Mrs. Stone is one of my few remaining regular customers and today as I pulled into the long green drive of her lovely farmstead I found her on her porch feeding a baby goat.
“I don’t know how this happened. One of the nannies, Bella, had her kids at the wrong time. They usually come in the spring. There were triplets and this one is the runt . . . just not getting enough food. The others push her out of the way.”
I sit down on the steps to watch. The little black-and-white goat with droopy ears nudges the bottle like it was an udder and gives a repeated cry that sounds quite human. Mrs. Stone absently runs her hands through its fur.
“The man from Oil and Gas Company came back yesterday and this time he brought reinforcements, two other fellows in dark hats. Now they’re telling me the state has a hundred-dollar tax lien on the property that never was paid.
“I’m old, but I’m not dumb. They’re just trying to intimidate me. Telling me that they’re going to get the sheriff to auction the place off for back taxes! I own this place free and clear. It’s all paid up. They think because half the farmers in Union County are in hock, I am too.”
“Did you try Mr. Linkous, the lawyer in town? Maybe he could help.”
“I guess that’s my only hope. Thanks for listening, honey.”
To cheer her, I change the subject. “I noticed your trumpet flowers have bloomed. I love the way the vines grow over the arch in the gateway. I’m partial to picket fences. They’re so homey, and the orange flowers complement your white farmhouse.
“Patience Murphy, the midwife, lets us live in her old house rent free,” I go on, “a little cottage on the side the mountain, not as nice as your place, but beautiful in its own way. There used to be a picket fence there, but a few years ago someone burned it down.”
Mrs. Stone blows air through her nose and tightens her mouth, a determined gesture. She places one hand over my hand and one over Blum’s. I know what she’s thinking. These are bad times. She loves this house and the land her husband willed her. She loves the picket fence too and what it represents, a safe haven from a rough world . . . but the Oil and Gas Company man will be back.
House of Beauty
Today, since it rained and Blum is off with the vet, I put on my second-best dress and go into Liberty to do something nice for myself. As I cross the Hope the sun breaks through, but it doesn’t matter, the garden is still too wet to work.
There’s not much doing on Main Street today. Only Bittman’s Grocery and Stenger’s Pharmacy are open. The Eagle Theater has movies on Saturday, and the Mountain Top Café and a few bars on the back street are still hanging on. Only Sam’s Barbershop and Ida May’s House of Beauty seem to be thriving. That’s where I’m headed, Ida May’s.
“Well, how you doin’, honey? I was wondering when you’d visit us. Looks like you need some help!” Ida May turns from her present client and indicates my hair with a flip of her scissors and then goes back to work.
I find a seat in the corner and prepare to wait. It’s the busiest day of the week, but that can’t be helped. Tuesday is half-price day. Fifty cents is still too much, but Mrs. Goody’s gift was an unexpected blessing and I’ve decided I’m just going to do it!
Ida May, who is around thirty, bottle-blond, plump, and pleasant, keeps up a running patter with whoever sits in her swivel chair. Across the room two women discuss the White Rock CCC camp that I’d heard about.
“I hate to see it,” the older of the two complains in a high twang. “It’s a ruination, bringing in riffraff from Pittsburgh and Baltimore, even New Jersey. My sister in Ohio said they were going to truck in African boys from Cleveland and Detroit to the camp near her, but the locals wouldn’t stand for it. I hope they don’t try that here. There will be hell to pay. The coloreds in Hazel Patch and across the tracks are one thing; they’re decent, respectable people, but outsiders? Who knows what would happen?”
“My husband says they better keep those boys out of town, even the whites,” her friend responds. “Some of them have been to prison, probably rapists and thieves.”
Finally, Ida May crooks her finger at me. “You want a bob and a finger wave?” the beautician asks.
“Sure, but keep my bangs long.” Snip. Snip. She’s already started.
“So what you been doing with yourself, Nurse Becky?”
I dread this chitchat, but it’s part of getting your hair done, and part of Ida May’s job, to spread gossip. She’s better than the Union County Gazette.
