“We’re here to see Mrs. Proudfoot,” the vet starts out. “I’m Dr. Hester, and this is Patience Murphy.” The lady looks confused. She probably wonders who Dr. Hester is, and I try to hide a smile behind the back of my hand. I’d forgotten veterinarians called themselves doctors.
The nurse scans a clipboard in front of her. She runs her finger up and down a short list. “We don’t have a patient named Proudfoot . . . There must be some mistake.”
“Maybe she’s been discharged already. Is Dr. Blum here?” Hester continues. “Can you check your discharge roster?”
“Dr. Blum’s gone. Left for Virginia four days ago. The hospital’s staffed by nurses and Dr. Holden from Delmont, when he can come.” She runs her short nails down a separate clipboard. “There’s no Proudfoot here.” She shakes her head irritably.
“It was a fall, we were told. Maybe a concussion.”
“Are you kin?” the nurse asks.
“Just friends,” I interject. “I’m sure you’d remember her, a big colored woman. Maybe you could ask the matron.”
A light goes on in the little nurse’s eyes. “A Negro woman?” We nod. “Well, she wouldn’t come here. We don’t cater to Negroes.” My stomach goes hollow.
“Come on,” says Hester, grabbing my arm. I can see he’s pissed off. It’s the way she said “We don’t cater to Negroes,” as if this were an ice cream parlor or beauty salon.
Outside, standing next to the car, Hester looks down at me. “So . . . where is she?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I’d heard that Blum didn’t deliver black women at his hospital, but I didn’t think that meant he wouldn’t take care of any colored people ever, even in an emergency.”
“God damn Blum!”
“I was flustered, I’m sorry.”
“Let’s go. The son of a bitch!” We get back into his Ford, whip down the street, and pull up at his office.
Inside the white house with the sign on the front, DANIEL HESTER, DVM—DOCTOR OF ANIMALS, LARGE AND SMALL, I’m ushered to a seat in the waiting room.
“ ’Bout time you came in,” says a large, pale, corseted female sitting at a desk. Her gray hair is pulled tight away from her face, and she looks like someone even Hester would be scared of. “Mr. Rhodes called three times, and he’s really sour about it. His best milk cow won’t stand up, has lost her feed, and he wants you there pronto. You have to remember to leave me messages so I know where to find you. I’ve been trying all morning.”
“I need to use the phone, Mrs. Armstrong.” Hester grabs the receiver. “Tell Rhodes, if he calls again, I’ll be there in an hour.” Before this, it hadn’t occurred to me that the vet might be losing business by helping us. I’ve been so caught up in Katherine’s troubles, I hadn’t even thought of my own responsibilities, and in my mind I quickly run over the mothers who are close to term. They should be okay . . . I hope they are okay. I could have at least sent word to Mrs. Potts that I’d be gone. Even then, I didn’t expect it to be all night.
Hester cranks the phone. “Stenger? It’s Hester . . . William MacIntosh’s cook, Mary Proudfoot, had a fall and was taken to a physician. We checked Blum’s hospital, but she’s not there . . . The colored physician, I guess, what’s his name, Robinson?” He’s talking to the pharmacist. “Okay,” he says to the other end of the line. “Yeah, I know where it is.”
Five minutes later we’re back in the Model T motoring toward Mudtown. This is the part of Liberty where most of the blacks live, maybe a hundred of them, lowland that used to be a swamp, but I’ve never been here, not even to a birth. Crossing Main, I observe that William MacIntosh’s sedan is still parked at the Texaco station, but it’s been moved forward into the mechanics’ bay.
We bump across the tracks, and I’m surprised when we pull up at a handsome two-story white clapboard house with its own sign out front: HARPER ROBINSON, MD. I had no idea there was a black doctor in Liberty. Did Mrs. Kelly know? We were here only a year before she died and we were only delivering white babies then, so she wouldn’t have needed him.
Here in West Virginia, until I became acquainted with Bitsy and Mrs. Potts, my life was completely involved with the whites. But “involved” is not the right word. I was never involved with either blacks or whites, only an observer. Once again I see how separate the two worlds are, like a left hand and a right hand that don’t know what the other is doing.
