by Ami McKay
“Good, Mrs. Bigelow. Fast, laboured breathing is what I like to see. It excites the nervous system, clears away disease.”
The transition from mere animalism, unchecked by moral feeling, to what is grossly sensual is a very natural one.
If you want to enjoy yourself, get up on top…Think of dancing; think of reaching for him from the inside out. Think of the last time you were truly surprised…
“Release your pain, Mrs. Bigelow, cleanse the blood, release your pain.”
My eyes startled open with a single, throbbing cry. The treatment was a success.
The buzzing stopped. The Swedish Movement Health Generator stopped. Dr. Thomas smiled; he had completed his work. I fell from my heavenly, spinning dance into giddiness and uncontrollable fits of laughter.
“Mrs. Bigelow? Mrs. Bigelow! Calm yourself. Get hold of your senses. Please, listen to me.”
Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t stop trembling with laughter. Pulling my coat over my shoulders, I rushed from the office.
Secondary symptoms include: Yawning, itching, stomach upsets, muscle spasms and ticklishness.
Dr. Thomas followed behind, my Sunday silk stockings trailing from his hand. He shouted as he chased me down the street. “I would advise treatment on a weekly basis, Mrs. Bigelow. Your condition is very advanced. You risk complete emotional and physical debilitation if left unchecked.”
Occurring most often in unmarried women and young widows, hysteroneurasthenic disorders are frequently manifest as attacks or “fits” of neurosis. Afterward, she is ashamed of her actions—even to the point of denying them or becoming offended when reminded of her behaviour.
Dr. Gilbert Thomas
124 Pleasant St.
Canning, Nova Scotia
November 6, 1917
Mrs. Dora Bigelow
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Dear Mrs. Bigelow,
Although my recent diagnosis of your present condition may have come as a shock to you, I must urge you to heed my advice and act promptly and appropriately. In our last visit, it was made clear to me that your illness warrants close observation and care. As you have experienced, there is an effective remedy for your ailments, and I am more than happy to take whatever course of treatment is necessary for you to feel whole and healthy again.
You need not worry about the cost, as I have spoken with your kind-hearted aunt, Mrs. Francine Jeffers, and she has agreed to see to your expenses. Be assured that she is not aware of the delicate nature of your condition, but she is simply concerned, as am I, for your happiness and well-being.
Again, I urge you, do not delay. This kind of situation can quickly go wrong and leave even the strongest of women wrecked, helpless and in need of hospitalization.
Sincerely,
Dr. Gilbert Thomas
~ November 8, 1917
Archer’s been gone nearly a month.
Many of the symptoms of my neurasthenia have persisted: insomnia, melancholy, sudden fits of weeping and general weariness. Dr. Thomas has written several letters, all friendly reminders that his services are still available. While I understand his concern that my condition might worsen, “rendering me useless to my family and my community,” I can’t bring myself to face him again. Besides, I think I may have found a treatment of my own.
In the back of the Ladies’ Rural Companion Aunt Fran lent me, I found an advertisement for the White Cross Home Vibrator. I will purchase it with some of the extra money I’ve been saving—the little Miss B. had gotten from generous mothers, what’s left after my monthly receipt from Newcomb’s Dry Goods, and the coins Father puts in my shoes every time I come home for supper.
~ November 25, 1917
10 o’clock in the morning
A package came in the post today, the White Cross Home Vibrator from Lindstrom-Smith Co., 253 LaSalle Street, Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A. With the arrival of this “medical marvel,” I feel hopeful that I have put my savings to good use.
I will monitor and record the results of my using the machine. If there is still no change in my condition, then I will make a new appointment with the good doctor.
~ Noon
After some difficulty in connecting the machine to the large, weighty battery, I have begun home treatments with the White Cross Vibrator. I am pleased with the results thus far! This may well be the answer to my prayers.
(This first attempt was much like my experience in Dr. Thomas’s office, although I was careful not to extend myself beyond the heavenly spinning of the dervishes.)
