The Reluctant Midwife Page 28

  “Sing a little. Dance a little.”

  “Boodean, I’m serious!”

  “Me too. Sing a little. Dance a little. Over and out.”

  Then just static.

  Namesake

  I arrive, as instructed, by nine fifteen and stand in the window of Stenger’s Pharmacy watching for Captain Wolfe and Boodean. Snow is already flying again, but not so it would stick, just big, lazy flakes coming down like confetti.

  “How’s Patience?” Mr. Stenger asks, staring across the counter, one eye on me, one eye wandering toward the window. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

  “She’s getting better.”

  “Dr. Blum was there and did the surgery, that’s what I heard. A hemorrhage, was it?”

  “Yes.” It doesn’t surprise me that the pharmacist knows some of the details of the birth. I expected it. In a small town word gets around.

  “Got something that might perk her up.” Stenger holds out a small brown bottle, labeled Dr. Blaud’s Iron Pills. “This is the real McCoy! It would do Patience a lot of good.”

  “I usually don’t hold with patent medicines,” I hedge. “Dr. Blum used to say that most of them are a bunch of hooey.” I don’t know why I invoke Dr. Blum’s words. He’s no longer an authority on anything.

  Stenger continues like a pitchman. “Usually I agree, but I can vouch for this. It actually has iron in it. Does wonders for women with heavy monthlies too.”

  I take the bottle and give it a shake. “How much?”

  “It’s a gift. The midwife took care of my mother one summer when she had ulcers on her feet, the best nursing she ever had.”

  “Well, thank you. We’ll give it a try. Patience is still rather weak and pale, though she’s gaining ground. . . .”

  Just then the little bell on the pharmacy door rings and Willa Hucknell and her flock of little blond wrens flutter through the door. For a minute I think of hiding. I’ve been such a bad friend. I just stopped seeing her when the deliveries dried up, completely forgot she was pregnant, and almost forgot about the bruises.

  On the other hand, she never contacted me either, so maybe she feels awkward too. Knowing everyone in town saw Alfred hit her at the Fourth of July picnic probably still hurts, and I have to admit that with Patience’s birth and Linus’s death, Willa never once crossed my mind.

  “Miss Becky. Miss Becky!” the girls cry, coming up to me. “Where’s Dr. Blum?”

  “He’s home,” I reply. “How are you, Willa?” I can tell she’s a lot stronger. Her face is pink and her yellow hair, which is now cut short in a bob, is shiny and clean.

  “Never been better. Want to see something?” Apparently, she holds me no ill will because she opens the bundle that is pressed close to her chest and shows me a beautiful baby. “It’s a boy, finally! Alfred Junior.” The white-haired infant looks at me with round gray eyes.

  “Do you like him?” the oldest girl, Sally, asks.

  “I do. He’s beautiful, but why didn’t you call me when you went into labor, Willa? I would have come. Who delivered him, anyway? Did you go to the hospital in Torrington?”

  “Oh, we didn’t go nowhere, did we, Sally? He’s three months yesterday.”

  “You had the baby at home, with no help? Was Alfred there?”

  “No, he was off working.”

  “I helped her!” Sally Hucknell crows. “I helped her. Ma calls me her little midwife.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. Ma said it was the easiest birth yet. She just lay down, told me what to do, how to check for a cord, and ease the baby out and get it to breathe. I was the first one to know he was a boy, and when Papa got back from his coal mine, he was so happy to have finally got his namesake.”

  “His coal mine?”

  Sally starts to tell me something, but Willa shakes her head no.

  Outside there’s the blare of a horn.

  “That’s my ride, Willa. I’m so happy for you. I’ll come by and see you when I have time.” I look at Alfred Jr. and all the happy, loving little girls. Have I so misjudged this family; let the bruises on the mother’s face stain the whole picture?

  “Can you bring Dr. Blum too?” Sally asks and is echoed by her sisters.

  Willa reaches out and touches my hand, and the little boy baby gives me a smile.

  The X-ray Machine

  “Good morning, everyone,” I greet the men as I climb in the front seat of the captain’s personal auto.