We both jump out, but Hester warns me with a look that he wants to handle this. I collapse back onto the leather seat but leave the door open, watching a group of brown children play in the road.
The rest of the houses along the tracks are much smaller than Robinson’s and are identical except for small changes that have been made since they were constructed: a picket fence here, a porch there, shutters on some. Twenty years ago, the dwellings all belonged to the railroad and were constructed for the workers who built the M and K line for the Baltimore and Ohio. That was back when West Virginia was logged in a flurry, from 1900 to 1920. Mrs. Kelly gave me the history. I only heard her get mad three times . . . That was one.
“The whole damned state was clear-cut,” she said. “And the trees that weren’t chopped went up in smoke with the forest fires that followed.” Other than that, there was just that time when Mr. Finney beat up his pregnant wife and the other time when those street boys made fun of the crippled girl and Sophie chased them away.
The vet and a dark man of about seventy wearing a black suit, vest, and tie stand on the porch talking. They shake hands like two professionals after a consultation. The gentleman, who I take to be Dr. Robinson, adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses, looks down at the car and nods. Then Hester comes around and gets in beside me.
“What? Doesn’t he know where Mary is either?”
Hester runs his hands through his short hair and clears his throat. “Mary’s gone.”
“Where, home? To the MacIntoshes’? Not back to the MacIntoshes’!”
“No, I mean . . . dead. She’s at the Emmanuel Funeral Home. Died two hours after she was carried to Dr. Robinson, before Bitsy even got here. Traumatic cerebral hemorrhage, he thinks, but the county coroner will have to decide. She died on Robinson’s operating table before he could do anything.” He reaches over and takes my hand, which is lying on my lap like one of Bitsy’s lifeless trout.
But she can’t be dead. Not Mary Proudfoot! She was brave and strong. A little fall down the stairs couldn’t kill her! She’s supposed to be cooking corn fritters, chicken, and biscuits forever! Suddenly I’m very hot. I want to get out of the car, but Hester has already started the engine and Dr. Robinson’s still standing on his porch, watching.
“Well, where’s Bitsy, then?” I shout, as if the vet’s hiding her. Really, I’m just angry with myself. How could I let this happen? Why did I think it was more important to get Katherine out of town and to the train station than to support Bitsy and her family? Was it because Katherine is white? If it is, I despise myself.
“Dr. Robinson thinks Bitsy’s at Reverend Miller’s out in Hazel Patch. The preacher and his wife came to get her when Robinson called. I can take you there later, but I have to go see that cow first . . . Mr. Rhodes will be madder than hell. I should have been there hours ago. If you come with me, I’ll take you to Hazel Patch afterward.” Though I desperately want to get to Bitsy, he doesn’t leave me much choice.
“Just go!” I wave my hand, indicating he should move the car . . . anywhere.
Three hours later, after a painful interlude with an angry farmer during which the vet passed a stomach tube into the ailing Jersey and relieved her blocked intestine with castor oil, we’re bumping past Hester’s farm on the way to Hazel Patch. We haven’t eaten all day and the sun has gone down, but he’s too much of a gentleman to turn in at his place and make me walk the last two miles.
When I think of it, he’s been involved in affairs that don’t concern him, with people he barely knows, for forty-eight hours: first facilitating Katherine’s escape, t
hen searching for Mary and Bitsy, now carrying me to the pastor’s house. My sadness drags behind me like a black cape, and I can’t tell if my dark mood is sorrow at losing Mary Proudfoot, guilt over leaving Bitsy, or worry about how she must be hurting.
Thomas
We don’t get to Hazel Patch until well after dark, but the lights are still on when we drive up to the front of the pastor’s substantial log home. “Do you want to come in?” I ask Hester. I’m thinking the man must be exhausted and needs to get supper and care for his animals, but he surprises me by opening the driver’s-side door and getting out.
“I’m into it this far. I met the Millers at the Wildcat Mine cave-in, remember?”
We tap softly, and Mrs. Miller greets us. She’s wearing a long green chenille robe and has a hairnet over her head. Behind Mildred, on the fawn velvet sofa, sitting with Bitsy, are the preacher and a very tall black man who I remember from the flood at the Wildcat, the young fellow who went into the hole with Thomas and Mr. Cabrini. Only a table lamp, with a pale green silk shade, lights the room.
