My mother once told me how these two kind spinsters viewed pregnancy. To them, it was disgraceful because it was a visible acknowledgment of the activities that had precipitated it. It was not to be recognized and certainly not to be discussed.
“But when the babies came, they just loved those little ones!” she said.
By the tone of her voice, I knew she was completely mystified at the aunts’ inexplicable disregard for the principles of logic.
So my father left the white house and retreated to Big Stone—to the familiarity of the little café that sat across the street from the telephone office, and to the comfort of longtime friends and acquaintances. Late in the afternoon, with no word yet, he drove the buggy to his father’s farm, fourteen miles west of town. There, he talked to my grandfather and the two of them agreed: My father’s youngest brother, Earl, would stay at my father’s farm so he could feed and milk the cows. In that way, my father would be free to wait for the news and respond.
That evening, my father returned to the white house on the hill. Again he knocked.
“Not much progress,” Ella reported, as she opened the door.
She gave no more information. My father waited in the parlor, falling in and out of sleep. He continued to wait through the entire next day. In the meantime, my aunts were praying and employing all of the wisdom they possessed.
Late Sunday evening, my father had again dozed off, so he wasn’t aware when Mary slipped out the back of the house, ran two doors to the neighbor who had a telephone, and, in desperation, called the doctor. This doctor, the only one in Big Stone City or Ortonville, was known to enjoy alcohol way too much for one in his profession. My father awoke when, an hour or so later, Mary ushered the doctor in. My father stood up to greet him, but the doctor didn’t stop as he followed Mary to the back bedroom.
Now my father was alert and on his feet. Time dragged. When he heard the first cry, he slumped back on the couch, relieved and drained of all energy. Because of that, he didn’t act fast enough to detain the doctor as he left. He heard only a few gruff words—“Mother and baby fine”—before the door closed.
Now he was impatient to see my mother, but his aunts were obsessive about cleanliness and appearance, and he knew there’d be another wait.
When Ella did enter the room, she announced, “A baby girl.”
She wasn’t smiling.
“Myrtle is fine, Roy. But things didn’t go as planned. With the doctor. The baby’s not quite right.” She struggled to complete her report. “She can’t suck. Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to feed … What have you named her?”
My father looked down.
“Dorothy.”
Dorothy. Firstborn. First paternal grandchild. First maternal grandchild.
Hopes, expectations, dreams, all crushed forever by metal forceps. Delicate bones broken before the baby cried for the first time.
Dorothy. The firstborn, who never learned to sit, crawl, walk, speak. Somehow my mother cared for her, kept her alive. Somehow, through nights and days without sleep (my mother told me she sometimes fell asleep while standing), she nurtured and loved her.
She spoke to me of the tragic event only one time. Her voice was very soft, and I had to move closer to hear her words.
“When the doctor was leaning over me, I smelled liquor on his breath.”
“Oh, Mother,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
A CUP OF TEA
Myrtle was stirring the white clothes, trying to keep her large belly from touching the hot iron range, when she heard Blackie’s warning bark. The dog was harmless, but he felt it his job to announce the presence of strangers, and the low, resonating growl from his throat as people came forward made them hesitate before they drew near.
Myrtle leaned the wooden pole that she’d been using against the side of the boiler and wiped her hands on her apron. She was perplexed. Annoyed. No one came calling on a Monday afternoon. She certainly didn’t have time to visit.
Today the wind had stopped blowing, and she had to get two weeks of laundry done in one day. There was no way of drying clothes when the wind blew. Dust was everywhere. Outside in piles and drifts. Inside the house, on the windowsills, on the floor, in dresser drawers and kitchen cupboards. In a person’s mouth, eyes, ears, bowels.
Even in Myrtle’s dreams. When she awoke some mornings, her eyelids felt heavy as she opened them, and there was dust on her pillow. One day it had blown so hard and so black that she was worried the children might get lost on their way home from school. Roy had driven to town to pick them up.
How had she gotten to this? As a young woman, she’d yearned to be a mother. Her own mother had died when she was small. After that, there’d been little laughter when her two stern aunts had moved into their house. As the oldest, Myrtle soon became a source of comfort for her sisters and brother. So when Roy had proposed to her on that now seemingly distant day, she’d been eager to begin a family of her own.
And this afternoon she had time to work without interruption. Dorothy was quiet in her crib. John was with Roy, who was trying to divert water from the river to the South Field. Patt and Helen had asked if they could go see if there was any young fruit on the wild plum tree out in the pasture.
Myrtle realized that she should have told them to stay and help her. There had been a dull, unending pain in her lower back Saturday, Sunday, and now today also.
She’d let them go, thinking the girls had so little fun in their young lives. Myrtle sensed they were anxious. The garden would probably produce nothing this summer but some small knobs of potatoes.
Myrtle had stopped hoping for rain, though she still prayed for it. Everyone did, even those who didn’t go to church. At this point, her hope rested on the wind. Each morning she woke hoping that the wind wouldn’t blow that day, and some days—today was one—it didn’t.
Blackie’s growl turned to yelping. Could she invite a visitor into her house? The room was hot and humid, and the air was sharp with the smell of Hylex, which didn’t mask the ammonia smell of diapers.
