The Runaway Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  Let’s face it. The marriage vows were broken long before I left Torrington.

  Shut-in

  Surrounded by midsummer greenery, the cottage lately seems small and close. It’s only when I go out to the upper deck and look at the sky that I find relief. I lie on the warm deck and study the clouds. They move so slowly, but are always changing. Sometimes I look for the shape of an animal, a duck or rabbit or horse. If you stare long enough, whatever sadness or worry you have will ease.

  Seagull Island is not wilderness. There’s nothing foreign or wild about it and yet the relentlessness of nature assaults me. Everything grows so fast. Cobwebs that I sweep off the house today reappear by tomorrow. Weeds that I pull are back in three days.

  I’m sitting on the deck reading when I notice the whine of the first mosquito. It lands on my forearm and I study it dispassionately. Soon, unless there’s a strong wind, I’ll have to stay inside or use insecticidal spray.

  Tiger doesn’t care either way. His fur protects him and for the first time I wish I were covered with fur too, instead of being one giant vanilla ice cream cone for the bloodsucking insects.

  Then the midges hatch out from larvae laid in the ditches last year. They look like large mosquitoes but don’t bite, and at dusk they rise like smoke from the tops of the cottonwoods. The clouds of flying insects swirl in the wind, along with the tufts of cottonwood seeds that are shedding just now.

  By morning the carcasses of the midges hang in the cobwebs that cover the clapboards along with new tufts of cotton from the cottonwood trees, making the cottage look dirty and forlorn. On the other hand, the fish eat the midges and mosquitoes. And the swallows that live in the shed swoop all over the yard with their beaks open, gulping them down.

  To cheer me up, Jed shares the rest of the flat marigolds he didn’t have room to plant in his window box and a packet of zinnia seeds, which will brighten my yard.

  I go back to the list of shut-ins. I call Nita Adams again and this time she recognizes me. Her hip is hurting more today, but otherwise she’s doing okay. She needs to find someone to fix her roof, because it leaks when it rains. I make a note to ask Jed if he could do it, and I’ll offer to pay him.

  The next name on the list is Terry Jacob, age forty-four. She has paraplegia and has used a wheelchair since a sailboat accident five years ago. According to Dolman’s social-worker notes, she’s an American, had always loved Seagull Island and returned to reside permanently in her parents’ renovated cottage two years ago.

  Terry apparently lives alone, doesn’t drive, runs the Seagull Island Weavers’ Guild, has a handyman who keeps up her yard and who also brings her groceries. Otherwise, she takes care of herself.

  Here goes nothing, I think. For some reason, calling someone who’s about my age feels awkward. “Hello, Terry?”

  “Hiya,” answers a youthful voice. “What’s up?”

  “Oh . . . This is Sara Livingston. I live on Seagull Point and I just thought I’d call and say hello. I’m a friend of Peter’s.”

  There’s a long pause. “Pete put you up to this? Tell him to mind his own business.” She slams down the receiver. Whoa! That was worse than awkward. So much for my do-gooder spirit.

  I stare at the phone, wondering what to do next. Maybe my idea of checking on people wasn’t so great. Maybe they won’t appreciate it . . .

  The phone rings and I answer it hesitantly. “Hello . . .”

  “I’m sorry. This is Terry. I got your number on caller ID. I shouldn’t have been so rude. What’s your name again?”

  “Sara. Sara Livingston. I’m new on the island, and I thought I could help Peter by checking on some of the people he worries about.”

  There’s a snort on the other end of the line. “That man! If he weren’t a cop, I’d shoot him myself. I don’t know how I got on his list. I’m doing fine.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m on his list too. I live alone and he told me I had to get a phone. He was even going to pay for it. I have a cell, but it doesn’t get reception except up by the ferry dock.”

  “Tell me about it! Cell phone reception is spotty all over the island. It sounds crazy, but it depends on which way the wind is blowing.”

  “So you’re a weaver . . . That must be nice on an island full of sheep.”

  “It’s great. I’ve just started making my own yarn. What do you do?”

