Bittersweet (11 page)

“Something must’ve got it,” Sam said.

“Nothing got it. It came to and ran away.”

Stars were starting to appear low in the sky; pinpricks of light in the summer-green evening. A chorus of crickets fiddled to the song of the frogs. Sarah untied her bonnet and pushed it off, letting it dangle down her back.

“Nothing got it.” Leaning against the low backrest, humming softly to herself, she watched the stars come out.

THROUGH THE SUMMER AND INTO THE AUTUMN, SARAH’S PREGNANCY
progressed. Sam, excited by his coming son, hired a woman to take over the heavy chores. Sarah spent the free hours the woman afforded her with Imogene, sewing tiny shirts and gowns and walking in the woods near town, planning and dreaming for the child she carried.

The memory of Mary Beth’s lifeless face haunted Imogene, but she hid her fears and gloried in Sarah’s good health and joy.

In the middle of a November night, a sharp rapping woke Imogene. Groping in the dark, she dragged a shapeless blue robe over her nightgown and hurried to the door. Walter Tolstonadge stood on the steps.

“Is it time?” Imogene asked.

“Sam said she’s been having the pains for an hour, maybe two. Mam sent me to fetch Mrs. Thomas. I’m sorry to be getting you up like this, but Sam said Sarah’s wanting you to come.” Though Walter had learned stoicism over his father’s knee, he couldn’t keep the tremor of nervous excitement out of his voice.

“Quite right. Thank you for waking me. I’ll be just a minute.” She left the young man standing at the door and, lighting a candle, ran back into the bedroom. Beside the bed was a small bag, already
packed. Imogene dressed hastily, snatched up the bag, and joined Walter outside. “A half-minute more,” she told him. In her bag was a placard reading
NO SCHOOL TODAY
. She tacked it onto the schoolhouse door.

Lizbeth sat in the back of Sam’s carryall, wedged between Mrs. Thomas, the midwife, and her daughter, Valerie. Imogene rode in the front beside Walter. A freezing wind scoured the night clean, and stars, undimmed by a moon, hung close to the earth. Several inches of old snow covered the ground, crunching under the wheels. Imogene buttoned her cloak beneath her chin and turned the collar up. Walter offered her half of the coarse blanket tucked around his knees. As she took it, Lizbeth crawled over the seat to sit with them.

Leaning against her mother’s shoulder, Valerie snored, a purring sound. “Wake up now,” Mrs. Thomas said testily. “Ain’t it just like a baby to come along in the middle of the night. It must be close on one o’clock.”

“It’s somewhat past ten,” Walter corrected.

“Hmph. Feels later. Will be, before this baby is ready to come into the world, I can tell you that. First baby. Mightn’t be born till late tomorrow. Maybe not even then. Not much hips on the Tolstonadge girl. I guess I’d best be saying ‘young Mrs. Ebbitt,’ considering. Hardly enough room for what’s been in, let alone room for a baby to get out.” The midwife had a good laugh at her own joke. Valerie snorted herself awake under her mother’s prodding. “You stay awake, girl. Time you was learning midwifing. A trade’s a good thing for a girl that mightn’t marry young.” Unoffended, Valerie settled her fat behind more comfortably on the seat and looked around with sleepy eyes.

“My Val’s helped out before.” Mrs. Thomas directed her stream of chatter at Imogene’s back. “But it was all easy birthings. She ain’t never seen what can go wrong. Baby all ’round the wrong way and not wanting to come out at all—sometimes the little things get theirselves so twisted up they just tear the life out of them that’s having them. Make themselves orphans before they’re rightly born. You ain’t seen nothing go wrong,” she told her daughter, “and that’s, of course, what a midwife’s needing to know. The rest of the time you need hardly be there. Folks’ll have them by themselves if you’re late. I’ve seen it happen. They’ll holler for you loud enough if something goes wrong. Except the fever, there’s nothing you can do for that. Fever’s God’s will, is all. Gets a lot of babies and their
mamas with them.” Valerie had pulled a bit of bread from one of the pockets in her cloak and now munched it placidly. Imogene, her spine growing rigid under the flow of words, swallowed hard and wiped her hands on her handkerchief. Lizbeth had snuggled close to her for warmth and comfort.

“Sister going to die?” she asked, near tears.

“No. She will not die,” Imogene declared. Her vehemence startled the child and silenced the voluble Mrs. Thomas.

At the farm, lights were burning in the kitchen and the upstairs window. Imogene jumped to the ground before the wagon came to a full stop, and hurried into the house.

Upstairs, lying in state, propped up by pillows, Sarah was talking cheerfully with her mother and Gracie. She wore a new bed jacket and her hair was tied back in the blue satin ribbon Imogene had bought for her. A fire burned merrily in the little fireplace at the end of the room, and lamps and candles brightened the walls. Sarah had a patchwork coverlet over her lap, and on the dresser were teacups and little cakes her mother had made. Mam knitted in a broad chair by the fire.

The bedroom door banged open, setting the dresser mirror swinging, and Imogene stepped over the threshold. With her hair still disheveled from her bed, and her lips squeezed white between a frost-red nose and chin, she looked fearsome. Conversation stopped and three pairs of eyes turned toward the door.

“Miss Grelznik, you look like the devil himself been chasing you,” Gracie exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?” Alarmed, Sarah pulled herself farther up in the bed. “Is there something wrong?”

