annabelle, we were doing just fine. At seventy years old, Gertrude Coffill still stands straight and tall—five feet, eleven inches. She’s never had a husband, but at least she knows she’s worth 1,065 silver dollars.

  Heart Throbs is the only book I own that I kno
w Aunt Fran won’t object to and that I’m willing to part with. Among the many pages of “pithy” verse and endless tributes to Abe Lincoln, loyal hunting dogs and an “old canoe” are a few gems: Hamlet’s soliloquies, George Eliot’s “O May I Join the Choir Invisible” and Kipling’s “Recessional.” I have marked these and a few other passages with pieces of red string in hopes that Precious will find them. (The rest of the string is now tied around my middle, waiting for Archer to come home.) I also gave her a new sewing basket, one that Archer’s mother had given me after the wedding. My old basket is fine, so I had no trouble giving up the new one to Precious. I wove a few lengths of pink ribbon through the lid and around the handle in hopes that the widow won’t recognize it at a quilting bee or ladies social. I’m sure Aunt Fran didn’t think much of my presents, but Precious made quite a fuss and was very sweet about the whole thing. I would have liked to have brought her something new, but with no word from Archer, and my still pretending all is well, I’m careful to save any extra I have in case I’ll need it for the winter.

  Aunt Fran was polite, but her kindness always comes at a price. She never says anything directly, of course. No, for Aunt Fran there’s a sickening joy that creeps into her voice from the just-so placement of they say and or so I’ve heard. Like iodine in a wound, her words are bright, painful reminders of whatever you lack, and whatever mistake she thinks you’ve made. “They say these days many of the men who go out drumming door-to-door are worse than sailors. They drink away their earnings, leaving their wives penniless and alone, or so I’ve heard. I certainly hope that your dear Archer hasn’t run into any of that sort while he’s selling Bibles. When will he be home next, dear?”

  “Soon, Auntie Fran, he’ll be home soon.”

  “Well, I hope so, for your sake. Cold weather’s coming, and according to the almanacs, both Belcher’s and Ladies’ Rural Companion, it’s going to be a difficult winter. More ice and snow than we’ve seen in years. Would you like to see? I finished reading the Ladies’ already, I’d be happy to lend it to you.” She reached into the sewing basket by her chair. “There’s a helpful section on making salves and poultices…it reminded me of your dear friend Marie Babineau. And this year’s recipe winners are listed here on the front. Everything Apples: Apple Brown Betty, Applesauce, Apple Pie, Baked Apples and Pork Roast. Maybe you’ll find a new favourite dish for Archer. Take it with you when you go.”

  Precious yawned. “Can we have cake now? Or play a hand of whist?”

  Mother interrupted, as if she had saved up all her questions so they could come out at once, one after another, buzzing in my ears so I couldn’t think of what to say. “Reverend Pineo says he’d like to order new hymnals, prayer books and a Bible or two when Archer comes home. Do you know when that might be? I’d like to be able to tell the reverend something soon, so he can plan accordingly. By Christmas, do you think? Did you say you’d heard from him? Has he travelled far? I’d expect people would need the comfort of the Lord’s word in times like these. I suppose he’s quite busy. Did you say that you’d heard from him?”

  Aunt Fran put her hand under my chin and tilted my face towards the light. “Dora, dear, your face is flushed. Are you feeling under the weather? You could stay here tonight if you don’t feel up to going home.”

  Precious clapped her hands together. “You could share my bed, just like we used to. We can tell secrets until dawn.”

  My face burned and my throat ached as I tried to keep from crying. “I’ll be fine, Auntie, maybe a little cold coming on. I just need some rest. I should get home. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  Mother whispered in my ear, “Did Archer leave you with a little bun in the oven?”

  “No, Mama, it’s not that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Aunt Fran announced, “I think she should visit Dr. Thomas. A woman can’t be expected to look after herself when she’s with child, even one who’s lived with a midwife.”

  “But I’m not…”

  Fran scolded me. “Not another word, Dora. I’m certain the doctor will see you at my request. Irwin has business in Canning this week. You’ll ride with him. I’ll take care of the rest, I insist.”

  She also insisted that Uncle Irwin hitch up the buggy to take me home. He took the longest route, whistling to the horses, talking to them about the weather. The long shadows of winter are coming on, the shoulder of the mountain stretching out, brooding and black, the god Glooscap asleep, his greatness turned away from the Bay and our little lives. The crescent moon lay on her back, floating between the darkness and the sea. An oil lamp, set near a kitchen window, cast a small yellow halo of light on two children as they begged their mother for one last treat. The smell of spruce fires, tended by watchful husbands, cut through the air. If I could steal these things and make them my own, I would.