  Wolfe doesn’t even say hello. He glances at his watch and pulls away from the curb. “The roads are bad. We’ve got to move or we’re going to be late for the appointment.” Drake, looking like death warmed over, is lying on his side in the back with Boodean. He wears his khaki CCC uniform, which is now two sizes too big.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Maybe a little better.” That’s my medic trying to sound optimistic, but I can tell by his eyes that he doesn’t really think so.

  The rest of the trip is about what you’d expect. Snow in the higher elevations and fog as we come over Hog Back Mountain. Captain Wolfe doesn’t say a word except to swear under his breath when we slide in the mud.

  “How long has this man been ill?” Dr. Fisher asks me as the hospital nurse and Boodean assist Drake Trustler to back up against the cold glass plate mounted on the X-ray machine. It’s a shock to see how weak Drake is. His once muscular body is skin and bones and his forehead is beaded with sweat.

  The doctor’s assistant is dressed in a white surgical gown with a white puffy hat, and I’m glad I wore my army nurse’s dress and white shoes so I look somewhat professional. Boodean is also dressed for the part in his crisp CCC uniform with the medic patch on the shoulder. The captain stays in the waiting room reading the Torrington paper.

  “He’s been sick about a month, maybe longer.” I hand my report to Dr. Fisher, a tall man, about six-foot-three, with coal-black hair that is greased down and combed straight back. He tosses the file on a desk without looking at it and stuffs the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears.

  “Lungs sound like shit!” he announces in a voice too loud.

  My face turns red, but I remind myself that I’ve heard much worse language at Walter Reed. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Fisher is an ex-military man. He has that way about him.

  “Yes, rales and rhonchi when he inspires and exhales,” I respond, but the man cuts me short and motions his nurse to position the patient.

  The intimidating X-ray machine is about six feet high, a steel frame with black metal in back and black glass in front. The nurse positions Drake behind the glass, and I must admit, the fearsome medical equipment looks like a medieval torture device.

  Dr. Fisher, wearing elbow-length black leather gloves, turns a knob next to a red blinking light and sits down. With a whir, a motor moves the sheet of dark glass against Drake’s chest, pinning him in, and all I can see are his eyes, boring straight into mine.

  I know what he’s thinking. My mother said never, EVER, get an X-ray!

  Spring Again

  38

  Break in the Weather

  “There’s a nakedness to the land when the snow melts off,” Patience muses. “Have you ever noticed? The yard is littered and muddy, a tin can here, a pile of tomato stakes there, chips of firewood and blown-down branches, but already the grass is greening; the green of Ireland, Mrs. Kelly would say.”

  We sit with Danny on the front porch, drinking cold milk and eating gingersnaps. It’s only fifty-six degrees by the thermometer but feels like summer, and the men are in their shirtsleeves out in the garden clearing tall weeds.

  “I always listen for the bird sounds. To me, that’s the first sign of spring,” I answer.

  A few minutes later, Patience starts up again. “So, how was your trip to Torrington with Captain Wolfe? Did you talk to him about the way he’s been treating you?”

  “Tense. The road was bad on the way there, so we didn’t talk at all. Even Boodean, my medic, was s
ilent.”

  “So? Is it TB?”

  “I don’t know. The physician wasn’t sure. There’s some scarring of the lungs, he said, and some pleural effusion, so he’s sending the plates to a specialist in Pittsburgh and wanted to keep Drake at the hospital until he gets the results.

  “I felt so bad. Drake really didn’t want to be admitted, but the report should be back in another three days and we’ll go get him. It’s going to cost the camp an arm and a leg.”

  “What will you do if the report says tuberculosis? Weren’t all the boys tested before they enrolled?”

  “They were all tested . . . all but Drake! Remember, I told you he just climbed in the CCC truck around Hagerstown and no one even noticed he hadn’t joined up at the processing center? I’m worried about him, but not just him—I also feel responsible for the rest of the corpsmen. When I hid his secret, it never occurred to me that he hadn’t gone through the usual health screenings. Now, if TB spreads through the camp, there will be hell to pay, and think of the reaction in Union County. The locals don’t like the CCC boys much anyway.”