  “Well, I’m a nurse or was. I got burned-out and now I’m writing a book.”

  “Sounds interesting.” There’s a commotion in the background. “One sec . . . Hey, I got to go. Austin Aubrey is delivering a load of raw wool. Why don’t you come over sometime? I’d love to meet you and hear about your book. Give me a call.” Then the line goes dead . . .

  I look at Tiger. “Well . . . that was weird. What do you think, success or failure?”

  Tiger shrugs.

  “This is harder than I thought and I never even asked about Terry’s health.”

  BARN SWALLOW

  A blue-black songbird with white to orange underneath, a long forked tail and pointed wings

  Feeds exclusively on insects in swooping dives

  Voice: Lilting with a squeaky quality

  Range: All over US and much of Canada

  Size: 6–7 inches

  No Woman No Cry

  On Sunday, Molly Lou and her family pick me up for the July 1 Canada Day celebration. We eat our picnic at the island park on a blanket and watch the tractor parade, which includes John Deeres, Fords, Internationals, some new and some old, all decorated with red and white streamers and Canadian flags. There are even kids driving lawn tractors.

  It was strange celebrating the birth of a nation that wasn’t mine. No lump in my throat when they played their national anthem. O Canada! Our home and native land! True patriot love in all thy sons command. No tears in my eyes when I looked around at the vets wearing their old Canadian military uniforms. With glowing hearts we see thee rise, the True North strong and free!

  THEN YESTERDAY, I was convinced to go out to dinner with Dolman. I’d told Jed, when I was at the clinic, that the cop made me nervous, though I didn’t divulge why. (Jed has become my closest companion, but we still don’t share secrets. That’s one thing I like about him. He’s private and so am I.)

  “He’s not a bad guy,” Jed said. “We’ve been friends for years, been in some tough spots together. He’s solid. I count on him. We have a good time. You should go.”

  “He wants to take me out to dinner to repay me for going with him to the commune that time he had to present them with the big fine. It was a real mess.”

  “He was just doing his job. Give the guy a chance. You need some male companionship.”

  “That’s what I have you for,” I tease him.

  “Not the same.” He grins and gives me a fake swish of his hand.

  Now here I am at the Cider Mill sitting at a cloth-covered table with Peter. (I’ve decided I’ll try to call him Peter. Everyone else does, but that doesn’t mean he’s not the cop in my mind.)

  The restaurant is a step up from the Black Sheep Pub. They actually have candles in small glass containers, flowers in vases and a three-piece band on a low platform playing a reggae tune, “No Woman, No Cry.”

  “Nice dress,” Peter says. I’m wearing the orange knit shift and leather sandals that I picked up at the yard sale across from Burke’s Country Store. He’s wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt, no cop clothes, no sunglasses, and it’s nice to look in his gray eyes. They are kind, I decide. Maybe that’s why he has to wear the silver glasses, to look like a tough guy.

  While we wait to order, I look around the large room. About half the tables are full, but there’s no one I recognize. There’s a bar on the side where two women sit watching the musicians. In the rear, there’s a party of seven, all men, a tough-looking crew who don’t appear to be tourists. Wise guys, it comes to me, but I know that’s ridiculous.

  Peter and I even dance while we wait for our meals, f
irst to another reggae number—“I shot the sheriff, but I didn’t shoot no deputy”—which cracks us both up. Then just when I think I can get off the dance floor and out of the public eye, the band starts up again and Dolman pulls me into his arms. It’s an old Cyndi Lauper song I used to sing with Jessie and tears come so fast I can’t stop them.

  “If you’re lost you can look and you will find me, Time after time.”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and he holds me closer. “If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting, Time after time.”

  On the way back to the table, I excuse myself quickly by saying I need to use the ladies’ room and he squeezes my hand. Once in the stall, I let the tears come. If you’re lost you can look and you will find me. Is Jessie looking for me? Does she think I’ve followed Karen into a watery grave? I hold my heart with both hands to steady the spear that pierces it.

