by Gary Barnes
The soft rain water was greatly coveted for laundry, bathing, and hair washing. When combined with egg yolks or borax it produced a luxuriant lather, leaving hair feeling soft and silky. But the long dry summers often produced weeks on end with no rain. That’s when the mineral-laden, hard-water drawn from the spring reinforced appreciation for the gift they were currently collecting in the rain barrels.
Armenda and Doc silently walked along the covered porch between the two rain barrels. Doc adjusted the collar of his trench coat to ward off the damp coldness of the night. They passed by the door that entered into the master bedroom and then the door to the room shared by the boys. Arriving at the far end of the porch, they paused momentarily by the door that entered Valoura’s bedroom.
Armenda flashed a worried glance at Doc, wondering if what they were about to do was really the right thing. She longed to help her daughter raise this child, but deep in her heart she knew that Otho’s decision was best. Doc, sensing her thoughts, nodded his head and offered a nervous smile of assurance. Then he opened the door for her and followed her into the makeshift delivery room.
Valoura was in the last stages of delivery. Sweat streamed down her face as she lay in bed on her side, with her knees drawn up, almost simulating the fetal position of the child within her. Ellen sat beside her and gently mopped the sweat from her face even though there was no heat source in the chilly damp room.
Doc removed his trench coat and hung it on a nail protruding from the backside of the heavy, solid oak door. Then he rolled up his shirt sleeves, opened his satchel, laid out his instruments, and made the final preparations for the impending birth.
*
In the living room, Otho, his three oldest sons and his eight youngest children had gathered around the fireplace where a roaring fire had been stoked. They always had plenty of oak to burn, leftovers from their railroad-tie sawmill operations.
The storm increased its intensity, adding marble-sized hail to the downpour. The deafening pounding on the corrugated tin roof made conversation impossible. The pelting generated such a racket that they could not hear the continuous clashing of thunder that reverberated off the bluff across the river like monstrous warring cannons. Hailstorms are generally short-lived, though they often come in massive waves. Within fifteen minutes the pelting of the hail ended, but not the downpour of rain which continued without reprieve.
Otho and his older sons stared silently into the fireplace as time seemed to stand still. The younger children, wearied from their vigil, slept peacefully, sprawled upon the floor and draped across their home’s meager furnishings. Slowly the hours crawled passed. Even Otho and the older boys started to nod off. About an hour before dawn the storm began to subside, gradually dwindling to a constant drizzle.
*
Inside Valoura’s room the tension began to mount. Valoura’s breathing had quickened. The contractions were now so close together that they appeared to be one long continuous infliction of pain. Suddenly Valoura started to pant.
“Push Valoura, it’s time.” Doc urged.
Armenda glanced at Doc sideways. Obviously this man has never had a baby, she thought. When it’s time to push you can’t resist the urge, your body doesn’t have to be told what to do.
Then, obedient to the instinctual stirrings within her, Valoura took a deep breath, clenched her teeth and pushed like she had never pushed before. She pushed, despite the pain. She pushed, oblivious to the encouragement around her. She pushed until the spider veins in her cheeks began to rupture and the veins on her forehead stood out like pieces of yarn draped across her brow.
The massive cramping in her abdomen felt as if it would divide her asunder. Her eyes widened in fear as the pain crescendoed to an almost unbearable level. Then the unexpected occurred.
Valoura had not anticipated the acute sensation of stinging as her vaginal flesh was torn by the infant’s crowning head.
I’m going to die! she thought, I’m being torn apart! A sudden panic washed over her. Surely, she thought, the baby is much too large to pass through where my body is forcing it to go.
Strangely though, she paid little attention to any of these fleeting, momentary distractions as they floated through her mind. It was as if some outside force had taken over her body and had focused all her energy into just one act – pushing.
When she could bear it no longer, Valoura forcefully exhaled as the air exploded from her lungs. She collapsed upon the bed, panting deeply, desperately seeking relief. Then to her amazement, the pain momentarily subsided.
