The Birth House

by Ami McKay

  In our little church, dark and holy, his breath heavy with salty-sweet rum, he kissed me. Before long, he was pulling me into his lap, tugging apart the buttons of my blouse, his cold hands on my breasts. I straddled my legs around him, giving in to him, rubbing my body against his, hoping that he might always choose me instead of Grace Hutner. Choose me. Choose this lonely girl who’s never been touched. Choose me, and all the things I’ve kept to myself, in the dark of my bed, are yours. I felt my way to his pants as he helped me slip the end of his belt out of its buckle.

  “That was my first kiss, you know.”

  He took my hands and pulled them away, then started fastening up the buttons at the top of my blouse. My fingers followed behind his, undoing his work. I began kissing him again, guiding his hands back to my breasts. “Don’t stop, please.”

  He buckled his pants and scolded me. “Never beg, Dora. Patience never begs.”

  I tried to kiss him again, but he wouldn’t have it. He pushed me away and left without another word.

  ~ March 11, 1917

  This is what Precious’s stolen copy of Sexual Science has to say about matters between men and women.

  Electricity is undoubtedly the instrumentality and measure of all life, action and enjoyment, and originates that galvanic action which establishes it. The male is positive and the female negative, and like two oppositely charged galvanic batteries coming in contact, their sexual conjunction restores an equilibrium by each imparting and receiving his and her magnetism.

  A woman needs to see the weakness of a man before she can love him. This is how it happens in novels, anyway. It isn’t that Archer, or any man, is truly beautiful. Not like the sad last fiddle tune at a dance, or the scent of roses through an open window. No, the attraction lies in finding the flaw, seeing it set right next to his confident swagger. Maybe that’s what all the girls love about Archer: his talent for telling lies and having them sound like the truest thing ever said. Until he pushed me away, he had me believing I was his only weakness. I guess when the rum wore off, Archer Bigelow realized not every girl’s worth taking home from the party. If he only knew how well versed I’ve become at practising patience.

  Miss Dora Rare

  Scots Bay, Nova Scotia

  March 20, 1917

  Pvt. Thos. Ketch

  B. Co. 112 Bn West NSR

  CEF Overseas

  Dear Tom,

  I don’t know if this letter will reach you, but if it does, I hope that it finds you well. Reverend Pineo has encouraged all of the girls in the Bay to send out a letter to at least one young man outside of our families who is fighting in the war. Although I don’t know what I might say by way of encouragement, I chose you.

  Your mother and sisters must miss you, I’m sure. Even though my brothers have sent a letter, telling us not to worry, I miss them. Before he left, Borden said, “If I die, at least I’ll have died a hero.” I suppose he’s right. But I have to wonder which is the greater death, dying a hero in a war that you didn’t start, or staying here, going on as if the other side of the world doesn’t exist.

  I’m afraid that while I’m all for the boys from the Bay, I am not for the war. If you wrote back with the usual arguments, I wouldn’t hear them. I am decidedly a pacifist in the camp of Julia Grace Wales or Sylvia Pankhurst, although I’m not brave enough to do anything but keep my thoughts to myself. Can you imagine if I dressed in white and wore a “Women’s Peace Army” banner to the Scots Bay Union Church? (I hope this thought makes you laugh.) Sometimes I think that if I had any skills at all I would run away and join with these fine women as they picket in the streets of London or New York.

  Instead I am here, learning to be a midwife, expecting never to see you again. Not that I think you will die…it’s more that I’m hoping that, when it’s over, you’ll see something better over there, you’ll find something that’s yours and never look back.

  Why I’m saying all this I don’t know, but the thought of my words reaching you somewhere across a wide blue ocean is enough to make them real and worth so much more than if I had shared them with anyone else.

  God bless you, Tom,

  Dora

  “I ask myself, is it just a wild flight of imagination to conceive of a world without war…but someone must try…”

  Julia Grace Wales

  15

  The Ladies of the White Rose Temperance Society

  Cordially invite you to attend an afternoon

  of Tea and conversation

  Sunday, April 15, 1917

  2 p.m.

