The Runaway Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “How do I do that?”

  I take a big breath and let it out slowly. “That’s a good question . . .”

  Then we sit for a while and watch the flames while we drink our tea.

  When Molly Lou leaves, I go back to the living room and pull the rocker up to the window. “It’s so good to be home, Tiger. Isn’t it good?”

  At the top of the tallest cottonwood tree, something catches my eye. A black-and-white bird with a bright red head is pecking at the bark of a dead branch and I don’t even have to go to my bird book to look up the name. I can see the chips fly.

  RED-HEADED WOODPECKER

  All red head, black body & wings with a white tail,

  white belly and white under the wings.

  Habitat: Lives in open woodlands.

  Diet: Feeds on insects, which it pecks out of bark

  or catches with open mouth as it flies.

  Range: Year-round in the eastern and Midwestern United States

  Summers in the upper Midwest and Canada

  Voice: Queerp queerp

  Size: 9 inches

  Wingspan: 12 inches

  CHAPTER 40

  Barroom Brawl

  It’s the first week of October and each day it’s colder. Winter may be a couple of months off, but I can feel it coming. When the sun breaks through the haze in the afternoon, I bundle up and ride my bike down to the village to see if Jed has heard anything more about the plans for the casino.

  As I pass the orchards at the Cider Mill Farm, I see that the harvest is in full force. About twenty people are picking, mostly the men from Mexico, but I see a few hippies that I recognize and a few island teenagers. Wooden crates and ladders are everywhere and big green trucks stand waiting to carry the apples to the warehouses or ship them to the mainland on the ferry.

  “Hey,” Jed says when I get to the clinic. “Want to go over to the pub?”

  “That’s a nice offer.” As we walk along the road with our arms around each other, I study the big waves that splash up on the breakwall.

  “Wind coming in from the west tonight,” Jed announces. “It’ll be cold and clear. Almost a full moon too.” He opens the door to the pub and we find an empty table. It isn’t until we’re seated that we realize they’re setting up for another township meeting.

  “Damn!” curses Jed under his breath. “I forgot about this.”

  “Yeah,” I respond. “We’ll have to sit through another exercise in democracy. It would look really weird if we walked out now . . .”

  I SCAN THE room. Helen and Eugene Burke are here with many of the others that were at the last meeting. Peter Dolman is here, along with Big Chris and Molly Lou, who are sitting two rows apart. The Nelson brothers and sister are up front, and I’m surprised to see a group of citizens along the back wearing green T-shirts that say SAVE OUR WILDLIFE. I assume they’re with the Nature Conservancy, but they may be a separate group.

  Mayor Nell Ambroy, the pilot, starts the meeting with a no-nonsense bang of the gavel. “We’re here tonight to consider the Gull Point Casino and Hotel. Drawings and architectural plans have been submitted to the township board, but the committee has decided that the developers ought to have an opportunity to speak to the community and answer questions too.” There’s a rumble from the back row.

  “Does the opposition get to present their point of view?” Earl Prentiss asks.

  “There will be time for everyone,” Mayor Ambroy cuts him off. “To begin, I’ll turn the floor over to the Nelsons, longtime summer residents and supporters of Seagull Island.” Jake stands up, steps to the podium and takes the microphone.

  “I’d like to take a moment to explain that we’re collaborating with a Toronto investor, Mr. Robert Burroughs. He too will be familiar to residents. Like us, his family has had a cottage on the island for decades.”

  A very tanned bald man, wearing a dark sports coat and a diamond stud in one ear, stands and turns toward the crowd. There’s polite applause as if the locals especially respect him.

  “Thank you,” says Mr. Burroughs. “I’m looking forward to investing in the island and have found the Nelson team competent and sincere. I’m going to leave the presentation to them.”

  Here Jake stands again, glares at me defiantly and throws a white sheet off a large easel. On the easel are architectural plans for the proposed casino, complete with docks for individual boats and a swimming pool. Seagull Haven has been wiped off the map.