There was a light rap on the screen door, and Myrtle hurriedly brushed her hair back from her face. She walked through the kitchen and by a pile of light-colored clothes into the entryway, where the dark work clothes lay in a huge, collapsing mound.
An old man with a scruffy beard and a grimy face looked back at her through the mesh of the screen door.
Should she let him in? She was vulnerable, but she could never turn someone away who needed help.
“Good afternoon.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“How can I help you?”
“I was wondering, could you … Could you make me a cup of tea?”
Myrtle hesitated. You never let anyone stand on the step. You always invited a visitor in, even salesmen when you had no money to buy their goods.
“We’re coffee drinkers in this family. But maybe I have some tea in the back of the cupboard. I’ll look.”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you.”
“If you’d like to wash up, there’s water in that covered barrel, and then, if you’d like to come in …”
“I would like to wash up.”
Myrtle was aware of the way the man said “wash.” She knew he wasn’t from here. The way he said the word was a reminder of the sounds of the friends and family she’d left behind. When she’d come to this part of South Dakota as a bride, she’d noticed that people said the word differently here. They said “warsh,” not “wash,” and the mispronunciation irritated her.
She knew exactly where she lived now. Anyone could put his finger instantly on the Hoffbecks’ piece of earth on the map. Just below the curve of a quarter moon, cut out of northeastern South Dakota from its neighboring state by two long, narrow lakes.
Where was this man from?
“Would you like to come in?”
“No, no. I don’t want to be any bother.”
Myrtle recalled a story
her family told about her mother, Theresa. Myrtle remembered her only a little. She died when Myrtle was five.
In another hard period of history, Theresa fed the hoboes who stopped by her kitchen door. She always insisted that they eat a complete meal: meat, potatoes, a vegetable, even homemade pickles. When they’d finished that, she gave them a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.
Her mother commented once how there seemed to be more and more hoboes each year. No one told her, though perhaps she knew all along, that the hoboes had carved the rough shape of a kettle in the bark near the base of the old elm in her front yard—a sign to all of them that a generous, gracious lady lived there.
“Are you sure you won’t come in?”
“No, I’m just fine out here on the step with this friendly dog of yours. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She hated being called ma’am. It made her feel old. Did she look old? Myrtle thought of herself as she appeared in the photograph taken in her father’s yard the afternoon of her wedding. Smooth skin, wide-open eyes, a smile just beginning.
The photo had been on the dresser all those years. Until the dust started blowing. Then she’d taken it, wrapped it in brown paper, and placed it in the cedar chest. Myrtle wondered if the dust was finding its way into the cedar chest. Was the photo aging as fast as she was?
She put a kettle of water on the range and opened the top cupboard door. There was a small, dusty package of tea way in the back, and when she saw it she remembered that Aunt Mary had given it to her when Bill, her youngest son, had been so ill. She reached high and took the teapot down from the top shelf, wiped off the outside, and rinsed it out with a little of the water that was heating.
Myrtle walked back to the door, picking up an old towel from a cabinet knob as she went. She opened the door.
“Here, you can dry with this.”
He raised his face. With a start Myrtle realized the man was not old. His eyes were sky blue, and his face was unlined, except for little creases. He was a good-looking man with a broad forehead.
Why had this young man left his family? Where was he from?
“How did you happen to come here?”
“I was riding the train. I’m on my way to the Twin Cities.”
Myrtle had read about men who rode the freight cars, trying to find a place, any place, where there was work. He would have come from the west, passed through Pierre. She had been back only once in the twelve years since her wedding. Her father had been ill. It must have been seven years now since she had sat beneath the elm with its swing of her childhood, walked her girlhood streets.
“And,” the young man was continuing, “I saw this line of green winding out in front of me. It was the first green I’d seen in days. When the train slowed, I jumped off.” He sounded rather proud of himself. “I just followed the green.”
“That would be the weeds in our riverbed. It’s almost dry now.” If this drought continues forever, Myrtle wondered, and we’re at last blown away, will there still be that line of green?
“Could I fix you a sandwich?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I have some meat left over from our dinner.”
“No. I couldn’t let you do that. I see that you have a lot of mouths to feed each meal.”
He glanced at the pile of laundry beside her and—did she only imagine it?—down at her belly.
Myrtle blushed. “I’ll get your tea, then.”
She returned with the cup of tea, opened the screen door, and handed it to him.
“Thank you. I’ll just sit here, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine.”
Myrtle returned to her work. Where had her life led her that a stranger felt that she could not afford to give him a sandwich? The piles on the floor seemed to press in on her; the odors and the heavy air brought a sour taste to her mouth. Her movements were awkward as she took the stick, pulled the clothes from the steaming water, and dropped them into a tin basin.
More and more lately, she felt as though her endless work was burying her. Dorothy would always be in diapers. Now, soon, there would be another in diapers, also. Would her life always be some mad story of alternating chapters of one in diapers, two in diapers?
Although there were no sounds from the step, Myrtle was aware of the young man. It was true they had no money, but neither did any of their neighbors. This was a bad time for everyone they knew. But they did manage to eat, and they had their beds each night. When had the young man last eaten a good meal? Where would he sleep tonight?
