The Book of the Unnamed Midwife (18 page)

The oldest woman spoke up first, her hands still busy and her eyes on her task. “You’re not allowed to be back here, stranger.”

“I’m sorry,” Dusty said. “I just didn’t get the chance to speak with any of you yesterday.”

The woman with the gray at her temples set down her corn muffins and put her hands on her hips. “I’m Sister Everly. This is Sister Johannsen and Sister Obermeyer.
 
And I’m afraid that’s all the speaking we’re going to do without our husbands present.” She gave Dusty a pointed look and went back to her work.

“Forgive me ladies, I meant no disrespect.” Dusty managed this very formal apology without missing a beat, despite it feeling like an antique phrase out of the attic of her brain. She turned to leave.

Sister Obermeyer, the young one with the strawberry blonde hair, called after her. “Breakfast is in less than an hour. See you soon!”

Dusty saw herself out and went back into the large auditorium. She walked the walls looking at the children’s pictures. Many of them were colored and filled-out pages of activity books. Others were freehand drawings, but Dusty thought they were probably directed by an adult. Every picture had four examples of the same thing, and every single one was rosy and happy and envisioned a perfect world. If children of the plague were allowed to draw what they felt, Dusty imagined the room would look different.

But all of the children’s pictures had smiling mommies in them.

She was still moving around the room when the three women emerged from the kitchen, green tablecloths in their hands.

“Can I help?”

Sister Everly pursed her lips. “Well, we always run a little behind while the boys are at seminary. I suppose you can.” She broke her stack of them in half and handed them over to Dusty. Dusty moved about efficiently, grabbing them by their edges and flipping them out over the tables. Coming to the last cloth, she saw that all the others had finished and were bustling back through the swinging doors.

Sister Johannsen came back out first. Her shining black hair was done up in braids that looked elaborate and difficult. She was carrying two centerpieces.

“So, are you Elder Johannsen’s wife?”

She did not look up, but laid her two centerpieces and kept moving. “I’m his daughter in law.”

She went back through the doors.

Can’t one of them hold still for five minutes and talk to me?

Sister Everly was next, with four centerpieces held together in her hands like a practiced waitress carries drinks.

“I don’t believe I’ve met your husband, ma’am.”

Sister Everly looked at Dusty, but did it with the kind of look a woman gives a troublesome vacuum cleaner. “Mr. Everly sat beside me at dinner last night. He’s a farmer.”

“Oh, I saw the chickens and cows on the edge of town.”

“My husband farms peas and beans. He’s in charge of them year-round.”

“How nice,” Dusty said to the swinging doors.

Sister Obermeyer came out with four centerpieces, carrying the way Sister Everly had. “And what does your husband do?”

Her brows furrowed a little and her pink mouth flattened. “He’s a missionary. Serving in Colorado.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Five months. They’re due back like any day now.” She disappeared again.

The two older women emerged together, and Dusty was not yet ready to give up. “Where are the children? Are any of them yours?”

“Yes,” said both women.

“I’d love to meet them. I haven’t seen a child in a long time. I have experience treating children, if they need any medical help. I’d love just to hear stories about them.” Dusty had years of experience talking to mothers. Patients and nurses alike couldn’t stop themselves from telling these stories, showing their pictures, or sharing their worries.

Sister Everly was as stony-faced as ever, but Sister Johannsen softened around the eyes. “You can’t meet them,” the younger woman said. “They’re kept separate. But I could tell you-“

“You could, when your work is done. Mind yourself, Anne. Come along now.” Sister Johannsen looked back at the older woman like a child who was promised a treat and then denied it. She followed meekly, however.

Dusty sighed, exasperated. She flopped into one of the chairs and let them buzz around her, laying silverware and making last minute preparations for breakfast. When the men began filing in, Dusty watched and sat at the table with the largest number of empty seats, intending to sit with the women when they finished. She noticed she got a few sharp glances, but she wasn’t told to move. She patiently folded her arms for prayer and sat politely passing food and waiting for conversation to begin. The couples at her table served one another scrambled eggs and corn muffins and steamed broccoli.

When she thought it was safe to try again, she went back to work on Sister Johannsen. “So, tell me about your children.”

Her husband looked up, shocked. “Our two boys died during the sickness, Brother.”

“But your wife said some of the children here were hers.”

He frowned at her. “The Law of Consecration doesn’t really make them ours, honey. They’re still sealed to their own folks.”

The law of what now?