“Nothing much,” I answer, knowing that won’t be enough for the beautician. “Well, you heard, I brought the doctor back to Liberty. He’s disabled now.”
“Tch. Tch.” Ida May looks at me in the mirror, shakes her head, and makes the sound with her tongue that means how sad. “You don’t really have to take care of him, do you? You must want to. You aren’t even kin.” She hands me the mirror so I can see the back of my hair. “Short enough for you?”
“A little shorter? I guess I don’t have to, but what would you do? He has no one. His brother disowned him and the doctors at Johns Hopkins can’t figure out what’s wrong. They say maybe he’s catatonic.”
“Oh!” gasps a dishwater blonde under the next dryer. “What’s that?” (I knew she was listening.)
“It’s a mental illness. It’s like when a soldier comes back from the war and just quits talking and withdraws into himself.”
“Terrible.” “How awful.” “Poor Dr. Blum,” the hens cluck.
Finally, I’m done. Ida May shoves me under the dryer and a half hour later, pulls me out and presses in the waves with her expert fingers. The shop is nearly empty now, with only one gray-haired woman waiting for a trim.
“You look just lovely,” Ida May tells me, sweeping the floor. “A darn sight better than when you came in.”
I give her a smile and the half dollar I owe. I wish I could tip, but that just won’t do. Outside, I glance at my reflection in the window of the House of Beauty. The salon owner is right. I look a lot better than when I came in.
Flirt
“Ma’am.” The uniformed gentleman crossing Main, gives me a salute. “Do you remember me?”
“I do, of course. You’re with the White Rock CCC camp.”
“You’re the local health nurse. Nurse . . .”
“It’s Myers. Nurse Myers.”
“Captain Wolfe,” he introduces himself. “May I walk with you?”
“I’m just on my way to Bittman’s Grocery where I have a part-time job delivering groceries.” Again I notice the limp as we stroll along. It’s his left leg, I realize, and he may wear a brace.
“Have you given any thought to helping us out at the camp? Dr. Crane from Camp Laurel only comes twice a week. You could come another two days. Then we’d have coverage more often than not.” We pause on the sidewalk outside the grocery and my thoughts are interrupted when a family comes out with a basket of groceries and I have to move.
These are folks I don’t know, a short man who, by the look of the blue scar on his forehead and the black grime under his fingernails, is probably a miner; his rail-thin wife, who wears a plaid dress that’s seen better days; and two little boys in droopy striped overalls.
“Howdy,” the man says, but the woman says nothing and looks away.
“I’ve heard the boys in the camps are pretty rough. People say some are ex-cons. Does that sound like a safe environment for a lady?” I ask.
“That’s not true. Some are rough around the edges but no one is mean and no one who has a criminal record is allowed in the CCC. You’d be safe; I’d guarantee it. Besides, we could fill up your gas tank each time you came. We keep a big tank for the trucks and graders. You have a good vehicle? It would be a great service to the boys”—here he pauses for effect—“and the country.”
I can’t help it; I laugh and shock myself with the sound, realizing how little I laugh lately.
“The country?” I look up into his eyes, which are green with tiny flecks of gold aro
und the pupils.
“Yes, you know: My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty.” We are definitely flirting now.
“Sweet liberty!” I spread my arms out and realize that, despite my age and the wrinkles around my eyes, to this man from the camp, with my new finger wave and my yellow dress, I must be a sight for sore eyes, a stage star from Broadway right here in Liberty.
“Seriously, Miss Myers, we really need someone. The young men get injuries and sores that don’t heal. I’ve driven to Torrington twice with kids who didn’t really need to go to the hospital, but had to be seen by someone. If I can set up a meeting with the director on Thursday, will you come and interview? It might become a part-time job.”
“Okay,” I tell Captain Wolfe. “I promise I’ll visit, maybe even Thursday, but I have other responsibilities—my grocery deliveries and a disabled man I care for. I would have to figure out what to do with him.”
