The Reluctant Midwife Read online

  Christmas Past

  Christmas approaches and I find myself sad. It’s not that I’m more lonely than usual; in fact, quite the opposite. There’s the Christmas party at the camp where Starvation MacFarland cooks up a big feed, and the men put on a skit of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, with Loonie Tinkshell as Scrooge, and Boodean as the Ghost of Christmas Future, and upstairs, Patience and Danny are already making paper chains for the tree; it’s just that I keep thinking of Christmas in Vermont.

  When I was a child and my mother was alive, the holiday season was quite a to-do. Starting in mid-December, she and the cook, Ingrid, would begin baking cookies, some for us, but mostly for the church bazaar and various less advantaged families that mother had taken under her wing.

  We decorated the doorway and the banister up the curved oak stairs with boughs of cedar and holly, then covered the ten-foot fir in the living room with colored glass bulbs, delicate carved ornaments from Russia, and the hand-blown icicles from England. Then there were the parties and finally the year-end Christmas service at the church. I miss singing the old carols.

  Not since David died have I felt the same way. It’s as if the little candles on the Christmas tree in the white Victorian on Elliot Street were blow out, but the flames still flicker behind my closed eyes, flicker yellow and white.

  December 19, 1934

  Today I cried, not a lot, and not loudly, just the kind of tears that spring to your eyes so suddenly, you don’t have time to hold them back.

  I’m addicted to reading Becky’s journal, all her secrets, her self-doubts, her dread of childbirth, her work at the CCC camp, stories about Patience . . . and I feel guilty, of course, but not guilty enough to stop.

  Lately, it’s gotten so bad that I actually wait for Becky to leave and for Hester to go out to the barn or up to his wife, and then I step silently into her private space, pull her journal from beneath the mattress, and read what she’s written the previous day.

  It was when she talked about Christmas that tears came to my eyes. Becky has such a tender heart and I could picture her, a shy girl at Christmas, pale and backward. She’s not so backward now, the nurse of a barrack full of young men at the CCC camp.

  And another thing—I didn’t know Becky could sing. I like to sing too, but no one has ever heard me, no one alive now anyway, not since the day Priscilla went into the river. Priscilla, the star at the top of my Christmas tree . . .

  Christmas Eve

  “Watch it, Blum.” That’s Daniel.

  “Don’t drop me,” Patience squeals.

  What in tarnation?

  I fling open my bedroom door to find a strange procession.

  Daniel backs down the steps, gripping the legs of a wooden chair, which is tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. Patience sits on the chair like the Queen of Sheba, and Dr. Blum supports the back, followed by Danny who scoots down on his bottom.

  “Be careful!” Patience laughs again, as if it’s a big joke. She’s dressed, bare-legged in a red silk kimono with dangling red cut-glass earrings that catch the light.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I inquire.

  “Patience wanted to come down to sing Christmas carols around the piano,” Hester explains.

  “I’ll recline on the sofa. What’s the difference, lying down here or lying up there? It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “What if they drop you?” I roll my eyes.

  The men groan, their faces red from the exertion, and when they reach the davenport, Patience, giggling like a schoolgirl, quickly slides over onto it.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say the woman has had something to drink and I don’t mean lemonade. Hester carries around that little flask. . . .

  “There! Isn’t this nice?” Daniel proclaims. “Blum, bring the cookies.”

  In the corner in a bucket is a six-foot newly cut spruce that the men brought in earlier this afternoon, and the room is filled with its fragrance. “Let’s put the decorations on. Did you bring down the paper chains Danny and I made and the lights and the box of glass balls?” Patience asks.

  I leave the room while they begin the process of putting on the ornaments and lights and return, after a major search, with the one decoration I’ve had with me all these years: a glass nutcracker on a golden string, made in Holland and brought to me by my soldier husband when he returned from the Great War. Isaac wires it near the top, next to a wooden angel that Patience says belonged to her old midwife teacher, Mrs. Kelly.

