The Reluctant Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  Simon looks at me apologetically. “You go on in, Nurse. I’ll watch your mister.”

  He’s not my mister, I want to tell him, but decide to let it go. God knows what the rest of Union County thinks. Simon hands me my satchel and nods toward the house. A thin, dark-haired girl with a prominent overbite runs out the door.

  “Gotta go now, Mr. Markey. Ma will be needing me at home.” She doesn’t stop to say good-bye. Just runs off down the dirt road on her bare feet, her black braids flying. I can’t say I blame her. With the next scream, I feel like running myself.

  “What’s your wife’s name again?”

  “Dahlila.”

  “Dahlila,” I whisper under my breath. Dahlila, you better stop screaming, because I can’t take it.

  “Hello?” The screen door creaks behind me as I enter a well-appointed parlor with a new blue-embossed davenport, matching wing chair and rocker, oak end tables, and a whatnot shelf with a collection of glass and ceramic dogs and cats. The floor is covered with a flowered carpet too nice to walk on, and in the corner there’s a shiny coal stove with a silver ornament on top. A radio on an end table is turned up high and a blues song, “Hard Times Now,” blares throughout the house, probably Simon Markey’s attempt to drown out the screams.

  “You heard about a job, now you is on your way. Twenty men after the same job, all in the same ol’ day. Hard times, hard times . . .” (It could be my theme song.)

  “Dahlila? It’s Nurse Becky Myers, come to sit with you. Patience, the midwife, sent me.” My reference to Patience is supposed to give me legitimacy, though in the arena of childbirth, I’m a fish out of water.

  “Dahlila?” I call softly again, pushing the door open at the top of the landing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay! Do you think I sound okay? I thought this was supposed to be easy.”

  A woman in her midtwenties, with one long blond braid coming undone, sits in the middle of a rumpled four-poster bed. The sheets and blankets have fallen to the floor and her bottom half is naked. On top, she still wears a striped pink satin chemise.

  “You thought having a baby would be easy?”

  “My sister says it is. I can just hear her. ‘If the doc hadn’t checked me, I wouldn’t have known I was in labor! Forty-five minutes later my baby was born.’ ”

  “Well, that isn’t usually the case. Mostly it takes a long time, at least half a day, sometimes two.”

  “Two!” She begins the high-pitched wail again and I realize I’ve made a tactical error. “No. No. No! I can’t do it. I won’t. Get that man in here. Simon, I will kill you! I swear I will. This is all his fault for wanting a son.”

  She starts to huff with contractions and I wonder when Patience is going to get here. She better hurry or I’ll have to do this delivery myself. My stomach grips at the thought of it, and my eyes get tight around the edges.

  “Dahlila,” I say when her contraction is over, being careful not to upset her again. “Watching you, I have a feeling your baby will be here sooner rather than later. I’d like to get the bed made and things ready for Patience. Do you think you could help me? Just be a little quieter so I can think.”

  The woman drops her shoulders and takes a big breath, then another. She’s has a Northern European look, lean and tall, the kind of woman you’d picture in a movie, lounging against a bar in a low-cut dress, only her flawless skin is makeup-less and her blond hair is tangled and matted. “You think so? You really think the baby might come soon?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m almost sure of it. When did the pains start?”

  “This morning about six when I got up to use the bathroom.”

  “Has your water bag broken?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Have you voided recently?”

  The girl looks embarrassed. “You mean tinkled?”

  “Yes, urinated or defecated. Where do you usually go? Do you have an indoor water closet?”

  “Oh, yes. Simon had it built when we first married. He is so good to me.”

  “Why don’t you go down the hall and see if you can tinkle while I change the linens. It’s not good to labor with a full bladder, makes it hurt more too.” Here she stops for a minute to do her huffing and I glance at my watch. The contractions are every four minutes.

  Grateful I thought to bring Dr. Blum’s delivery pack in my nurse’s bag, I quickly lay out what I think Patience will need while Dahlila goes down the hall to the bathroom. “Mr. Markey,” I yell down the stairs. “Do you have hot water and sterilized linens? I want to get every thing ready.” No answer. “Mr. Markey?”

