The Regrets of Cyrus Dodd

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Prudence pulled a yellow silk dress she had worn as a younger woman from the closet and held it up to Ruth. She eyed the dress alongside Ruth’s pale skin then wrinkled her nose.

  “No,” she said, “this shade is too sallow for you.”

  She set aside the yellow dress and pulled out one the color of burgundy wine. Holding it up to Ruth’s face she gave a broad smile.

  “Perfect! With a few tucks at the waist it’ll look as if it were made for you.”

  When Prudence went to fetch her sewing basket, Ruth stood in front of the mirror eyeing her reflection. The color of the dress made her cheeks glow with a blush she’d never before seen. She fluffed the edge of the skirt as Prudence had shown her and twirled around. Never before in all her life had she felt so beautiful.

  That evening after they had eaten supper, Ruth stepped into the dress for a second time to show Cyrus.

  “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” she asked happily.

  Cyrus looked at Ruth’s face and answered, “Yes.”

  That night they made love as they had in the early days of their marriage, before there were ghosts of lost babies and the weight of sorrow lying in the bed alongside them. He held her in his arms, whispered of how lovely she was and pressed his mouth to hers.

  When their bodies came together, Cyrus could think of nothing but Ruth. For that handful of moments he had no thoughts of what he had lost. He felt only the warmth and passion of what he still had.

  * * *

  The second Sunday of January Ruth awoke with a feeling of nausea hanging over her.

  “I’m too sick to get out of bed,” she said and dropped back onto the pillow.

  Later that morning Prudence fixed a cup of tea and brought it up to her. After just two sips Ruth jumped out of bed, grabbed the washbowl and threw up.

  “Could be a touch of influenza,” Prudence said and insisted she remain right where she was.

  By late that afternoon Ruth was feeling better so she got out of the bed, pulled on her blue cotton dress and headed downstairs.

  “I guess it wasn’t influenza after all,” Ruth said. “I’m feeling fine now.”

  Claiming she was a bit hungry and could use a snack to tide her over until supper, she went into the kitchen, cut a thick slice of bread and slathered it with blueberry jam. When she finished eating it, she had a second slice and then a third.

  “Perhaps I was just hungry,” she said, laughing.

  The next morning Ruth awoke with the same nauseous feeling. It happened four days in a row. Then she realized her breasts were also swollen and tender. That morning when she finally pulled herself from the bed and struggled downstairs she sat in the breakfast nook across from Prudence and said, “I think we’re expecting a baby.”

  Prudence gave a broad smile. “That’s wonderful!”

  Ruth’s eyes filled with tears as she told of the first two babies. She sat in the chair with her back rounded and her shoulders curving in toward her chest.

  “I can’t bear the thought of losing another one,” she said and dropped her face into her hands.

  Prudence understood all too well what Ruth was feeling. She too had lost a child, only there had never been a second one because fate deemed it so. For five years she’d prayed, said novenas, lit candle after candle and still remained barren. In time she’d given up hope.

  “This is something I can’t afford to think about,” she’d told Arnold, and eventually she gave up going to church altogether.

  She stood, came around to the other side of the table and tugged Ruth into her arms.

  “This time it will be different. You’ll be more careful. I’m here to help you, and together we’ll make certain this child comes into the world hale and hearty.”

  That evening Ruth waited until she and Cyrus were alone in their room. Then gave him the news. She’d expected him to give a shout of joy, but instead he took her in his arms and held her tenderly to his chest.

  “I pray this time our baby will be born healthy,” he whispered.

  His words fell softly against her ear, and she snuggled closer.

  “It will,” she promised. “Prudence said she would make sure of it.”

  Cyrus gave a deep sigh and silenced her words with a kiss.

  He waited until two weeks later to tell her he’d been promoted to switchman and was now making two dollars and fifty cents a day. They could afford to get a place of their own, but for now that would have to wait. Perhaps after the baby was born…

  One scorching afternoon in the early part of August, the two women were sipping their glasses of sweet tea in the backyard when the heat overtook Ruth.

  “I feel damp and sticky,” she said. “I’m going inside to take a nap.”

  Prudence noticed Ruth seemed a bit wobbly when she crossed the yard.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ruth nodded and continued. Once inside the house she clung to the banister, pulling herself up the stairs and into the bedroom. With the heat of the day causing her clothes to stick to her, she loosened the buttons on her skirt and let it drop to the floor.

  That’s when she noticed the scarlet stain in the back.

  No, she thought. This can’t be happening. Not again. It’s too early.

  She lifted her petticoat, tugged down her bloomers and saw the blood smeared across the inside of her thighs. She let out an agonizing scream and crumpled to the floor. Prudence heard the scream and came scurrying up the stairs.

  “What’s wrong?” she yelled and banged on the bedroom door. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed through the door and found Ruth on the floor.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Ruth held up the bloody bloomers. “My baby,” she said, sobbing. “My baby!”

  “Nothing is wrong with the baby,” Prudence said, “so hush that carrying on and get yourself into bed.” She bent, took Ruth’s arm and helped her onto the bed. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll telephone Doctor Schumann.”

