The Midwife of Hope River
Page 60
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“ ‘What the hell!’ he yelled, standing there in the barn door with a bucket of water he was bringing out for the stock. He took it all in, the dead horse, the grown men involved in a barnyard brawl, and threw the water all over us.
“That’s when I jumped up and left. Just grabbed my hat, staggered out of the yard, and hobbled as fast as I could for my Ford. I could hear Aran hollering at them as I started my vehicle, but the brothers just laughed.”
“Did you go see someone for your injuries?”
“No.”
“Why not? Something could be broken!” I rise and move toward the kitchen, unable to stand the disorder.
Hester groans. “You know medical people never go to doctors. Nothing’s broken but my spirit. The worse part, for me, is the horse . . . the unnecessary death of the beautiful horse.” He wipes his wet eyes. “Assholes!”
In the next half hour, I dig through Hester’s dresser to find a clean pair of skivvies and help him clean up. Though he seems a meticulous surgeon, his sense of personal order is no better than Ruben’s was. The drawers are filled with a tangle of unfolded clothes. None of the socks are matched. I can hardly tell what’s clean and what’s dirty.
With difficulty we remove his sling, and Hester lets me wash his upper body, his neck, and his back. He can move his left arm, which is black and blue from the elbow to the shoulder, so I have to agree with him that it probably isn’t broken.
While he bathes below his waist, I run downstairs, tidy the kitchen, and heat a can of Van Camp’s Pork & Beans that I dig out of the pantry. Then, while he eats, sitting up in a chair, I change his linens. Finally he collapses back onto the bed like a steelworker at the end of the day.
“So what was your plan?” I ask with a smile when my nursing tasks are done; two quart jars of clean drinking water rest on the bedside table and his potty, now shiny white, is nearby.
“Plan?”
“Yeah. How were you going to get by in this state? Were you going to call someone? Dr. Blum or Becky Myers?”
“Hell, no. Anyway, Blum was in a bad auto wreck last week on his way home from a night call. His car went into the ravine along Bluff Creek. Reverend Miller was out on a call and found him, but his auto is beyond repair. He told me he’s through. Doesn’t want to live like this anymore, going out day and night in all kinds of weather, risking his life for almost no pay. As soon as he can, he’s taking his wife and joining his brother’s practice back in Charlottesville.”
I let out my breath thinking about the pregnant women in Union County, especially the ones with problems, and how this will affect them. But I don’t let myself get diverted.
“So what was your plan?” I ask a second time. “What were you going to do about your injuries and your stock? Just lie here and rot and let your animals starve? You could hardly get down the stairs to cook or get water unless you slid on your bottom.”
His eyes are laughing. “I was waiting for an angel of mercy.”
June 30, 1930. New moon rising.
Called to the Klopfenstein farm again, this time to deliver Elvira and Moses Klopfenstein’s fourth baby (a boy named Daniel, 7 pounds, 2 ounces). She was Ruth Klopfenstein’s aunt, the one with the limp at the first birth I attended at their compound. Granny Klopfenstein has decided to leave birthing to me.
Again the women sat in a row at the bedside, wearing their black dresses, round eyeglasses, and scarves, only this time the golden-haired Molly was nursing her baby and everyone was happy because Elvira delivered quickly and in bed. I was glad Bitsy was there to see what they were like. No one seemed shocked that she is colored. I guess word gets around. Fast delivery. No tears. Moderate blood loss. Bitsy delivered the placenta.
29
Independence Day
Morning and evening, for the past week, Bitsy and I have been visiting the vet. We milk his cows, feed and water his horses and chickens, empty his pee pot, and try to keep the place decent. When I cook for him, he tells me I should take some of his supplies home, so I help myself to a sack of cornmeal, a bottle of milk, some sugar, and a half can of lard.