  Seaside Centre

  Please join us in welcoming our honoured guest,

  Dr. Gilbert Thomas, doctor of obstetrics

  of the Canning Maternity Home

  Dr. Thomas will be sharing his thoughts on

  Keeping Our Babies Safe

  AUNT FRAN HAD BUILT a fire in the kitchen stove at the Seaside Centre that morning, for tea, of course. “What kind of secretary of the White Rose Temperance Society would I be if there wasn’t any tea? No proper ladies’ social is held without it.” She hadn’t thought about it being the middle of April, hadn’t remembered that the afternoon sun comes streaming into the meeting room, bright and hot off the Bay. “Last year we had snow on the ground until May. How was I to know?”

  She bristled as Bertine Tupper, Sadie Loomer and Mabel Thorpe arrived, none of them wearing hats, their dresses bearing stains and signs of small children and Sunday lunch. Fran mouthed to Mrs. Trude Hutner, Women from away. Bertine complained about the heat as soon as she walked through the door, her wide, round cheeks flushing red, her eyes fluttering in a false swoon. “Some hot in here, I’d say.” She went back outside and returned a moment later, wrestling a large stone in front of the door to hold it open. Sadie, her small body now showing with a pregnant belly, waddled around the room, tugging open any window that wasn’t stuck shut.

  “Seems someone thinks it’s still winter, eh, Dora?” Mabel came to me, her voice singsong and soft as she rocked her baby girl, Violet, in her arms. “Look here, Vi. Say hello to the girl that first caught you.”

  I made a wide smile at the baby. “Hello, Miss Violet.”

  Aunt Fran scowled as the pages of her songbook fluttered out of place. The Widow Bigelow, Madame President and founder of the White Rose Temperance Society of Scots Bay, waited until Bertine and Sadie had settled in their seats to explain, “Oh dear, you know I’m prone to chills when there’s a draft. After my terrible bout with rheumatism this past winter, well, I’m just afraid, you understand, ladies? Fran, if you’d be so kind…” Fran hurried around the room, muttering to herself about “those women thinking they can,” “come from a God-forsaken climate,” “what with their Newfoundland blood and all,” as she closed the place up tight. Miss B. and Bertine sat on either side of me, their knitting needles clacking as they talked.

  We sat like roasting hens in flowered cotton dresses, clucking and pecking at tea biscuits, twenty women circled together, suffering through the heat and the sweet-sick smell of face powder and rosewater. After a few minutes of business and Aunt Fran leading all four verses of “’Twas Rum That Spoiled My Boy,” she introduced Dr. Thomas. “We are so very pleased to have Dr. Gilbert Thomas with us. It’s a great honour to host such an upstanding citizen of Kings County.”

  Dr. Thomas greeted Aunt Fran and changed places with her behind the crooked old music stand. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffers, and thank you, ladies.” He pulled at the top of the stand, turning it round and round until it matched his height. “I’ve come here today with a message of great importance. The women of Scots Bay and women all across rural Canada are paying the debt of ignorance. Your children are being neglected in the womb and born in the poorest of conditions.” The doctor looked past the glasses perched on the end of his nose, perspiration rolling down the sides of his face. “Your children deserve better. You deserve better.”

  Aunt Fran fished through the cabinet over the piano and tugged out a large bas
ket of hand fans. Hidden away behind songbooks and leftover programs, the fans are rarely, if ever, used. When she ordered them years ago, Fran must have argued that “they would be the perfect thing in a pinch, for an afternoon tea, an evening temperance meeting, perhaps a wedding reception.” She handles them as if they were priceless relics, tsking softly at the image pictured on them, the yellowing face of Frances E. Willard, 1839–1898. God rest the good woman’s soul, the founding mother of temperance. The foggy image of Miss Willard, her proper-pinned bun, her buttoned lace collar, flickered and jittered in our hands. Her words cooled our sweaty necks and our moist breasts as they blurred past our heat-weary faces. It will be like dynamite under the saloon if, just where he is, the minister will begin active work against it; if just where he is, the teacher will instruct his pupils; if just where he is, the voter will dedicate his ballot to this movement.