  “Shall I dim the lights and plug in the tree? Everyone ready?” Daniel asks. Patience makes the sound of a drum roll while he reaches for the prong, and instantly the room is illuminated by the large red, blue, gold, and green bulbs. The midwife claps her hands like a little girl and hugs Danny, whose eyes are round with surprise. When I look over at Blum, he is looking at me, this time as if he actually sees me.

  27

  Caroling

  “O Christmas tree. O Christmas tree!” Patience begins, and Daniel slides onto the piano bench to bang out the tune. I have never heard him play before and assumed that only Patience knew how. “Your branches green delight us!” We wing through the English version, then Daniel sings the German.

  “O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, Wie true sind deine Blätter!” My grandmother who came from the old country taught me,” he explains, then reaches for an old hymnal and hands it to me. I draw a kitchen chair next to the sofa so that Patience and I can share. We all know the first verse and sometimes the second, but without the words in front of us we can’t remember the rest.

  Blum still stands next to the kitchen door and I squeeze past him to bring in another chair, and then lead him over so that if he wanted to, and I’m not saying he would, he could share the hymnal with us.

  “How about ‘Silent Night,’ ” Patience suggests. “Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright,” we sing the old words. Patience looks up at me. “Thinking of the Virgin Mary, having a baby alone in the stable?”

  I shrug and smile. Actually, I was thinking of my husband, David Myers, remembering our last Christmas together. I tried so hard to make it nice for him. . . .

  “How about number 214?” Daniel asks. “ ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ . . . No, wait a minute. I’ve got something special on the stove.” He returns with a tray of four mugs and a glass of sweet warm milk for Danny. “Rum toddies!” He passes them all around and this time I don’t say a word about Dr. Blum not drinking alcohol.

  “Daniel first seduced me with rum toddies. They’re dangerous drinks. This was back when we first met. He came to my house on Wild Rose Road and brought cream and liquor. It was still during Prohibition and it was Christmas Eve.” He grins his lopsided grin, she smiles, and I raise my eyebrows.

  “Nothing happened. See you’ve shocked Becky,” the vet jokes.

  The music starts up again. “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”; “The First Noel”; and then one I don’t know, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” For a minute there’s silence, then finally I rise to give Patience a good night hug. My embrace is stiff, for I’m not much of a hugger. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Come here, you two.” Daniel jumps off the piano bench and enfolds both Dr. Blum and me into his arms, squeezes so hard I hear the bells ringing.

  “Me too. Me too!” Danny hollers until we open the three-person circle and let him in. Patience yawns and rubs her growing belly. “It’s Christmas Eve, Danny. Come hang up your stocking and see if Saint Nick will bring you a present. I’ll sleep down here and keep an eye out. Did we save old Mr. Claus a few cookies?” Danny runs upstairs to find a sock and, returning, hangs it over the back of a chair. Isaac brings in gingersnaps for Santa on a plate.

  “Good night, all,” I say again. “And off to bed, Dr. Blum! I’ll brush your teeth in the kitchen. Thank you for a lovely evening, both of you.” I stand and take the doctor’s arm, then turn to look at the tree one more time. In its simplicity it’s as beautiful as any we had in
Vermont.

  “You’ll turn off the Christmas lights won’t you?”

  “Yes, worrywart.” Patience smiles and I can’t help but smile back.

  She’s probably right. I worry too much.

  Silent Night

  After I get Blum settled, I perform my ritual lock check. This is something the Hesters don’t do, and since I sleep downstairs it seems only prudent. Before I latch the kitchen door, I open it and look out. The flurries have stopped and new snow covers every rock and stump, the fence rails, and branches. An almost full moon shines through the ragged clouds and I suck in air so cold it makes my lungs hurt.

  Inside, I hear singing. Daniel has come back down to sit next to Patience, with only the Christmas lights on. The closeness between them makes me feel lonely. Will my life always be this way? I didn’t used to mind and actually thought it was easier to be single, and maybe it is, but seeing them together makes me wonder.

