by Jan Watson
“Just there.” Lizzie pointed to a two-story house on the street behind. “We live in the back there.”
“All right,” Copper replied. “I’ll see what I can do. Marydell, you show Reuben where I will be.”
The apartment was just two cramped rooms. A curtain fashioned from a brown brocade dress that had seen better days covered the one window in the bedroom. The bodice hung, drooping, over the long skirt. Piles of dirty laundry occupied each corner, and on a bed kitty-corner to the room, a youngish woman looped her hands through knotted bedsheets that had been secured to the bedposts.
“Thank goodness, you’ve come to answer my prayer,” the woman called to Copper. “I can’t take this much longer.”
Another woman, with a body as round as a bushel basket, turned and introduced herself to Copper. “I’m Mrs. Reardon, Sally’s landlady. I live upstairs.” The sweet-faced woman shook her head. “I tried to help Sally, but something is bad wrong. I seen the doctor’s buggy pull up to the Tollivers’ and seen you go in. Folks say you know about medicine.”
“Oh, it’s starting again. Please do something,” Sally screamed. “Somebody do something.”
“I’ve got the water boiling in the kitchen there,” Mrs. Reardon said.
The kitchen was not in any better shape than the bed-sitting-room, but there was indeed a kettle of water roiling away on top of a stove. A white kitchen table swayed under a stack of dirty dishes, and a pot of oatmeal, thick as glue, rested on the seat of a straight-backed chair. Two little boys stood barefoot by the chair. They seemed not to notice either Copper or the frigid air that seeped in around the window and whistled through a crack in the wall, so intent were they with their spoons and the oatmeal.
Taking a deep breath, Copper prayed, Heavenly Father, if I’m the answer to this woman’s prayer, she’s in a heap of trouble. I know I said I wanted to learn about birthing babies, but don’t You reckon this is a bad idea? Help that woman, Lord, and please send Dr. Thornsberry quick.
Copper’s fervent prayer was interrupted by an unearthly yell. She hurried back to Sally, who writhed in pain. All Copper saw was red. Red seeping across the bed and dripping to the floor, each drop so heavy Copper could hear it plop. A smell like rusted iron filled the room. Sally’s very life was leaking out. Copper saw stars and felt light-headed. She wished she had some smelling salts.
Sally grunted and began to drum her heels on the bed. “Help me, Joe! Help me!”
“Joe’s her husband,” Mrs. Reardon explained. “He lit out like the hound dog he is as soon as I got here.”
Lizzie started crying, and the little boys rushed into the room.
Copper straightened her spine and took charge. “Children, your mother’s going to be just fine. Mrs. Reardon, please take them upstairs and bring me back some clean linens.”
In the kitchen, Copper dipped water from the steaming kettle into a granite pan. On the windowsill over the sink, she spied a bar of lye soap on a cracked saucer, and, incongruously, a potted red geranium. The flower made her want to cry for Sally. Instead she rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her hands and arms until they stung.
Back at the bedside, she touched Sally’s shoulder. “Is it all right if I examine you now?”
Groaning, Sally complied.
Expecting to see the top of a baby’s head, as she’d seen in Simon’s book on obstetrics, Copper was shocked to find a tiny foot thrusting its way into the world instead. “I think the head is supposed to come out first.”
“I don’t care what comes first!’’ Sally pounded her fists against the bed. “Just get it out of me before I split right in two. Oh, I got to push.”
With a great heaving and straining, Sally grabbed her knees and bore down until Copper could see one little leg to the knee.
“Okay, I think we’re getting somewhere.”
Sally fell back against the bed. The little leg disappeared before Copper’s startled eyes. Copper fought a swell of panic; then Sally pushed mightily, and Copper could see the leg again.
Lord, help us. Show me what to do, Copper pleaded. She touched the little foot, and perfect toes flared against her palm. Timidly she ran one finger up the baby’s leg until she could feel the knee but not the lower leg on the other limb. It’s going to be like the foundling baby. It’s missing some of its parts. Just then her touch made out the other leg, bent upward on itself. Carefully, ever so gently, she continued her probing up the baby’s backbone until she could feel the shoulders. Lord, help us! she prayed again, for the baby’s head seemed caught in a tight vise of its mother’s making.