  Dr. Thomas continued, “I am gravely concerned and convinced that the women of this community are not getting adequate health care. This is indeed a crime. Why should you ladies continue to suffer, most notably the trials of childbirth, when there are safe, modern alternatives available to you? You should seek out the best care you can afford as soon as you suspect you are in the family way. You should count yourselves fortunate to have a fine institution like the Canning Maternity Home so close at hand.” He glanced at a note in his hand, adding, “A clean, modern facility.”

  Cradling baby Violet in her arms, Mabel spoke. “Pardon me, Dr. Thomas, but we already have a midwife right here in the Bay.” She smiled at Miss B. “Miss Babineau seems to do just fine.”

  Bertine nodded in agreement. “Why should we go all the way to Canning to have our babies?” She reached over and placed a hand on Sadie’s pregnant, round belly. “Especially a woman who’s had two or three already, like Sadie here…I can’t imagine that she’d make it down the mountain before the baby arrived.” Bertine’s voice is strong and loud, and if you didn’t know better you might think she was an angry woman, prone to argument and meanness. Really it’s nothing more than habit, since she’s always having to shout to her husband, Hardy, over the pounding of his blacksmith hammer and the constant ringing in his ears.

  Dr. Thomas ran a handkerchief across his wide brow and along the back of his neck. A pinched smile accompanied his words. “Ladies, I understand your concerns. Let me assure you that if you were in a situation where you needed a doctor to come to you, I would do my best to get here.”

  Bertine moved to the edge of her chair, her cheeks pinking to red from the overheated room, her foot lightly tapping at the floor. “By the time you got word and got yourself up the mountain and around to the Bay, you’d be lucky to get here in time to catch the baby.”

  Mabel raised her hand. “Miss Babineau and Dora Rare brought my last child into the world and never asked for a thing. People give Miss B. what they can…potatoes, apples, firewood, butter and eggs, a little money if they have it.” She stuck her pinky in the baby’s mouth to quiet its fussing. “Are you willing to do that?”

  Aunt Fran shook her head and rolled her eyes at Trude Hutner.

  Dr. Thomas’s face fell into a concerned pout. “Please, ladies, let’s not be so quick to place judgements.” He cleared his throat as Bertine settled back in her seat. “In this day and age, a doctor’s care should be the rule, not the exception. The Farmer’s Assurance program allows for just that, and I’m pleased to announce that your own Mrs. Francine Jeffers has graciously agreed to start a fund for young mothers who may not have the means to pay into the program.” He walked over to Bertine and Sadie. “I’m presenting you with a recipe for healthy babies and happy homes. If I gave you the recipe for the world’s best chocolate cake, wouldn’t you want to share it with all your friends and relatives?”

  Soft whispers from the rest of the women stuttered over the edges of their cabbage rose teacups.

  “Most homes, even the nicest, cleanest of homes, do not meet today’s medical standards for childbirth, and as caring as Miss Babineau is, there’s proper training to be considered. The laws of science and of this country no longer allow for guessing. We must leave nothing to chance. The training program for obstetricians is rigorous and complete. I’m sure you would agree that knowledge is essential, wouldn’t you, Miss Babineau…wouldn’t you, ladies?”

  The Widow Bigelow started nodding, then Aunt Fran and the rest of the ladies, their heads wobbling in silent, unthinking agreement. Medical training, scientific method, modern knowledge…these things have never been part of their daily lives, they have no use for them…but heaven forbid they show it. Some even turned their heads in an effort to avoid Miss Babineau’s eyes, their chins dipping downward with the weight of their implied ignorance. Mother had said she would try to attend but hadn’t made it. She must have gotten caught up with the boys at home. I’m all finished having babies, Dora. What would they need me there for, anyway? I’m glad she wasn’t there to see her sister and the others trying so hard to please, giving away their pride, their sense, as if they had some reason to be ashamed.

  Miss B., who had sat silent until now, spoke. “Where was you born, Dr. Thomas?”

  “In Kentville.”

