The Midwife of Hope River

There’s a shuffle on the porch steps, and we all look up. The men rise expectantly. We women stay seated, hoping to see Thomas, maybe drunk as a skunk but all in one piece. When the pastor opens the door, it isn’t Thomas. With a shock, I recognize Sheriff Hardman.

“Evening.” The sheriff nods. His blue eyes sweep the room as he removes his hat. “Can I speak to you, Reverend?” Miller doesn’t invite him in but steps out on the porch. Daniel Hester goes too, and that strikes me as strange. Maybe he thinks he can help in some way. Byrd stays where he is, but Bitsy flashes him a look and motions toward the back door. There are dynamics in this house I don’t understand.

I’ve associated with Commies and radicals, suffragettes and anarchists, but this is something new to me, the level of powerlessness blacks suffer in a white community. Even those under Reverend Miller’s wings tremble, fearing they will be blamed for something . . . anything.

I’d like to go out on the porch to find out what’s happening, but I’m rooted to the floor. Has Hardman come about Thomas? Is there trouble in town? Is the law still looking for Katherine? Are they looking for me?

Byrd wanders casually toward the kitchen. The hand pump squeaks, and water runs into the sink. There’s the clink of a coffee cup on the counter. Now Bitsy unfolds herself, and when I turn she’s at the back door, kissing him tenderly. He places both hands on her waist. At any other time, I would be happy to see that Bitsy has a sweetheart, but tonight I just fear for him and hurt for her.

Her mother is dead. Her brother is missing. Now she is sending her new beau away into the night, for his own sake.

“Here they come,” Mrs. Miller whispers, dropping the corner of the lace curtain and turning quickly. I suppose it’s poor form for a preacher’s wife to be seen snooping.

A car engine cranks up, and the door swings open.

“Is Thomas okay?” Bitsy asks first thing.

Reverend Miller looks very old, and Hester looks weary. “Yeah,” the vet says. “As far as we know . . . but the cops are looking for him. They heard he was at the black speakeasy earlier tonight, mouthing off . . . then later a neighbor reported a Negro man yelling threats in front of the MacIntosh home.”

“The cops went to the speakeasy?” I ask. “You’d think the law would shut it down.” The vet rolls his eyes, indicating that I’m naive.

“His deputy drove by William and Katherine’s house a few times earlier tonight, but the lights were off and no one was around. Hardman came here to order Thomas to stay out of town until he cools off.”

After fear and great sadness comes exhaustion, and it’s hitting us all at once. Mrs. Miller yawns. The pastor looks at his watch. The vet stands with one hand on the knob. I turn to Bitsy. “We’d better go home.”

“Okay,” she says sadly. She gives Reverend and Mrs. Miller a hug, then moves to the door.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her again and again, sitting with my arms around her in the backseat of Hester’s car. “I’m so sorry.”

It isn’t until we are halfway up Wild Rose Road that I remember Moonlight. I left feed for her yesterday, but other than that she’s had nothing to eat. Has she given birth? My thank-you to the vet is hurried and lame. “Thanks,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”

Upstairs, I tuck Bitsy into bed, then rush down to feed the dogs, who are jumping all over me. When I finally slam out of the back, I find Daniel Hester latching the barn door.

“Moonlight’s okay,” he informs me. “She had enough water and hasn’t calved yet. I threw her some hay and tossed the chickens some feed. By the looks of her, she’ll calf soon. Keep an eye on her . . .”

We stand together in the warm night, looking out across the moonlit pasture. It’s so bright, the grass actually looks green. All around us are green growing things, and in the distance I can hear the Hope River. I lean into him, a silent thank-you, and he puts one arm around me. The smell of the animals is still on his shirt, and the almost full moon sails in and out of the clouds.

32

Comfort in the Night

The days since Mary’s death have passed slowly. Is it three? Is it four? I count back. Katherine ran to us Tuesday night, the day of the big thunderstorm. Mary fell Tuesday night and died early Wednesday morning. We didn’t learn of her death until that evening. Now it’s . . . I consult Stenger’s calendar . . . Friday or Saturday. It’s all a blur. Death does that. Stops time.

The garden’s full of weeds, and I have no heart to pull them. Twice Bitsy and I have ridden on Star to Wildcat, but no one has seen Thomas. Then Bitsy went into Liberty with the Millers to make arrangements for the funeral, but they can’t put Mary into the ground until Sunday because the Emmanuel Funeral Home has another burial in Delmont on Saturday. Thank goodness they are trained embalmers, or Mary would start to smell. Gray clouds hang over us like a shroud, but the rain doesn’t come.

In the night, I wake to hear Bitsy crying on the other side of the wall. The sound slices through me, uncovers my own buried grief for my mother . . . for Lawrence . . . for Ruben . . . for Mrs. Kelly . . . for all those I’ve lost.

I light a lantern, put on the red silk kimono, and go down to the kitchen. When I come back, I don’t even knock at the door to her bedroom. I don’t ask if I can sleep with her, just nudge her over, fluff up her extra pillows, then hand over the last of Mrs. Kelly’s blackberry wine. We finish the whole mason jar, lying up against the metal headboard, not saying anything, just sharing our sorrow.

“Thanks,” Bitsy says as she rolls away from me onto her side. I curl around her, one arm around her waist, as I once did with Katherine, when we thought her baby was dead, our loose bodies folding into each other.

Bitsy kisses my hand, holds it to her cheek. I know what she’s saying: we are more than two roommates who share a house, more than two women who share a vocation, more than friends, and this makes me cry, one sob from that deep alone pocket under my heart.

In the morning Bitsy gets up at dawn, as usual. Over tea and the homemade bread that Mrs. Miller pressed on us when we left Hazel Patch, we are silent about last night. I hold my pounding head in one hand, thinking about the blackberry wine, and Bitsy tells me that she still has Katherine’s ten-dollar bill and the Hazel Patch folks are paying for the funeral. We’ve come out richer, but there’s no joy. Mary Proudfoot is gone, Katherine is gone, and Thomas . . . we still don’t know where he is.