The Birth House

by Ami McKay

  “But I have her baby here and—”

  “That’s your business, now, ain’t it?” His face turned red as he started to yell. “Get on out of here. Get the hell off my property, or I’ll shoot ya dead!”

  I took the child home, spinning a tale in my head as I went, a tale of the full moon, a lonely wife and an abandoned baby.

  Under the full moon in April, while Precious and I were sharing tea and brown bread, I heard a faint cry at the door. I went to the porch with a bowl of cream for the barn cats. Instead, I found a sweet little babe. She was bundled in a wool blanket and tucked inside a crippled old lobster trap. Of course I took her in, warmed her up and looked her over, head to toe, worried she might be sick from the cold and wet of a spring evening. A perfect child. Apple-cheeked with rosebud lips and a mess of red curls on her head. I don’t know where she came from or to whom she might belong. It was as if the faeries had fetched her from the woods and set her on my doorstep, my little moss baby. The peepers have been singing every night since she arrived, and she sings along with them, more like a bird, opening her mouth in a round, hungry O. I have named her Wrennie.

  The sisters of the O.K.S. all agree it’s a fine tale. They take great pleasure in telling it, over and over, Sundays after church, in front of the Ladies of the White Rose Society, and most especially to anyone who might be visiting from away. They wiggle and coo, putting on quite a show, acting out the spare details.

  Why, Dora was so shocked at what she found, she spilled the cream all down her front and into her shoes!

  She called out to the dooryard, looked up and down the road. Never heard or saw a thing. Honest to God.

  That baby, she’s some sweet, some good.

  A real, live moss baby.

  Honest to God.

  We are careful not to change the story, keeping what happened plain and simple, but as with all the other mysteries of the Bay, one story sprouts another, and another, and another, until, like a curse of alders, that’s not what I heard has grown up all around it.

  I heard Archie Bigelow sent the child home to her, special delivery.

  I heard she stole it from a woman over in Delhaven.

  I heard it was brought by the spirit of Marie Babineau, creeping over the water with the fog. A ghost baby, a moss baby. She’ll wake up one morning and find it’s gone.

  35

  ARCHER ARRIVED ON A SUNDAY morning at the church. As the last hymn ended, I spotted him, standing in the back of the sanctuary, Grace Hutner clinging to his arm. They looked like a picture, the kind I’ve seen in Aunt Fran’s magazines or on picture postcards down at Newcomb’s Dry Goods. One of those smiling, haughty couples that parades down city sidewalks, thinking everything in the world was meant for them.

  Members of the congregation made their way from the pews. The ladies whispered, the men looked puzzled, and several girls stopped in front of Grace to wonder at the showy, expensive cut of her dress. Bertine’s girl, Lucy, reached out and smoothed her hand along Grace’s hip. The little girl sighed, as if nothing she had ever touched, not the airy down of a new chick or the softness of Wrennie’s cheeks, could compare.

  Archer grinned as I approached. “Look what I found under a rock in the Halifax harbour.”

  I gave a polite nod. “Hello, Grace.”

  She let go of Archer’s arm as if she hadn’t expected to see me. “Hello, Dora.”

  Wrennie was a bit restless in my arms, so I pulled the blanket away from her face.

  Grace stared at Wrennie. “What a beautiful baby. Still catching them for everyone else, I see. Who does this one belong to?”

  I smiled at her. “She belongs to me.”

  Archer gave Grace a pleading look, his face turning red. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think I’d been gone that long. You didn’t say anything before I left, Dorrie? Honest-to-Pete.” He turned to me and grabbed my arm. “Why didn’t you send word?”

  I pulled away from him and started out the door. “You’re a hard man to find.”

  Archer followed at my heels all the way home, scratching his head, cursing. When I explained how Wrennie wasn’t really ours by birth, how she was left at our door, he fumed and huffed and told me I was cruel to have teased him and Grace about such a thing.

  “And it wasn’t cruel of you to waltz right into the church, the same church where we were married, sporting Grace Hutner around like she was some sort of prize?”

