The Midwife of Hope River
Page 40
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“It licked me!” I whisper.
“Can you get a grip on anything? Your fingers are smaller than mine.”
I frown. “What would I grip?”
“Just give it a shot,” he whispers with his back turned to the Dreshers, who stand respectfully back at the kitchen door. “I don’t want to use forceps. If I fail, I’ll have to take her back to the office for a cesarean section. She’s in such bad shape she might not make it.”
I take a deep breath and mull things over. “If we could lift her front legs up, support her somehow, that might bring the presenting part lower. Once or twice I’ve had women squat for a birth.” Mr. and Mrs. Dresher stare at us hopefully. They probably think we do this together all the time.
The vet looks skeptical but does what I ask, supports the small animal under her forelegs and lifts her head and trunk up eight inches.
“A little more?” He goes up another four inches until Hilda is standing like a poodle in the circus. The unborn puppy’s snout comes down an inch, and it licks the tip of my finger again. That gives me an idea. I reach a little farther, turn my hand over, get the tip of my index finger into the animal’s mouth, and pull down on the jaw. Mrs. Kelly did something like this back in Pittsburgh when an Irish woman, Jennie O’Hare, had a baby in a face presentation. You have to be very gentle.
I smile and look up at Hester and then across at the worried Dreshers. “It’s moving!”
Hilda feels it too, and a little strength returns to her pushing. I know she can’t understand me, but I can’t help myself and I get excited. “Push, Mama. Push with all your heart!”
Mrs. Dresher comes over and joins in the cheerleading, pulls up a chair, puts her chin in her hand, and concentrates all her energy toward the little pooch. “Push, honey. You can do it!”
Hester shakes his head and grins that crooked smile, but soon we can see the tip of a black snout at the opening. I don’t let go, just keep up with my gentle traction until the widest part of a good-sized head appears at the opening and the water gushes out. Then the vet tips the mother dog on her side to catch her breath.
The first large puppy lies very still, and I want to jump in and blow on it, but the vet elbows me out of the way and brings the newborn around to Hilda’s head, where she licks it until it squirms and finally breathes.
After the first pup, the rest of the births are easy, with four more dogs born in their sacs slipping out one after the other.
When we are all done and Hilda is stable and resting, Mr. Hester and I take turns washing up in the indoor bathroom and Mrs. Dresher sets out tea and coffee cake in the living room. Companionably, we observe the brown-and-white newborns, now in a basket near the hearth with their mother, whining and squirming for the best place to nurse while George Olsen belts out “A Precious Little Thing Called Love” on the radio: “What’s the one thing makes me say Heaven’s just across the way. It’s a precious little thing called love.” Animals, I reflect, are not much different from humans when it comes to birth and the feelings they have for their newborns. The little white dog’s eyes are moist with love.
Back in the Model T, Daniel Hester and I drive in silence. As we pass through Liberty, I notice the copper’s car is now in front of Mrs. Barnett’s Boarding House. Have the lawmen moved here permanently? At last Hester’s auto slugs up Wild Rose Road. It’s been a long day.
“I appreciate your coming with me,” he says formally. It’s the first time we’ve spoken since we left the Dreshers’. “It’s always a pleasure having your company.” Briefly, I imagine we’re returning from a charity ball at the Oneida Inn.
“I’m beat, but I enjoyed it. It’s interesting . . .” We pull up in front of my house. “Do you want to come in?”
“For another rum toddy?” He gives me that grin, and I can see his white teeth in the very dark car.
“Out of luck there, no rum,” I tease.
“Then I better be going.” He reaches over and pats my arm, and I can feel his warmth through my jacket.
“Drive safely,” I say and jump from the car.
“You know me.” He guns his motor and turns around, skidding like a racecar driver in the mud.
The hounds bark wildly out back, but I stand on the porch watching until his little amber taillights wink out at the bend.
21
Five Crows
Bitsy hasn’t come home since the cave-in. The first night, after the Wildcat disaster, she slept at Thomas’s. Now it’s Sunday and she must have stayed for church and maybe a potluck afterward. Who can blame her? I know she misses her family.
So many times she’s asked me to come to church with her, but my faith in God is as thin as the cheesecloth we used to use to strain milk. Though the Hazel Patch flock are black, it’s not a matter of color; it’s that they are true believers and I’d feel out of place.
Yesterday five crows landed in a row on a branch of the bare oak just outside the kitchen window. I sat drinking peppermint tea and stared at them as they stared at me. It was strange because crows don’t usually come right up to the house. I felt that they had brought me a message, only I was too deaf to hear it.
Another day passes, and still Bitsy’s not home. It’s been three days and it’s a free world, but I miss her footsteps and even her clanging around with the iron poker in the stove at six A.M. Just as I’m preparing for bed, the dogs begin to growl and someone knocks on the door. I haven’t heard an engine, so whoever it is must have come with a horse or a cart. Resentfully, I pull on my clothes, clump down the stairs, and light a kerosene lamp.
“Miss Patience,” a woman’s voice calls. She pounds on the door again, and when I swing it open, she almost falls in. “I’m Ruth Klopfenstein. Sorry to wake you, but we live on the other side of Hope Ridge on Bucks Run and my sister-in-law, Molly, is in labor.” The young woman, in her early twenties, dressed all in black with a black scarf and gold wire-rimmed glasses like mine, is a wholesome farm girl with sandy hair that shines in the kerosene lamplight.
“Granny says something’s wrong and I should get you. We’ve been driving around for the last hour. Missed your road the first time.”
“Is this her first baby? How long has she been in labor?” I ask the two questions almost as one. If this is a second or third child, she may have already given birth.