  Tarnation! Where is he?

  Two doors away, I can still hear the laboring mother breathing through her contractions. “Stay right there on the commode, Dahlila. I have to be sure we have warm water and a few other things.”

  “Mmmmmm,” the girl says.

  Solo

  It takes two trips up and down the stairs, but at last I’m back in the bedroom with a pot of hot water and the bundle of sterilized sheets and rags that Dahlila must have fixed up.

  “You okay?” I yell in her direction, though I figure she is, since she’s no longer screaming.

  “Mmmmmmmmmmm,” she says again.

  There’s nothing like the efficiency of a nurse, and within minutes the bed is prepared, padded, and ready. I check the cradle in the corner and open the curtains, hoping to catch sight of Patience speeding this way, but there are just the green peaceful fields. Simon and Dr. Blum are nowhere in sight. Maybe it’s better that way.

  Just then, it comes to me that I haven’t yet checked the fetal heartbeat, which is actually the first thing I should have done, so I dig out my stethoscope and hurry down the hall to escort Dahlila back to the bedroom. I’m alarmed when I get there to see her leaning over the sink, her fingers gripping the porcelain.

  “Come on, Dahlila, let’s get you back in bed.” I half pull her down the hall to the bedroom, but before she can climb back into the four-poster, she has another contraction and gets down on her hands and knees on the floor. “Oh no, that’s not the way! Look, I’ve made the clean sheets all nice for you, and I need to check the baby’s heart. . . . Honey!” Dahlila rotates her hips in a strange, erotic way.

  “Mmmmmmmmm!” she groans.

  “Honey . . . ?” Then her water bursts and all hell breaks loose.

  “It’s coming!” she gasps.

  My stomach gives a lurch. Patience really isn’t going to get here in time!

  “Dahlila, try panting. I need you in bed so I can see what’s happening, okay? Dahlila!” I insist. “I really need you in the bed.”

  “Can’t!” She’s down to one-word replies. “Mmmmmmmmm!” I picture the baby’s head descending.

  There’s nothing else for it, I must get down on the floor to look.

  “Pant, Dahlila. Pant!” I make my voice strong like Patience’s and pull on my sterilized rubber gloves. “The midwife should be here any minute. You can do it. Let me see where the head is.” It better be a head. If not, we’re in very big trouble.

  “Mmmmmmmmm,” the mother groans again and I’m relieved when I see a nice hairy orb.

  Again, I try to think what Patience would do. I want to wait for her to get here, but I still haven’t checked the fetal heartbeat, and the stethoscope is back in the bathroom where I dropped it next to the sink.

  Maybe it’s better to get the baby out and not fool with listening to the heartbeat. (Better a live baby than a heart rate to write in my nurse’s notes.)

  “Dahlila, look at me. I need you to listen and do exactly what I say.” I try to sound firm and hold her green eyes with my brown ones, but I’m pretty sure my voice is shaking. “When you feel an urge to push go with it. If it stings, stop for a minute and pant. Pant and let your opening stretch. It’s going to burn like fire for five or ten minutes and then it will be over and you will have your baby.”

  “Oh, I can’t. I can’t!”

  “Ye
s, you can! We can do this together.” This is said with much more confidence than I feel.

  I have no oil like Patience uses, so instead I dip one of my sterilized rags in the pot of warm water and hold it against the young woman’s vagina. I’m just going on instinct here, hoping it might help her stretch.

  “MMMMMMMMMMMMM!”

  “Slow it down, honey . . . the head’s almost out.” “Hard times. Hard times,” the radio booms.

  “Oh! Ow! Ow!” Dahlila cries.

  “One more little push.” There’s no time for keeping the head flexed the way Patience does, or maneuvering the shoulders like Dr. Blum does, and maybe it’s just as well, because with the woman on her hands and knees, I probably wouldn’t do it right anyway. With the next push, the whole baby rotates and falls into my lap.

  “I did it!” Dahlila cries, and the baby boy, startled to be here, cries with her. Downstairs, the front door flies open.

  “Everyone okay up there?” It’s Patience and Simon.