  He sat at the kitchen table, head down, picking at his fingernails. His voice wavered as he stumbled and backtracked over his words. “I’m sorry about Grace, but she needed a way home, and I…”

  “Never mind about her.”

  “Then I’m forgiven?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I kept my voice low so I wouldn’t wake Wrennie from her nap. “Don’t come here, where people have next to nothing, where families have lost their sons to war and their lives to hard work, holding yourself up as better than everyone else.” I picked up his new hat from off the table and flattened it between my hands.

  He grabbed the hat from me, poking and preening at it, trying to get it back to its original shape. “I just wanted to show everyone that I’m doing well.”

  “You just wanted to put on a show.”

  “I wanted to let people know that I’d made good on what they gave me.”

  “Then give them something real, give them what you promised, not some half-bit burlesque starring you and Grace Hutner.”

  “I met a man, in Halifax, he’s from Delaware, or was it New Jersey? Anyway, he said he’d get me everything I need and ship it straight to Scots Bay. I’m surprised the supplies for the wind machines didn’t get here before I did. I have a bill of goods…”

  I started to walk away.

  “Goddammit, Dorrie…come back here and listen to me.”

  “I’d better check on the baby.”

  “I thought you were smarter than the rest of the slow-brained people in this place.”

  “Well, I guess when it comes to you, I’m not.”

  Support for Archer’s wind farm soon went cold with everyone here. They counted the days, and when they saw no signs of his great plan coming to pass, they blamed him for falling in with “drummers and charlatans,” for taking their money and changing it for air. He says he’s not certain what’s happened, why nothing has appeared. Any day now. I’m sure it will be here soon. I can only say that, no matter if it comes or not, my husband will always be a man who’s never happy with what he’s got, who’s always wishing he had more. He never stops saying how he wants to bring the world to the Bay…electricity, railroads, telephone wires, balloon rides. With Wrennie to care for, I find I have little patience left for his talk. We’ve not been married a year, and already the words he says and the things he does no longer sound fair or true.

  He sleeps upstairs now. I told him he’d be better off, since Wrennie still wakes up in the night. The truth is, I’m not ready to give up the quiet, twinned breathing she and I share as we settle in for bed. I cook his meals, pick up after him, wash his clothes, always feeling like he’s an uninvited guest. How is it that Mother still smiles at the boyish things Father does? When he’s as forgetful as my brothers about wearing his muddy boots in the house, when he sneaks around from behind the barn and scares the laundry right out of her basket. Her squeals and screams always turn to laughter, inviting him to pull her into his arms.

  Our playful moments (the few we’ve had) have ended for Archer and me. Even Grace Hutner seems to have given up on him. Word is she’s vanished back to Halifax again, leaving my marriage alone just a little too late. Now the only smiles, the only blushes he raises, come from the young girls who sit in the last pew of the church, the ones that twitch and giggle when he brushes their ears with the brim of his hat, girls who are not quite seventeen.

  Father and Hart come stomping through the house at sunrise each day. They drag Archer downstairs, bleary-eyed and half-dressed, their conversation
always sounding the same.

  “I’m some tired today…maybe it’d be best if I waited at home until the shipment comes for the windmills.” He pulls up his trousers and fills the pot for coffee. “Any day now, you know, it’ll be coming, in wagonloads up the mountain, or a ship coming into the wharf…how about a cuppa before you’re on your way?”

  Father stands with his hand on Archer’s shoulder, looking my sallow-faced husband up and down. “That’s fine news, son, but right now I have work that needs to be done, and you’re gonna help me do it.”

  Archer begs, “How about you give me until tomorrow? A man’s gotta have one day to rest.”

  Father chews at the inside of his cheek and grumbles, “That’s what Sundays are for…I’m three boys short with a three-masted schooner that won’t get built on her own. Besides, you can work off my share of the money you spent on that spankin’ new suit of yours.”

  Hart picks up Archer’s boots and throws them out the door. Father shoves Archer right along behind them. “Pick it up now, let’s keep you honest.” He turns to me and smiles. “I’ll have him home for supper, Dorrie.”