  Call for a Good Time

  The door to the bar opens and a strong perfume wafts into the john. I take a deep breath and blow my nose on the toilet paper. When I step out to wash my hands and face, I discover a petite blond in tight black jeans and pointy high heels, a Marilyn Monroe–type, putting lipstick on in front of the mirror. She fluffs up her bleached hair with both hands. “Hi, honey,” she greets me in the glass without turning. “You live on the island?”

  “Yes.” I let her assume I’m a native.

  “You know the big guy at the corner table?”

  “Yes,” I answer again, drying my hands on a paper towel. On the front of the white enamel dispenser, a message has been carved with the point of a pocketknife: “Call Charity for a good time!”

  (What the hell! Charity is the girl who was raped years ago, and that’s the most tasteless graffiti I’ve ever seen!) Surely no one who knew the story could think it was funny. Maybe whoever scribbled the message was some crude tourist, referring to a different Charity, but still the words have to go!

  The woman behind me is probably a little drunk because she’s now in the second stall fumbling with the sliding lock. “He’s kind of hot. Is he a swinger?” she calls out.

  “You mean Peter Dolman? He’s the island cop. Doesn’t seem like it.”

  “I thought you islanders knew everything about everyone and were all having affairs with each other. That’s your reputation on the mainland.”

  “Really?” I swallow hard, confused and a little defensive.

  “Well anyway, hon, you must know this. Is there a pharmacy or a store around here that carries rubbers?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They might have prophylactics at the clinic, but it’s not open at night.” (I say prophylactics just to be snooty. She pisses me off . . . implying that Seagull Island is some kind of hotbed of libertines and nymphomaniacs!)

  “You don’t know much, do you?” She snorts.

  “I guess not.” Eager to get away from her, I open the door and head for the bar to see if they have a black Magic Marker.

  The bartender is in deep conversation with one of his customers about the news on the flat-screen TV mounted above the shelves full of liquor bottles.

  “Another shooting at a junior high school, this one in Utah, the Mormon state,” announces the female blond newscaster with the wide eyes from the Toledo station against a backdrop of crying students. The headlines under the video rank the US states in numbers of guns. West Virginia, I notice, is number four, but that’s no shock. Everyone in the state hunts deer. The schools in most West Virginia counties even close for deer season.

  When I ask for a Magic Marker, the bartender rummages around in a drawer and hands me one without asking what I need it for. He turns back to the screen. “Goddamn Americans!” he says to his customer. “When will they ever learn?”

  Back in the women’s restroom, my semi-intoxicated companion is gone and I do my best to obliterate the crude message.

  Covering the words with the black ink won’t alter the island girl’s past, but I feel like I’m doing something to protect her. That’s the midwife’s job, to comfort and protect.

  “I’m sorry, Charity.” I lay my hot forehead on the cool white towel dispenser, giving her a hug as if she were one of my patients.

  DRIVING HOME ALONG the west shore I see two sailboats bobbing up and down in the waves, their sails open, and for the first time I don’t feel wary around Dolman. I know he felt me crying when the band sang the Cyndi Lauper song. If you’re lost you can look and you will find me. I wipe my eyes again and he looks over but doesn’t say anything, just reaches across the console and touches my hand. If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting, Time after time.

  CHAPTER 29

  Wild and Wooly

  Today is July 14 and the Fifth Annual Wild and Wooly Sheep Festival at the community park on the west side of the island. I planned to walk the whole way for exercise, but Molly and Chris came by just as I was making the turn onto Middle Loop and I was glad when they stopped in their Subaru.

  “You should have called. It’s too far to walk and too hot,” Molly Lou starts out. “And we’re supposed to have a thunderstorm later.”

  “Thanks” is all I say, promising myself again that I’ll get my bike fixed next week for sure!

  All along the shore the cottages are open for the summer with both Canadian and US flags flying from the porches. Cars and SUVs are in every driveway and kids run around on the beach.

