The Midwife of Hope River (35 page)

The beginning of the pushing stage isn't clear; no dramatic “Uggggh!” But after our patient has been bearing down in earnest for an hour, I call Mrs. Wade to bring the hot water. It isn't Mrs. Wade but Mr. Wade, eyes averted, who carries in the steaming cast-iron kettle.

“How you doin', honey babe?”

“Want to stay, Daddy?” Lilly asks, surprising us.

“No, ma'am!” he says good-naturedly, backing out of the room. “I'll be in the parlor with my head under a pillow.”

“Lilly knows Pa by the smell of his tobacco and the sound of his size-thirteen shoes,” Mrs. Wade explains, slipping past him from the hall.

“I can hear you, Mama!”

The soon-to-be grandmother puts her hand in the shock of red curls and pulls gently. “We are never going to get the knots out of your hair.”

Just to be dramatic, Lilly thrashes her hair around like a cabaret singer. Then a contraction hits, and she goes back to work.

 

Caulbearer

Bitsy smooths the covers, giving me the signal that she thinks it's time to get the patient into bed, but I shake my head no. Lilly hasn't complained of burning at the opening, so I think the baby's not there yet.

“Oh, honey, oh, honey,” Mrs. Wade fusses, watching her daughter's face turn beet red and the veins bulge out on her neck. “I'm so sorry you have to go through this.”

“It's okay, Ma. How do you think babies get born?” Lilly says with a laugh between contractions. B.K. rolls his eyes sympathetically toward his mother-in-law.

Finally I intervene. “Would you want to lie down for a minute, Lilly? See if it's time?”

“Do you think it could be?”

“Soon, yes. I think so.”

The patient waddles over to the bed. B.K. lowers her down in front of him and is wedged against the headboard with his wife almost in his lap. When she spreads her legs, my mouth falls open and Bitsy and Mrs. Wade gasp. It is not a hairy little head sitting at the vaginal opening but a strange smooth wet orb, unearthly, the intact water bag. I've never seen a baby born in the caul before. The new mama reaches down to feel it.

“Is this the head? Is everything all right? It's so squishy.” Lilly's fingers are her eyes, and she keeps tapping the bag, confused. B.K. turns away, afraid to look.

“It's the baby's sac. Your water still hasn't broken. The old midwives say it's a lucky sign, to be born in the caul. Keep pushing!”

Lilly does what I tell her, and I step back to give Bitsy an opportunity to catch the baby. She's done most of the labor coaching, and it's clear from the birth at Hazel Patch a few days ago that I won't always be at her side.

My partner moves in with her sterile gloves on, and I pull on mine too. The head, or the head inside the water bag, emerges slowly, and the bag gets bigger and bigger but doesn't pop. The slippery sac gradually dilates everything until the baby, water bag and all, slips into Bitsy's hands. She looks at me as if to ask “What now?”

I reach over with a placenta pan, pinch the sac, and let the water flow out. Bitsy peels the sac off the infant's face the way, long ago, I pulled the sac off the filly's face when I went with Hester to the delivery of the foal.

“Is it okay?” Lilly whispers. “I don't hear a cry!”

I pull the baby into my lap and give it a rub. “It's a girl, and she's fine.”

“The eyes are open.” B.K. is seeing for his wife. “Now she's moving around. Here, feel.” He takes his wife's hand and places it on the baby's stomach.

“Now she's turning pink,” the husband continues. The baby lets out a reassuring wail.

That's when Lilly grabs her up, still wet with the cord dangling. “Oh, my baby!” she croons. “My baby.” The end of the birth song.

 

Ten minutes later, I'm sitting in the rocking chair while Bitsy cleans up efficiently. What am I going to do without her if she and Byrd Bowlin move away? Behind me, I can hear Mrs. Wade sobbing. “Thank the Lord. Thank you, Lord Jesus.”

I feel like crying myself, and I'm not sure if it's from the wonder of birth or just plain exhaustion. Then there's my situation. Even in the best of circumstances pregnant women are emotional.

I wipe my eyes and watch as Lilly and B.K. explore their newborn. The husband paints pictures for his wife. Having a baby with such a husband would be a different matter. But I have no husband, no man to share a child with.

“I think her hair is going to be red, no surprise,” observes the father. The new mother pinches the chubby little arms. She sniffs the infant all over, holds the baby up to her face, and licks it. That surprises me, but then I think of Moonlight. She licked her baby too.