She slipped out to the porch and from there down to the cellar, where she stored leftovers in a wooden chest with ice. She saw the remainder of a beef roast, some cut-up cooked potatoes, milk in a covered jar, and eggs she had hard-boiled to keep them from spoiling. Somehow, looking at the food made her feel better.
Back upstairs, she picked up the teapot and went to the door.
“Would you like some more tea?”
“If it’s no bother.”
“We won’t be drinking it.”
She filled his cup.
“Do you see our chickens?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as long as there are weeds and their seeds, the chickens will have something to eat.”
“Yes, I suppose.” His voice sounded puzzled, as though he thought she’d gone a little strange.
Myrtle left him drinking his tea then and moved back into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she returned and handed him a small package wrapped in newspaper.
“What’s this?”
“Hard-cooked eggs. Two for your supper and two for your breakfast.”
“Uh, no …”
She looked at the young man with a steady gaze. She knew that she’d remember him for the rest of her life.
“Please take them. We’ll always have weeds, you see.”
The creases by his eyes deepened, and a smile touched his mouth.
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she said, and then turned back to her work.
MIDNIGHT COMPANIONS
Myrtle’s eyes close; her head falls forward, then snaps up with a jerk. She must stay awake to watch the river. She stands, goes to the window, and looks out. The moon and stars give enough light that she can see the pool of water fifteen yards down the slope. The gravel path leads not to the gate to the feed pasture, but to dark water where dirty, snow-covered chunks of ice float and bob in a new and widening pool. Myrtle pulls Roy’s work jacket off a hook near the kitchen door, pushes her feet, shoes and all, into some old work boots, and steps out into the night.
The smell of wet earth floats to her face. She takes in a breath. She has always welcomed this smell, the first hint, sometimes as early as January during a short thaw, that there will be another spring. The promise that, for a few short months, there will be no stove to feed and tend, ashes to carry out, frozen clothes to take from the line, stiff, body-like shapes that remain rough to the skin even when completely dry and ironed. The end, for a time, of horrible colds, of handkerchiefs, heavy with mucus, and sometimes blood, to be soaked and bleached and washed and dried and ironed, ugly daytime mementos of nights up with fretful children, on and on, week after week.
Blackie comes out of the shadows near the step and nudges her leg nervously. Myrtle runs her hand over his silky head. “Don’t worry, we won’t forget you.”
It has been a hard winter. Well, what winter isn’t hard? Her lips move slightly up at the corners. Not as cold as some, but more snow than in seven years. All winter, it has seemed that as soon as Roy and John shovel the paths—from the house to the barn, from the barn to the hog shed—and then open up the road to the town, the white flakes begin to fall again, covering their work, making each time clearing the paths harder, as the banks of shoveled snow grow above their heads. Now, it has turned too warm too quickly and the river is rising.
They are as ready for the water as they can be. Helen and Patt have moved the
baby chicks from the brooder house, the building closest to the water, to the upstairs hall in the house. The cows and hogs will be safe in the barn and shed. Those buildings are on a small hill. Before Roy went to bed, exhausted from filling and stacking gunny sacks of gravel, he and Myrtle agreed: if the water reaches the lowest limb of the basswood tree, she will wake him, and then they will wake the children. Roy has parked the car about a quarter of a mile away, on top of the Big Hill. The mud makes it impossible to use the driveway. The children will walk, each carrying a box—a change of clothes for everyone, Myrtle’s wedding china and silver, a few photos, the crucifix that had rested on her mother’s coffin.
Dorothy is too heavy to be carried that far, so John has brought the long sled from the barn. He will pull her over the mud. The sled stands ready, propped by the kitchen door. It worries Myrtle that Dorothy may be afraid. She hasn’t been out of the house for the last ten of her fourteen years. The children will help her, though. They seem to be able to make a game out of almost any event. This afternoon, while Myrtle spread newspapers and wondered if she will ever be able to get the chicken smell out of the house, Bob and Barbara made fences and barricades for the baby chicks from old magazines. Shortly after that, Roy ordered Bob to walk with Barbara to their grandparents’ house in town. Both of them are safe there now.
A distant crack. An ice cake toppling a tree farther upstream. Hoo-ha, hoo-ha. An owl’s call. Myrtle pulls the jacket close around her and reaches down to Blackie. She remembers the first time she came to this place. Roy brought her to see their future home a few months before the wedding. It was spring. The trees wore little wisps of yellow and green leaves. Robins hopped on tufts of new grass. The fragrance of lilac blossoms was intense, distilled and concentrated, held from wandering by the hills that encircled the small farm. The river murmured and gurgled. The beauty, the promise, of her new life made her eager to begin. How innocent she was. She planned long walks in the woods and over the nearby prairie, looking for wildflowers unknown to her. She dreamed of spreading a shawl, leaning back on soft grass in the sun’s warm breath. Myrtle imagined their new life, their unborn children, fresh and perfect as that spring day. Those feelings are remote now, so deeply buried after Dorothy’s birth that it is hard for Myrtle to retrieve even a shadow of them.
Lost Without the River Page 11