  “Look at those trees. Funny they don’t have any leaves yet. What kind are they?” I indicate a grove of tall shade trees that don’t provide any shade.

  “Those are dead ash trees,” Molly explains. “They’re everywhere. The emerald ash borers kill them. It’s an epidemic in the States and Canada too. Very bad. Whole forests are gone.”

  As we drive north, I see another stand of bare trees and another. They are not late to leaf out as I had imagined. They are just dead.

  Soon we’re at the park and I’m surprised to see so many people. Vehicles are pulled onto the side of the gravel road and the parking lot is full. Across the entrance is a long banner that reads, WELCOME TO SEAGULL, THE WILDEST AND WOOLLIEST ISLAND IN CANADA. Luckily I brought a couple of twenties. It costs $10 to get in.

  When we get out of the Subaru, Little Chris runs off with his friends and Chris and Molly Lou wander toward the bleachers, but I want to look around first. “Meet us at the car if you need a ride home, but don’t try to hoof it. Okay?” Molly orders.

  “Okay, boss,” I joke, but really I’m grateful for her protectiveness.

  As I follow the slow-moving crowd toward four big tents, I decide to investigate the first one. It’s for livestock and I find that inside someone has built rows of wooden enclosures. The pens hold sheep of all kinds. I never knew there were so many breeds.

  Just for the fun of it, I inspect them all as if I was planning to raise one. In the last stall are three merinos and I decide they’re my favorites—a gray ewe with two little lambs whose wool is so thick I want to dig my hands into it.

  Outside in the fresh air, I take a few deep breaths and head for the next tent, a large yellow one. WEAVERS’ GUILD says a banner on the side. That looks cheery! A man and a woman are sitting in the corner on bales of hay, playing a guitar and banjo. Several other women and even a little girl are carding wool. There’s also a tall guy dyeing yarn in a big pot of orange liquid and a couple of weavers sitting at looms.

  This is the tent for me! Just being inside with these artisans makes me happy. “Oh then dance around the spinning wheel, grab your partners for a reel,” the musicians sing. I walk around touching all the woven and knitted goods for sale and looking for Terry, who I’ve now talked to several times on the phone. She should be easy to spot, but I don’t see her.

  Outside, a male voice comes over the loudspeaker . . . and the music stops.

  “The sheep-shearing contest is starting in the main arena!” the voice says. “Take your seats now.” Everyone in the tent, save the man tending the orange dye, puts down what they’re doi
ng and heads off to the bleachers, which surround a wooden stage.

  On the platform are more enclosures with sheep in them. The announcer tells us that the contest will begin with the junior sheep shearers. They’ll be judged not only on speed, but also on the quality of the wool that they shear. Any nicks to the animal will count against them.

  Four young men and one young woman, all dressed in jeans, stand ready, one at each pen. Then the announcer rings a bell.

  When the gates swing open the contestants grab their animal and begin to clip its wooly coat with electric shears. The poor sheep don’t stand a chance. Before they know what’s happened they’re standing naked before a crowd of hundreds. The winner is the girl, a high school senior from West Virginia and I cheer louder than anyone.

  Next there’s a lull while more sheep are brought up and six burly fellows in tank tops that show their muscles take the stage. Some of them are apparently regional and national winners.

  The whole time we’re waiting for the second contest to begin, I scan the crowd for Lenny. It’s not that he promised he’d come back or that there’s any suggestion of commitment, I’m just hoping . . . And what will I say to him if I do see him? “Hi there. Want to go back to bed?” We’ve shared so little of our lives.

  It isn’t until hours later, after the sheep breeders parade, that I spot him leaning against a picnic table in the back parking lot, smoking a joint and talking to a couple of men I’ve never seen before. Luckily he doesn’t see me and I hurry on by, darting behind a blue van.

  “Take a deep breath, Sara,” I silently admonish myself. “You aren’t Clara Perry anymore, suburban mother, faculty wife and respected medical professional in a small college town. You don’t have to worry about your reputation. Who cares if Lenny smokes a little grass now and then? Is it any worse than downing a beer?