  Charlene stands too and waves the pointer as if she’s a good fairy creating a certain rosy future. “The Gull Point Casino and Hotel will be approached via a new paved two-lane road where Grays Road is now and the facility will cover the entire five acres bequeathed to my brothers and me by my late father, Lloyd Nelson. I’m sure he would approve of the development because he loved the island and understood the hardships faced by island residents who have to scrape to get by.” She smiles like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.

  “The casino and hotel will bring in jobs for local people in the construction phase and later we’ll need employees to keep the property repaired, rented and cleaned,” she explains. “The island will thrive. There will also be jobs for clerks, cooks, secretaries, lifeguards and hostesses.”

  There’s a murmur of satisfaction from the crowd, but my heart drops like a stone in Lake Erie. “Hear. Hear!” someone up front says.

  “Bullshit!” a redheaded nature girl in a green shirt yells. “What about the gray foxes that live on the point? What about the water fowl that nest in the cove? What about the light pollution from all the bright neon signs?”

  The mayor bangs her gavel. “Quiet! I will not have swearing or any outbursts at this meeting. If this continues, the instigator will be removed.”

  “I have something to say.” Earl Prentiss stands and the green shirts quiet down. “As president of the Seagull Island Nature Conservancy I must point out that there are a number of reasons that the casino and hotel plans need to be halted, at least temporarily. For one thing, a handwritten last will and testament by Lloyd Nelson has surfaced. It donates the five acres in question on Gull Point to the Nature Conservancy for a park. It is in the hands of our attorney in Toronto.

  “For another thing, there’s the gray fox question.”

  A few of the green shirts stand and quietly begin to pass out a three-page document entitled Petition for the Protection of Seagull Island, Ontario. There’s a rumble of voices as people react. Skimming, I see that the manuscript is a request for further environmental study before things get out of control.

  “Damn,” Jed curses. I look at him, puzzled.

  “What?”

  “We were afraid of this.”

  “You mean protests, petitions? I’m glad I’m not the only one opposed.”

  “Well, you’re in the minority.” His voice has an edge I haven’t heard before. “It’s mostly the kooks who are making a fuss. Without some kind of change, this community is doomed. All the young people leave because there’s no future.”

  “Thank you, Earl,” the mayor says with sarcasm, banging her gavel. “Your petition will be considered in due time, but Charlene and Jake Nelson still have the floor.”

  Jake’s face is as red as the day they found out I’d given Lloyd’s handwritten will to Peter Dolman. “I’m sorry to hear of this opposition. We have lawyers in Toronto and Detroit, and I’m sure they will sort this out. Meanwhile, I want to reassure the public that all environmental issues have been addressed in our plans.”

  “Hogwash!” says another of the protestors. “What about the wetlands? That’s a delicate ecosystem and your road would cut right through it.”

  Charlene stands to respond, but the green shirts begin to chant, “Save Seagull Island! Save Seagull Island! Save Seagull Island!”

  “Oh hell,” Jed says, putting his head down on his arms as if hiding.

  Jake grabs one of the young guys still handing out petitions and doubles his fist in the man’s face. Mayor Ambroy
bangs her gavel over and over. Chris Erickson pulls Jake away and a chair falls over. Charlene tries to help her brother and trips on the easel. Bang it crashes to the floor.

  “Save Seagull Island! Save Seagull Island!” the protestors yell. Things are out of control and it looks like a real barroom brawl until Dolman blows a shrill whistle and all heads whip around.

  “This meeting is adjourned,” he says quietly into Ambroy’s microphone. “I’ll ask the Nature Conservancy people to be seated in the back while everyone else leaves. I don’t want this to spill out into the parking lot. When the others are gone, the protestors can leave too.”

  It’s not like he has a gun. It’s probably locked in the glove compartment of his patrol car. His authority must be in the uniform because the green shirts sit down in the back along with Earl Prentiss, Terry and, of all people, Molly Lou and Chris. I guess, despite their marital problems, they agree on one thing. All the traffic going past their farm to the casino on a two-lane paved road would change their lives forever.

  “Come on,” Jed says to me in disgust, as the majority of the islanders leave. But though he’s my friend, I can’t go with him. I join the protestors who, arms crossed against their chests, sit in silence. I fold my arms too.