  I’ve stopped trying to converse with him. I offered him his meals and little else. More potatoes? Supper’s ready. Father needs a hand with the horses this morning.

  He’s gone back to his drinking, only this time he keeps it away from the house. He comes home late most every evening and acts as if it’s an insult for me to question him about where he’s been. The back of my arm is green with bruises from where he leaves his disappointment. He kisses it after he pinches it raw, as if to say he didn’t mean to go so far. But he never says he’s sorry. I know how it is when boys play, how they don’t always know what they’ve done…I’ve scars on my shins from every trip and shove my brothers didn’t mean to happen. I understand his weakness, his disappointment in me, but poor Wrennie, she needs a father. Whenever I point out her awkward attempts to smile, or her first bites of porridge, he ignores my words and passes her by.

  This evening after supper, he tossed the rag doll I’ve been sewing for her onto the floor, soiling its tender, empty face by his carelessness. When I called it to his attention, he slapped my face. “Just keep your mouth shut.” He dug his fingers into the waist of my skirt, hitting at me again, pulling at me as I tried to get away. “Did you hear me? You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.”

  I can’t say how long he might have kept at me if his brother hadn’t come to the door, asking if Archer could lend a hand down at the wharf.

  Hart stood in the kitchen doorway, waiting. “Hey there, Mrs. Bigelow. How’s that niece of mine? How’s the prettiest baby in the Bay?”

  I pretended to look for something in the china cabinet. “Some sweet as always. You know our Wrennie.” I could see in the glass of the door that Archer’s hand had left a bold striped mark. I pulled my hair loose from its bun and let it fall in my face.

  “You still got a piece of that caul of yours somewhere, Dorrie? You ought to give it to Archie there; he’s got neither the stomach nor the head for water.”

  Archer stomped into his rubber boots. “Shut your bucket-mouthed yap.”

  “See there, Dora? You’d better hand it over. Pride cometh before a fall.”

  I took the locket Widow Bigelow had given me for our wedding, hung it around Archer’s neck and tucked it under his collar. “For luck.”

  He kissed my cheek where it still felt hot and sore.

  “Good God, Archie, stop peckin’ at your wife and let’s get to it.” Hart waved a cheerful goodbye, as if he hadn’t noticed a thing. “Give Wrennie a squeeze for me.”

  “Will do.”

  36

  FULL MOON, CLEAR SKIES. The Dulsin’ tide. By day the men go out to the split, dulsing, their skiffs trailing with red ribbons of seaweed. Laid out on the rocks or the roofs of fishing sheds, it will crinkle and dry. Puts salt in the veins, keeps the blood strong for another year. By night they torch for herring in the Bay. The skiffs dance over the water, torches tied to the dragon of the bow, glowing with fire, nets sparkling like they were spun and knotted from silver. Mother used to say that, along with the fish, the light of the dulsing moon called up mermaids. Watch careful now, Dora. If you look real hard, you’ll see them jump right out of the water for a kiss. This is the tide of haying, of wild blackberries and mussel bakes down to Lady’s Cove. The tide of my marriage. The tide of happiness. The sound of the waves comes through the kitchen’s open window, the tide marching, marching, marching away. The voice of the moon. The Dulsin’ tide.

  Once you’re a mother, your waiting must be patient. Only after supper’s gone cold, the baby’s asleep and the lantern’s been lit in the window can worry be allowed to settle in. I should have been worried, should have paced the floor, wondering where he was, but I didn’t think of it. Didn’t think better of the dogs barking into the night, complaining of the south wind in their mouths. Of the rattle at the door, so loud I called out Archer’s name. Three times. It come three times in the night, shakin’ a soul right out of its body. A shadow man, a foretellin’.

  “Archer? Is that you?”

  The side door had come open. Any other night I would have barred it, but I didn’t want Archer left out in the cold if I happened to fall asleep.

  “Archer?”

  A tall shadow loomed in the doorway. His clothes hung heavy-wet, salt water dripping in a large puddle around him, seaweed caught in his boots.

