The Midwife of Hope River

Few here remember the massacre at Matewan in 1920, when miners defended their family and homes. Few remember the Battle of Blair Mountain, a year and a half later, when thirteen thousand miners fought in open warfare for their rights.

Bitsy decides to stay overnight with Thomas in his two-room cabin, and just as Hester gets ready to leave, Becky shows up in an ambulance that’s covered in mud. It’s been stuck in the slick clay down near the bridge all this time. We stand in the dark, telling her what happened, and I can see that she’s glad she missed the whole catastrophe.

As I turn to leave, Mrs. Potts stops me. “Thank you for coming, young lady. The Lord was watching over us today. It could have been much worse. And thank you too, young man.” I can hear Hester thinking, Young man? But to an old woman, the two of us must seem like spring chickens.

20

Pay Back

I run cold water into the sink and fill the teakettle, still shaking from the sights of chaos and death at the mine. Outside Hester’s kitchen window snow drifts down again, not sticking yet but filling the air. The kitchen door bangs as Hester rattles in with two metal buckets of fresh milk that he strains into three-gallon jars. He sees me staring.

“Want some?”

“I can’t really afford to pay for it.” Hester shrugs and fills a quart jar for me with the warm white liquid.

The shrill ring of the vet’s phone startles us both. “Hester here,” he answers. “What’s the trouble? How long? Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can. It may take an hour.” He looks at me sideways. “Want to pay back some more of what you owe the practice?” I like the way he says “the practice” . . . not him personally, but the practice.

“Tonight? I guess.”

I’d accepted a ride back from the Wildcat Mine and didn’t mind waiting while he milked his cow, but now, exhausted and filthy, I just want to get home. On the other hand, how can I refuse? I’m obligated; he’s done us so many favors. “I’ll need to change first. What’s up?”

“Mr. Dresher, a German farmer on the other side of Clover Bottom, has a bitch in labor, Hilda. She’s been nesting all day, fooling around with the bedding in her basket, licking herself. The owner was going to leave her till morning, but for the last hour she’s been panting hard. He’s embarrassed, but he loves that dog like it’s one of the family. He’s also a big farmer with a lot of stock and is one of my best clients. Duty calls.”

The drive around Salt Lick and then up Wild Rose is uneventful. It’s still muddy, but we manage to stay on the road. When we get to my house, I jump out of the Model T. “It will take a few minutes. Are you sure you need me for this?”

“I’ll feed your dogs and chickens and give Moonlight fresh water and hay. It’s nice that she’s pregnant; we don’t have to milk her.” The vet hops out too and slams his side door. By his speed, I take it he thinks the dog is in trouble and that I’ll be useful somehow . . . or maybe he just wants company. Either way, I’m in no position to quibble.

In less than ten minutes, I’ve put on clean slacks and an old green jersey, washed my arms and face, and we’re back in the car bumping down Salt Lick, this time toward town. As we drive through the empty streets of Liberty, I notice that the city lawmen’s shiny gunmetal auto, still parked in front of the courthouse, has Virginia plates.

On the other side of Delmont we pick up 92, a dirt road but less rutted. A mile past the little B&O train stop at Clover Bottom, we make a hard right, cross a wooden bridge, and pull up in a spacious farmyard. An electric porch light comes on, and a man with an expansive belly and black suspenders steps out of the two-story white house. If he’s surprised to see a woman with Hester, he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, you old son of a gun,” he greets the vet warmly. “In here.” The farmer leads us though a front hall into a well-appointed living room where a four-foot-high wooden console radio dominates the room. Gene Austin is crooning “Carolina Moon” out of the speakers. It’s the largest radio I’ve ever seen, bigger than the one at the MacIntosh home, with a built-in sound chamber over the assembly and carved wooden legs. By this luxury alone, I understand that Mr. Dresher, even in these difficult times, must be doing quite well.

“Oh, honey!” His tiny wife, wearing a pink-checked housedress, greets me and takes my coat as if I was someone important. “We’re so glad you could come.” Maybe she thinks I’m Daniel Hester’s sister. Or maybe his wife.

I’d expected Hilda might be a large German shepherd, a golden retriever, or a valuable black-and-white sheepdog, but instead I see a cute mongrel with short legs and a fluffy white coat waddling toward us. Her sides heave at the rate of about 120 heartbeats a minute. I’m not sure what’s normal for dogs, but this doesn’t look right. The pitiful little animal stumbles and gives the vet’s hand a lick. Hester sits on a footstool and palpates her abdomen, then nods for me to come over. I sit down on the carpet next to him.

“Feel her. She’s bulging with pups, as round as a basketball. And look, see the fluid trickling out?” I run my hands along her sides. Her tail droops sadly between her little legs, and her big brown eyes stare at me hopefully. Sorry, pup, I’m a midwife for women and have no idea how to help you.

“What do you think?” the farmer asks, bending over and touching his pooch on the head.

Hester grunts. “Something must be blocking the way. I’ll examine her first. Can you get me some hot water, soap, and a stack of towels? I want to put her up on something.”

He carries the little dog into the kitchen. I layer two towels onto the oilcloth-covered table, then, hoping to look useful, open the vet’s bag, dig around in it, and pour some of the antiseptic soap I find inside into the washbowl. Hester carefully cleanses his hands, takes the dog’s temperature, then sticks out his finger for more soap and reaches inside her. Hilda doesn’t even look back; she’s that miserable.

“It’s a big one,” he says as he pulls out. “And it’s still alive . . . You feel.” He pours the antiseptic soap on my finger, and I copy his action. It is nothing like doing a vaginal examination on a woman. For one thing, the doggie’s vagina is extremely tiny, and for another, whatever is presenting is all bumps and lumps. I have no idea what I’m feeling and wonder how he can be sure that the pup is alive when I feel its mouth open and a little tongue sweep by.