Mrs. Wade edges up to the bed. She can't help herself.

“Oh, Ma! Look. Isn't she wonderful?”

“She's a beauty,” Mrs. Wade says as she pulls Lilly's hair back and kisses her cheek. “Just like her mother.”

“I'm going to call her Velvet,” the new mother tells us, “because she's so soft. Oh, look at her little mouth, like a rosebud, and her tiny ears, like shells.” Lilly's laughing and reading her baby with soft quick happy fingers as if she's reading Braille, and it comes to me . . .

We are only on this earth, as far as we know, one time, and we deserve to be happy. It's our job to be happy. In my mind I raise my hand, and another hand, my wiser hand, reaches out to me.

Let it be . . .

 

October 24, 1930. Sliver moon rising.

Birth of another female. This one to Lilly Bittman and her husband, B.K., of Liberty. Lilly is blind from German measles as a child, but you'd hardly know it. Her labor went well, and she insisted that her husband stay with her.

I don't know why I got the impression from Mrs. Kelly that men couldn't be counted on at a delivery. All my experiences this year, with the exception of William MacIntosh, who fainted, have been good. The healthy female infant was born in the caul. The first time I've ever seen that. Bitsy delivered and did as well as I could myself. 7 pounds, 3 ounces. No tears, little bleeding. They named her Velvet.

Paid $10.00 credit at their grocery store, which is the best we've received in a long time.

42

Peril

In the dark hours of night, I hear Emma and Sasha barking, then the sound of a vehicle coming up Wild Rose Road. Sam Hill! I'm so tired . . . Mr. Wade missed the turn onto Salt Lick when he brought us home, and we didn't get in until midnight. Then I stayed up to write my notes and drink valerian tea.

Headlights flicker on the pitched bedroom ceiling. What now? Another baby? When I pad to the window to look out, I'm surprised to see three vehicles winding up the hill. This doesn't seem right.

“Bitsy!” I yell through the wall, “get your clothes on!” No one comes for the midwife with three autos. “We got trouble!”

As I hustle into my work pants and an old brown sweater, I hear Bitsy's feet hit the floor. Downstairs, I pull on my boots, grab the dogs, order them to stand down, then peek through the curtains. A truck and two dark sedans stop at the gate.

My companion crawls across the floor and holds on to my knee. “Who is it?” she whispers, crouching low.

“I can't tell. I can't see.”

A man snickers in a high falsetto, and the car doors slam.

“Shuddup!” someone orders in a lower tone.

“Make me,” the guy with a nasal voice counters. Laughter.

“There must be more than ten.” I swallow hard, thinking of Becky Myers's warnings and watch as the gang pulls on white hoods, not the full Klan regalia, more like pillowcases. Bitsy knows what this means. Becky Myers did too.

“I'll get my guns.” That's Bitsy.

“No, there's too many of them. If they have weapons and there's a firefight, we'll lose. We don't want shooting.” I strain behind the curtain to see what's happening. No one has entered the yard yet, but two of the fellows move along the picket fence in either direction and another three are tying something to the gate.

We have no phone to call for help and, though we have an auto, sadly no gas. We could try to run for it on Star, but we'd be exposed in the meadow and the men might shoot or get to us before we could mount. There's a roar, and the fence under the old oak tree bursts into flames.

“How do you like that, nigger lover?”

“Nigger lover with her chocolate drop girlfriend!” the nasal guy yells, passing a glass container that shines in the firelight.

I put my hands over Bitsy's ears, but she shakes them off and I can feel tears on the side of her face.

“Yeah, ya nigger-loving slut . . . hey, hand me the jug.”

Both sides of the picket fence are blazing now, circling us in a ring of fire, and the men stand back while someone pours gasoline on the handmade crooked cross tied to the gate. It bursts into flame.

“I'm so sorry, Patience,” Bitsy whimpers, as though it's her fault. She slides down further on the floor and leans against the wall.

“Shhhh!” I rest my hand on my friend's head. No way are they going to get to her. No way are they going to put their rough white hands on her beautiful brown body. I'll go down trying to stop them.

Emma begins to growl again, and I tap her muzzle. I don't know what advantage silence gives, but I want it. The fire is dangerous, but perhaps the men only mean to frighten us, to intimidate. (If that's their plan, it's working.)