~ Half-past two
I was feeling anxious and sad after lunch. All through my daily chores, I was plagued with thoughts of loneliness, thinking Archer might never come home. In an effort to help myself and to test the true powers of the machine, I have treated myself a second time today. Again, I was invigorated to the point of great happiness. In fact, I am smiling to myself with a sense of pride that this “physician’s domain” is so easily entered into by a lowly midwife such as myself. Have I stumbled upon yet another exercise that is better attended to by the fairer sex? Wouldn’t the scholars and journals of medicine be astounded to learn of my findings?
~ Ten o’clock at night
My third treatment left me glowing with exhaustion and a bit feverish. It brings such joy to my heart, it is hard to know what is the proper amount. (Perhaps three times in one day is too much?) I was so tired that I lay down before supper and didn’t wake until nearly nine tonight! I feel splendid. Ate a late dinner of breakfast. Bacon, stewed apples, heavy cream and brown bread. I am confident that this, along with my faith in Miss B.’s remedies, will have me ready (and more than willing) when Archer returns.
24
Dear Dora,
I’m sorry to have left you for so long.
Will be home as soon as I can and with much to tell.
I’ll be by your side by Christmas at the latest.
With affection,
Your husband,
Archie
ARCHER’S POSTCARD WAS enough to send me back to the Willow Book, searching to see if I had missed any preparation or prayers that might help to bring a child into my womb. With each remedy I check off my list, I grow more anxious for his return (and selfish enough not to want to share the news with anyone else). I must have him to myself if this is ever going to work.
I am strict with my daily ritual: a good dose of Miss B.’s Moon Elixir four (or more) times a day—breakfast, lunch, tea, supper, and then a double dose along with a vibratory treatment before bed. I sleep on my back only, with a firm pillow under my hips, keeping my womb properly “tipped” until morning.
Miss B.’s recommended moon-bath was a cold and unsettling affair. I chose to lie in the cross where Three Brooks Road and the old logging road back to Miss B.’s meet. After no time at all, I was shivering.
Father always warned against sleeping with my head exposed to the moonlight. Always keep the curtains closed on a full moon, and cover your head when you go out…especially when she’s bright over the water. If it’s light enough to make hay, then you might likely come down with moonstroke. Drives a person mad. Worse than sunstroke by far. Several times I startled, thinking I’d heard footsteps in the road. It was only the wind stirring the dry dead leaves still clinging to the trees. Once, I even thought I heard the sound of Miss B.’s ghost calling to me, imagined the wispy trail of her skirts flying over my head, but it turned out that one of Laird Jessup’s cows had gotten loose and was snorting its hot breath between the alders. Too much elixir that night, I guess.
I feel Miss B.’s remedies are working. The elixir seems especially helpful. When taken along with my treatment, I’m left feeling warm and wanting inside. I find myself waiting for evening, excusing myself from hymn sings and late suppers with Mother or the Occasional Knitters so I can be alone and have a healthy dose (or two), so I can dream of Archer coming home and the time when he’ll be the one I want.
Hart came to the house after minding
the animals for the night. Although Pepper’s paw has been healed for a while now, he’d decided it was finally time to take the dog home. “There’ll be snow soon, and I need her to help bring the cattle up from the pasture, closer to the barns.” She’d been acting good as new, but was quick to put on a limp when Hart called to her.
Hart crouched down low and called again. “Come on, girl. Come on now, Pepper.”
She hid under the table.
I sat on the floor and tried to coax her out with half a tea biscuit. “It’s my fault she doesn’t want to go. I’ve been letting her lick my plate after every meal, and she’s gotten used to sleeping on the end of the bed.”
He clapped his hands together once and commanded her, “Here.”
Ears laid back, tail tucked under, she sulked over to him and lay at his feet, belly up. He laughed and rubbed her with both hands, cooing to her. “That’a girl, Pep. Let’s go home. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Pepper sprang up, tail wagging, all forgiven.