By the seventh evening he is much better, and I find him sitting at the table downstairs reading a veterinary text. He has on clean clothes, and a cane leans against his chair. He holds it up. “Found this in the closet when I moved here. I couldn’t imagine ever needing it, but I never threw it away.” There’s a lull while he limps across the room, finds a newspaper, and spreads it out on the oilcloth.
“Next Saturday is the Fourth of July celebration in Liberty.” He shows me the announcement. “You and Bitsy want a ride into town? We could make a day of it. See the parade and the fireworks.”
I shrug, thinking about the last Fourth of July celebration I went to, in Washington, D.C. I’ve avoided such celebrations ever since. “We could. I guess.” The vet’s face gets red, and I guess that I’ve hurt his feelings.
“No, I’d like to go.” I endeavor to whip up some enthusiasm. “It would be fun.”
A few days later, we’re standing in front of Stenger’s Pharmacy waiting for the parade to begin. “Nice dress,” the vet comments, taking in my white outfit and white stockings. He probably didn’t know I had such frocks, having mostly seen me in trousers. Because it’s Independence Day, I am wearing Mrs. Kelly’s little red hat. He looks rather dashing himself in a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a Panama straw hat with a black band.
“Want a soda?” The vet points to the red metal cooler with the famous white cola symbol on the front just outside Bittman’s Grocery. I look at the sign: five cents a bottle.
“No, thank you.” The money for just one Coke could purchase a nice loaf of bread. Hester grins, limps over to the store, and buys us two bottles anyway, then finds us a seat on the courthouse steps. His extravagance bothers me, but not enough to keep me from enjoying the icy cold beverage.
I gaze along Main, making note of the boys in patched overalls, the little girls in hand-me-down dresses, adults with worries etched into their faces. There are so many shuttered stores. Even Mullin’s Hardware, where I once bought periwinkle blue paint for my front door, has a sign saying FOR SALE.
Far down the street and around the corner we hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a drum, then music, and the crowd stirs and looks toward Sycamore. It’s the Liberty High School band, playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” They march proudly down Main and are followed by a color guard from the American Legion, then the Oneida High School Band and the snappy All Negro Drum Corps from Delmont. Trailing a good way behind them are the Civil War veterans.
“That’s when I jumped up and left. Just grabbed my hat, staggered out of the yard, and hobbled as fast as I could for my Ford. I could hear Aran hollering at them as I started my vehicle, but the brothers just laughed.”
“Did you go see someone for your injuries?”
“No.”
“Why not? Something could be broken!” I rise and move toward the kitchen, unable to stand the disorder.
Hester groans. “You know medical people never go to doctors. Nothing’s broken but my spirit. The worse part, for me, is the horse . . . the unnecessary death of the beautiful horse.” He wipes his wet eyes. “Assholes!”
In the next half hour, I dig through Hester’s dresser to find a clean pair of skivvies and help him clean up. Though he seems a meticulous surgeon, his sense of personal order is no better than Ruben’s was. The drawers are filled with a tangle of unfolded clothes. None of the socks are matched. I can hardly tell what’s clean and what’s dirty.
With difficulty we remove his sling, and Hester lets me wash his upper body, his neck, and his back. He can move his left arm, which is black and blue from the elbow to the shoulder, so I have to agree with him that it probably isn’t broken.
While he bathes below his waist, I run downstairs, tidy the kitchen, and heat a can of Van Camp’s Pork & Beans that I dig out of the pantry. Then, while he eats, sitting up in a chair, I change his linens. Finally he collapses back onto the bed like a steelworker at the end of the day.
“So what was your plan?” I ask with a smile when my nursing tasks are done; two quart jars of clean drinking water rest on the bedside table and his potty, now shiny white, is nearby.
“Plan?”
“Yeah. How were you going to get by in this state? Were you going to call someone? Dr. Blum or Becky Myers?”