  “Try not to worry so much, Becky. Even if he has TB, it doesn’t always spread. Most of the things we worry about never happen.”

  I take a deep breath and let out my air. She’s probably right. Most of the things we worry about never happen.

  “Look, Danny,” Patience says. “There’s a robin sitting on the fence post, his red chest shining, his yellow beak open. . . .”

  The Runaround

  I am furious! I’m so mad I could spit. Today, after leaving three messages I finally spoke to Dr. H. A. Raymond, radiologist at West Penn Hospital in Pittsburgh.

  “So sorry,” he said, “for not getting back to you sooner. I was in Boston speaking at the New England Roentgen Ray Society’s yearly meeting.” (He waited to be sure I was properly impressed.) “Can I give my report to the camp physician?”

  For god’s sake! We have no physician! I wanted to shout, but I kept my temper. “This is Becky Myers, RN. I’m the nurse for the camp infirmary.”

  There was a long pause with only static on the line, and for a minute I thought we had lost the connection.

  “You don’t have a supervising physician? Well then, who’s in charge? There must be someone.”

  “I’m in charge. We had a part-time doctor, but he went back to Ohio. Meanwhile I deal with all the medical emergencies and illnesses, nothing my medic and I can’t handle.”

  “Well, I can only give the report to a physician . . .” he says, as if it’s a federal law.

  “All I need to know is, does Mr. Trustler have TB?”

  “Trustler, you say? I thought you were calling about William Taylor at Camp Wolf Rock, in Pennsylvania.”

  “This is Camp White Rock in West Virginia,” I explain. “I’ve been calling every day. We have reason to believe Drake Trustler has tuberculosis. He’s hospitalized at Boone Memorial in Torrington, West Virginia, until we have a definite diagnosis, and it’s costing the CCC camp a bundle.”

  “Did you do a sputum culture?”

  “Of course, but the lab at Johns Hopkins said it would be two to four weeks until we have the results.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen Drake Trustler’s images yet and, regardless, you will have to find a supervising physician willing to talk to me.”

  At this point I hung up. I did! I know it was unprofessional, but I just couldn’t stand it! What will I do now?

  March 14, 1935

  I have been thinking about this compulsion to share Becky’s thoughts. Why do I do it? Why can’t I stop?

  The thing is, I’m not sharing her thoughts. It’s more like stealing and I don’t understand it; I never had a need for intimacy before.

  I had a wife and I have had lovers, but not many friends and even those I had, like Dr. Robinson, the colored physician, have never shared their inner life with me. Not that Becky shares willingly. As I said, I am a thief.

  Daniel Hester is my friend, I must not forget, but ours is a bond based on work. We work in silence and enjoy each other’s company. I know his next move and am ready to assist him. We laugh together and I’ve patted his back a few times when an animal he was trying valiantly to save didn’t make it, but we never communicate about anything personal.

  And another thing, this Dr. Raymond, what an asshole, refusing to give the results of the X-ray to Becky, saying he can only give them to a physician. I have half a mind to go up there and knock his block off.

  Missing

  “So where could he be? You think he just got in your Olds and drove away?” I ask.

  Hester, Patience, Danny, and I are sitting down to supper and have said our brief grace.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “All day, I guess.” That’s Patience.

  Daniel interrupts. “I was tuberculin-testing two herds in Grant County. Patience thought Blum was with me.”

  “Yes, I just assumed he was with Daniel, until Daniel got home and asked where my Oldsmobile was. All day I’d been puttering around the house and hadn’t been out to the driveway to notice.”

  I’m worried about Isaac, of course, but also angry. I’ve been at work and assumed all was well. He’s never wandered off before, not since that time when he joined the soup line in Liberty. Certainly he’s never taken a vehicle, although at Christmas the vet divulged that Blum could drive a tractor. I let out a heavy breath. If a man previously thought to be catatonic can do a cesarean section, who knows what else he is capable of.