More swearing. More taunts. “Come on out, you sluts! Let's party!”

“Yeah, we want some pussy!”

“You take the white one. I'll take the brown.”

“Hell, I'll do them both!”

That goes on for a while. The men in hoods have no faces. They could be anyone. I remember what Becky told me: when times are hard and people are suffering, there will be those who want to hurt someone.

Bitsy is sobbing now. I'd like to cry too, but what good would it do? I'll cry later. If there is a later . . . “Get a grip, Bitsy, and if it will make you feel better, go get the guns.”

My friend scoots across the floor toward the pantry where she keeps her rifle and shotgun. She crawls back and sits with her back to the door, loading the ammunition. My mouth is as dry as a bale of hay, and I wonder, if she gives me a gun, will I remember how to use it?

Dancing shadows in the flames, the smell of kerosene and burning wood. A short, thick man pulls a half-burning picket off the fence and waves it like a torch. Three others follow. Then someone gets the bright idea of throwing his flaming brand at the house.

“Watch it, you almost hit me!” the low voice yells.

“Aw, shit, Aran! We're just having fun.”

There's a scuffle, and the big man busts the smaller one in the chops. “I said no
names
!”

Aran, I think. That's one of the Bishop brothers, the moonshiners who gave Hester a hard time. What did we ever do to them? And the short loudmouth, that's probably Beef, the guy who kept whacking his horse when it died.

The Klansmen, or pretend Klansmen, whoever they are, continue to throw burning sticks at the house.
“Buffalo Girls, won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?”
someone sings.

“Yeah, I'll make mine
come.
” More laughter. More throwing of torches. One flaming brand hits the porch roof but skitters off into the leaves. The ground is too damp for the fire to spread, but if one should ignite the shingles, our roof will go up like a tender box.

“Bitsy, we gotta get out of here. We'll head for the barn, free the animals in case they try to set it on fire, and maybe in the confusion we can get on Star and ride away. If we stay here, we could be burned alive or captured, and there's no way I want those men to lay their dirty paws on us.” What I'm thinking is, I'd rather go up in a blaze, but that might be an exaggeration.

We grab our jackets and crawl toward the kitchen. But what about the dogs? If I free them, they will attack the intruders and maybe get shot. If leave them in the house and it catches on fire, they'll be burned alive. I don't have a plan, except to save ourselves, so while the shouting goes on, I kiss them each on the nose and creep out the back. Sasha whines.

“Shhhhh!” I command, shutting the door and feeling terrible.

 

Buffalo Girls

Sheltered by the shadow of the house, we stay low and dash straight for the barn door. Inside, Star whinnies, but I lay my hands on her and she quiets down. First we push Moonlight and her calf out into the yard. Moonlight looks at the fire with bulging white eyes and trots around back with the calf right behind her. Then we grab the chickens, which refuse to get out of their boxes until we pick them up and throw them out the double doors. I can't blame them. How would we like to be yanked out of bed and hurled into the night?

For a moment I stare at our idle Oldsmobile. If only we could rev it up and roar out in it, past our attackers and down the mountain, but I know all that's left in the gas tank is fumes, and anyway, their vehicles are blocking the road. Finally I climb up the slatted side of Star's stall and mount her. Bitsy hands me her shotgun and slides on behind.

“Wait.” I point down at two white feed sacks hanging over the hayrack. I don't yet know my intention, but I pull one over my head and hand one to Bitsy. “Put this on.”

“What?” I can imagine her shocked expression. “I can't see.”

“Shhhhhh!” I yank them off, lean over toward the scythe hanging on the barn wall, and slash two eyeholes in each of them. Feed sacks back over our heads, we look at each other. I'd laugh out loud if our situation weren't so terrifying.

 

Outside, Star trembles and shies when she first sees the fire, but I guide her away around the side of the barn. Apparently the men, still singing out front, don't know we're gone.

We have two choices. We can continue our course, trot around the rail fence, and escape up the back, or . . . something bothers me about running, leaving our little house, barn, and dogs for the fools to burn up. I've been running my whole life.

The Buffalo Soldiers were the brave black U.S. Cavalry men who fought in the West in the Civil War. The intruders call us the “Buffalo Girls,” and that settles it!

“Hold your gun up where they can see it, Bitsy. Change of tactics. Those guys tick me off!”

“Oh, Miss Patience!” Bitsy squeaks, but she shifts her position and does what I say.