“Can you get a grip on anything? Your fingers are smaller than mine.”
I frown. “What would I grip?”
“Just give it a shot,” he whispers with his back turned to the Dreshers, who stand respectfully back at the kitchen door. “I don’t want to use forceps. If I fail, I’ll have to take her back to the office for a cesarean section. She’s in such bad shape she might not make it.”
I take a deep breath and mull things over. “If we could lift her front legs up, support her somehow, that might bring the presenting part lower. Once or twice I’ve had women squat for a birth.” Mr. and Mrs. Dresher stare at us hopefully. They probably think we do this together all the time.
The vet looks skeptical but does what I ask, supports the small animal under her forelegs and lifts her head and trunk up eight inches.
“A little more?” He goes up another four inches until Hilda is standing like a poodle in the circus. The unborn puppy’s snout comes down an inch, and it licks the tip of my finger again. That gives me an idea. I reach a little farther, turn my hand over, get the tip of my index finger into the animal’s mouth, and pull down on the jaw. Mrs. Kelly did something like this back in Pittsburgh when an Irish woman, Jennie O’Hare, had a baby in a face presentation. You have to be very gentle.
I smile and look up at Hester and then across at the worried Dreshers. “It’s moving!”
Hilda feels it too, and a little strength returns to her pushing. I know she can’t understand me, but I can’t help myself and I get excited. “Push, Mama. Push with all your heart!”
Mrs. Dresher comes over and joins in the cheerleading, pulls up a chair, puts her chin in her hand, and concentrates all her energy toward the little pooch. “Push, honey. You can do it!”
Hester shakes his head and grins that crooked smile, but soon we can see the tip of a black snout at the opening. I don’t let go, just keep up with my gentle traction until the widest part of a good-sized head appears at the opening and the water gushes out. Then the vet tips the mother dog on her side to catch her breath.
The first large puppy lies very still, and I want to jump in and blow on it, but the vet elbows me out of the way and brings the newborn around to Hilda’s head, where she licks it until it squirms and finally breathes.
After the first pup, the rest of the births are easy, with four more dogs born in their sacs slipping out one after the other.
When we are all done and Hilda is stable and resting, Mr. Hester and I take turns washing up in the indoor bathroom and Mrs. Dresher sets out tea and coffee cake in the living room. Companionably, we observe the brown-and-white newborns, now in a basket near the hearth with their mother, whining and squirming for the best place to nurse while George Olsen belts out “A Precious Little Thing Called Love” on the radio: “What’s the one thing makes me say Heaven’s just across the way. It’s a precious little thing called love.” Animals, I reflect, are not much different from humans when it comes to birth and the feelings they have for their newborns. The little white dog’s eyes are moist with love.
Back in the Model T, Daniel Hester and I drive in silence. As we pass through Liberty, I notice the copper’s car is now in front of Mrs. Barnett’s Boarding House. Have the lawmen moved here permanently? At last Hester’s auto slugs up Wild Rose Road. It’s been a long day.
“I appreciate your coming with me,” he says formally. It’s the first time we’ve spoken since we left the Dreshers’. “It’s always a pleasure having your company.” Briefly, I imagine we’re returning from a charity ball at the Oneida Inn.
“I’m beat, but I enjoyed it. It’s interesting . . .” We pull up in front of my house. “Do you want to come in?”
“For another rum toddy?” He gives me that grin, and I can see his white teeth in the very dark car.
“Out of luck there, no rum,” I tease.
“Then I better be going.” He reaches over and pats my arm, and I can feel his warmth through my jacket.
“Drive safely,” I say and jump from the car.
“You know me.” He guns his motor and turns around, skidding like a racecar driver in the mud.
The hounds bark wildly out back, but I stand on the porch watching until his little amber taillights wink out at the bend.
21
Five Crows
Bitsy hasn’t come home since the cave-in. The first night, after the Wildcat disaster, she slept at Thomas’s. Now it’s Sunday and she must have stayed for church and maybe a potluck afterward. Who can blame her? I know she misses her family.
So many times she’s asked me to come to church with her, but my faith in God is as thin as the cheesecloth we used to use to strain milk. Though the Hazel Patch flock are black, it’s not a matter of color; it’s that they are true believers and I’d feel out of place.
Yesterday five crows landed in a row on a branch of the bare oak just outside the kitchen window. I sat drinking peppermint tea and stared at them as they stared at me. It was strange because crows don’t usually come right up to the house. I felt that they had brought me a message, only I was too deaf to hear it.
Another day passes, and still Bitsy’s not home. It’s been three days and it’s a free world, but I miss her footsteps and even her clanging around with the iron poker in the stove at six A.M. Just as I’m preparing for bed, the dogs begin to growl and someone knocks on the door. I haven’t heard an engine, so whoever it is must have come with a horse or a cart. Resentfully, I pull on my clothes, clump down the stairs, and light a kerosene lamp.
“Miss Patience,” a woman’s voice calls. She pounds on the door again, and when I swing it open, she almost falls in. “I’m Ruth Klopfenstein. Sorry to wake you, but we live on the other side of Hope Ridge on Bucks Run and my sister-in-law, Molly, is in labor.” The young woman, in her early twenties, dressed all in black with a black scarf and gold wire-rimmed glasses like mine, is a wholesome farm girl with sandy hair that shines in the kerosene lamplight.
“Granny says something’s wrong and I should get you. We’ve been driving around for the last hour. Missed your road the first time.”
“Is this her first baby? How long has she been in labor?” I ask the two questions almost as one. If this is a second or third child, she may have already given birth.