“Bitsy!” I rush in, fall on my knees, and take her hands to my cheeks, a supplicant begging forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry. Sorry about your mom and sorrier still for not being with you.” Bitsy smooths my hair like I’m a child. She doesn’t say anything, just wipes my wet face, then wipes her tears so that they mix together on her brown hand.
Mildred Miller pulls up two more chairs as the pastor stands to greet Hester. “Can I get you some coffee?” she offers.
“Sure,” the vet says. “Thank you.”
“None for me.” I just want to go home, take Bitsy with me, and tuck her into bed.
I look around the room. “Where’s Thomas?”
No one answers. Eyes meet each other, but they don’t meet mine.
Finally. “He’s gone into Liberty.” That’s the tall fellow on the sofa. His voice is very low, and I can’t help but notice that his Adam’s apple goes up and down when he speaks.
Mildred bustles back into the room with a tray: coffee for anyone who wants it and a glass of water for me.
“Is he making burial arrangements?” I still don’t get it, but I should have realized that no one goes to a funeral home at this time of night.
“He let out of here about nine on his burro,” Bitsy tells me. “Went to see William MacIntosh. He knows about Katherine’s escape, the bruises, and the fight. I told him I thought William must have pushed our mother down those stairs. I shouldn’t have said that. Oh, I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Child. Don’t start again!” Mrs. Miller reprimands. “You are not responsible. Let’s just pray your brother has some sense.” I slump down on the floor, leaning my back against the davenport, held between Bitsy’s knees.
“Do you want me to go back to town to look for him?” the vet asks.
“We already tried,” the young man responds.
I finally turn to him. “I’m Patience Murphy. This is Dr. Hester, the local vet.” I’ve never called him a doctor before, and I don’t know why I do now. The men nod, and Hester stands up and shakes hands.
“Byrd Bowlin,” the young fellow introduces himself. “I saw you at the Wildcat flood . . . Thomas is my friend, but he has no place going into Liberty looking for MacIntosh. It’s a good way for a black man to get his head shot off.” I know what he’s thinking. Just last year a colored miner was gunned down in Mingo County for sassing the sheriff. Nothing was even done to the lawman. They called it self-defense. But that was in the southern part of the state. Union County shares a border with Pennsylvania and is north of the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s more civilized here.
Byrd Bowlin goes on, “The reverend and I already drove all around town but couldn’t find him. We know he stopped at the colored speakeasy behind Gold’s Dry Goods. The bartender told us he was making accusations and was pretty drunk, but after that we lost his trail.” A colored speakeasy in Liberty? That must mean there’s a white juice joint too! I’m so out of touch.
“We drove by MacIntosh’s house three times,” Byrd continues, “thinking maybe we would see his burro if he was there, but the place was dark and we never could find him. Figure he stopped somewhere on his way home along Salt Lick, crawled under a tree to sleep it off.”
There’s a shuffle on the porch steps, and we all look up. The men rise expectantly. We women stay seated, hoping to see Thomas, maybe drunk as a skunk but all in one piece. When the pastor opens the door, it isn’t Thomas. With a shock, I recognize Sheriff Hardman.
“Evening.” The sheriff nods. His blue eyes sweep the room as he removes his hat. “Can I speak to you, Reverend?” Miller doesn’t invite him in but steps out on the porch. Daniel Hester goes too, and that strikes me as strange. Maybe he thinks he can help in some way. Byrd stays where he is, but Bitsy flashes him a look and motions toward the back door. There are dynamics in this house I don’t understand.
I’ve associated with Commies and radicals, suffragettes and anarchists, but this is something new to me, the level of powerlessness blacks suffer in a white community. Even those under Reverend Miller’s wings tremble, fearing they will be blamed for something . . . anything.
I’d like to go out on the porch to find out what’s happening, but I’m rooted to the floor. Has Hardman come about Thomas? Is there trouble in town? Is the law still looking for Katherine? Are they looking for me?