“Buffalo Girls, won't you come out tonight?”
the guys warble drunkenly. The wild laughter crescendos, the fire flares, and two more flaming pickets twirl toward our roof.

I nudge my horse into a canter. “Hold on,” I growl, more for myself than for Bitsy. I have no idea what I'm doing. I just don't feel like sneaking away, coming back in the morning to find our sweet little home a pile of coals.

“You fucking pillow heads!” I yell the worst words I know as we gallop into the light, right up to the knot of men. The anger and fear in me come out like a roar. If Sheriff Hardman could see me now, he wouldn't think me so soft. I'm more pissed than these men could ever be. A pregnant woman protecting her nest!

“You fucking pillow heads!” my friend echoes and fires once into the air.

The singing comes to an abrupt halt. In the flickering firelight, the men are confused. Who are these new masked riders? Bitsy and I, on top of the wild-eyed beast, tower over them. “You have business here?” I growl in the lowest voice I can work up, nudging Star farther into the crowd. Bitsy reaches down and strips off one man's mask. He's too startled to speak, covers his face, and jumps into his truck.

“Coward!” I yell through my dusty feed sack. Bitsy gets into the spirit of things and fires into the air twice more.

I dance Star around as we pull off three more head covers. The other men duck down where I can't reach them and bump into one another as they scuttle like crabs. I'm sure they don't realize that the aggressors on the horse are Bitsy and me, in control now—the Buffalo Girls!

 

Flames, I am sure, are shooting out of the top of my head, and I'm reckless with fury. I haven't felt like this since the day on Blair Mountain. All the pain and the worry of the last few months, all the sadness and fear gushes out of me like Fourth of July fireworks. It's a good thing Bitsy is holding the gun, because I would be dangerous!

I work my way further into the throng, causing Star to be more anxious than needed by swinging her head back and forth and making her snort and whinny. The short man with the nasal voice falls on his knees almost under us, and I'd be happy if he was trampled, but one of his brothers pulls him away and shoves him into the Model T.

“That's right, Beef.
Run!
You too, Aran Bishop!” I feel like shaking the spit out of them! “Take your friends. Put your sweating coward tails between your legs and hit the road!” The first two vehicles have already turned and are hurtling down Wild Rose. Men are fumbling to crank up the third.

Bitsy nudges me and nods down the hill. In the distance another line of lights moves toward us. Our situation has just gone from bad to worse.

 

Remember Me

The fence is a circle of fire with the crooked cross still burning as the new caravan of Klansmen gets closer. We should get going while we have the chance, but my righteous indignation is out of control. If more pillow heads are on their way, I'm ready for them!

There are three vehicles speeding down Wild Rose Road while three more labor up, but they don't pause when they meet each other. The new autos stop just outside our burning fence.

“
Do Lord, oh do, Lord . . .”
It's Reverend Miller, Mrs. Miller, Byrd Bowlin, and Twyla from the Hazel Patch Baptist Chapel, singing at the top of their lungs. Behind them are a pickup and a Model T Ford.
“When I am in trouble, do remember me.”

Bitsy slides off the side of the horse and slumps on the ground. I slip down next to her, and we both pull off our feed sacks, feeling foolish.

“Everyone okay?” The Hazel Patch folks pile out of their hack. Daniel Hester gets out of his Ford, and in the pickup truck, I'm surprised to see Mr. Maddock and his wife, Sarah Rose. Maddock doesn't say anything, just jumps down and starts kicking the flaming cross with a viciousness that surprises me. Byrd Bowlin enfolds the sobbing Bitsy.

“Everyone okay?” the reverend asks again, stepping over a flaming board and pulling me to my feet. Daniel Hester in his long veterinarian coat comes up behind him.

“Yeah, we're all right.” My legs are shaking and I want to throw up, but for some silly reason, I have to act strong.

“It was a close one,” I say, making light of it. “The sight of us on our big horse took the men by surprise. Then Bitsy started pulling their masks off . . . did you see them? They were trying to act like the Ku Klux Klan.” I pick up a discarded mask to illustrate. The vet takes one look at Star's trembling body, grabs the reins, and takes her away from the fire. I watch as he runs his big hands down her neck, whispers in her ear, and ties her in the shadows, where she can calm down.

“How did you know? How did you know we were in trouble?” I ask Reverend Miller.