Dunaway's Crossing (25 page)

“If you had bothered to ask me,” Bea Dot said, “you would have known. Instead, you went behind my back, and now Will’s gone, and I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.” Her voice shook at those last words, so she inhaled slowly, as if to steady herself. “He’s back in that flu-infested town, and now I’m truly afraid.”

Netta reached across the table and clutched Bea Dot’s chapped hand.

“We haven’t gotten an operator on the telephone line since Will left,” Bea Dot said, staring past Netta’s face and into the opposite wall, as if she were talking more to herself instead of her cousin. “If the town hasn’t replaced her, that must mean they’ve got no one else to do it, which means more people are sick. If that’s the case, there’s only a matter of time before Will gets the flu too.”

Netta’s gut clenched as she realized Bea Dot had silently nurtured her fears for two days.

“He could die in town.” Bea Dot’s eyes watered.  “And I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t get to see him again to tell him how I feel about him.”

At that remark, Netta’s eyes burned with sympathetic tears. She squeezed her cousin’s hand. “I know the feeling. I’ve been living with it for the past several weeks.”

Bea Dot finally met Netta’s gaze, and her shoulders relaxed, perhaps opening a door to reconciliation.

“It seems we have more in common than we realized,” Netta said, venturing a smile. “I was wrong to pry into your business, dear. I was thinking of the Bea Dot I used to know, the one who rushed into a wedding with Ben, and—”

“I had my reasons,” Bea Dot interjected.

“I’m sure you did. Forgive me?”

Bea Dot sighed. “All right.”

Relieved, Netta pulled her hand away from Bea Dot’s and picked up her wrung-out blue dress. Her back had stiffened from sitting in the hard chair, and she walked to the pump to relieve the tension. As she rinsed the dress, she said, “Of course your fear is understandable, but it’s also probably good that you’re no longer in the same house with Will. I mean, you don’t want to end up with another baby before you figure out—”

“Oh, honestly, Netta!”

Netta held up one hand in resignation. “All right, all right. I’ll shut my mouth, but do know how hard it is to bite my tongue. It’s just that I love you.”

“Well,” Bea Dot said, standing and tightening her apron, “You’re about to love me to the brink of insanity.”

Netta grinned at Bea Dot’s remark, and seeing Bea Dot try to stifle a smile, Netta poked at her cousin until her lips curled up and she snickered. A ton of guilt fell away from Netta’s shoulders as Bea Dot’s anger subsided.

The back door opened, bringing with it a brush of cool air that cleared the room. Terrence entered carrying an armload of kindling, which he placed in the wood box. Shavings and bits of bark clung to the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt.

“I split a bunch of logs out there for you, Miss Netta,” he said. “They oughta get you through the next few days. I also brung over a chunk of fat lighter I found in the woods. I split that up to small pieces for you too.” He stepped outside the back door and returned with a small bucket of dark brown sticks. Netta loved their piney scent, which quickly spread through the kitchen.

“Thank you, Terrence. You’ve been a great help today.”

He blushed and smiled. “Need anything else?”

“No, but does your mother need anything from the store? You’re welcome to take anything you like.”

Terrence shook his head and thanked her. “I’ll just be going now. I’ll tell my mama there ain’t no news yet. Me or my pa will stop by tomorrow to check on you.”

As he reached for the doorknob, Bea Dot stopped him. “Before you go, I was wondering, has your family heard any news from town, maybe any information about the telephone operator?”

Terrence pulled back the corner of his mouth and furrowed his brow. He stuck his hand in his back pants pocket as he replied. “Pa heard she died of the influenza.”

Bea Dot pressed her hand to her chest. And Netta leaned on the counter top. Her back muscles tightened at that news, and her stomach compressed into a tight ball.

“Do you know when anyone will take her place?” Bea Dot asked carefully. “We’ll need to call in when Miss Netta’s baby comes.”

“I wish I could tell you, Miss Bea Dot,” Terrence said, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head sadly. “Ain’t nobody else in town can work that switchboard. Miss Charlotte’s whole family is sick.”

