The Midwife of Hope River
Page 25A few minutes later he returns with two steaming mugs and his bottle of rum, which he sets on the floor near the sofa. I’m surprised and a little alarmed when he plunks down next to me, careful not to jiggle my leg.
“You know, the neighbors may have seen you coming up the road. You can’t stay long.”
Hester grins. “I cut my headlights.”
That makes me smile. “What made you so sure I’d let you in?”
He shrugs and looks away. “I wasn’t sure. Thought I’d give it a try.”
The warm milk and rum go down easy. It’s the only alcohol I’ve had since the blackberry wine Mrs. Kelly made when we first moved here as grieving widows—but this is much stronger. One cup, I think, and this fellow will be on his way.
He swallows the sweet liquid, nods with appreciation, and goes back to his story. “My maternal grandmother was Russian and my grandfather Polish. When they first came to the United States, neither could speak English. They took classes at the settlement house in New York City. That’s how they met.
“My grandparents on the other side were German farmers, here since the 1700s. I told you we had a farm in upper New York State? My parents met at Cornell.” He recounts all this as though I’d asked him for his pedigree.
Despite myself, I’m interested. “Did they both graduate from Cornell?”
“My father took a degree in agriculture, my mother in teaching. That was in the 1880s.”
“My mother was a teacher too.”
The vet picks up his bottle, reaches over, and, before I can say anything, pours another dollop into my mug, then pours a larger one into his own and knocks it back. Both the dogs stand with adoration at his knee, and he ruffles their fur. Even Buster has crept back downstairs. They must know he’s an animal lover.
“I guess.” I’m already feeling the effect of the rum.
For an hour we sing while the horse doctor bangs out the tunes. “Angels from the realms of glory, wing your flight o’er all the earth . . .”
“Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen . . .”
At first I just recline on the sofa like a good patient, but later I hobble over and sit on the end of the piano bench so I can see the words in the vesper book. We are careful not to touch, not even our shoulders. The man smells faintly of pine and fresh mowed hay. We have another drink.
“Okay, one more carol and you better go. Do you know this one?” I laugh. We are old friends now, thumbing through the hymnbook, singing in harmony.
“ ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.’ It’s one of my favorites. Longfellow wrote the words during the Civil War when he heard that his son had been wounded.”
It’s so nice to talk to someone who would appreciate that bit of trivia or even know who Longfellow was. I have two other acquaintances in Union County who would be familiar with the New England poet: the pharmacist’s wife, Mrs. Stenger, and my nurse friend, Becky Myers, both college-educated women, but I haven’t seen either of them for months, not since my trip to town in November. Katherine MacIntosh reads books too, but only romances. Bitsy reads well, but so far just my medical textbook. She won’t put it down.
“I don’t remember this one. Go through it once.”
I sing the first verse while he plays the piano.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play
The words repeat
Of peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.
Hester catches the tune and joins in on the second verse. It isn’t until the third that his voice breaks.
And in despair I bowed my head.
There is no peace on Earth, I said.
For hate is strong
And mocks the song
Of peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.
He stops there with tears in his eyes and when he stands, he almost knocks the kerosene lamp over. The man sways and holds on to the piano, then plunks back down on the bench.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” He tries his half smile. “Those words, ‘For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on Earth’—for a minute I was back in the trenches with bullets flying over my head. I did things I’m not proud of, killed other men just to survive. They weren’t my enemies; they were someone else’s enemies.
“There was this one guy, a big German blond, he shot down my horse. This was at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in 1918. I could have taken him prisoner, but I was so blind with rage, I bayoneted him three times. Blinded by fury . . . I think of it sometimes. He was a mother’s son. There was no reason for it.” He shuts his eyes tight and swings his head as if to banish the vision. “I’d better go.” With one hand on the piano he lurches to his feet again.
“You’re right. I’m in no shape to drive. Drink doesn’t usually get to me.” We both turn to the empty bottle of rum.
“You can sleep on the sofa. Just wrap up in the quilt.” He flops down without argument.
What else am I going to do? I can’t send him out on the snowy roads in this condition. He’d end up in a ditch.
“Here’s a pillow.” I hand him the green quilted one from the back of the rocker and notice I’m none too steady myself. It would amuse me if it weren’t for the worry that my reputation could be ruined; a midwife is supposed to be of good moral character.
By the time I let the dogs out and get them back in, build up the fire, and blow out the lamp, Hester is snoring quietly. I dim the kerosene light and sit down in the rocker. “Silent night, holy night,” I sing softly, remembering what he told me about the bloody battles of the last Great War. “Sleep in heavenly peace.”
In the morning when I limp downstairs with a headache, the veterinarian is gone.
14
The Vanderhoffs
I’m surprised to say that I’m counting the days until Bitsy returns. Only a few months ago, when Mary asked me to give her daughter shelter, I had reservations. Only a few weeks ago, I almost packed her suitcase and shooed her out the door. Now Christmas has come and gone and New Year’s Eve too, which I spent watching the snow fly like sparks through the light from the lantern on the porch. I’m not sure why I put the Coleman lamp out there and turned it up high. Was it a signal to the vet that I might want company?