  “You okay, babe?” That’s the father.

  “You okay, Becky?” That’s Patience, and on the radio we have a new song. “New day’s comin’, As sure as you’re born! There’s a new day comin’, Start tootin’ your horn . . .”

  Now Dahlila and I are both laughing. Laughter just bubbles up. I sit back against the bedstead, still on the floor, covered with blood and amniotic fluid. Dahlila’s eyes meet mine in joyful hysteria and I bite my lip to get control. This makes us laugh all the harder. Finally, I clear my throat.

  “Everything’s fine. Patience, you can come up, but please wait a few moments, Mr. Markey.”

  Ten minutes later the placenta is out and Patience has stitched a few tiny tears. Some women, she tells me, are built better for childbirth than others, but if you’re careful and let the head deliver slowly most won’t have more than a few skid marks. Finally, we get the new mother between the clean sheets. We wash her face and hands and give her the baby, now wrapped snug in the sterilized blanket. Mr. Markey doesn’t wait for permission. He bounds up the stairs.

  “I did it,” the young mother cries proudly. “I made you a baby.”

  The father doesn’t say a word. His eyes are on the wonder of this new life and the beautiful woman before him. He just sits on the chair and sobs.

  There’s movement in the hall and when I turn, Dr. Blum is leaning against the doorframe. It’s then that I see something I’ve not seen before, not even when he was in his right mind. His eyes are wet too.

  May 16, 1934

  7-pound, 3-ounce infant boy born to Dahlila and Simon Markey of Snake Hollow. (Baby was weighed on an extra old-fashioned hanging scale that the midwife had given me.) I was supposed to just be there just for support until the midwife could get there, but the baby arrived before she did. Patience made it for the placenta and she repaired two tiny tears.

  The six chickens I received were not payment enough for the dozens of gray hairs I got, but I did learn a few things. The warm water compresses were something even the midwife had not tried and seemed to offer the mother some comfort. Also, getting the woman out of bed apparently lessens the pain (I did not know this), and the baby often comes quicker. Dahlila delivered her baby boy on the floor and we both laughed our heads off.

  8

  Healing for Money

  “Hello,” a man calls from out in the yard just as I’m cleaning Dr. Blum’s face, readying him for the trip into Liberty we’d abandoned when Mr. Markey sped up the road and begged for my assistance.

  We both go out on the porch to find another stranger standing in the road, a handsome guy, clean-shaven, with shoulders as broad as a truck and a low voice that comes out like gravel running along a stream bed. “Hello,” he says again.

  Surely he has the wrong house. He’s standing next to the shiny red Packard I’d seen in town last week, the one with the silver winged goddess on the front of the hood, and he wears a black uniform with a little chauffeur’s cap.

  “Are you the nurse, Rebecca Myers?”

  “Stay!” I hiss as I push Dr. Blum back inside and take the steps down into the yard. “Yes, I am.”

  “There’s a medical emergency at the Barnett Boardinghouse. Mrs. Bazzano asked me to bring you. It’s her son . . . her eight-year-old son.”

  “A child? What sort of an emergency?” (At least it’s not a woman in labor!)

  “It’s his breathing. He’s having an air attack. Old lady Barnett recommended you.”

  “I’m not a physician, you understand? Can’t you take him to the hospital in Torrington? There are specialists there.”

  “No, we can’t go into Torrington.” From the corner of my eye I catch sight of Isaac as he takes this moment to come back outside and stand at the rail to piss.

  “Dr. Blum!” I shout, but it’s too late. He’s already taken his pecker out and is spraying a long one right toward the driver. The man steps back a few feet and stares in amazement.

  “He’s a doctor? If he’s a doctor, you can both come.”

  “Sir, your name?”

  “Nick Rioli. I’m the driver for Mrs. John Bazzano and her children. Mrs. John Bazzano of Pittsburgh.” He says this last part as if it’s significant and I take it that they come from money or fame.

  “Well, listen, Mr. Rioli. I think you can see that the doctor is not right, clearly not able to help anyone, and you’ve caught us at an inopportune time. We’re on our way to town for an employment interview.”