Sally screamed like a banshee and pushed with all her strength.
“Wait, Sally! Take easy breaths and don’t push again until I tell you.” The vise relaxed, and gingerly Copper pressed against the back of the little skull and tilted the head forward. “Push now. Push! Push! Push!”
The slick baby girl slipped into Copper’s waiting hands.
Mrs. Reardon, a stack of linens in her arms, looked over Copper’s shoulder. “You got to cut the navel string with them scissors boiling in the pot.” She fished in her pocket and handed Copper two pieces of string. “You tie it off, and I’ll fetch them.” Soon she was back, leaning over Copper again. “You tied it in two places. That’s good. Now just cut between the ties. Careful, it’ll splash blood on you.”
Just as Copper began to cut her way through the thick, jelly-filled cord, she heard a welcome voice. Dr. Thornsberry had come. Copper nearly cried with relief to see the jolly, white-bearded doctor. She sat back on her heels, too shaky to stand.
“Let’s see what we have here,” the good doctor said. His voice always had a laugh about it. He picked up the baby and gave her a quick once-over, then looked at Copper over the rim of his half-moon glasses. “Mrs. Corbett, you’ve done a wonderful job.”
Copper took in the bloody mess of the room, the exhausted mother, and her own ruined dress. Things didn’t seem too wonderful to her. “I just did what I could. Simon is away, you see.”
“Yes, Cincinnati, isn’t it?”
Copper nodded and placed both hands on the bed to steady herself as she rose. “I’m so glad to see you, Dr. Thornsberry,” she said as if they were meeting at a dinner party.
Copper watched the doctor carefully after he took over the mother’s care. It seemed the afterbirth was delivered with little effort, and Sally’s bleeding slowed to a trickle. The doctor soon had order restored, and Copper stepped into the kitchen with him. With a courteous gesture he indicated for Copper to use the washbasin first. Mrs. Reardon had thoughtfully placed clean towels for their use.
She scrubbed and scrubbed, then emptied the waste into a slop bucket and fixed fresh hot water for Dr. Thornsberry.
He leaned his considerable girth against the sink as he dried his hands carefully, one finger at a time. “You did yourself proud, my dear. You must have delivered dozens of babies up there in the mountains to become such an expert.”
He must be teasing, Copper thought. He was a big bear of a man, and she had always found him easy to be around. “Dr. Thornsberry, my mam would hardly let me out of the yard much less go about delivering babies. I nearly died of fright in there.”
“You really don’t know what you’ve done?”
“Poor Sally did all the work. I just prayed.”
He slipped his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “The infant would have more than likely died without your assistance, Mrs. Corbett. A foot presentation is fraught with danger.”
“I knew it!” Copper exclaimed. “I knew the head should be first.”
Dr. Thornsberry laughed so hard his belly shook. “How did you know what to do?”
“I did what seemed natural. I was scared, but it seemed like God was by my side.”
“I’d say the good Lord has blessed you with a rare talent. Now let’s go check on your patient.”
Remarkably, Mrs. Reardon had already stripped the bed, and Sally was wearing a clean gown.
“Petechiae?”
“These purple hemorrhagic spots indicate trauma, but she’ll recover nicely.”
“They look like pinpricks,” Copper mused. “Will her head always be like this?”
“She’ll shape up nicely in a few days. Babies are remarkably resilient.” Rewrapping the infant, Dr. Thornsberry handed her back to her mother, then turned to Copper. “Now home with you. Mrs. Reardon and I will finish up here.”
Dear Mam, Copper penned while the wind moaned down the chimney and swirled sparks from the fire onto the carpet. “Forevermore!” She jumped up, spilling ink across the page, and smacked a live ember with her carpet slipper. “Simon, won’t this dreadful weather ever let up?”
“Hmm?” He barely looked up from the open book on his lap. “What’s that, dearest?”
“Oh, never mind.” She parted the heavy drapes Searcy had pulled against drafts. “I’m sick of being cooped up.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, paying her no mind. Copper knew he could be happy for days with nothing more than a stack of books for entertainment.