  Dr. Thomas diagnosed me as having neurasthenia, “a female disorder that presents itself through hysterical tendencies.” He said it is not uncommon among the young women of today and that “the condition is treatable, but not always curable.”

  “I spoke with your kind aunt, Mrs. Jeffers. She’s terribly concerned about an episode you had during a recent visit to her home. Are you certain you aren’t with child?”

  “Yes. Quite certain.”

  “But you’d like to have a child, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  After a brief examination and several questions, he announced, “Your premature exposure to the primitive and sometimes unseemly regenerative aspects of womanhood, coupled with your current desire to bear children, has left your body’s systems in a constant state of nervousness. Your fragile psyche has forced your female organs to collapse, leaving you barren and gaunt with illness.” He shook his head and sighed. “You haven’t attended any more births?”

  “No, not since Sadie Loomer’s, on my wedding day.”

  “Good. See that you don’t. There’ll be no chance of your conceiving until we have your condition under control.” He got up and went to a closet on the other side of the room. Outside of the addition of several large diagrams depicting the human anatomy and various medical treatments, his office hadn’t changed since the grand tour for the ladies of Scots Bay. While he was gone, I read from a large poster of women’s health concerns that was tacked to the wall.

  * * *

  PostScriptPicturefeelinganxious.eps

  * * *

  A small stove in the corner of the room was knocking and ticking with heat. Its noises echoed the nervous pounding of my heart.

  “Lean back on the table and I’ll administer the treatment. It prepares the womb, leaving it ripe and waiting for a dear little soul.” Dr. Thomas folded back the skirt of my dress.

  I chose to remove only my stockings and undergarments, leaving my dress on for modesty’s sake, hoping he wouldn’t notice or ask after the red string around my waist. He pulled a small cart alongside the table and opened the large black box that sat on top of it. I could just make out the label—The Swedish Movement Health Generator—an odd, heavy-looking device, surrounded by a cushion of red velvet. It was silver, new and shining, with a long black cord trailing from one end. Several attachments were nestled into depressions around the machine, each one resembling the mechanical snout of an animal or the polished, dark beak of an exotic bird.

  “Truly a medical marvel.” He twisted a large, rounded black nose to the other end of the machine. “I can administer the treatment in a matter of minutes, sending blood rushing to your congested parts, releasing inner stress, relieving you of your suffering. You’ll leave here today with bright eyes and pink cheeks. You should sleep like a baby tonight, Mrs. Bigelow.”

  As Dr. Thomas flipped a switch on the handle, a loud buzzing erupted. He raised his voice over the noise. “Spread your legs and try to relax.”

  His face was steady, determined. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being somewhere else. There was mending to be done at home. Had I
knitted enough socks for Archer for the winter? There might be enough apples in the cellar for another batch of applesauce. I should see if they have started to go soft. I hope they haven’t spoiled. The Ladies’ Rural Companion suggests cinnamon: It gives this winter favourite a kick, especially when served hot.

  Dr. Thomas circled the tip of the machine, reaching farther and farther past quivering pink folds of skin, opening, searching my womb. It caused my heart to race, making it difficult to concentrate. This was something more than I had ever felt in the arms of my husband, even more than I’d been able to give myself between the dark warmth of the blankets of my adolescent bed. Dr. Thomas was right; as I struggled to keep my brain occupied with innocent thoughts, my blood ran hot, gathering strength, pulsing with life. I thought of Sunday hymns, pages from worthy books, imagined Mother reading about the whirling dervishes of Constantinople, her hands pulling a large brown book from the shelf, its title gold and shining on the spine, Good Words, 1866.

  The Dervishes themselves seemed low-bred and commonplace, with pale faces and a semi-sensuous, semi-nervous, and hysterical look about them.

  Feverish and tense, my hips rose and fell, following his every movement. My knees trembled. The strand of Miss B.’s rosary beads I’d been wearing felt tight around my neck, as if they were pulling at me and I couldn’t get loose, couldn’t catch my breath. I bit my lip and the sweet, alarming taste of blood lingered on the tip of my tongue.

  The tendency to express or relieve the stirrings and tumults of the soul by outward signs of joy such as singing, shouting, dancing or the like is natural, though these often pass into the hysterical.