  As Ruth lay there with her heart pounding in her ears and tears overflowing her eyes, she listened to Prudence making the telephone call.

  “Come immediately,” Prudence said. The desperation in her voice was obvious.

  Shortly after the call ended, Prudence returned to the room carrying a washbowl of cool water and a soft cloth.

  “The doctor will be here soon, so let’s get you cleaned up.” She eased Ruth out of the stained petticoat and into a soft cotton nightgown.

  * * *

  When Cyrus came from work that evening, Prudence met him at the door. Holding her finger to her mouth she gave a soft shushing sound.

  “Ruth is sleeping,” she said then explained all that had happened.

  Cyrus’s face turned ashen as he listened to the story. Prudence held a gnarled hand to his cheek and said, “Don’t worry. Doctor Schumann has given her a powder to help her sleep. He said with bed rest and proper care she’ll be okay.”

  “And the baby?” Cyrus asked fearfully.

  Prudence gave a forced smile. “The little one’s heartbeat is still strong, so if there’s no more bleeding…” She let the words trail off, because speaking of the alternative was unthinkable.

  Eight months earlier when Prudence and Ruth had donned their fine dresses and walked to Saint Agatha’s to attend the Christmas Mass, Cyrus had not joined them. After losing the farm he’d believed he had nothing more to pray for and no reason to give thanks, so he’d remained at home.

  Now he felt differently. Still wearing his work clothes, he passed up the supper Prudence offered and walked down to Saint Agatha’s. Sliding into the back pew, he lowered his head and began to pray.

  “Please, Lord,” he begged. “Don’t let Ruth lose another child. That would kill her. I might be deserving of such punishment, but surely she’s not.”

  As he prayed a tear fell from his eye onto the dirty hands folded before him. For a moment it remained in the spot where it fell; then it rolled across t
he back of his hand and was gone. It left behind a mark where the dirt had been carried away.

  * * *

  Ruth’s labor began on a Saturday evening two weeks before the baby was due. It started with a dull ache in her back.

  “It’s nothing,” she told Cyrus. “I’ll be fine by morning.”

  He gave a scrutinizing look then pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat. For the past month he’d been sleeping in the third bedroom so he wouldn’t disturb her sleep, but this night he decided to stay beside her.

  For several hours she twisted this way and that saying she couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. Three times he plumped her pillow and eased her into another position. A bit higher, a smidge lower, leaning on first the right hip and then the left. Finally during the wee hours of the morning she closed her eyes, but Cyrus had an uneasy feeling so he remained in the chair.

  A short while later when the house was so quiet you could hear a feather fall, she gave a gasp that shook Cyrus’s bones.

  He jumped out of the chair and bent over her.

  “What?” he asked anxiously. “Is it time?”

  When the pain that had ricocheted across her back subsided, she dropped back onto the pillow and shook her head.

  “Not yet,” she said, but droplets of perspiration rolled down her face.

  It continued that way through the night. A thrust of pain so severe she cried out in agony and then nothing for thirty or forty minutes. When the pain came she reached for Cyrus’s arm and clung to it the way a drowning man clings to a single scrap of wood. When the pains started coming closer together, a washboard of ridges settled on his forehead and he pinched his brows.

  “I think we’d better call the doctor,” he said.

  “Not yet,” Ruth said and waved him off. “Doctor Schumann said the baby won’t come until the pains are five minutes apart.”

  Her labor continued that way through most of the day on Sunday, but when the clock struck seven Prudence finally said enough was enough. She called for Doctor Schumann to come right away.

  “Not even a first baby should take this long,” she told him, “and this is Ruth’s third.”

  Cupping her hand around her mouth so her words wouldn’t echo through the upstairs hallway, she whispered, “The first two were both born dead.”

  When the telephone rang Doctor Schumann had been just about to sit down to supper, but after hearing the urgency in Prudence’s voice he pushed back his plate and hurried off. She was waiting at the door when he arrived.

  “It’s been like this since yesterday evening,” Prudence said in a hushed tone.

  As soon as the doctor saw Ruth’s stomach distended at an odd angle, he suspected the baby was in a breech position. A pelvic examination proved him right. He slowly moved his hands across her stomach, feeling for the arms, legs and head. Once he realized the baby’s buttocks had already moved into the birth canal, a worried look settled on his face.

  “I don’t like this,” he murmured as he ran his fingers along the rise of her stomach. “It feels like the baby is holding its arm up beside its head. We need to change that.”

  He looked at Ruth. “I believe I can maneuver the arm into position, but I’ll need you to be as relaxed as possible. You’re going to have to push, so I’m not going to give you any morphine. Are you okay with that?”

  Ruth gave a barely perceptible nod.

  He turned to Prudence and asked, “Do you have any whiskey?”

  “Brandy,” she answered and hurried down the stairs.

  When Cyrus held the glass to Ruth’s lips, the memory of her two babies born dead came to mind. She swallowed the brandy in one fiery gulp then bit down on her lip and pushed as though she were Atlas trying to heave the world onto her shoulders. The buttocks of the baby broke through in a giant burst of pain.

