The Reluctant Midwife Page 22

  “We started having lunch once a week; just friends at first, then we went to the movies . . .” Here she trails off, letting me imagine the rest, the flirtation, the trysts in a hotel room. “He’s a traveling detailer for Eli Lilly. John Teeleman. You’ve met him. He’s been to your office.”

  “The hell he has! Why did he come there? To mock me while he screwed my wife?”

  “Just sign the papers. We don’t need a lawyer. I’m leaving with John for Baltimore tomorrow.”

  “Priscilla. Pris. Listen to me. This isn’t right. I have to be in the operating room at Martha Jefferson in an hour. I can’t sign like this. We have to talk some more.”

  “The papers will be here when you get home, but I won’t.” That’s all she said, then she locked herself in the bathroom.

  Three Legs just came over to me and leaned his head against my knee. Pris said I wasn’t sensual, but it’s not true. I ruffle the dog’s yellow fur and put my face against his big lump of a head.

  I touch all three dogs, and I often hold Danny on my lap at the table. I breathe in his little-boy smell, feel his blond hair under my chin.

  28

  December 29, 1934

  This morning, early, I was called to the home of Zachary and Petunia Cole on Aurora Ridge. Since the weather had been bad, Daniel offered to drive me. I was much relieved by his presence, and thinking the birth might be fast, he took a nap on the sofa.

  Two hours later a 7-pound, 10-ounce baby girl was born in a posterior presentation. Sunny side up, Patience calls it. Present were the father, the patient’s mother, Olivia, and her sister Daisy.

  On inspection, I was distressed to find a deep vaginal laceration, and in the kitchen discussed with the father the possibility of transporting his wife to the hospital in Torrington. (Just thinking of taking Petunia out in the weather, of separating her from her baby, made me cringe.)

  In the end, the vet offered to do the sewing, and though I thought it might be embarrassing for Petunia, she was actually grateful not to have to make the hard trip through the snow. Hester showed me some things about approximating the layers of the tissue and muscles, and I think maybe I could do it myself if I ever have such a tear again, which, of course, I hope I won’t.

  Cinderella

  “Can you tuck your hair behind your ear on one side?” Patience asks me. Danny is sitting on the bed leaning against his mother, enjoying the fashion show. He’s wearing a navy blue sailor hat with a daisy on top. It’s quite an outfit and I don’t know what Daniel would think, but Patience loves it.

  I stare at the midwife in the mirror. “What’s wrong with my hair the way it is? Ida May did it just yesterday and said it was swell.”

  “It’s fine. I just thought it might look more appealing.”

  “Patience! I don’t want to look appealing. I’m a nurse and a representative of the White Rock CCC camp.” For some reason this makes us both giggle. I laugh so hard I’m afraid I might pee. It must be my nerves.

  “Pretty!” Danny says, getting off the bed and stroking the long velvet skirt.

  It’s a cold, windy evening, not quite dark yet, with just a sliver of sunset over the mountains. Daniel and Dr. Blum have gone out on call. Sheriff Hardman’s favorite dog is whelping, and I’m upstairs in the Hesters’ bedroom preparing for the winter ball. My heart does a flutter when I hear the sound of an auto coming up the drive.

  “Oh, Patience. I don’t want to go! I haven’t been out on a date with a man for years.”

  “Stop it, Becky. You said yourself it’s not a date, but a chance to see Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  I take a deep breath. She’s right. I’m getting carried away. I grab my long burgundy wool coat and a crocheted peach scarf that Patience lent me and go downstairs to open the door before the man even knocks.

  “Well, don’t you look nice!” The captain stands on the porch in a black tuxedo with a silk collar and a black tie. I had been worried I might be overdressed and am relieved to see that the form-fitting red velvet gown is just right. Without knowing why, I tuck a lock of my hair behind my right ear.

  “Patience, my friend, made the dress for me. I’d introduce you, but she’s in the family way and confined to bed for the rest of her term. Her husband, Dr. Hester, is a vet and is out on a call. . . . Have you been to the Hotel Torrington? I hear it’s lovely.”

