The Runaway Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “I know that now. You’re right. I’m not ready. No fooling around, if you get my meaning. Maybe in a month, we’ll start sleeping together again. I miss the big lug.”

  As we approach her drive, we see Chris standing at the kitchen door. “I made breakfast,” he calls out. “You must be hungry. Is the baby okay? I saw Wade and Rainbow go by with Peter.”

  “I’m starved,” Molly says, though she just ate a whole omelet.

  On the way home I see three white egrets, like storks, flying over the cottage.

  GREAT WHITE EGRET

  A large slender white heron with a yellow bill

  Diet: Eats fish by standing still in shallow water

  and spearing them with its beak

  Voice: A hoarse croak

  Habitat: Marshes and shores, often found in colonies

  Range: From the US and southern Canada to South America

  Size: 38 inches with a wingspan of five feet!

  (Was hunted for its feathers, almost to extinction, in the 1900s.)

  CHAPTER 43

  Thanksgiving

  Thanksgiving in Canada, I’m surprised to learn, is the second Monday in October, but the feast can happen on any day that weekend and I have two invitations. The first celebration is on Sunday at the Black Sheep Pub, the Community Harvest Dinner, open to everyone.

  Jed and I arrive a little late and the place is already hopping. Most of the tables are full and most of the islanders are here, except the New Day folk. Maybe they have their own Thanksgiving. Kristie, the waitress, seats us with Peter Dolman and Terry who are already eating.

  For a change, the tables are covered with white tablecloths and each one has a centerpiece created by a child from the island school, turkeys made with paper cups and multicolored feathers of construction paper.

  “Sorry we started without you,” Terry says, all smiles. “It smelled so good we couldn’t help it.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Jed comments. “You ready?” he says to me, and we rise to take our place in the buffet line.

  “I’m sorry about our conflict over the casino,” he whispers. “I just feel so strongly that something has to change on the island if we’re to survive.”

  “It’s okay. Friends can differ.”

  “I guess the home birth went okay? God, that was quite a night! I felt bad not being able to get back to the island, but I wouldn’t have been much help anyway.”

  “It went fine. It took me a while to get organized. At first I was concerned that I didn’t have a stethoscope and blood-pressure cuff, a fetal monitor of some sort and all that, but later I thought, what good would they do? If there were complications, we still couldn’t get to the hospital.

  “Basically Rainbow was healthy, with all the organic food and heavy physical farm work, and she had a good attitude about pain. She was only high risk because of her age and having had miscarriages before. This pregnancy and delivery were entirely normal.”

  Besides the usual fare there’s another whole table of desserts, pumpkin pie, apple pie and blueberry pie from the Baa Baa Bakery. I take some of everything, except the yams. I’ve never been a big fan of yams.

  “I saw Baby Zach at the clinic,” Jed tells me. “Healthy little guy. Six pounds but I figure he’d probably lost a few ounces.”

  In the kitchen, country-western music plays softly on the stereo, a Willie Nelson song. And today, you know, that’s good enough for me, Breathing in and out’s a blessing, can’t you see? I look around the room at these familiar faces, some of them now friends, and take a big breath, thinking . . . Yes, this is also good enough for me.

  “Heard you went to Windsor the other day, Pete,” Jed begins when we get settled at the table.

  “Another missing-person report came in from Detroit,” Peter shares between mouthfuls. “A gang member involved in drugs. They thought he might have recently been on the island and the Mounties are sending someone over to investigate. That’s probably already more than I should say.”

  The turkey in my mouth has gone suddenly tasteless, but I force myself to swallow. All the rest of the meal, I’m thinking of Lenny and the night he came to me at the cottage.

  Game Day

  On Monday afternoon when I bike up to Molly and Chris’s for my second Thanksgiving, I’m surprised to discover four other vehicles already there. The hostess welcomes me with a warm hug.

  It turns out the gathering is not really another big dinner as I anticipated, but a tailgate party for the Canadian Football League Thanksgiving Doubleheader. Chris stands up to get the remote for the big-screen TV, and when he sits down, Molly Lou kisses him on the back of the neck. The poor guy must be confused. After almost a year of the cold shoulder, his wife is coming on strong.