“I understand. All I ask is that you come for an interview.” He salutes me smartly and limps away. I watch as he goes, wondering how he was injured, and if he, like my late husband, David, has nightmares of war.
Writing on the Wall
As I push through the glass door of the grocery store, I’m surprised to find pregnant Lilly downstairs sorting apples. Her quick, small, sensitive fingers feel for the bad spots and on each side of her she has a box, one for the perfect apples, another for the bruised.
“Lilly Bittman! What are you doing out of bed?”
“Oh, Becky Myers! I can’t just lie around all the time. I haven’t had any pain for a week and I have to do something. Anyway, who would tend the store while my husband is out making deliveries—”
Here, she pulls herself up, leans on the counter, and takes a deep breath. The light brown grocer’s apron she wears almost drags on the floor and her sightless eyes roam the air in front of her. “I’m sorry. B.K. was going to tell you. He has to do the deliveries himself now. Money’s that tight. The family that just left the store . . . They were here for thirty minutes, looking at the price of everything and finally left with two pounds of red beans and a sack of half-rotten apples that I threw in to be kind.
“We can still use you every now and then on Tuesdays when the shipments from Torrington come in and B.K. can’t leave the store. I’m real sorry,” she says again. “I know you need the money too.”
I let out a sigh. “It’s okay.”
The truth is, I’m devastated. Without the delivery job, the doc and I can’t make it. Sometimes there’s money in helping at births, but it makes me so tense, I’d rather starve. Captain Wolfe’s offer suddenly sounds very interesting, especially if there’s money in it.
To change the subject, I go on the offensive. “You really should be upstairs, Lilly. It’s okay to get up to use the commode or make yourself a sandwich, but I worry about you moving around too much. You aren’t lifting those heavy boxes, are you?”
“Oh, no. B.K. fixed me up before he left. Your hair looks nice, Miss Becky. Been to Ida May’s?”
I touch my head, remembering the luxury of the trim and perm at the salon, a luxury I now wish that I’d gone without, but how does the blind woman know where I’ve been?
“You’re wondering how I can tell you’ve been to Ida May’s? It’s easy. By the smell of the perm! Who were you talking to outside? I heard laughter. That’s rare nowadays.”
Here my smile is genuine. “That’s right. The man was Captain Wolfe from the Civilian Conservation Corps. Did you hear us?”
“Just a little. Not what you said, just your voices. Are you sure you should be consorting with him? The CCC men don’t have a good reputation.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Mother Wade just says they’re troublemakers and riffraff.”
“Well, I might as well tell you. They need a nurse at Camp White Rock. It would only be a few days a week, but it might help with money, especially if you don’t need me for deliveries anymore. The problem is, I don’t know what I’d do with the doctor.”
There’s a long pause as Lilly contemplates my situation. “If there’s a job there, you should take it,” she finally says. “You know yourself that jobs are few and far between. If you don’t like the men or if the camp is too rough, you can always quit.” A hopeful smile crosses her pretty face. “Maybe I could take care of Dr. Blum and you could pay me a little. Say, fifteen cents a day.”
“But what if you start contracting again, or what if he tries to wander off?”
“I might have to tie a bell to his shoes so I could tell where he is, but B.K. is here most of the time. We might even find little chores for him.”
“He can cut wood and carry things. Not much else. Children seem to enjoy him, though I don’t understand why. I’ll think about your proposition. The first thing is to see how the camp feels and if there’s an actual offer from the director or it’s just Captain Wolfe’s grand idea. Maybe if B.K. thinks it’s okay, I’ll let Dr. Blum stay with you while I visit White Rock the first time. See how it goes. . . .” I move toward the door, anxious now to leave and get back to the farm.
“Wait,” exclaims Lilly. “You forgot apples for applesauce.” She pours half a bucket of the bad ones in a clean white sac that she finds under the counter, this without sight, and she doesn’t drop one! I’m surprised when she moves toward me and takes me in her arms. “It will be okay, Miss Becky. We will all be okay. Even this one.” Here she rubs her swollen belly. “We will get through this together.”