Bea Dot straightened her back and lifted her chin. Netta could tell she was putting up a brave front.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bea Dot said. “Thank you, Terrence.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied before he stepped out the door.

The two women waved weakly as he pulled the door to behind him. Then they faced each other. Netta wondered if the nervousness in her eyes mirrored what she saw in Bea Dot’s. But neither woman spoke, and Netta supposed Bea Dot was just as reluctant as she was to articulate her fear.

Netta rubbed her back again and frowned. Why were her muscles so tight today? Then she jumped at a tickle on the inside of her leg and warmth in her undergarments. Her face widened in shock and embarrassment. “Oh, my soul and body! I think I’ve wet myself!”

Immediately, heat flamed her face as she realized she’d admitted aloud her humiliating mistake. She put her hands to her hot cheeks and said, “I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel like I’ve lost complete control of my body. I didn’t even realize I had to…go.”

Bea Dot came to her side and put her hand on her arm. “It’s all right. I’m sure this happens to all expectant women this late in their terms. Besides,” she said lightly, pointing to the wash bucket, “you picked the right time. Go change, and I’ll clean your clothes.”

Netta still burned with shame. “I think I should go to the outhouse first.”

She stepped outdoors and let the October breeze cool her flushed cheeks. She walked as fast as her heavy legs could take her to the privy. How could she have let such a thing happen, as if she were a three year-old child? At least Terrence had already gone home. Oh, what a horror if she’d made her mistake with him in the room! She blushed all over again at the thought. She had just reached the outhouse door and had her finger on the hook when the muscles around her torso squeezed her like a corset. Then a warm wetness gushed between her legs and down to her stockings. Was she losing the baby?
Oh, no, please God, no, no, no, no, no
. Her heart sped like a locomotive as she lifted her skirt to look for blood, and the odor of pickle juice wafted up. Her legs weren’t bloody, just soaked. What was happening?

The truth came to her like the solution to a mystery. Excitement and terror seized her at once, and she turned to hurry back into the house.

“Bea Dot!” she called as she lumbered toward the back door. “Bea Dot!”

Her cousin came to the steps, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Netta reached the house and gripped her cousin’s elbow. “My water just broke.”

That night lasted a moment and a lifetime. As Bea Dot sat through the afternoon and into the night holding Netta’s hand, wiping the sweat from her brow, telling her cousin everything would be all right, she cursed under her breath. She cursed the influenza. She cursed the operator for catching influenza. She cursed Ralph Coolidge for isolating his wife in the country and for leaving her in the care of a frightened, naïve newlywed who had no idea how to bake a loaf of bread, much less bring a life into the world.

On occasional visits to the Taylor farm, she’d picked up bits of information here and there: have lots of towels ready, wash her hands often, clean the baby’s mouth and nose when it was born. But now with the moment upon her, Bea Dot flooded her brain with questions she’d never known to ask.

How long after the water breaks should the baby arrive?

What if the baby doesn’t crown? Should Netta push anyway?

Should she feed Netta to keep up her strength? Was it safe to give her water?

From Eliza’s oral instructions, Bea Dot had conjured images in her head, but this labor was not turning out the way she’d imagined. For one thing, she expected to have time to run to the Taylors’ house to get Eliza. But Netta begged Bea Dot not to go. “I’m afraid,” she said with a shaky voice. “What if something goes wrong while you’re gone?”

What if something goes wrong while I’m here?
Bea Dot asked herself. More frightening than a complication was a complication
without Eliza
, the only person around who knew what to expect. Bea Dot pleaded with Netta, but her cousin gripped her hand and insisted that she remain at her bedside.

Then once the pains grew closer together, time raced by, and Bea Dot worked up and down, back and forth, like a ball on a tennis court. First Netta needed a sip of water. Then she needed to sit up. She needed to lie down. She needed Bea Dot to rub her back and comfort her. She needed Bea Dot to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Although Bea Dot tried to hide her fear and exhaustion, she knew Netta saw it in her eyes.

All she could do was pray for sunrise. Terrence usually dropped by during the morning.