No sooner had Hart shut the door behind him when he rushed back into the house. He pulled my coat from its hook and held it out to me. “Come with me.”
I slid on my boots and threw my coat over my shoulders. “What is it? Something wrong?”
He pulled me out into the dooryard. “We’re not going far.”
I looked out into the dark of the trees below the hill, thinking Pepper had run off after a raccoon or maybe a porcupine. I slapped Hart’s arm and pointed to Pepper, who was lying patiently on the porch, her tail thumping on the steps. “She’s right there. It’s cold and I’m going back inside. Get the bucket off your head, take your dog and go home.”
He held tight to my arm. “Look up.”
Northern lights reached above the spruce at the top of the mountain’s ridge, shimmering blue then green. They quivered and danced, every once in a while giving way to a stretch of deep pink. They’re not often seen in the Bay, and I can’t recall ever seeing them so brilliant and bright. Miss B. once told me that she believed the lights were there all the time, “like rainbows or an honest friend, they’s there, but we’s only blessed enough to see their remarkability when we needs to. The secret of how the earth was made is caught up in their dance, in the tune you hear ’em whistlin’ sometime. Them lights tell the story of the world, it’s just that God ain’t let us find the words how to say it out loud. But if he ever sees fit to tell me, I’ll let you know.”
For all their differences, there’s something similar between Hart and Archer, the heaviness of their breathing, the catch that comes down low, in the deepest part of the voice, the way they both, without meaning to, leave me feeling nervous. If I fear them both, it’s because one always leaves me not knowing if he’s happy, the other not knowing where I stand. They are different, of course, and not to be confused.
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’ll come back and when he does, he’ll laugh at anyone who tries to tell him he was gone far too long.”
“I know.” I was going to tell him about Archer’s recent note, but he went on before I could say anything. As soon as he began to speak, I thought better of it.
“If you want me to go out and find him, bring him home, I will.”
“No. Better he comes home on his own.”
25
MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER Mrs. Mae Loveless used to say, When you fail to cure, the maggots set in. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was talking about shad, or herring, or mackerel, but Granny Mae liked to spout off that phrase whenever she had the chance. More often than not, she was meaning to talk about the proper way to raise a child, or the way age sets too many lines in a young mother’s face if she’s got a hard life. If you fail to cure, if you neglect what’s important, if you don’t take notice…mind your manners, watch the pot, keep an eye, careful now with your husband or he’ll get away from you. Granny Mae also liked to mention that her mother, Mrs. Dahlia Woodall, was a legend unto herself and the true reason the Great Shad Seine of Scots Bay went down. “Those men were forced to meet with Dahlia’s hand, and that was that.”
When a few wealthy men from Halifax got wind of the amount of shad that was to be caught in the Bay, they came in, making all sorts of promises, and founded the Great Seine Company at Scots Bay. Some say it was as grand a venture as the railroad that runs from Halifax to the Annapolis Valley, and as much talked of in every town between. Men from the Bay were eager to sign on to work. The women gladly took on the task of knitting large pieces of net, their hands skilled at working birch needles and making seine knots. In the spring, each house brought their section of the seine to be laid against the next, the women sitting in the road, weaving the thing together.
They set up a mighty seine, as well as a bunkhouse for the foreman and the workers. But rather than paying the men a fair wage, the boss thought it better to pay them in hogsheads of rum, often times “passing around” their wages as the catch was being made. Before long, the men would be helplessly drunk, some having to be thrown into the skiffs along with the fish. Others staggered about, getting lost in the fog or falling down on each other, splashing and yelling like schoolboys. In the end, much of the catch would be lost, uncured and left rotting on the shore.