  When I’m fifty will I be alone on Christmas? I picture myself in an apartment in the city somewhere, maybe back in Washington D.C. or maybe Boston. . . . I attend a Christmas Eve service at the National Cathedral, then come back to my rooms, have a cup of tea, and go to bed. . . . No rum toddies, no caroling, no tree. Why would I bother? The bleakness makes me shiver.

  Back in my room, I take off my clothes, fold them over the back of the rocker, and pull on my long flannel gown. “Silent night. Holy night,” Patience and Daniel sing. “All is calm. All is bright.”

  Upstairs I think I hear another voice. Could that be Dr. Blum?

  Such beauty. Such sadness. Such longing.

  December 24, 1934

  Tonight I sang to myself in bed. “Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.” Danny was asleep in his crib. Becky was downstairs in her bedroom and the Hesters were sitting in the dark parlor next to the lighted Christmas tree, crooning carol after carol in their sweet alto and baritone. I added my contribution in my rusty, unused voice, not that anyone heard me.

  I was thinking about Becky and feeling just a little bit happy. I like it when she brushes my teeth. I could do it myself, but she doesn’t know that. What a sensual thing. She holds my head under my chin and orders me in that brisk nurse voice to open my mouth, but her hands are gentle. Sometimes I close my eyes. Despite my wanting to lock myself in a cell of silence, the human touch seduces me.

  Christmas Morning

  “O come all ye faithful,” Daniel bellows at the top of his lungs as he bangs around in the kitchen. I lie in bed, waiting for the house to warm up, listening to him putter, first getting the fire going, and then putting the dogs out. Beyond my window, the snow is falling again, this time in hard little pellets. It’s the first really big storm we’ve had and the Hesters say the lack of snow is bad for the soil. We need more moisture.

  Oh, well, I’m awake anyway.

  As I come out of my room dressed in gray slacks and a red cardigan sweater, little Danny bounces down the wooden stairs in his footie pajamas. “Did Santa come? Did he?”

  “In here, honey.” That’s Patience. She still reclines on the sofa, where she spent the night. Behind Danny comes Dr. Blum, clunking along in his sock feet.

  “Did Santa come?” Danny asks again.

  “Looks like it.” Hester laughs, pointing to the child’s stocking with something bulging in the toe. Danny pulls out an orange that I got at the Bittmans’ store on discount and a little bag of marbles.

  Then he discovers a red metal wagon under the tree. In the wagon is a delightfully carved rabbit with wooden wheels and a pull string. There are also a couple of other wrapped presents, and I put my small offerings under the spruce branches along with the rest. Daniel reaches around behind the sofa and plugs in the lights again.

  “Danny Boy, slow down,” he hollers as the child runs through the kitchen pulling his new toy. “Bring the rabbit to your aunt Becky and show her what Uncle Isaac made for you.”

  “The doctor made that?” I knew he’d been carving little animals, but nothing so large or so fine.

  “Great, isn’t it? He’s been working on it for a couple of weeks,” Daniel praises his friend’s work.

  I stare at the toy and run my hands over the carving. The bunny even has whiskers made with small wires. His eyes are carved in detail with black buttons for pupils. I turn to Blum to see if he is watching, but he only stares at his hands.

  It takes us an hour to open our presents and we pass them around and remark on each one. I remember the Christmas scramble at my parents’ home in Brattleboro when I was a girl and my brothers were teenagers. We had a mound of packages under the big tree, but none were more appreciated than our few this morning.

  Blum has even carved something for me, a small angel, each feather on her wings detailed with his knife blade. She’s holding an infant in her arms.

  “It’s beautiful, Isaac. Thank you.” He smiles and the room lights up. It’s been so long since I’ve seen that wide grin. “I mean it. You’re very talented. Thank you.”

  My gifts to the others are mostly hand-me-downs, a rose silk bed jacket I’ve had for ten years, but rarely used, for Patience. (She loves it.) A gray wool scarf for Dr. Blum that I bought at a church flea market in Liberty. I drape it around his neck and he surprises me when he reaches up and touches my hand. A bottle of ether for Daniel that I thought he could use for his animal surgery. This has been boxed in the back of the Pontiac since we left Virginia.