  Moon Shadows

  Jed was right. He said the moon would be full and it’s now so bright I can see colors as I stand in my flannel nightgown up on the deck with the quilt wrapped around me. There’s not a breath of wind and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. The moon shadows of the trees spread black against the green lawn.

  Still keyed up after the contentious meeting and unable to sleep, I sing the old Cat Stevens song . . . “I’m bein’ followed by a moon shadow. Moon shadow. Moon shadow.” I spin around with my quilt out like wings. “Leapin’ and hoppin’ on a moon shadow . . .”

  And then I stop . . . a vehicle is rolling quietly down Grays Road! Quick as a rabbit, I kneel down behind one of the wooden deck chairs. Since the fire and the sighting of the van through the smoke, I’m paranoid about autos coming this way and I watch, holding my breath, as the headlights flicker through the trees.

  The automobile slows at my drive as if someone is checking the mailbox and then moves on. I should run for the house and call Peter Dolman, but for all I know this is Dolman himself, cruising the island and checking on me.

  Letting out my air, I watch as the taillights fade in the distance. Are they turning? Yes. Maybe it’s just a tourist lost on this country road . . . but no, on the way back, they stop at my mailbox again.

  Then CRACK! A blast comes from the driver’s window and in the same instant a flash and the sound of glass shattering. Goddamn! They shot out my kitchen window!

  “Goddamn!” I say again, under my breath, cowering behind the deck chair, watching the vehicle screech away.

  Ten minutes later Peter Dolman is standing in my kitchen picking up pieces of glass and looking for the bullet, which we find opposite the window in the wood trim of the arched doorframe to the living room. He puts the bullet in a plastic evidence bag and then goes to the shed and brings back a piece of plywood to nail over my window.

  “I can’t let you stay here anymore, Sara,” Dolman says. “First the fire and now this.” He’s all cop tonight and his usually kind gray eyes are like steel.

  I snort through my nose. “Like you’re my boss?”

  “You know what I mean. It’s getting too dangerous.”

  “Well, I can’t just leave. Where would I go?”

  “You could stay with Molly Lou and Chris again. Or check in to a B and B. Hell, you could even stay in one of my empty bedrooms.”

  “Sorry, Officer Dolman. I know you’re worried and I don’t want you to have to keep running down here, but I can’t leave.”

  “I can’t order you to, Sara, but be realistic. Someone set a fire in the woods around here. And tonight someone shot at your house. Most women would be terrified.”

  “You be realistic, Peter. If they’d wanted to kill me, they would have walked up to the porch, broken down the door and fired a bullet into my forehead. This is just their way of trying to scare me off. Who knows what they’d do to the cottage if I left.”

  “Fuck it,” he says and slams out the door.

  IN THE MORNING Peter’s squad car is still parked in the drive where he left it last night and when I look out the front door, I see him pouring some kind of plaster on the ground, making casts of the van’s tire tread in the sand like a crime-scene investigator.

  “Do you want some coffee?” I call out, but he ignores me, still pissed, I guess. Oh well, if he wants to sleep all night in the cruiser, it’s up to him.

  THE TRUTH IS, I was lying. I’m scared to death. There’s nothing I’d rather do than check in to a B and B with some warm grandmotherly type to take care of me, but I feel responsible for the cottage.

  No, I must stay here, scared or not, but Peter Dolman needs to believe I’m fearless. I think of brave women throughout history—Alice Paul who was jailed for fighting for a woman’s right to vote; Harriet Tubman, an escaped slave who went back into the south time and time again and risked her life to bring other slaves out; Mother Teresa . . . Rosa Parks . . .

  What I’m doing isn’t nearly as heroic, but I will not be moved!

  CHAPTER 41

  Keep Calm and Call the Midwife

  Dolman and I aren’t speaking, but he continues to show up every night and sleep in my driveway. It’s making me crazy.

  On the third night, it rains and Dolman goes home. I fall asleep at about ten but wake to the sound of the phone ringing. When I lift the receiver, it’s Molly Lou.