17
Camp White Rock
“Isaac, today will be different.” I use a soft schoolteacher voice as if I’m talking to a six-year-old and that’s about how old Blum seems. He’s gone from being a baby when we first returned to Liberty to being a first grader, but still that’s progress. “After we make our last delivery, you’ll stay with the Bittmans while I go to the CCC camp.”
“You’re to do as they tell you. They may have some chores. If there’s nothing to do, just sit down on a box. This interview is important. They need a nurse at the camp and I need a job.”
Who knows if Blum’s even listening. He has the same blank stare as he always does.
The trip to the CCC camp takes longer than expected. Following Crocker Creek, which roars around boulders the size of an auto, I climb higher and higher with the mountainside falling away on the right. Am I really going to drive this road in the winter? Twenty minutes after passing Mrs. Stone’s place, I see the first signs of my destination, a dark green arrow that reads CCC CAMP.
Here, I turn into a narrow forest drive and am surprised when it ends in a pine-ringed clearing holding multiple log structures and a row of what I think may be dorms, five in all. Young men are coming and going between the buildings. It’s a whole little village of men, and I head for a group of fellows crowded around a tractor in a garage.
The corpsmen look over when I get out of the car, and though I don’t think of myself as a femme fatale, I’m very aware of my femaleness.
“Excuse me,” I say to the group. “Can you tell me where I might find the camp director?”
“Headquarters is two buildings down,” an older man answers. It’s Loonie Tinkshell from the Texaco station! “Howdy, Miss Myers. What are you doing way up this way?”
I really don’t want to share that I’m interviewing for a job, but there’s no way around it without seeming rude. “I’m going to talk to the director about employment as the clinic nurse, just a part-time position.”
“Well, holy cow! I’m working here now too.”
“I don’t have the job yet!” I can’t help but laugh.
“You’ll get it!” “Yeah, you’ll get it.” “Good luck, lady!” a few of the young men chime in, and I smile. The kindness of strangers, my mother used to say, and it’s true, especially in hard times.
Following Loonie’s directions, I turn the Pontiac around and pull up next to a smaller log building across from the dorms. Here goes nothing, I say to my
self, crossing my fingers behind my back. The many-paned windows reflect my tense face, and I practice a smile and smooth down my hair.
Mrs. Ross
“May I help you?” a big-bosomed woman asks as I enter the building. Her voice is higher than you’d expect from her size and her blue-gray hair is crimped and stiff.
“I’m Nurse Becky Myers. Captain Wolfe asked me to come meet the director today and talk with him about nursing services. I’m sorry I don’t have his name . . . the director.”
“The supervisor is out. You can wait if you want to.” She looks at her watch, indicating it may be hours.
“Is the captain here? I’ve come a long way.”
“No. They’ve both gone over to Camp Laurel.” She gives me no further explanation and offers no tea or coffee, though I notice she’s sipping something from a white mug with a green CCC insignia on it.
“I’ve come a long way,” I repeat firmly, sitting down and making it clear that I’m not going home. That’s all there is, no small talk or questions, and the woman goes back to her typing.
So, here I am and I hope this is not a half a tank of gas and a day wasted. I’m disappointed the men aren’t here. I was pretty sure I told Wolfe that I’d come on Thursday, although now that I think of it, there wasn’t an exact time.
While I wait, I take in the overly warm room. Directly across from me is a door labeled INFIRMARY and next to it a red-and-black poster with a photo of a strapping young fellow in a CCC uniform holding an ax. “A young man’s opportunity to work, to learn, and to conserve our national resources,” it reads, probably a poster designed by someone at the FAP, the Federal Art Project, a government program that hires unemployed artists.
From the handmade pine table next to me, I pick up the camp newsletter, The White Rock News, and open it to the humor page, but there’s no time to read. The door bursts open.
The Reluctant Midwife Page 13