  “Honey, drink your milk.” That’s Patience speaking to Danny, who grins, takes up his tin cup, and dribbles white down his chin.

  “He’ll come back,” Daniel reassures. “Can you pass me the butter?”

  It’s the stillest part of the night and I am still awake, thinking about what could have happened to Isaac. Did he run off the road? He might be injured and trapped behind the wheel, though Daniel and I drove to Liberty and back looking in all the ditches. We even drove up Wild Rose Road to check the house with the blue door. No Oldsmobile. No Dr. Blum.

  The irony is that, even though I’ve felt burdened by having to care for him for so long, now it seems I’ve grown to care about him. I think of his kindly ways with children, of his beautiful woodworking, of his companionship with Daniel, of his surgical skill when Patience was hemorrhaging. He is Isaac Blum, but a new Isaac Blum. Even his body is different; muscular and brown, a farmer. But where is he now?

  Unexpected

  At dawn, I wake to the sound of Danny laughing up in his bedroom. “Uncle Isaac. Uncle Isaac is home!”

  Then Hester, “Dammit, man! You gave us a scare! Where the hell did you go? Becky and I drove around half the night looking for you.” (This is an exaggeration. We only drove into Liberty and back, then up Wild Rose Road.)

  There’s no answer, of course, but what is Blum playing at? Stealing a car, leaving us for twenty-four hours, and then sneaking home like a teenager and crawling in bed! I throw on my bathrobe, ready to stomp upstairs and confront him, give him a piece of my mind for making me worry all night, but as I rush through the kitchen a file folder on the table catches my eye.

  WEST PENNSYLVANIA HOSPITAL is stamped on the front. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at. It’s Drake Trustler’s X-ray report.

  Did Dr. Blum drive to Pittsburgh? No, it’s not possible! How could he find the way? How did he communicate with the hospital personnel? He can barely talk, unless he’s been faking the whole time. I pace the cold kitchen floor. Did he pretend to be a physician from the Civilian Conservation Corps? I’m still riding the wave of my anger and am unsure how to react, but before I can go off the deep end, I take a big breath and I flip open the folder.

  Dear Doctor (The name of the unknown camp physician is left blank.)

  Thank you for sending me the roentgen images of Drake Trustler’s lungs. The chest X-ray confirms the presence of multiple small (<10 mm) nodules in the upper lobes. Using the ILO classific
ation system, these are of profusion 1/0 or greater. . . .”

  I skip to the bottom of the report with a sinking heart, looking for the summary.

  . . . producing so-called classic “eggshell” calcifications. I believe this is a clear case of silicosis and not the tuberculin bacillus.

  Thanks again for this consultation,

  Respectfully yours,

  H. A. Raymond, MD

  Silicosis. I whip through the report a second time and am stunned. Not TB? Silicosis! But how could Drake have contracted silicosis? He’s only twenty-four. Usually, it’s a chronic disease of old men or miners like those at the Hawk’s Nest disaster. Then I remember that Drake once told me he worked alongside his father and grandfather at a brick factory in Ohio before he ran away. Could the lungs of a young boy be more susceptible to the disease than a man’s? Is this good news for Drake or another death sentence? I really don’t know.

  “Becky! Isaac’s back,” Daniel calls down to me. “He just went up to Pittsburgh to West Penn Hospital and had a hard time getting back.”

  I tighten my jaw and don’t answer. What can I say? I am shocked and I’m furious. I am also happy. Drake doesn’t have TB and Isaac is safe. The S.O.B.!

  March 19, 1935

  Becky was mad as hell when I returned from Pittsburgh, though the Hesters took it in stride. What did I imagine? That she would be grateful? But no . . . (and I guess I can’t blame her) she was steamed. For nearly 24 hours she had no idea what had happened to me.

  The thing is, when I read in Becky’s journal about the radiologist’s ridiculous refusal to give her a diagnosis for the boy Drake Trustler just because she was a nurse and not a physician, I was ready to punch his lights out. If a patient is ill you need to take care of him, and this bit about having to give the report to an MD is pure bullshit.