Byrd wanders casually toward the kitchen. The hand pump squeaks, and water runs into the sink. There’s the clink of a coffee cup on the counter. Now Bitsy unfolds herself, and when I turn she’s at the back door, kissing him tenderly. He places both hands on her waist. At any other time, I would be happy to see that Bitsy has a sweetheart, but tonight I just fear for him and hurt for her.
Her mother is dead. Her brother is missing. Now she is sending her new beau away into the night, for his own sake.
“Here they come,” Mrs. Miller whispers, dropping the corner of the lace curtain and turning quickly. I suppose it’s poor form for a preacher’s wife to be seen snooping.
A car engine cranks up, and the door swings open.
“Is Thomas okay?” Bitsy asks first thing.
Reverend Miller looks very old, and Hester looks weary. “Yeah,” the vet says. “As far as we know . . . but the cops are looking for him. They heard he was at the black speakeasy earlier tonight, mouthing off . . . then later a neighbor reported a Negro man yelling threats in front of the MacIntosh home.”
“The cops went to the speakeasy?” I ask. “You’d think the law would shut it down.” The vet rolls his eyes, indicating that I’m naive.
“His deputy drove by William and Katherine’s house a few times earlier tonight, but the lights were off and no one was around. Hardman came here to order Thomas to stay out of town until he cools off.”
After fear and great sadness comes exhaustion, and it’s hitting us all at once. Mrs. Miller yawns. The pastor looks at his watch. The vet stands with one hand on the knob. I turn to Bitsy. “We’d better go home.”
“Okay,” she says sadly. She gives Reverend and Mrs. Miller a hug, then moves to the door.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her again and again, sitting with my arms around her in the backseat of Hester’s car. “I’m so sorry.”
It isn’t until we are halfway up Wild Rose Road that I remember Moonlight. I left feed for her yesterday, but other than that she’s had nothing to eat. Has she given birth? My thank-you to the vet is hurried and lame. “Thanks,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”
Upstairs, I tuck Bitsy into bed, then rush down to feed the dogs, who are jumping all over me. When I finally slam out of the back, I find Daniel Hester latching the barn door.
“Moonlight’s okay,” he informs me. “She had enough water and hasn’t calved yet. I threw her some hay and tossed the chickens some feed. By the looks of her, she’ll calf soon. Keep an eye on her . . .”
We stand together in the warm night, looking out across the moonlit pasture. It’
s so bright, the grass actually looks green. All around us are green growing things, and in the distance I can hear the Hope River. I lean into him, a silent thank-you, and he puts one arm around me. The smell of the animals is still on his shirt, and the almost full moon sails in and out of the clouds.
32
Comfort in the Night
The days since Mary’s death have passed slowly. Is it three? Is it four? I count back. Katherine ran to us Tuesday night, the day of the big thunderstorm. Mary fell Tuesday night and died early Wednesday morning. We didn’t learn of her death until that evening. Now it’s . . . I consult Stenger’s calendar . . . Friday or Saturday. It’s all a blur. Death does that. Stops time.
The garden’s full of weeds, and I have no heart to pull them. Twice Bitsy and I have ridden on Star to Wildcat, but no one has seen Thomas. Then Bitsy went into Liberty with the Millers to make arrangements for the funeral, but they can’t put Mary into the ground until Sunday because the Emmanuel Funeral Home has another burial in Delmont on Saturday. Thank goodness they are trained embalmers, or Mary would start to smell. Gray clouds hang over us like a shroud, but the rain doesn’t come.
In the night, I wake to hear Bitsy crying on the other side of the wall. The sound slices through me, uncovers my own buried grief for my mother . . . for Lawrence . . . for Ruben . . . for Mrs. Kelly . . . for all those I’ve lost.
I light a lantern, put on the red silk kimono, and go down to the kitchen. When I come back, I don’t even knock at the door to her bedroom. I don’t ask if I can sleep with her, just nudge her over, fluff up her extra pillows, then hand over the last of Mrs. Kelly’s blackberry wine. We finish the whole mason jar, lying up against the metal headboard, not saying anything, just sharing our sorrow.
“Thanks,” Bitsy says as she rolls away from me onto her side. I curl around her, one arm around her waist, as I once did with Katherine, when we thought her baby was dead, our loose bodies folding into each other.
The Midwife of Hope River Page 24