Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  Before I can set my pies down and strike up a conversation, the door opens again and I’m surprised to see Bill Blaze, the newsman, come in carrying a camera with a flash reflector on it the size of his head.

  What’s he doing here? Trying to stir up trouble? Write a big exposé about miscegenation? INTERRACIAL MARRIAGE COMES TO UNION COUNTY!

  I try to think how to stop him, but before I have a chance to say anything, Lou heads his way. “Hey, Bill. Nice of you to come! I expect there’ll be more people stopping by. You can get some nice photos later, but first how about a beer?” And the two go off as if they’re great pals. That’s one thing about Lou; he’s smart and makes friends with everyone.

  I approach Bitsy, who’s laying plates and silverware on a long table, and give her a hug. “You look beautiful,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” Bitsy says, giving me a one-arm hug in return. All the children’s desks are pushed up against the wall, sunshine streams through the windows, and the potbelly stove radiates warmth.

  “You look nice too,” she says, and I glance down at my dress. It’s blue with little silver stars and a scoop neck, one of Dan’s favorites.

  Lou slides across the room and, just like Fred Astaire, swirls Bitsy into his arms. Soon almost everyone’s dancing to the romantic music, everyone but Billy Blaze and Patience Hester. “Care to take a spin, ma’am?” Mr. Blaze asks.

  I swallow hard. I really don’t want to. He’s the man who wrote the terrible article about Dan in the paper, but it would ruin the party if I got in a squabble with him.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Blaze, if you can put up with two left feet.”

  “That’s fine. I have two right feet,” he quips, as pleasant as anyone. He takes his hat off and carefully lays his camera on a child’s wooden desk.

  “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas. With every Christmas card I write,” Bing Crosby sings in his smooth baritone, and Lou Cross and Bull Jackson sing along. “May your days be merry and bright. And may all your Christmases be white.”

  As Mr. Blaze and I dance, trying not to crunch each other’s toes, more cars drive up and people from Liberty spill into the room. Judge Wade and his wife arrive with Sheriff Hardman. Next come B.K. Bittman, Lilly, and their two youngsters, followed by the lawyer Mr. Linkous and his wife and five children.

  “Can I talk to you, Mrs. Hester?” Billy says.

  “It’s hard to dance and talk.” I excuse myself. This is a man I consider as poisonous as the copperhead that bit Willie.

  “Could we sit in the corner then?” He takes my arm and leads me to some chairs away from the crowd. There’s no getting out of it. I’ll sit with him for a few minutes, but if he’s scheming for an interview with the “draft dodger’s widow,” it’s not going to happen.

  “I want to apologize,” he says, looking right at me.

  “For what?” I ask, raising my chin and narrowing my eyes, a defensive posture.

  “For everything. When I came to Liberty, I was just a cub reporter and when the editor enlisted in the air force, I became the editor-in-chief and the only reporter. I was so afraid I’d fail that I wrote stories I shouldn’t have. Sometimes I even invented the details. . . .

  “For some reason, your family kept popping up. There was that nasty little piece about your daughter at last year’s school Christmas program.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” I say stiffly, but the corner of my mouth curls up. “Mira is a piece of work, isn’t she?” But Billy Blaze doesn’t smile. He’s on a mission, and he wants to get something out.

  “Then there was my report on the fight at the Red Cross auction and square dance. I was actually in the fight, but I didn’t mention that. I made it seem like your husband started it, and I knew that wasn’t true. Maybe I hated your family because you seemed so happy and I had no one. Never had. I grew up in an orphanage in Charleston.

  “Anyway, the worst was the last article about Daniel’s public arrest. When you see him, will you tell him I deeply regret every word I wrote? I was at his sentencing in Torrington. I don’t know if you saw me. I sat in back copying down every word he said, and I’m going to publish his statement before Christmas.” He stops, brushes his hair from his forehead, and I swear there are tears in his eyes.