Leaning against the window frame, she peered out at the piles of drifted snow. Her mind wandered. This would be a perfect day for checking trotlines. Back home, John Pelfrey had sometimes let her tag along when he went to check his traps. Pest, he always called her. She smiled to think of the good times they’d had growing up together, exploring and hunting. John was her best friend. Well, he used to be until love got in the way. Until John decided he wanted more than friendship.
Shivering, she drew her shawl around her shoulders and pressed her forehead against the cold windowpane. That was a terrible time, she remembered. A time of loss and pain when Simon had come into her life and turned it upside down. A time when she’d hurt John. Now here she was with her face pressed against the window, wishing for escape, and John was out there somewhere at sea. She wondered if he ever thought of her.
The clock ticked. . . . Simon thumbed a page. . . .
Copper turned from the window. She settled herself with her lap tray, her pen and ink, her lavender stationery and started writing again.
Dear Mam,
You would be proud to know how much I am learning. Simon allows me access to his library, and I am studying the parts of the body.
Did you know the heart is a pump? It has four rooms called chambers that pulse and push blood here and there. The blood it pushes has many parts called cells. They’re like little buggies carrying around the air we breathe, oxygenating everything, even our fingers and toes.
Alice is mad at me again. I think she does not get enough oxygen. Her little buggies are frozen like her heart. She says I am not a proper wife. She said I was shirking my duties when she found me researching instead of finishing the needlepoint cushions for the dining room chairs. I’m afraid you might agree with her.
You must understand, Mam. I felt more alive and more in tune to God’s purpose for my life when I was helping Sally deliver her little flat-headed baby than I ever have before. I just can’t live out my days doing nothing more than keeping house and taking tea with the ladies of the missionary society. Assisting Simon on the days the office is open helps, but it is not enough. I can’t tell Simon. He thinks I don’t love him unless my every moment is light and happy. There must be something wrong with me. Why can’t I be like other women? Why can’t I be satisfied?
Crumpling the paper, Copper tossed it into the fireplace. A little tongue of flame licked out, erasing her words. Mam would not approve. Instead she wrote of Hester’s wedding, of the beautiful bride and the handsome, clean-shaven groom.
Would you believe that Isaac shaved his beard! That was such a surprise. We’ve all been in a dither helping them get ready to leave. They will board a train as soon as the weather clears. Then it’s off to the mission field.
Hester and I have been culling her things. They can take only what they can transport easily on their own. Hester had four trunks of clothes alone, and it was with many tears that she put aside her beautiful things in order to pack cooking utensils, soap powders, and first-aid supplies as well as sturdy shirtwaists and heavy boots. We fashioned a muslin underskirt with many pockets and filled them with toilet water, face soap, hair ribbons, and the like. She looked lumpy when she tried it on under her traveling frock, but as she said, at least she will have the necessities.
What will happen when she uses up all her necessities? I am afraid love has clouded her reason, as it does for all women, I suppose. I promised to mail packages, but I wonder if they have a post office where Isaac is taking her. We must keep them covered with prayer.
Copper laid her pen aside. Finally a letter she could send. The smell of the woodsmoke comforted her.
A little mucilage and a two-cent stamp bearing George Washington’s likeness and it was ready for the post. The mailman would retrieve it when he brought the afternoon’s mail. So convenient. So unlike home, where waiting for the mail meant listening for Mr. Bramble and his mule, Sweetie. Mr. Bramble brought the mail once a week if Sweetie had a mind to.
Copper stepped out onto the only patch of porch not covered by snow. The street was quiet, with houses hunched and brooding under the overcast sky, as if it, too, were weary of the long winter.
Simon filled the space behind her. His hands rested on her shoulders. “Why are you out here in this weather? Why are you standing here alone?”
“I was remembering the mailman from home, Mr. Bramble, and his mule, Sweetie,” Copper replied. “I wonder how they are.”
“I wish you would get over this melancholy. It’s not good for you to think so much of the past.”