  “You doing okay?” I ask under my breath when she’s back in the kitchen.

  “Sure, I’m great.”

  “Really?”

  Molly takes my chin in her hand, stares into my eyes and answers firmly, “Don’t ask me that again. I’m fine!” And I have to believe her.

  To break the mood, I bring up another subject. “You know I’m not going to be your neighbor for much longer. Nothing has come through from Environment Canada about endangered species and Lloyd’s will is still up in the air, so I guess I have to move. The Nelsons gave me until the end of November. I’ve been procrastinating, but I’ll have to face it sooner or later and find a new place to live.”

  Molly’s getting more hard cider out of the fridge. “What about Nita’s old place? Jed or Peter could ask the probate lawyer. He’s checking to see if there are any distant relatives.”

  “I thought of that . . . The trouble is I don’t want to move. I know that’s why I’m putting it off. I love the cottage . . .”

  The fans are cheering about something, so we carry more refreshments back to the living room. Finally the last game is over and it’s time to go home. Since it’s already dark, Chris offers to drive me, but I have to wait until the rest of the guests leave. Then Molly hands me a bag with another dozen hot wings. “I’m glad you came,” she says.

  “It was fun!” I answer, though the truth is one football game would have been sufficient.

  A few minutes later, we pull into my drive. Chris hauls my bike out of the pickup and walks me up to the porch.

  “Thanks,” I tell him as I unlock the door, but he doesn’t leave. He puts his hands on the rail and looks out across the lawn. Little waves hiss in and out at the bottom of the breakwall and the air smells of snow, though it’s not falling yet.

  “I know you think I’m an asshole,” he says.

  “What do mean? I never said that.”

  “Molly Lou ran to your house that night. You heard what happened between us.”

  I’m unsure what to say, so I don’t say anything. “Just tell me the truth, Sara. Is she having an affair?”

  What to say now? I can continue to insult him by trying to fake it or I can be honest, but being honest means breaking Molly’s trust.

  “She loves you, Chris. She loves you so much. She made a mistake. It was only one time and she wants to be with you. She can never know I told you.”

  “I was so scared, Sara. I don’t want her to leave. I can’t lose her.”

  “She loves you. She’s not thinking of leaving.”

  Then the big man drops to his knees on the dark porch and I hold him while he cries.

  He cries a long time.

  CHAPTER 44

  Sheepdog Trials

  In the last few weeks, Rainbow has come to the cottage for two postpartum visits and all goes well. Her nipples were sore for a few days, but for comfort she’s used cabbage leaf compresses. Life is almost back to normal for me, or what you call normal if you’re a runaway fugitive, thief and soon-to-be-homeless person living under an assumed name without a passport in Canada.

  The day of the sheepdog trials dawns sunny and cold, but by the time I arrive at the fairground on my bike, it’s starting to warm up. I put the Raleigh i
n a bike rack at the entrance to the park and try to get my bearings. A fence that wasn’t there before has been placed around the perimeter of the big field. In the center are two wooden gates and a circle drawn on the ground with white chalk (the kind used to mark the lines on a baseball field). There’s also a square pen the size of my kitchen.

  Three big tents are arranged along the north edge of the field and sitting in the wooden bleachers and leaning against the vehicles drawn up to the fence are around three hundred onlookers and a few dozen dogs.

  From things I’d heard, I’d anticipated that the crowd would be rowdy. Instead, they are as quiet as spectators at a Florida golf tournament. A man on a microphone in a soothing voice announces the name of the next contestant, George Hope of London, Ontario, and his dog, Patch. I work my way up to the front where I can see.

  The shepherd and his animal walk onto the green and stand at the post. At the far end of the field four sheep graze, unaware that they are about to be part of the show. Patch, a black-and-white border collie with a circle of black around his left eye like a pirate, waits on alert for a sign from his master. The shepherd whistles and the dog races toward the flock.