  I swallow hard and place my hand over his. “Thank you,” I say. “It never entered my mind that you were trying so hard to write sensational headlines and stories because you were afraid you’d fail. I just thought you were trying to be a big shot . . . and for the record I liked a lot of your articles; the one about the Jews and the piece about saving the tin cans. We save all our cans now. And your article about the anniversary of the war . . .

  “One more thing . . . My family isn’t always happy. I don’t agree with my husband about the war, and there’s been great conflict between us. I have one angry son and a daughter with anxiety problems. We have hardly any money, and here’s something else. I grew up in an orphanage too.”

  A Toast

  Hello, Patience,” a voice behind me says. It’s Lilly Bittman, led by her husband. She’s carrying a tin of fruitcake and wearing a long red-and-blue polka-dot dress. B.K. drops her off and leaves to say hello to the hosts, and Lilly and I go to the refreshment table, where Lilly tips the tin over on a Christmas plate and peels off the wax paper with quick, nimble fingers.

  “Is it true?” she whispers.

  “What?”

  “Is it true that Mr. Cross is a Negro?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know. Not that it matters to us; our store is open to everyone. B.K. says Lou doesn’t look Negro. Being blind, I can’t tell, of course. . . .”

  Mrs. Wade steps forward and Lilly tightens her mouth. The older lady is all dressed up, as if going to church, in a pale gray suit with little stars and stripes on the lapel. Mrs. Wade is Lilly’s mother and though they love each other, they don’t always agree.

  “Oh, you brought a fruitcake,” the woman complains. “I did too. You should have told me. . . . Doesn’t Bitsy look darling. What a surprise to see them married, though.” She looks at me. “Did you know?”

  “I knew they were sweethearts.”

  “But did you know Mr. Cross was a Negro?”

  “I suspected, yes, but one doesn’t ask.” That should shut her up.

  “Well, it will be nice for her ward to have a father. Mr. Cross is a manly man, and a boy needs that, don’t you think?” Here I almost laugh. She’s so obviously digging for gossip.

  A new recording starts up. Sheriff Hardman stands over by the door alone, so I step over to talk to him. “Mrs. Hester,” the sheriff says formally, and nods without smiling. “How are you getting on? No more solo excursions over the mountains, I hope.”

  “No, Sheriff, but if the weather holds, I would like to see Daniel one more time before Christmas.” We both look out the window at the clear sky and sunshine.

  “I’d drive you, but I’m tied up with the POW camp. The town council wants me to escort the prisoners each time they come through Liberty, even though they have their own military guard.”

  “How’s that going? Have they established a secure prison at White Rock?”

  “The barbed wire is up, but I’ll be honest, it wouldn’t take a genius to get out of that place. The good news is that out of around three hundred thousand POWs in the whole U.S.A. there have been only a few escapees, and the prisoners were caught right away. The young Germans know they have it good here. They’re off the battlefield, have a full belly, have a warm bed and clothes on their back. Let’s face it, even if they could get away, where would they go? Unless a man could speak English he’d be hard pressed to find a job.”

  “Has anyone local hired the prisoners to work on their farms?”

  “Only Mr. Dresher, so far, because he speaks German. . . . It’s a real problem. They have no interpreters at the camp and only a couple of the POWs speak broken English. Dresher’s getting a bargain though. Forty-five cents an hour to repair h
is sheds, clean out the cow barn, and re-roof his house. . . . There aren’t any local laborers left in the county, and many of the Germans were skilled craftsmen or farmers before the war.”

  Just then, the music stops and Lou Cross taps on a glass to get our attention. He beckons Bitsy over and puts his arm around her. “I know most people in town thought I was a confirmed bachelor, but Bitsy changed all that. We were married in Uniontown a week ago and we want to thank you for coming to celebrate with us.”

  “Hear, hear!” a few fellows shout.

  “Hold it!” Mr. Blaze orders, snapping a picture with his flash. A nice shot, I think, and I hope Bitsy gets a copy.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” Mr. Linkous announces, holding up his beer. “Love is friendship set to music. May your love last forever.” Some people clap.