She leaned against him, and he wrapped his sweater around her. A fierce wind howled round the corner of the house, showering them with snow and billowing up her skirts. “Do you want to hear a story?” she asked. “A funny story about Mr. Bramble and Sweetie?”
He drew her back inside. “Searcy made tea. Come sit by the fire and tell me your story.”
They opened all the curtains, turned out the gas lamps, and pulled the settee close to the fire. Safe and warm, snuggled up under Simon’s arm, Copper began her story, a tale she had heard her daddy tell many times.
“Mr. Bramble was a proud man, as quiet men often are. It was his considerable duty to carry the post to all the families scattered up and down the hollers of Troublesome Creek. Most days his mule, Sweetie, was happy to oblige and carried her saddlebags willingly. But sometimes, as mules are wont to do, Sweetie took a contrary turn and forced Mr. Bramble to follow her home, the mail half delivered.
“Besides having the most stubborn mule in the county, Mr. Bramble had the unfortunate fate to be wed to a self-willed woman with eight obstinate daughters. Some thought Mr. Bramble was beat down by circumstance, but he would tell you that knowing women made him an expert on mule behavior. He didn’t have a lot to brag on, but he was proud of the way he had with Sweetie.
“One hot summer’s day, Mr. Bramble’s wife and her eight cantankerous daughters set their minds upon a fancy mahogany bedstead and wardrobe they found at Mrs. Oriander Wilson’s moving sale. Mr. Bramble said nary a word; he just went to fetch Sweetie and a wagon.
“Several men attending the sale helped him wrestle the bedstead and wardrobe onto the bed of the wagon. Then Mr. Bramble’s self-willed wife spied a washstand and a set of dishes that soon found themselves nestled in among the furniture. Mr. Bramble wiped his face on his red bandanna, moved his ever-present pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, and proceeded to lead Sweetie toward home.
“Well, as stubborn mules will sometimes do for no discernible reason, Sweetie took offense. After only a turn and a half of the wagon’s wheels, Sweetie stopped, standing as rigid as a fence post in her tracks. Poor Mr. Bramble. If the men hadn’t been watching, if his wife and her eight daughte
rs hadn’t been standing with their hands on their hips, if he hadn’t had a queen’s ransom on the bed of his wagon, he would have let Sweetie have her way and come back for the wagon another day.
“To his considerable credit, Mr. Bramble tried every trick anyone could think of: covering Sweetie’s eyes with cloth, a flick of a whip to her flanks, pushing on her rump . . . nothing worked. Sweetie stood there, her long face complacent, occasionally flipping a fly off her back with her tail.
“Then Mr. Bramble tried the sure cure for Sweetie’s stubbornness. Fishing a green apple from his overalls pocket, he held it in front of her wrinkling nose. The mule leaned forward, her lips drawn back, her big yellow teeth open for a bite. The crowd held its collective breath as Mr. Bramble moved just out of reach. But Sweetie held her ground.
“Mr. Bramble flung the apple aside. His manhood was at stake. For once, Sweetie had to do his bidding. He gathered a few pieces of wood and stacked them under Sweetie’s ponderous belly. Knocking the ash from his pipe onto the kindling, Mr. Bramble looked up from under the mule, his mouth stretched in a wide possum grin.
“‘You’ll move or else,’ he said and stood back as a spark took hold and licks of flame curled upward. ‘Now we’ll see just who is boss,’ Mr. Bramble’s grin seemed to say as Sweetie strained forward. The wagon creaked as the wheels went round and round and . . . stopped . . . the wagonload of furniture positioned just so over the fire.
“Mr. Bramble flung his hat to the ground, but his face took on a look of resignation. He unhitched the mule and helped the men, with a great heaving and groaning, move the heavy wagon past the fire. Sweetie rolled her dark brown eyes and snorted until Mr. Bramble came and, with a great sigh, took the bit from her mouth. Ever so delicately, the stubborn mule nibbled the green apple treat he held in his hand.
“‘Just goes to show, fellows,’ Mr. Bramble told his laughing friends. “‘Ain’t no man alive can make a mule or a woman do what she don’t want to do . . . for she will always make you pay.’”