  I’m nervously prattling on as he takes my arm and leads me to a spotless older model dark blue Ford. He must never use it or he’s spent most of the day polishing the chrome. “Nice auto, Captain.”

  “Please call me Norm.” He starts the engine. “Had her a few years, but I keep her in the garage at the camp. Mostly I use one of the CCC trucks if I have to go somewhere. The boys at the motor pool washed and shined her for our outing.”

  It takes us almost three hours to get to Torrington. The roads aren’t too bad, but there’s a snowdrift on Hog Back Mountain and for a few minutes, as we slip and slide, I fear we’re going to have to get out in our fancy clothes and shovel, but we make it through.

  The captain tells me he grew up in Ohio, and for most of the way our conversation is entirely about the camp and the local area. I’m pleased that I can give him a little synopsis of the mining wars in West Virginia since it may help him understand some of the tension among the CCC boys. It still matters whose pappy stood with the UMWA and who fought the unions, tooth and nail.

  He also was unaware that the state was split in its loyalties during the Civil War. More than sixty-five years later, half the citizens still think of themselves as Confederate and half are loyal to the Union.

  At last we cross the iron bridge over the distant end of the Hope River and enter the small city, or what is called a city around here. The Torrington Hotel, the tallest building on River Street, is lighted up like a fairy castle, and when we pull under the canopy, the bellhop runs over, assists me getting out, and takes the car around back.

  I slip my arm through the captain’s, partly because he holds it out for me and partly because I’m shaking inside so much, I need someone to lean on. How did I get myself into this? I only accepted the invitation because I didn’t want to hurt the poor man’s feelings, and now I would give anything to be home reading Edna St. Vincent Millay.

  The Ball

  We enter a lobby carpeted in red and paneled from floor to ceiling in gleaming oak. A coat girl beckons us over and takes our wraps. To the right, a curved marble stairway leads to the next floor, and through glass doors at the end of the room we can hear an orchestra and a male vocalist doing a rendition of a Richard Rodgers tune, “Isn’t It Romantic?”

  At the open double doors we pause to get our bearings. Golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling and the area is ringed by small round tables covered with white tablecloths, each with a candle and floral arrangement.

  A maître d’ takes the invitation that the captain removes from his breast pocket and seats us at a small table near the front. Ten feet away is a raised platform with a long table and an American flag. I see now that the band is playing from the balcony and already some people are dancing.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been to a larger town,” the captain remarks, as he runs his hand over the scar on his right cheek. I resist an urge to ask how he was wounded.

  “Me too. I feel a little awkward.”

  “You don’t look it. You look beautiful.”

  I swallow hard. No one has called me beautiful in a very long time. “Thank you,” is all I can think to say. “I wonder who will be sitting up front. At least we have good seats.”

  “Oh, I imagine someone like the mayor, the regional head of the Conservation Corps, maybe some other Washington politicians, and Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  “Do you really think she’ll come? I mean she’s so important.”

  A colored waiter pours water into our crystal water glasses and explains that dinner will be served a bit later, buffet style at the rear of the room, because they’re still waiting for the guest of honor. �
�And yes, ma’am, Mrs. Roosevelt will be here! You can count on it. She loves this place, stays here all the time when she’s doing her work for the miners. Knows us all by name.”

  “Thank you,” Captain Wolfe murmurs as the maître d’ stiffly beckons the chatty waiter away with a white-gloved hand.

  “I thought the superintendent was going to be here with his wife?” I comment, looking around.

  “He was supposed to be, but his wife wanted him to come home for the holidays. Between you and me, I don’t think she likes this mountain life very much. Want to dance?”

  The band begins “Stardust.” “And now the purple dusk of twilight time—Steals across the meadows of my heart . . .” Already five couples have entered the floor. I let out a long sigh. I got myself into this, and you can’t come to a ball without dancing.

