The Midwife of Hope River
Page 91

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.)