  “That’s a great outrun! . . . Watch him now; he’s fast!” says a man behind me.

  The trainer whistles twice more. “Come by,” he says, and the dog begins a long curve around the sheep to get behind them.

  “Nice move,” says the voice, and when I turn around, I see Austin Aubrey, bagpipe player, shepherd and president of the sheepdog association.

  “Hi, Mr. Aubrey. It’s Sara Livingston. Do you mind explaining the game to me?”

  “The sheepdog trial you mean?”

  “Yes, trial.”

  “First time here?” Mr. Aubrey asks, apparently forgiving me for calling the serious event a game. I nod and he begins an explanation.

  “The border collie was bred to gather, not drive the sheep, so he works without barking or nipping. All it takes is his gaze and he wills the sheep to obey. These animals are working dogs, not show dogs, and they follow the handler’s commands—a whistle, a few words or the move of a staff.” Clearly the man is an expert on the subject and he’s in his element. The whole time he’s talking he’s not looking at me, but the action on the field.

  “Does it take years of training?”

  “Yep, but all border collies are natural herders. Patch out there is smart as hell, a two-time Essex County champion.”

  “Stand,” says the master out in the field. He whistles again. “Walk on.” There are murmurs of appreciation from the crowd.

  Patch crouches low in the grass and sneaks forward like a wolf stalking his prey, but there’s no malice in his movements. He’s just waiting the four sheep out, staring them down. His master whistles twice and Patch moves slowly forward again. In only minutes, he gets the four ewes into the pen where the shepherd stands with his crook waiting.

  The crowd doesn’t exactly go wild, but the quiet clapping makes it clear that Patch is one of the favorites.

  “That will do, dog,” the master says with a smile. “That will do.”

  “What an amazing dog! Thanks for explaining everything to me.”

  “Patch was my dog a few years ago,” Mr. Aubrey informs me. “I raised him from a pup. Sold him in 2012. Amber, here, is his sister.” He indicates another border collie standing next to him on his right.

  Amber looks up when she hears her name. She’s all white with one tan ear, so different from the other border collies that are almost uniformly black and white. Not only that . . . the one ear droops down, which gives her a comical look.

  “Is Amber the dog I’ve seen with you out herding the sheep? Is she going to be in the trials?”

  “Yes, she’s my regular sheepdog, but she’s not going to be in the trials this time. She just had foot surgery. The vet said not to run her for six weeks. I’d better go. I have another younger dog in my truck and it’s almost our turn . . . Come,” he says quietly, and he and Amber move off in the crowd.

  Circus

  While there’s a break, I head for the tents to see what’s going on. The first is for food—hot chili and corn bread prepared by the Seagull Island Women’s Association. The second houses vendors who sell all kinds of sheepdog supplies, books and dog-training videos. The third is a big yellow structure that I’ve seen before belonging to the Fibre Guild.

  The minute I enter the yellow tent, I am soothed. As before, all around the walls are shelves that support the colorful shawls, blankets, rugs, scarves, table linens, sweaters and mittens that the artists make. Music is coming from a guitarist in the corner. Terry is there, holding court. “Hiya!” she says, waving me over, but I stop to catch excited words coming out of the speaker out on the field.

  “Look at this, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer shouts through the sound system. “We have an interloper . . . A gold-and-white border collie streaking across the field . . . It’s Amber of Seagull Island!”

  Terry leads the way in her electric wheelchair as we all hurry outside. There’s a shrill whistle from Mr. Aubrey back in the stands, but Amber doesn’t return to him. Aubrey whistles again. “Stand. Stand down!” he yells firmly, but the white-and-gold dog doesn’t respond.

  She’s headed straight toward four sheep that are huddled in a corner afraid of a large growling black sheepdog, about the size of a small black bear we’d see in West Virginia. Everyone in the audience is on alert. Are the dogs going to fight? Will the sheep scatter in every direction?

  Mr. Aubrey whistles again. “Come by, girl! Come by!” But Amber still doesn’t stop.