  The Queen

  Captain Wolfe leads me onto the oak parquet floor with his hand on my back and accidentally touches my bare skin, but moves down to the velvet respectfully. For a man with a limp he’s not a bad dancer; in fact he’s quite graceful. Just as we’re returning to our table, there’s a rustle near the double doors in the rear and a parade of dignitaries marches in, led by an imposing gray-haired gentleman. The band switches to a rousing version of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” and everyone stands.

  “Governor Kump,” Captain Wolfe whispers. Behind him, arm and arm with another woman is none other than Eleanor Roosevelt! Almost six feet tall and looking like a queen, she passes our table wearing a long flowered dress with a three-foot string of pearls around her neck, probably real. Her hair is held back in an old-fashioned style and she has a little overbite, and from the light in her eyes she strikes me as an intelligent woman, full of curiosity.

  Her companion is tall too with short dark hair and an aquiline nose. She’s wearing a plain black dress with no ornament except a golden brooch, and her movements are fluid and athletic. This must be Lorena Hickok, Mrs. Roosevelt’s special friend, the one people whisper about.

  Following the First Lady and Lorena is a bald man in a white jacket with a red cummerbund escorting a platinum blonde wearing a sleeveless silver gown and silver high heels. The blonde illuminates the room like the sun splitting through clouds, and from a distance she’s a ringer for Mrs. Priscilla Blum, the doc’s wife.

  The patriotic tune stops, the band switches to a quiet waltz, and everyone sits down except the people at the back tables, who are now escorted to the buffet. Waiters serve the guests of honor and I study them as they eat.

  Mrs. Roosevelt interests me the most and I can’t keep my eyes off her as she focuses her attention on each individual at her table, as if he or she were the only person present in the huge hall. Lorena stares at the crowd. No shyness there. She looks right at us and catches my eye.

  What is she thinking? Does she mock us, we small-town folk? But then I remember, she’s the journalist and social worker from Wisconsin who encouraged Mrs. Roosevelt to champion the cause of the impoverished coal miners of Scotts Run. She’s the driving force for the completion of Arthurdale, a woman of commitment and compassion.

  “Can I get you a glass of champagne while we wait for our food?” Captain Wolfe interrupts my thoughts. “There’s a bar in the back.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” I murmur, turning from the celebrities.

  “How’s the dinner line look?”

  “About like the line at the chow house at White Rock.” He heads for the bar and I again make note of his rugged handsomeness. You hardly notice the limp, and even in his tux you can tell by his tanned skin that he’s an outdoorsman.

  Twenty minutes later, when our turn to visit the buffet finally comes, I’m feeling just a little bit tipsy. Even before Prohibition I didn’t drink much. Maybe a glass of wine before dinner on special occasions, but since David died there haven’t been many occasions.

  By the time we get back to our places, the governor is ringing a little bell, the chattering stops, and he introduces the First Lady. Mrs. Roosevelt puts her napkin on her chair and steps to the podium. Her voice is surprisingly high for a big woman, and she starts without preamble.

  “We have come here tonight to celebrate the work of the Civilian Conservation Corps in the Mountain State and the beginning of Arthurdale, our miners’ community. Could everyone involved in the state CCC camps please rise?” About a third of the audience stands, and my face turns scarlet as we receive applause.

  “I imagine a great many of you could give this talk far better than I, because you have firsthand knowledge of the things you’ve had to do to get these programs running, but I, perhaps, am more conscious of the importance of the Civilian Conservation Corps in the history of our country. . . .”

  She goes on to talk about Arthurdale and her mission of providing alternative employment for the out-of-work miners, but it’s not the words I’m listening to. You cannot help but be inspired when the wife of the president of the United States says you are doing something important.

  Mrs. Roosevelt ends her short talk with a bang: “President Roosevelt’s Tree Army is marching from Oregon to Maine, from California to Florida, from West Virginia to Wisconsin to save our country from despair and you are part of it! We are all marching together from sea to shining sea!”

  Here the band comes in with “America the Beautiful,” as if it was planned, and we all stand up again. “America! America!” we sing. “God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good with brotherhood. From sea to shining sea.”

  Oh, how Patience would love this!