  This is a fabrication, but I need something more impressive than I have to go out and look for a job. “You really should get the boy in the auto and head for Torrington right now.” The fellow just stands there, his arms folded in front of his body, making it clear he’s not leaving.

  “Mrs. Bazzano is prepared to pay.” Here he pulls out a black leather wallet and holds a crisp ten-dollar bill between his fingers, an attractive bribe. I haven’t seen that kind of cash for months and my eyes are glued on the green. It doesn’t take long to make a decision.

  “Okay, Mr. Rioli. You’ve convinced me.” I hold out my hand for the tenner. “We were going into Liberty anyway. I’ll follow in our own vehicle and go to the job interview later, but I have to make myself clear: If the boy is seriously ill, I may not be able to help him.

  “On the other hand, if I am able to help him, it will be another ten dollars.” I’m shocked by my boldness. Healing for money. What would Florence Nightingale say?

  Wings

  Twenty minutes later, the doctor and I are sitting in the back of the opulent Packard with springs so flexible I can hardly feel the bumps in the road. The silver winged replica of the goddess of speed propels us toward Liberty and I regret that the driver wouldn’t let me bring my own vehicle, but then I wouldn’t get the smooth ride.

  “So.” I speak loudly, to be heard over the roar of the motor. “Can you tell me more about the child, Mr. Rioli?” Dr. Blum sits next to me, our medical bag in his lap, riding along in his usual silence. “Has the boy had breathing attacks before? Does he have any medical history? Any recent exposure to TB or anything like that? And why can’t you go into Torrington?”

  The driver clears his throat and watches me through his rearview mirror. “The boy goes to an asthma specialist in Pittsburgh, but he’s never been this bad before. He’s having one attack after another.”

  “Any recent colds or croup?”

  “Yes. It started with a cough. We were on our way to White Sulfur Springs to take the cure, but had to stop for a few days when he became ill, and now he’s started getting short of breath.”

  “You mentioned the family name, John Bazzano, but I don’t know anything about them.”

  “In this case,” says the driver, “that’s just as well.”

  A few minutes later, as we cruise past the soup kitchen at the Saved by Faith Baptist Church, I shrink down, embarrassed to be seen riding in the limo while the hungry men stand in line for free food. They cannot know by looking at us that until an hour ago, the docto
r and I were close to destitute ourselves.

  “Why is it better that I don’t know the family?” I turn back to the driver.

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Not lately, no.”

  We pull up into the drive of Mrs. Barnett’s Boardinghouse, a two-story white clapboard building with porches on both the upper and lower levels and around two sides. A neat white picket fence encloses the yard, and there are twelve-foot-tall white snowball bushes out front.

  Two men in dark suits sit on the porch, in rattan chairs, playing cards. The shorter one has a small mustache and smokes a cigar. The other has big chompers with a gap in front and they both rise as we approach. Mr. Rioli parks in the back, and I notice there’s only one other vehicle, another smaller late-model Packard.

  Despite his urgency to get me to the sick child, Joseph stops for a minute and turns around in his seat. “Nurse Myers,” he says in that deep rattling voice. “You seem like a smart lady. I don’t know about the doc . . .”

  “He’s disabled now.” I defend my old colleague. “A few years ago, you couldn’t have wanted a better physician. He’s a surgeon too . . . or was.”

  “No doubt,” the chauffeur allows, but I can tell he doesn’t buy it. “What I want to say is . . . For everyone’s sake, don’t ask too many questions about what you see and hear inside this house.”

  I frown. “As a nurse, I never talk about my patients, except to other medical professionals.”

  “Well, I’m warning you, keep that to a minimum too. I mean it.”

  The men from the porch are approaching the Packard and Nick gets out and opens the door for me.

  “Any trouble?” the taller of the two asks, and I see now he has one blue eye and one brown. Still, he’s a handsome fellow, well groomed with a recent haircut. Both men tip their hats.

  “Nah, smooth sailing,” says Nick. “Don’t be alarmed by the gentleman in the back. I’ll take the lady inside. Can you guys keep an eye on him; he’s the nurse’s charge, harmless she says, but a mute.”