  He grins and holds it up. “This stuff costs a fortune.”

  “It’s from Dr. Blum and me together,” I explain. “We don’t have any use for it.”

  Finally, for Danny, a picture book that I illustrated myself, the story of the Tin Soldier. It’s the first time I’ve used my watercolors since Dr. Blum got sick, and I sewed the pages together with twine.

  Daniel and Patience must have exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve for she still has on the red crystal earrings and also under the tree are a stack of handmade white handkerchiefs, with Daniel’s initials on them. Patience has also knitted socks for everyone, with yarn from old sweaters that she took apart.

  The last gift is a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon for me. I open it, wondering what it could be, and am astounded to discover a soft, red velvet floor-length dress with a low, beaded neckline. My mouth falls open and a little noise comes out.

  “Do you like it?” Patience asks. “If it doesn’t fit, I still have time to make changes.”

  “Oh, where did you find it?” I rise and hold the dress up to my chest, letting the fabric flow. As it falls, I see that the red velvet is really two colors in panels, one a little darker than the other, but sewn together so they harmonize.

  “I made it.”

  “You made it? How could you?”

  “With a needle and thread and a pair of scissors,” she says, laughing. “Out of two other flapper dresses my friend Nora left me. Her men friends often bought her clothes.”

  I’ve heard about this Nora, the protégée of Mrs. Kelly, the midwife and teacher from Pittsburgh. I say “protégée,” but what I mean is lover.

  There are more women like that than one would think. At Walter Reed I knew several nurses . . . and then at Vassar, a professor or two. Even in Brattleboro, the widows Mrs. Case and Mrs. Honeycutt were a known couple for twenty years, but no one ever talked about it.

  “I can’t wait to try it on. Now I will have to go to the ball for sure.”

  “You weren’t thinking of getting out of it?” That’s Daniel. “And breaking the poor captain’s heart?”

  I shrug sheepishly. (It had crossed my mind.)

  “Come on,” Daniel says, changing the subject. “One more gift. Out in the kitchen.” We all rise, except Patience. Danny is hopping around and leads Isaac into the pantry where two rough white feed sacks cover something bulky on the floor.

  “Go on, Blum,” Daniel commands. “Unwrap it.”

  The doctor leans down and pulls off the cloth. Underneath is a stra
nge metal contraption, a tool of some sort about three feet long with an electric cord.

  “It’s a lathe for woodworking,” Daniel announces, all smiles. “You can make bowls and plates and spindles and canisters with it, and these are the chisels.” He holds up a flat box of six sharp-looking instruments.

  “We might even be able to sell some in Torrington where people have more money or we could swap for goods around here. I got the lathe for setting a broken leg on a Morgan filly.”

  “Do you really think he can handle such machinery?” I ask, nodding at the doctor. “It looks dangerous. A pocketknife is one thing, but this is massive.”

  “Weighs seventy pounds,” says Daniels. “Had a hell of a time getting it in the house last night. Anyway, if he can drive, I think he can manage this.”

  “But he can’t drive. Not since. . . .”

  Daniel clears his throat.

  “He can’t drive, can he?”

  “Just the tractor so far . . . I didn’t mention it?”

  December 26, 1934

  Daniel spilled the beans and now Becky knows I can drive. What else does she know? Does she know about my fight with Priscilla the day she died?

  It was at breakfast when Pris handed me the Petition for Dissolution of a Marriage.

  “Just sign it,” she said. “ I want nothing else.”

  “Priscilla, can’t we talk? What is it? Another lover?” I asked this only because I’d heard men say such words on stage, not because I had any real suspicion. Her silence gave me the answer.

  “You mean it? There’s someone else. Sit. Please!” I heaved myself onto the sofa and pulled her down with me. She turned away, stared out the window.

  “I met him in Charlottesville at the inn,” she says in a monotone, not looking at me. “You know I go to lunch there sometimes. He’s everything you aren’t—open, friendly, fun . . . and good in bed. You don’t have a sensual bone in your body.” (She stuck the knife in there.)