  29

  Drop into Darkness

  Outside the glittering fairy castle, fog has turned to snow, big, wet flakes that drive down the brick streets and bore into our coats as we wait for the bellhop to bring around our car. The red canvas awning over the double oak doors rattles and Wolfe almost loses his hat.

  Not six feet away from the canopy, a trio of bedraggled men in worn and patched clothes stands in the sleet wearing cardboard placards. Their thin faces are red from the cold and one man can’t stop coughing. The signs around their necks tell their stories and, trying not to make eye contact, I read them while we wait.

  FAMILY MAN, AGE 44, 5 CHILDREN. NEEDS A DECENT JOB, NOT HANDOUTS. EMPLOYED IN WHEELING AT THE IRONWORKS 14 YEARS.

  VETERAN, 47, ACCOUNTANT AND SHIPPING MANAGER. MUST FIND WORK.

  SKILLED CARPENTER. AGE 50. WILL WORK ANYWHERE. HAVE TOOLS. SICK WIFE AT HOME.”

  How humiliating for these proud men to stand here. How desperate they must be to do this in front of those they see as rich and advantaged.

  Across the street I notice a canteen with a hand-painted sign over the window: FREE SOUP, COFFEE, AND DONUTS FOR THE UNEMPLOYED. OPEN 24 HOURS.

  A line of about twenty stands outside in the snow. These three must have come from that food line when they heard of the fancy ball going on inside the hotel. Whether it’s a demonstration or a sincere effort to catch the eye of someone who can actually help, it’s hard to tell.

  I steel my jaw and let out a breath. In a way I am angry. How dare they ruin our sparkling evening! On the other hand, I feel like crying. What terrible times we live in. . . . The newspapers tell us the economy is getting better, but these men show us it’s not improving nearly fast enough.

  I only hope Mrs. Roosevelt doesn’t have to walk by the trio. She is so idealistic, with her “sea to shining sea” speech. The sight of the men would bruise her.

  The bellhop appears with Captain Wolfe’s Ford. He gets out of the auto, bows low, and opens the door for me, but I have to brush by the unemployed men to get in. They smell of cigarettes and bodies that need washing.

  “Sorry about that, Becky.” Norman breaks the long silence as we cross the iron bridge and head back toward Liberty. (We are on a first-name basis now.) “I hated for you to see that, a bad ending to a lovely evening.”

  Yes, we are all sorry—the bellhop, Captain Wolfe, and I—but what can we do? It’s the failure of runaway capitalism.

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nbsp; My own thoughts shock me. I sound like Patience Murphy and I remember back in ’28, even before the Crash, how Dr. Blum carried on about what he called too easy credit. It’s ironic that the only thing he didn’t pay cash for was his house and we saw what happened there—he lost it.

  The snow is heavier as we head up the mountains, and the dark closes around us. No other vehicles are on the road, but I’m strangely unworried. There’s something about Captain Wolfe that inspires confidence, as if his hands on the steering wheel translate to safety.

  “I was thinking about the men and their signs,” I say, breaking the silence. “Do you think they were really looking for work or just wanted to make a point?”

  “They could find work if they wanted to.”

  “Do you think so? It shocked me, really. In Union County we see the traveling families with all their possessions strapped to their trucks, the hoboes camping down by the Hope River, and the men waiting for work in front of the courthouse, but they don’t seem truly hungry. Those men did.

  “At least out in the country there’s a way to get food,” I continue. “There’s trout in the river, berries to pick, wild greens in the fields, deer in the woods, and the opportunity to plant a garden if you have a little plot of land.”

  “Survival of the fittest,” Captain Wolfe says. “It’s each man for himself and his family. That’s why I like the CCC camps. Those boys want to work and they are willing to work hard, but the bums outside the hotel are just looking for handouts.”

  “But they’re too old for the camps, in their forties and fifties. What do fellows like that do?”

  “There’s the Public Works Administration. They’re building a new highway in Pennsylvania.”

  “But everyone can’t get work with the relief programs. I’ve heard unemployment in West Virginia is over fifty percent . . . in a few counties, eighty.”