  “Don’t move,” Doctor Schumann said. He grabbed the baby’s buttocks and with a deft hand twisted the baby to the left, then wedged his right index finger in alongside the body and hooked it over the tiny arm above the baby’s head. He felt the arm drop down then removed his hand. When the next contraction came he angled the baby’s body, and it slid halfway out.

  “One more push,” he told Ruth.

  Another contraction followed seconds later, and the head came through. Doctor Schumann clipped the umbilical cord and lifted the baby. He blew a puff of breath into the infant’s face, and it started to wail.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve got a healthy baby girl.”

  When Ruth heard those words tears overflowed her eyes. Cyrus bent and kissed her face.

  “There’s no need for tears now,” he said. “Our little girl is just fine.”

  “I know,” Ruth said through her sobs, “these are tears of joy.”

  And so it was they named the baby Joy.

  Wyattsville

  After Joy’s birth the days flew by. One year turned into two and then folded into three, but there was never a time when moving out of Prudence Greenly’s house seemed appropriate.

  That first year Joy was colicky. In the middle of the night she’d start screaming, so Ruth would climb from the bed and go to her. For hours on end she’d walk the floor with the baby cuddled to her chest, and when morning came she was exhausted. Dark circles began to appear beneath her eyes, and she took on the same gaunt look she’d had when they first came to Wyattsville.

  On a day after a particularly harrowing night, Prudence insisted she take an afternoon nap.

  “I’ll take care of Joy while you rest,” she said and shooed Ruth off to bed.

  That evening, for the first time in ages, Ruth looked well rested and happy. During the weeks and months that followed, she continued to catch up on her sleep with naps and Prudence spent afternoons caring for the infant as if she were her own.

  By the time Joy was old enough to go from cradle to crib, Prudence had grown so fond of the child she couldn’t bear the thought of not having her nearby. She turned the third bedroom into a nursery and hired a painter to come in and redo the room in a pale pink color. Before he finished enameling the woodwork, she’d leafed through the Sears and Roebuck catalogue and selected furniture for the room.

  That evening at the supper table Cyrus said now that Joy was to have her own room it was time they started shopping for a crib. Prudence gave an impish grin and told him she’d already ordered one.

  “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “I make good money and can afford to buy these things myself.”

  “Pshaw,” she replied and waved him off with a flick of her hand. “Would you deny an old woman the pleasure of spoiling those she loves?” Prudence reached over, tickled Joy’s tummy and gave a jolly laugh when the baby giggled.

  Next year, Cyrus thought. She won’t mind us leaving once Joy starts walking around and getting into everything.

  * * *

  The following summer Prudence stepped off a curb and snapped her ankle. For over two months the ankle was in a plaster cast, and she spent most of the day with it propped on a hassock. When she did get up, someone had to be there to lend a hand. That someone was Ruth.

  Although Cyrus wanted to move on and start a life of their own, a life where he and he alone was the provider, he set the thought aside. There was no way he could leave Prudence, not when she was the one in need of help. Not after all she had done for them.

  She’d never taken a dime for rent. When he tried to insist on paying, she’d claimed their being there eliminated the need for a housekeeper or gardener.

  “It’s a fair enough trade,” she said then turned and walked off. She’d allow him to take them all out for a fancy dinner from time to time and didn’t object when he brought home a tasty treat from the bakeshop or a spray of flowers for the dining room table. But when it came to taking money, Prudence flatly refused.

  “Put your money in the bank,” she said. “There will come a day when you’ll need it.”

  By the time Joy turned four, Cyrus had saved more
than enough to put a sizable down payment on a house. One night while he and Ruth were lying in bed, he mentioned this.

  “Don’t you want to have a place of our own?” he asked.

  For a long time there was no answer, and he thought perhaps she’d fallen asleep.

  “Ruth? Did you hear me?”

  A sigh came up from the depth of her chest. “I know having a home of our own is what we planned, but I hadn’t realized I’d be so happy here.” She explained how in a year or so Joy would be entering first grade, and the school was a mere two blocks away.

  “Prudence and I visited, and it’s the most wonderful place. They have tiny little chairs for the children to sit in. I can walk Joy to school in the morning and be there when she’s ready to come home.”

  “I’m sure there are other schools here in Wyattsville and—”

  “Oh, but Joy loves her room, and she’s so happy here. Why, she can name almost every flower in the garden,” Ruth gushed.

  The room was dark, and she couldn’t see the look of disappointment that had settled on Cyrus’s face.

  “Well, if it makes you happy,” he said.

  And so it was they went from month to month, year to year, and nothing changed. Joy started school, and Ruth joined a group of neighborhood ladies who crocheted sweaters for newborn babies.

  In his fifth year of working for the railroad Cyrus was promoted from switchman to yard supervisor, and with the new job came a substantial increase in pay. He now made thirty-five dollars a week. There was a certain sense of satisfaction in seeing their bank account growing fat and healthy, but with nothing of consequence to spend it on the money brought little happiness. On days when the train yard was quiet, he often stepped outside the office and imagined himself back on the farm. If he closed his eyes and ignored the smell of oil and tar, he could almost hear the sound of the wind coming off the mountain and rustling the stalks on a field of corn.