  “This is a real circus,” a familiar voice behind me says. It’s Peter Dolman and it’s the first time we’ve talked since Rainbow’s delivery. “The dogs are usually very obedient. I wonder what’s gotten into Amber.”

  “Mr. Aubrey told me she had surgery on her foot last week. She wasn’t allowed in the trials. Maybe she just wants to have fun . . .”

  But no! Amber isn’t just running for the fun of it; she has other ideas. Without so much as a pause, she circles the four sheep, guides them away from the big black dog and brings them down the hill.

  Aubrey has given up whistling. He stands for a moment scratching his head, then smiles and walks into the field. Amber doesn’t hesitate. She brings the sheep down, directs them through the two gates and heads for the square pen completely in control. Her master is now laughing, along with the rest of the crowd. Sore foot or not, Amber is the unofficial winner.

  As the shepherd closes the gate, his gold-and-white border collie looks up at him for approval. “That will do, dog,” Mr. Aubrey says and pats her head. “That will do.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Bad Weather

  By late afternoon, a sharp wind has come up and I’m thankful that Peter Dolman has offered me a ride home. We wrestle my bike into the trunk of his cruiser and move along slowly in the long line of cars. All over the island, leaves fly, red and yellow. Some of the trees are already bare. Red sumac bushes are on fire.

  As we near the Roadhouse and the marina, I can’t help but ask, “Any more news about the missing person?”

  The cop shrugs and shakes his head. “No.”

  Observing his profile, it’s hard to believe. I smile to myself. Probably he just can’t talk about it because it’s “still an ongoing investigation.” Dolman must have caught me smiling, because he smiles too.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I answer, and then to divert him I say, “I was just thinking you aren’t a bad guy. I appreciate the ride.” This seems to embarrass him.

  “Did you think all cops were jerks or something? Hey, want to get dinner?” Before I can answer, he pulls into the nearly full Roadhouse parking lot. Now I’m embarrassed. I don’t really want to hang out with him, but I can’t come up with an excuse to say no.

  Before we get inside, I hear familiar music—bagpipe, flute and guitars. “Poor Angus is playing tonight,” Peter announce
s. “Have you heard them before?” My attitude about going into the tavern with Dolman suddenly changes.

  “Just once, at the folk fest. They were one of my favorites.”

  “Me too.”

  As the township police officer, Peter apparently has pull because we don’t have to stand in line for a table. “Dolman. Party of two. Peter Dolman. Party of two!” Serena, the pretty owner of the bar calls out, laughing. Then she takes us to an empty table near a window that looks out at the wide expanse of blue, the ever-present Lake Erie. Today, there’s not a boat in sight, just water and sky with white clouds marching along the horizon.

  “You going to the next township meeting?” Peter asks after we’ve both ordered Reuben sandwiches and a bottle of hard cider.

  “Are you kidding? The last one was torture. You think I should go?”

  “Well, yeah. You’ve heard the old saying, ‘If you aren’t sitting at the table, you’ll be on the menu.’ ”

  “Is that an old saying?”

  “Well, something like that . . .”

  I mull his words over while listening to Poor Angus’s music. Give up on fear . . . Give up a war you aren’t ready to fight . . .

  “Is there still a lot of bickering about the casino?” I ask when the song is over.

  Peter shrugs. “Yeah, there’s still a lot of controversy, but mostly it’s between the environmentalists and those who want to see progress at any cost. Some people don’t look very far into the future. Some people don’t look into the past.” He takes a sip from his bottle and goes on.

  “Half the plans that get cooked up for the island by outsiders never get finished or even started . . .” he goes on. “It would be better if we thought about what people here could do instead of depending on outside investors.”

  “You put it so well. Are you going to say that at the meeting?”

  Dolman grins. “I will if you come to support me. I don’t want to get booed off the stage.”

  Jed has come in, as always wearing his navy knit cap. Apparently, he’s forgiven me for taking the side of the folks who oppose the Gull Point Casino because he gives us an easy smile. “You sleep in that thing?” I tease, and he takes his hat off, shakes his long hair and pulls a chair over.