Netta’s eyes and mouth pinched as another contraction seized her. She clutched her quilt into bunches as she endured the pain, then panted with relief when the contraction subsided. Bea Dot sat helpless, holding her cousin’s hand and cooing encouragement: “You’re doing fine, Netta. Any time now, Netta.”

Useless words. Were the situation reversed, Bea Dot would have socked Netta by now.

Netta pushed.  She pushed more. She pushed for hours, it seemed, until she had no more strength. After the tears and the strain, her face looked like it had been stung by bees. Bea Dot wanted to reach inside, pull the baby out, and end her cousin’s agony. Instead, all she could do was wait and be encouraging.

But when the baby crowned, Bea Dot momentarily forgot her fear, replacing it with excitement and joy at the first glance of her new little cousin. At last the ordeal would end. Ralph, Eliza, Will, had been right. Everything would turn out just fine. Finally, the baby ripped its way into the world, tearing its mother with its tiny, gigantic body, then wailing with a ferocity that belied its size.

She was a little girl, strong and healthy, who gave Bea Dot only seconds to clean her up, wrap her in a piece of torn sheet, and hand her to her exhausted mother before returning to work.  No instruction would have prepared Bea Dot for the trauma.  Eliza had said Netta would bleed, but so much? She plied Netta’s womb with compresses as Eliza had instructed, but Netta bled through them, the panels of ripped sheet no match for the life flowing out of Netta’s body.

She’d have to reuse them. Bea Dot applied one set of compresses and took the others to her tub of water on the stove, washing the pieces of linen and draping them over chair backs to dry. The fire’s heat on the wet fabric emitted a pungent steam, which Bea Dot had no choice but to ignore.

How could a person bleed so much? Terrified by the red-soaked compresses, Bea Dot forced a bright countenance for Netta’s sake. “You’re doing fine, Netta, just fine.” How many times had she said that? “I’ll be right back with more towels.”

“Bea Dot, help me sit up. I want to nurse my baby.”

She pulled Netta into a sitting position. Before stacking the pillows behind her cousin, she removed the pillow cases to use as compresses. She put one pillow in Netta’s lap as a prop, fearing her cousin was too weak to hold the baby on her own. Once the baby took hold of the breast, Netta relaxed slightly, and Bea Dot hustled to Will’s storage room to search for anything she could use as a compress.

She yanked the sheets off his pallet and found a towel or two. She searched his shelves and reluctantly pulled out his more tattered looking shirts. But if Netta’s bleeding didn’t subside, these few articles would do her little good.

On the way back to the bedroom, Bea Dot stopped at the telephone and tried with desperate hope to reach an operator. No answer. She thumped her forehead on the wall next to the phone and berated herself. She should have never allowed herself and Netta to be stuck in this God-awful predicament in the first place. She should have taken Netta to Savannah where Aunt Lavinia could look after her. Why didn’t she think of that before?

Oh, please Eliza, Terrence, anybody. Somebody please come and help.

Crossing into the bedroom, Bea Dot spied her trunk—the one Will had so easily loaded onto his wagon, carried into the camp house, and then back here to his store. That was an age ago. She tore open the lid and pulled out petticoats, chemises, blouses, anything absorbent. There in the bottom lay a flannel receiving blanket she’d brought for Netta as a gift. She’d forgotten all about it. She took the baby from Netta’s weak, shaking arms and exchanged the child’s torn sheet of a blanket for the new flannel one. Then she lay the baby next to her mother and went back to stanching Netta’s bleeding.

Through the night she toiled, soaking with red her favorite blouse, her war crinoline, the tunic she’d bought in Atlanta, all of which meant nothing to her except the chance to keep the life from seeping out of her cousin.

She lost track of time until the sun peeked over the pine trees. As Netta grew quieter and weaker, Bea Dot tried to convince herself her cousin’s pallor was only the sunlight on her face. The bleeding had slowed, thank goodness. Netta had stopped talking a couple of hours ago, lying still and watching Bea Dot work. The baby lay quietly cradled between its mother’s arm and her torso as if knowing not to be of any trouble.