  “Archer? No—Hart? My God, you’re soaked to the bone. Here, come in, sit down.” I sat at his feet, tugging off his boots, pulling away layers of wet newspaper and wool socks. “How far behind is Archer? Didn’t you come in together?”

  “Dora, I—”

  “Let me guess. He didn’t fall in, but you did. Did he stop at Jack Tupper’s place for a nip of brew? He should have walked with you. Oh well, you know Archer. Talk comes before the wife, especially after dark.”

  “Dora…”

  Three times. A foretellin’. The door had rattled three times. I looked him over. “Looks like your eye took a good beating. You really should get out of those wet overalls. I’m sure I have something of Archer’s that will fit. The legs will be short, but—”

  He grabbed my hands and held them still. “Archer’s gone, Dora. He was messing with the torch, his clothes caught on fire, he jumped in the water, must have hit his head on the bottom of the skiff.”

  “You couldn’t save him?”

  “I reached over and grabbed for him. I had his hand a couple of times, but he slipped away. You know how the Bay is at night. It’s black as pitch to look down into it. I lost him. He just disappeared.”

  Man Drowns at Scots Bay

  It is with great regret that we record the disappearance of Archer Bigelow of Scots Bay. He left his home the evening of June 24 to go out with his brother, Hart Bigelow, to torch for herring. He fell overboard and could not be saved. Searching parties have been out every day, on the shores and in the Bay, trailing for the body, but no trace has been found. The deceased leaves a wife and one daughter, who have the sympathy of the whole place in this shocking fatality.

  The Canning Register,

  June 30, 1918

  I called off the search.

  After nearly a week, I couldn’t ask any more of my family, my friends or the good people of this community. Archer did nothing for them, always talking behind their backs, saying they were fools to be smiling and content with their “hopeless little lives.” In the end, I was left to make the decision, to consider what his life was worth, to say our efforts had been enough.

  Mother brought nearly every meal to the house. Auntie Althea came each day with fresh eggs and brown bread. The other aunties made cookies and pies (even Aunt Fran), and Precious was a great help with Wrennie. My dear sisters of the O.K.S. cooked and cleaned and kept me company all through the day and night, engaged in the work of those who are left but not grieving. This is part of a woman’s nature—knowing how to busy herself aroun
d a death that isn’t in her heart.

  Every man in the Bay went searching, rowing skiffs in and out of the coves along the shore, afraid of what he’d find. Every man wondering if his own life would be considered a life worth saving. One by one, they came back to shore, traced his name on stones with bits of charcoal and laid them in a heap, a sailor’s grave.

  His body has been recorded as “unfound.” No morbid, waterlogged reminder to account for. God forgive me for saying it, but somehow I am relieved. His death was a passing I had already rehearsed. Each time he left me alone, I played at being a widow, taking up his side of the bed, putting his clothes in the bottom drawer, his shoes in the cellar, setting flowers next to his tombstone in my head. Archer Fales Bigelow, beloved husband. Now he’s gone again, this time for good.

  37

  WIDOWED AT THE AGE of nineteen.

  Already I’ve grown tired of wearing black to church and town. It makes me feel useless and old. Aunt Fran constantly reminds me that Archer’s mother has suffered the greater loss. “She never complains—may the good Lord bless her—Simone Bigelow lost two husbands and now her oldest child. That poor woman will have to wear black, day and night, rain or shine, for the rest of her life.” While I’m no authority on fashion, I’d guess that the Great War will leave those who insist on bowing to etiquette no choice but to change their standards. There can’t possibly be enough crepe and Henrietta cloth to cover the doors of the homes that have been touched by death, let alone the grieving wives and mothers who have been left behind. The world is dark and weary enough as it is. My parading around like a ghoul won’t make it any better.

  For once, Mother agrees with Aunt Fran. She scolded me when I asked for her help in sewing a new Sunday dress. “It’s too soon. If you trade in your mourning dress for something new, you’ll lose the support of the Bay. There would be talk. You have to mourn for at least a year and a day, no less. After that, you can start looking for a new husband. Maybe then you’ll have children of your own.”