  Then Mr. Vipperman, owner of the woolen mill, steps forward and raises his paper cup of cider. “I’m an old man, almost eighty, and Lou Cross is my right-hand man at the woolen mill. When he came to me and announced he intended to marry Bitsy Proudfoot, I was surprised, she being colored and all.

  “Lou wasn’t concerned about that. He just wanted to be sure they’d both still have jobs. People like Lou and Bitsy don’t come around every day, people you can count on. I told him of course they’d both have work at the mill as long as they wanted. We need good, committed employees in these times of war. It doesn’t matter to me if they’re red, yellow, white, or brown. Congratulations!” Blaze snaps more photos. He’s here. He’s there. He’s everywhere.

  Murmurs of approval run through the crowd, though I have to remember, this is a gathering of friends. There are still many people who will oppose a mixed marriage, even if Lou says he’s colored. The sheriff gives me a nudge. “What?” I turn to him.

  “Your turn.”

  Oh dear! A toast! I haven’t prepared anything! Hardman pushes me out into the middle of the room and I almost trip forward in my pumps. “I’d like to speak,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel.

  “Bitsy has been my friend for many years, almost my sister. Though we lost touch for a while, when she was in Paris, I’m so glad she’s returned. Daniel and I welcomed her and her adopted son, Willie, into our home and now we count Lou as one of our friends. I remember a proverb I read somewhere: Keep your face always toward the sun, and shadows will fall behind you. Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Cross!”

  More people clap and then the music begins again. Bitsy comes over and gives me a hug. “Good speech,” she says. “But did you have to include the part about Paris?”

  I grin and lift my cup of cider. “It added a touch of class, don’t you think?”

  49

  December 6, 1942

  White Hurricane

  Suddenly the one-room schoolhouse darkens as if someone has blown out the sun, and a moment later a wind roars down the hollow and crashes against the west wall.

  Mrs. Wade jumps out of her chair and Susie runs to me. “What is it, Ma?”

  “It’s only a storm, kids, but I think we should be going.”

  “Really?” says Bitsy, looking disappointed. “The party’s just starting.”

  I look out the window again. Already, snow scours the side of the building, little hard flakes blowing in sideways. The wind squeals in the stovepipe and rattles the windows.

  “You only have to go a few steps to your house. I have to go a few miles. Sorry, Bitsy. It was a lovely celebration, but I don’t want to get stuck in a storm again, especially not with four children.”

  “It will probably blow over by the time you get home, but go if you have to,” my friend says, giving me another hug.

  When we shuffle out into the entryway, we’re chilled before we even get our coats on. When we open the door, the storm has already dumped three inches of white.

  “Now, hold on to my hand, Mira and Susie. Sunny, you hold on to Danny. This wind will really surprise you.”

  Thirty feet away from the schoolhouse we’re alone in the whirling white. When I look back there’s nothing to see, not even the lights from the windows. At first I can’t find the Olds. Finally Danny calls, “Over here!”

  We stagger that way and he pulls the passenger door open, but the wind blows it shut again. Twice he has to do this before he can slip in. Gathering the girls on the driver’s side, where the wind’s not so strong, I struggle them in.

  AN HOUR LATER, it’s as dark as night and we almost miss our farm. “The mailbox!” Danny shouts, and I’m still shaking as we pull in the drive.

  The noise of the snow, blinding, smothering, scratching, seems to last forever, but finally we stagger up on the farmhouse porch, each grab an armload of wood, and make it into the kitchen.

  “The fire is out in both stoves. I’ll have to restart it,” I say, gathering kindling from the wood box. “Girls, pull down the curtains and shades like we’re having an air-raid drill. Danny, bring in some more wood. Then we can sit around the kitchen table and get warm. It’s like an icebox in here.”

  Finally, I have both stoves roaring and we stand around waiting for the teapot to boil. “Can we have chamomile with honey in it?” Sunny wants to know.

  “Yes, and I have a surprise. I didn’t just make three apple pies for the party. I made four, and one is back in the oven getting warm. Pie and milk for dinner!”