Quickly her thoughts coalesced into an absurd realization of her body’s exposure, and the presence of this man positioned between her sprawling legs. She suddenly understood that there was no dignity at all in childbirth.
Dignity! – what an odd thought. Of course there’s dignity – giving birth was the height of dignity, she reasoned. It’s just that this particular posture wasn’t quite what she had imagined. She lay there silently contemplating this curious concept and momentarily forgot where she was. The urge to push, however, was instinctual and would not be dismissed.
Without consciously willing it, all Valoura’s thoughts were summarily dismissed from her mind. Almost involuntarily, Valoura took another deep breath, braced herself, and again pushed as though her very life was dependent upon expelling the massive object that had dropped into her pelvis.
*
In the living room one of the younger children stirred and wearily crossed the plank-board floor to crawl up into Otho’s lap. Otho wrapped his arms around his young child and slowly began rocking in the rickety old chair. They both stared silently into the fireplace, though the fire had now dwindled to a bed of brightly glowing coals.
*
Valoura took another deep breath then pushed as she had before. It hurt, though it was a joyful pain, excluding everything around her. Armenda mopped her daughter’s forehead and face while Ellen clutched her sister’s hand and softly stroked her forearm. At that moment, Valoura arched her back and let out a scream of exertion, exhaustion, and relief. Then suddenly, it was over.
*
Valoura’s sudden shriek was heard in the living room where it caused the children to begin stirring with alarm. Then came the muffled soft cry of the newborn. The children’s expressions changed to smiles as they excitedly giggled and sheepishly glanced at each other around the room.
“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed Otho as he spat tobacco juice into the fireplace.
*
In the makeshift delivery room Doc gathered his instruments and packed up his things. Valoura slept peacefully upon her bed. Ellen looked on as Armenda gently rocked her newborn grandson, tenderly cradled in her arms. The infant was wrapped in a small homemade quilt, a quilt made of a flour sack.
Armenda longingly gazed into the face of her grandson. I have never seen such blue eyes, she thought. They reminded her of the turquoise-blueness of the spring at the bottom of the hill. She thought it was very fitting that her grandson’s eyes should match the blueness of her daughter’s favorite place of refuge.
Retrieving his coat from the nail in the back of the door, Doc put it on, pulling the collar up high on the back of his neck. He buttoned it up then turned to Armenda.
“I’ve done all I can,” said Doc. “Give me the child and I’ll be on my way.”
Armenda hesitated, glanced at her daughter sleeping upon the bed, then at her new grandson again. She hugged him tight then tenderly kissed his cheek.
Impatiently Doc checked his pocket watch, snapped it shut, and returned it to his pocket. Reluctantly, Armenda handed the bundled child to Doc and he headed for the door. Ellen caught up with him as he was about to exit onto the porch and handed him an envelope. Their eyes met. Ellen tilted her head toward the baby while silently placing the envelope into his hand. Doc understood. He clutched the envelope and tucked it into his pocket.
At that moment, Valoura awoke. She instinctively knew that something was terribly wrong.
Glancing around the room, she spotted Doc about to leave with something wrapped in a small, flour-sack quilt bundled under his arm. With great effort she rose up on her right elbow and tearfully screamed. “Don’t take my baby! Please, don’t take my baby! Let me hold it, just once!”
Doc turned a deaf ear, but not a deaf heart. With three children of his own he understood the anguish the young mother was experiencing. Holding the door ajar, he hesitated for a brief moment to assure himself that this was the correct decision, but as painful as it was, he knew that Otho was right. It’s for her own good, he told himself. Letting her hold the baby now would only prolong the agony she would have to endure. No, it was best to get it over with quickly. That was the merciful thing to do. Valoura’s heart would ache, but the pain would not last. She would heal in time. After all, he was a healer. He knew what time did for wounds, whether of the body, or of the heart. With the child bundled in the flour-sack quilt tucked snugly under his arm, Doc resolutely walked through the door and closed it.