“Hell, no. Anyway, Blum was in a bad auto wreck last week on his way home from a night call. His car went into the ravine along Bluff Creek. Reverend Miller was out on a call and found him, but his auto is beyond repair. He told me he’s through. Doesn’t want to live like this anymore, going out day and night in all kinds of weather, risking his life for almost no pay. As soon as he can, he’s taking his wife and joining his brother’s practice back in Charlottesville.”
I let out my breath thinking about the pregnant women in Union County, especially the ones with problems, and how this will affect them. But I don’t let myself get diverted.
“So what was your plan?” I ask a second time. “What were you going to do about your injuries and your stock? Just lie here and rot and let your animals starve? You could hardly get down the stairs to cook or get water unless you slid on your bottom.”
His eyes are laughing. “I was waiting for an angel of mercy.”
June 30, 1930. New moon rising.
Called to the Klopfenstein farm again, this time to deliver Elvira and Moses Klopfenstein’s fourth baby (a boy named Daniel, 7 pounds, 2 ounces). She was Ruth Klopfenstein’s aunt, the one with the limp at the first birth I attended at their compound. Granny Klopfenstein has decided to leave birthing to me.
Again the women sat in a row at the bedside, wearing their black dresses, round eyeglasses, and scarves, only this time the golden-haired Molly was nursing her baby and everyone was happy because Elvira delivered quickly and in bed. I was glad Bitsy was there to see what they were like. No one seemed shocked that she is colored. I guess word gets around. Fast delivery. No tears. Moderate blood loss. Bitsy delivered the placenta.
29
Independence Day
Morning and evening, for the past week, Bitsy and I have been visiting the vet. We milk his cows, feed and water his horses and chickens, empty his pee pot, and try to keep the place decent. When I cook for him, he tells me I should take some of his supplies home, so I help myself to a sack of cornmeal, a bottle of milk, some sugar, and a half can of lard.
By the seventh evening he is much better, and I find him sitting at the table downstairs reading a veterinary text. He has on clean clothes, and a cane leans against his chair. He holds it up. “Found this in the closet when I moved here. I couldn’t imagine ever needing it, but I never threw it away.” There’s a lull while he limps across the room, finds a newspaper, and spreads it out on the oilcloth.
“Next Saturday is the Fourth of July celebration in Liberty.” He shows me the announcement. “You and Bitsy want a ride into town? We could make a day of it. See the parade and the fireworks.”
I shrug, thinking about the last Fourth of July celebration I went to, in Washington, D.C. I’ve avoided such celebrations ever since. “We could. I guess.” The vet’s face gets red, and I guess that I’ve hurt his feelings.
“No, I’d like to go.” I endeavor to whip up some enthusiasm. “It would be fun.”
A few days later, we’re standing in front of Stenger’s Pharmacy waiting for the parade to begin. “Nice dress,” the vet comments, taking in my white outfit and white stockings. He probably didn’t know I had such frocks, having mostly seen me in trousers. Because it’s Independence Day, I am wearing Mrs. Kelly’s little red hat. He looks rather dashing himself in a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a Panama straw hat with a black band.
“Want a soda?” The vet points to the red metal cooler with the famous white cola symbol on the front just outside Bittman’s Grocery. I look at the sign: five cents a bottle.
“No, thank you.” The money for just one Coke could purchase a nice loaf of bread. Hester grins, limps over to the store, and buys us two bottles anyway, then finds us a seat on the courthouse steps. His extravagance bothers me, but not enough to keep me from enjoying the icy cold beverage.
I gaze along Main, making note of the boys in patched overalls, the little girls in hand-me-down dresses, adults with worries etched into their faces. There are so many shuttered stores. Even Mullin’s Hardware, where I once bought periwinkle blue paint for my front door, has a sign saying FOR SALE.
Far down the street and around the corner we hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a drum, then music, and the crowd stirs and looks toward Sycamore. It’s the Liberty High School band, playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” They march proudly down Main and are followed by a color guard from the American Legion, then the Oneida High School Band and the snappy All Negro Drum Corps from Delmont. Trailing a good way behind them are the Civil War veterans.