  Despite the roaring fires, the house is still so cold we don’t want to take our coats off and I begin to think maybe we should close off the second floor and sleep in the living room. The trouble is, it means bringing down mattresses and bedding.

  Finally, I decide it’s the best thing to do, so I assign the girls to carry down everyone’s quilts, sheets, and pajamas and then Danny and I push two double mattresses down the stairs. All in all, it takes less than ten minutes, and after I close the door to the upstairs, we begin to warm up.

  “Can we listen to the radio?” Mira asks after we’ve eaten our supper.

  “Sure, if you can get a station.”

  Danny fiddles with the dial. At first there’s just static, but finally WWVA out of Wheeling comes in. “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” someone sings. “And we’ll all stay free!”

  Then a newscaster breaks in: “We bring you this breaking news. . . . A major storm continues to sweep over the Allegheny mountain range. Roads are becoming impassible, with the National Highway already closed. The heaviest snow and worst blizzard conditions will stretch from Union County, West Virginia, as far as Garrett County, Maryland, and the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia. Citizens are urged to stay home until the roads are clear.

  “I repeat, this is a major, dangerous storm, a white hurricane. We haven’t seen anything like this for years! All you out in the mountains, we’re praying for you, and those servicemen overseas, we’re praying for you too. God bless America.”

  Outside, the storm howls like a pack of wild dogs at the windows. Scratches at the doors. Howl, damn you, I think. We’re all safe in this sturdy stone farmhouse. You can go mad if you want to, but you can’t get us. You can’t get us!

  It isn’t until morning that I discover half the barn roof is gone.

  50

  December 9, 1942

  Dear Patience,

  It was nice talking on the phone last night. I’ve been so worried, and it was kind of the warden to give all the men with families who live in the path of the white hurricane a chance to call home.

  Even here in prison we felt the storm. The stone walls are stout, but the barred glass windows are old and let in the wind. Of course, there’s no provision for extra blankets when snow covers the ground; that would be too expensive.

  I have no way of knowing for sure what the temperature was in the cells, but there was ice on my water bucket in the morning. The infirmary has been busy. So many of the men caught colds that night.

  It grieves me to hear of the big hole in the barn roof following the hurricane and
of all your difficulties. If only there was some way I could get home for a few days, I could get the work done. I’m sure lumber and labor would wipe out what we have in the tin box. I wonder if there’s something we could sell to get the money for the barn roof. Maybe a cow?

  Again, I’m so sorry to cause you this trouble. You don’t deserve it. You’ve always been the kindest, most loving, bravest partner a man could have.

  Your husband,

  Daniel

  51

  December 10, 1942

  Another Kind of Hero

  Bitsy and Lou came over on Sunday to survey the damage to the barn. (Everyone at Hazel Patch escaped scot-free because the community is located in a wide hollow where the wind didn’t get to them.) They were ready to climb on the roof right then, but I explained I didn’t have the money for lumber and tin.

  When they left, they gave me a copy of Little House in the Big Woods that Mrs. Miller sent over. She has closed the school for winter break and the kids and I plan to read a chapter each night. Lou also handed me a folded-up copy of the Liberty Times.

  ANOTHER KIND OF HERO the headline reads, BY WILLIAM BLAZE.

  Today, the whole world is locked in deadly struggle as the nations advance upon each other in a worldwide war. In the midst of this bloody conflict, raging and roaring over all the earth, men fight for our freedom and we hail them as heroes.

  But miles from Union County, in the Moundsville State Penitentiary, there’s another kind of hero, a man who, because he refuses to participate in war, has been locked in prison. Some have called him a draft dodger. Even this reporter has used those harsh words, but recently I stood in the courtroom as he was sentenced for two years of hard time, and I began to think differently.

  Dr. Hester is a veteran of the first world war. He fought in the Great War that was to end all wars, yet here we are less than twenty years later, fighting and killing again. He is only one small voice, but it takes courage to speak out when everyone thinks differently.