The rain had stopped and the first rays of morning light were just beginning to break through the low clouds. Doc’s green DeSoto pulled away from the rickety old cabin and made its way down the muddy road.
*
The loss of her child seemed more than Valoura could bear. She passed the remainder of that summer in a daze, robotically going through the motions of the farm chores assigned to her. Her heart did not heal as Doc thought it would. In an effort to make sense of it all, she spent more and more of her time at the triangular grotto beside the blue spring, thinking, contemplating, wondering where her son was, wanting to know who was raising him and imagining what his life would be like.
The following year Valoura graduated from high school - having attended the one-room school house at Owl’s Bend since entering the first grade there, twelve years earlier. She had always been an excellent student, but the loss of her child took a serious toll upon her grades. Her life seemed empty, unfulfilled, and aimless. She grappled with her emotions, but was unable to cope with her feeling of guilt and the daily reminders of her sacrifice. At the end of that second summer she left the farm never to return, except for occasional short visits to see her family. When she did, she always spent time thinking in the triangular grotto with the horizontal limestone marks near its apex beside the blue spring.
*
Eminence, though barely a wide spot in the road with only one stop sign in the town and located hardly fourteen miles from the farm she had called home, was a thriving metropolis to Valoura. Now she settled in and made it her home, while struggling to forget the pain of the past.
She worked hard to make a new life for herself. Fortunately, Otho had been right, people forget. With her first child gone, the stigma of being an unwed mother in their close knit society had not stayed with her. She had been allowed to mingle amongst the town people as freely as anyone else.
She remained there for the next fifty-two years, regretting the whole time that she had not stood up to her father and raised her son herself. Logically, she knew that Otho had made the right decision. Of course her son was much better off with his adoptive parents. Emotionally however, each day had been a struggle. How could a mother ever stop loving her son? She tried to stop thinking of him, convincing herself that he never thought of her. She succeeded in this endeavor, but only to a moderate degree.
During the fifty-two years since leaving the farm Valoura had married and had raised a large family of several children. She even had a number of grandchildren. By all outward appearances her adult life had been full and complete. Certainly her neighbors would have thought this to be the case.
Doc, on the other hand, had been wrong. Even after fifty-two years the grief of her loss had never completely healed even though Valoura, now in her mid 60s, had found other things to occupy her time and her mind. But deep-down, she had never forgiven herself for allowing her son to be given away. The guilt she felt ate at her soul, though she suffered in silence. The secret was hers alone to bear.
Those fifty-two years brought many changes to the area. The Sutton farm, the blue spring, and the triangular grotto have long since been acquired by the U.S. Government. The National Park Service exercised eminent domain during the 1960s and 70s, taking possession of most of the farmland flanking both sides of the Current River, as well as the Jack’s Fork River. Families that had owned and farmed the rich bottom land for generations were forced to leave their homes. They had no choice but to sell out for the paltry amount the government was willing to pay. A 120-mile-long swath of the Current River and a sixty-mile section of the Jack’s Fork River were carved out to create the Ozark Scenic Riverways National Park, part of the Mark Twain National Forest.
The ferry at Owl’s Bend has been replaced by a bridge, built a half mile upstream from the original ferry landing. The rich bottom land, once coveted and fought over by the peasant sharecroppers now lies fallow, having been allowed to return to its natural wild state.
No one has lived on either of the rivers for two generations. All the farm houses, barns and other signs of habitation have been destroyed, burned by the Park Service. Thousands of tourists now camp, fish and hunt on the land and waterways that once provided the livelihood for hundreds of hillbilly families, and a way of life that is now long forgotten.