  “I’m coming over,” she says. I look at the time on my wind-up alarm clock.

  “Now? It’s past midnight. It’s raining.”

  “I have to,” she says. “Chris is having a fit and I’m afraid he’ll get physical if I stay here tonight.”

  “Molly, should I call Officer Dolman?”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m coming.”

  God, what next? I think to myself as I turn on one lamp, quickly get dressed, grab the old red umbrella that Wanda Nelson left and hurry out into the dark and the rain. Just as I close the door, Tiger slips out. “Kitty, Kitty!” I call, but he doesn’t come back.

  Flashlight pointed at my feet, I walk quickly, trying to avoid the puddles and wondering what’s been going on at the Ericksons’. Now and then, I direct the beam down the road, hoping to see Molly, but I don’t catch sight of her until I take the bend. She’s marching toward me, wearing an old yellow parka over a long nightgown and untied running shoes, her mouth tight and her eyes fixed on the blackness in front of her.

  It isn’t until I actually see her standing there in the pounding rain that I realize how hard this last year has been for her. She hears me sloshing along and looks over. “You didn’t have to come out!”

  “It’s okay. I know you’re upset.” In ten minutes, we’re at the steps to my porch. I’d left the light on but now regret it. Ever since the fire and the shooting, I’ve been feeling I’m being watched. Now Dolman is no longer on guard, but Tiger is.

  Fist through the Wall

  Once inside, the first thing I do is turn off all the lights, lock the doors, light some candles and get Molly settled down.

  “So what the hell’s going on?”

  The disheveled woman paces the living room floor. “I blame myself. It was awful. Such a mistake . . . I thought I was ready but when it happened . . . when it happened . . .” Here she chokes back her tears. “When it happened it was a disaster.”

  “What, Molly Lou? What are you telling me?”

  “Well, I was feeling so much better, knowing that I didn’t have an STD, that I kind of started flirting with Chris and I let caution fly.

  “I put on my sexiest nightgown and . . . well, you know . . . seduced him. It wasn’t hard. He was ready in five minutes. We tore off our clothes. He threw me in bed and that’s when I saw myself in the mirror. I’m not
that kind of woman, Sara. I’m shy, really. The only time I’ve been wild was with Antonio in the back of the Subaru. Chris was just coming into me when I threw him off.

  “‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this,’ I said, and then I started to vomit. That broke the mood.

  “‘What is it?’ Chris roared. ‘Is there another man? Or are you just a prick tease?’ I jerked away from him, but he grabbed me.

  “‘Little Chris!’ I managed to hiss and he let go, but then he slammed his fist through the wall. Punched right through the drywall. He had trouble getting his hand out. I think maybe he broke some bones and that’s when I ran. I didn’t have time to get the car keys, but my cell phone was in my parka pocket.” She takes a long breath and falls onto the sofa.

  “Oh, Molly Lou, I’m so sorry.” My friend doesn’t say anything. She just sits there and cries. “Should I call Peter Dolman?” I ask her again. “He told me he sometimes deals with domestic disputes.”

  “No. I don’t want Chris to get in trouble. It’s my fault. He’s never been bad to me before. Not in fifteen years. Never touched me.”

  This time it’s my turn to wash Molly Lou like she washed me after the fire. I get a clean warm wet cloth from the bathroom and wipe her face and her hands and her neck. Then I give her my flannel nightgown and tuck her into my bed. Outside rain slashes against the side of the house and waves crash on the breakwall. I go to the door to call for Tiger and finally he comes in looking like a drowned rat.

  I HAVE COUNSELED the victims of domestic violence before, but I was sitting on my rolling stool in the clinic exam room. This is different. This is just down the road. The right thing to do would be to call Officer Dolman, but Molly Lou begged me not to and really, though she did the right thing to get out of there, Chris didn’t actually hurt a hair on her head.

  When I was on the board of the Rape and Domestic Violence Center in Torrington, I thought that all domestic violence was perpetrated by domineering men who needed to beat on defenseless women to release their pent-up rage. Later I realized it’s more complicated than that.