While the men were floundering about, tipping over their shad-filled skiffs, not knowing the tail end of a fish from its ugly gaping mouth, Dahlia rounded up the women and marched out to the seine. With wash baskets and handcarts, they collected all the fish they could and took them home to clean and salt for their own use. Granny Mae would always say with great pride, In all that madness, those women weren’t about to let their children starve. As this went on, talk started to make its way down the mountain about the lazy, drunken, nearly related fools that lived in Scots Bay. The women fast grew tired of having to make such incredible efforts to save the shad and their husbands’ reputations. Dahlia knew it wouldn’t be long before the men of the Bay would start losing their lives as well as their livelihoods to the “Old Demon Rum.”
On the evening of August 1, 1800, the women of Scots Bay met at the Woodall family homestead. Dahlia was waiting. She told the women that the time had come to put an end to “Satan’s elixir of idleness,” that “tonight we’ll bring our husbands home, we’ll bring them back to the fold.” She locked their children safely in the cabin and handed each woman a torch, as they marched out the door. On that warm, summer night, armed with fire and broadaxes, the women went down to the seine, circling the bunkhouse, singing “Jerusalem.” When the men came out to see what was happening, the ladies rushed in, smashing each and every noggin of rum, letting the amber liquor flow through the cracks of the floor and into the earth. Now, in their turn, they whooped and hollered, while their torches set flame to the walls. The roof caught light, crumbling into bright blossoms of orange and red, then falling away to ash.
If I wanted my husband back, I’d have to bring him home myself.
“I seen him at the Burnt Nickel two nights ago. I didn’t think anything of it, since most men stop in for a meal or something to drink on their way to somewheres else, but when Archie got himself in a bit of trouble, I thought I’d better let you know.” Jack Tupper was sitting at my kitchen table, shoving what was left of a generous piece of apple pie in his mouth. Almost fifty, thin as a rail and with no wife, Jack begins most conversations with a simple cup of coffee, but never makes his point until he’s eaten away half your icebox. “I suppose you know as well as anybody that Archie likes his share of the brew. If he’s had just a nip or two, he’s not so bad, but this time he had an empty bottle in one hand and nowheres near a full house in the other. What’s worse is that he didn’t have enough in his pockets to pay what he owed to old Georgie Wickwire. Archie begged for a second chance, double or nothing, but Wickwire doesn’t give second chances, and he don’t put up with welshers.”
“Was Archer hurt? Where’s he now?”
“Wickwire hired someone to take him out and ‘make good on the debt�
��…the man can afford not to get his hands dirty like that. Archie took a good beating: broken fingers and ribs, his ears all boxed and bloody, and his eyes are right black. Mr. T.L. Gordon, the apothecary, you know him? He said he’d bandage Archie up, sober him up and let him stay in the room above the shop ’til he’s fit to come home.”
I put the pie plate in front of him, still three-quarters full. “Have as much as you like, Jack. There’s fresh bread on the counter and cream in the icebox to go with it. Thanks for taking the trouble to come by. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Okay if I eat it right out of the pan?”
“That’s fine. Leave the plates on the counter when you’re done.” I packed a few things in Miss B.’s birthing bag and headed for the door. “Just keep Archer’s whereabouts under your hat for now, alright?”
Jack looked up, nodded and smiled, his mouth bulging with pie.
Charlie was kind enough to take me down to Mr. Gordon’s shop in Kentville. It takes a half-day’s ride to get there, so it was late when we arrived. Archer was asleep in the bare-walled room upstairs.
Miss B. often spoke of Mr. Gordon but never met him. He’d send the things she needed (castor oil, Jayes Fluid, cotton thread and other supplies) up by post, most of the time not charging her much, if anything, for it. There were three other pharmacists closer to Scots Bay, but she wouldn’t hear of going to anyone else. “It’s got to come from a believer. Did you know what the T.L. spelled out is? That man’s given name is Mister Trusted Lord Gordon. Praise the blessed Virgin, it’s Trusted Lord! Say so right on his scripts. If his mama thought enough to call him that, then he ain’t got no choice but to believe.”