=/=
CHAPTER THREE
Clayton
St. Louis University Campus
Spring - Present Day
His eyes were blue, a deep, rich turquoise-blueness that immediately commanded attention. He was slightly taller than normal, and muscularly built, though not unusually so. He carried himself with confidence and appeared to be comfortably at home on the bustling university campus amongst the students he taught.
He briskly walked down the wide sidewalk that ran through the courtyard which adjoined the lecture halls in the quad. He was headed toward Grand Avenue and the medical school building on the other side. He checked his wristwatch and noted the time. He was late. But what was unusual about that? After all, he was a professor, and he had remained after class at the end of the previous hour to answer student questions in preparation for final exams that would begin the following week.
At the end of the sidewalk, just before Grand Avenue, stood two red brick columns, each fifteen feet tall and five feet square. They flanked the thirty-foot wide gateless entryway to the quad he was about to exit. The columns supported an enormous ornamental iron-works arch which spanned the two massive columns. The name “Saint Louis University,” in ornate gilded lettering, adorned the center of the arch beneath the school’s gilded seal. He passed through the archway and stepped into the street. His destination lay in the basement of the fourteen story medical school building on the other side.
The tall building reached skyward, capped by an aging and oxidized green, copper, pyramidal-shaped roof. Though the building was old and in great need of modernization, the medical program was among the finest in the country.
He entered the building and quickly descended three flights of stairs. Dr. Thomas Clayton, a herpetologist who specialized in frog studies and who taught in the school’s zoology department, could not allow himself to use the elevator. That would have been a senseless waste of energy. He was an environmentalist. Not a radical one, but an environmentalist nonetheless.
Arriving at the bottom level he hurriedly entered the medical building’s cafeteria. There he joined two of his colleagues, Dr. Bart Welton, an astrophysicist, and Dr. Chester Mclninch, a neurologist. The trio usually ate lunch together a couple of times a week and had been good friends for many years.
“Clayton, you’re right on time,” Dr. Welton chided as he slapped him on the back good-naturedly. “That is, if you measure by California time.”
Dr. Clayton returned a broad smile and accepted the ribbing as the daily ritual it had become. Some of his colleagues thought that the mold of the proverbial absent-minded professor had been broken when Clayton became tenured. He was seldom on
time for anything. Welton and Mclninch had become accustomed to his habitual lateness.
“And this,” interjected Dr. Mclninch, “is your new graduate assistant.” He introduced a sharp-looking young man about twenty-five years old. “This is Larry Beringer, but don’t worry, I already told him to expect you to be late, no matter where you were going.”
Larry extended his hand to shake Clayton’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Dr. Clayton. I’m really looking forward to working with you this summer.”
“Hey, let’s forget the formalities for a few minutes,” interrupted Dr. Welton. “I’m famished. Come on, let’s get some grub.”
The men entered the line at the cafeteria’s buffet and began filling their plates. The three professors, all in their early fifties, had completed their meal selections and paid for their food. They casually chatted about their respective summer plans as they leisurely carried their trays to a table in the center of the spacious room.
Left alone, Larry lingered for a minute at the dessert counter reviewing a variety of tempting selections. After much deliberation he finally made a choice and fumbled for change at the cash register. Completing his transaction he took his receipt, grabbed his tray and whirled around to catch up with the professors; whereupon he immediately collided with a graduate school co-ed, Tina Chitwood. The force of their collision jostled her glass of juice and spilled part of it onto her tray.
“Oh! Excuse me. I’m so terribly sorry,” Larry said, hastily apologizing without stopping.
Tina stared at him quizzically and was about to speak but Larry quickly stepped around her. He dipped his head with an awkward, embarrassed smile and raced to catch up with the professors. Tina smiled as she watched him walk away. Then spoke out loud, but only to herself: “Oooooo . . . he's hot.”
Larry quickly arrived at the table and sat down; the professors were already deep in conversation. He desperately wanted to make a good impression upon his new mentor, but it seemed as though his presence was scarcely noticed.