She smiled at him and it made her beautiful. “Sure they’re ours. They’re everyone’s! There’s Patty, that’s the oldest. She’s a beautiful little girl, nine years old. She loves to sing and draw pictures. I’m reading Where the Red Fern Grows with her right now and she wants a puppy so bad. Then there’s her sister Mikayla, who’s very strong willed and stubborn. She’s just seven and she loves Barbies. She’s got dozens, but we had to sort through Barbie’s clothes to find some that were modest.” She giggled a little here, her eyes alight. “Then the boys, Ben and John. Ben’s seven, too, and John is six. They’re both so smart, already reading and writing and Ben can name all the books of the Old Testament in order. John is very shy and affectionate. He’s a cuddly one! I wish I had pictures. The sisters and I all teach them and care for them. They’re having their breakfast now, too, with Jodi.”

“Jodi?”

“Sister Obermeyer. It’s her day to eat with them.” Sure enough, the youngest woman was missing from the table.

The redhead. Right.

Brother Johannsen was still clearly uncomfortable, but he was pleased with his wife. “Anne was a wonderful mother. I’m glad she’s helping to care for the stake’s children. But soon enough she’ll have my baby to take care of. I guess I’m just a little selfish that way. I want my own boys back, and I can’t wait to have our own again.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” They gazed at each other with a syrupy sweetness that Dusty could not believe was real. She decided to change the subject.

“So I’d like to get my hair cut. Can any of you tell me who does all these neat cuts?”

Brother Everly pointed with a forkful of egg to another table. “Brother White. He cut hair for the navy for fifteen years. Just ask him, he’ll fix you up.”

Dusty finished off her corn muffins and excused herself from the table. She walked over to Brother White and made arrangements for a haircut right after breakfast.

Brother White sat her in an old barber’s chair in his kitchen. The house was dead quiet. His tools were laid out on a clean white towel. His shears were very old-looking, with mother of pearl handles. She told him she thought they were handsome.

“They were a gift from my mother, when I got assigned to barbering by the navy. She said I needed something with a little class. Just the standard cut?”

“Sure, I just want it cleaned up and off my neck.”

“Shave, too?” He grabbed her by the chin, rubbing a little with his thumb. The sudden contact shocked her and she jerked her head away.

“No!” She settled back down as fast as she could. “No. I don’t grow much facial hair. Or much chest hair. My father didn’t, either. Just lucky.”

The old barber seemed unruffled. “My beard keeps my face warm.” He combed her hair out with a wet brush and started cutting.

“So is there a sporting goods store in Huntsville? I’d like to get some snowshoes or better boots, if I can.”

“Sure, sure. There’s a Cabella’s that I’m sure will have something. You’ll have to ask the bishop about it though.”

“The bishop?”

“Elder Comstock. Bishop Comstock. You’ll just need permission to take something from the bishop’s storehouse.”

“What’s the bishop’s storehouse?”

His cold steel scissors slid along the back of her neck in a perfect straight line. “It’s everything that belongs to the town. He’s in charge of making sure that people get what they need.”

Of course.

“Alright, I can do that. Where would he be around now?”

“Probably over to the courthouse. He’ll be busy, though. All finished.”

He pedaled the release to drop her back to the floor. She slid down on a cushion of air and he handed her a mirror. She took it and looked.

“Without a beard you look like a little boy,” Brother White laughed. “Or a grownup tomboy.”

“Thanks.” Dusty patted the stray hairs off her shirt and walked out the kitchen door.

The courthouse was located at the opposite end of Main Street from the stake center. It wasn’t a grand civic affair with columns or a dome, just a small-town courthouse. Plate glass in front with cement pillars to prevent an angry someone from driving through the façade. Useless metal detectors stood beside every entry point and the freshly-laundered American flag stood on an eagle-topped pole in the corner of the foyer.

A guard stood posted at the inner door, another bearded old white man and she started to feel very tired of seeing the same face. He let her pass.

Bishop Comstock was sitting on the judge’s bench wearing the same dark suit. He was listening to a man standing in front of him tell a long whining story about a series of books he wanted to read that the other man in the room had not finished yet and wouldn’t give up.

“I got to read the first half of the first book, and then he got permission to take the whole series. I don’t want the whole series, just the first couple when he’s done with them.”

The man standing on the other side shook his head, his short dark curls shining in the sunlight that came through the windows. Snow had stopped falling and the day was cold, but bright. “I told him, I want to keep the whole series until I’ve finished them all. What if I need to go back and look something up? I don’t want to have to track him down to get it back. I’ll finish soon, and then he can have them.”

Bishop Comstock looked thoughtfully down on them. “What are these books called? What are they about?”

The two men looked at one another, and then quickly away. The light-haired man spoke first.

“They’re about a… a spy. A female courtier who spies… for a queen.”