  “No, I mean where was you born? Exactly.”

  “I believe I was born in my parents’ home, but—”

  “Yes, indeed. I’m sure you was, and every woman here was born in someone’s home, whether it be their childhood home, their aunt’s, their neighbour’s or whatever. I’m always here when they need me, and I’m not asking them to go any farther than my dooryard. I don’t ask them to risk their lives on washed-out or snow-drifted roads. I don’t ask the impossible. And I don’t never ask them to wait…”

  “That’s all fine and good, Miss Babineau, but I should think you’d be relieved to have a doctor willing to take on this tiresome responsibility for your community…” Dr. Thomas moved close to Mabel, staring at her baby as if he were looking to find something wrong with her. “You are a lucky woman to have such a healthy, dear child.”

  Mabel stared back at him. “I couldn’t have done it without Miss B. and Dora. No offence, but I don’t think any doctor could have done better.”

  Dr. Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Was it a painful birth?”

  Mabel smiled at me. “It was a wonderful day. Miss B. made me as comfortable as possible.”

  “So you did experience pain, then?”

  “Well, yes, but isn’t there always pain in childbirth?”

  Dr. Thomas walked back behind the music stand. “I suppose there’s pain for those who limit their care by choosing the assistance of a midwife over a trained physician. Home remedies and wives’ tales only go so far. As a responsible doctor, I can promise you the finest care and a pain-free birth. These days, women all across North America and Europe are having their babies with little or no pain. Why should you allow yourselves anything less?”

  The women gasped their approval, practically choking on inhaled yeses and disbelief.

  “The latest methods of obstetrics—chloroform, ether, chloral, opium, morphine, the use of forceps—these things can make birthing the joyful experience it was meant to be. I can even administer Twilight Sleep if desired.”

  Bertine gave a puzzled look. “Twilight Sleep?”

  “Twilight Sleep allows the mother to fall into peaceful rest while her muscles continue to do the work. The doctor delivers the baby, and the mother wakes feeling rested, with no memory of hardship or pain.”

  Mrs. Hutner fanned herself with vigour. “I wish I’d had Twilight Sleep! If some doctor could have kept me from the two days of agony I had lying in with my daughter, I’d have given him the family farm and Gracie along with it.” The women chuckled and laughed.

  Ginny Jessup had come in late. She was sitting at the back of the room, her new baby in her lap. Dr. Thomas walked to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Jessup benefited greatly from Twilight Sleep.” He smiled down at the tiny infant in her lap. “What was your f
irst birthing like, Mrs. Jessup?”

  Ginny gave a shy, awkward answer. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You can’t remember any of it? The pain and suffering, the exhaustive hours of waiting?”

  “No, sir. I cannot.”

  He grinned. “And that’s how it should be for every woman.”

  I interrupted. “I’m sure one thing Mrs. Jessup won’t forget is how much she’s had to pay for her forgetting. I’m afraid most of the women in our community can’t afford to employ that kind of expertise, even after giving up their fattest hog or their best milking cow.”

  Aunt Fran scolded me. “Dora, you’ve no right to talk to the doctor like that. If you speak out of turn again, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Bertine’s foot began to tap again. “She’s just having her say, and I for one don’t mind hearing it.”

  Dr. Thomas went on, his voice even and calm. “Children are innocent, perfect beings. We should do whatever it takes to keep them safe, regardless of the cost. Even the law says so…the Criminal Code of 1892 states, ‘Failing to obtain reasonable assistance during childbirth is a crime.’” He looked at me with concern. “You wouldn’t want to drag all of these upstanding ladies to prison with you, would you, Miss Rare?”

  “No, but I don’t think the women here fully understand—”

  “It seems to me—” Mrs. Trude Hutner cleared her throat and started again. “It seems to me that what the kind doctor is trying to say is—it’s high time we put our backwoods thinking to rest. I’m sorry, Miss B., I know you mean well, but don’t you think it’s time you stepped aside and let the doctor do what he’s trained to do?”

  The Widow Bigelow agreed. “I’ve been trying to tell her—”