Shamefaced, Imogene closed the door and shrugged off her cape. She crossed to the bedside to take Sarah’s hand. “I had myself worked into such a fluster that by the time we got here I was ready to deliver the baby myself the moment I stepped through the door.”

Mam smiled. “It’ll be a bit yet. Edna here?”

“And Valerie,” Imogene replied.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sarah said. “I guess Walter did drag you out of bed. I told Sam to make him promise, but I thought Walter’d go scaredy-cat anyway. Would you like some tea?” Imogene nodded gratefully. “Gracie, would you run down and brew up a fresh pot? Make plenty; I hear Mrs. Thomas and Valerie on the
stairs, and I expect they could use a little warming up.” Sarah was serene in the role of hostess.

“It feels like a party.” Imogene squeezed her hand. Margaret smiled but said nothing.

A great deal of wheezing and puffing announced Edna Thomas and her daughter. A timid knock on the door was drowned in a gust of voice. “For heaven’s sake, Sam, there’s no need to knock at your own bedroom. You been here before, or you’d not be needing my services now.” Mrs. Thomas pushed through, and Sam retreated back down the stairs, into the company of Emmanuel and Walter.

Mam called him back. “Sam, would you tell the boys they can go on home now? Most likely I’ll be here all night and a good part of tomorrow. There’s no sense in them losing sleep. They have to work in the morning.”

“Ma, one’s coming,” Sarah cried and, holding her breath, clutched Imogene’s hand. The schoolteacher held tight and stroked the young woman’s arm.

“They’re coming right along,” Mam said to Mrs. Thomas.

When it had passed, Sarah lay back against the pillow and smiled. Imogene was visibly shaken. “It’s not so bad. Not for a baby,” Sarah reassured her.

Gracie returned with the tea, Lizbeth carrying the cups, and the women settled in. They talked quietly, giving Sarah the support of their affection and the comfort of their experience.

Sometime after midnight, Sam, armed with blankets Mam had unearthed from the hall closet, bedded down on the living room floor.

The hours crawled by and Mam sent Lizbeth across the hall with a comforter and pillow to make herself a nest on the cot Sam had slept in as a child. The room would serve as the nursery when the baby was older. Margaret let her take a lamp to leave burning low to chase the goblins from behind the piled boxes and dusty trunks.

Through the dark morning hours, Sarah strained and cried. Just before sunrise, Sam left the house. Imogene watched him from a high window—a small, dark figure under sullen skies. He was burning brush today. Mam sent Mrs. Thomas and Valerie downstairs to get some sleep, and settled in the chair by the fire to nap. Imogene wouldn’t leave the room. She read aloud to Sarah, sitting on a hard stool so she wouldn’t doze.

Lunch came and went, Sam eating cold meat alone in the kitchen, Mam and Imogene eating sparingly in the bedroom and trying to coax Sarah to take a little food. Downstairs, the Thomases still slept. Grace and Lizbeth, grown tired of waiting, had wandered outside to play.

Near three o’clock that afternoon, Sarah’s labor neared its end. Gray had replaced the red in her cheeks, and her damp hair lay close to her head. Another contraction wracked her; she bit down, trying not to scream. When she lay back, Imogene wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. Mrs. Thomas folded back her nightgown and kneaded her stomach, her dusky fingers, engrained with the dirt of years, expertly prodding the strained flesh. Sluggish with sleep and a natural dullness of mind, Valerie watched over her mother’s shoulder, obeying commands to feel here and notice there. The girl’s plump hands were less grubby than Edna’s, but only from lack of time. As the examination progressed, Imogene grew increasingly agitated. Finally she laid her hand on Mrs. Thomas’s arm.

“I must ask you to wash.” Edna looked up without comprehension. “Your hands. You must wash your hands and arms. Valerie too, if she’s to touch her.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Thomas huffed, “of all the nonsense…”

“You must wash before you touch her again,” Imogene insisted quietly, her fingers closing on the other woman’s wrist. Mrs. Tolstonadge looked on in silence, and obvious disapproval. Sarah sucked in her breath as another wave of pain built.

“It ain’t long now,” Mrs. Thomas cautioned Imogene. “Baby’s coming.”

“Don’t send her away,” Sarah cried. The wave broke and she screamed.

“Now look here, Edna’s been—”

Imogene cut Margaret off. “Wash. Quickly.” She locked eyes with the midwife, and Mrs. Thomas, grumbling, retreated to the washstand. “Use some of the hot water there in the fire. There’s a brush in the drawer. Above the elbows.” Imogene issued instructions from the bed as Mrs. Thomas rolled up her sleeves and soaped her arms thoroughly. Sarah was screaming again, holding fast to Imogene’s hand.

“Mam!” she gasped and her mother was beside her, holding her
other hand as she bore down. Margaret glared at Imogene over her daughter’s head.

“Fine time to get persnickety,” she said under her breath. The midwife was back with them, shoving the blankets from the foot of the bed, her hands still dripping.

“Pull her up there some,” she ordered. “Let her hold on and push against you. Give her some help.” Valerie, as white as a sheet, crept up close behind Margaret and, unnoticed, hid her eyes.

Knees held wide by the midwife, Sarah pushed with all her strength. Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down the side of her face, wetting Imogene’s cheek where it pressed against hers.

“Push now,” Mrs. Thomas urged.

“I can’t,” Sarah sobbed. “Please. I want to go home, Ma. Please. I don’t want to do this anymore.” She writhed against Imogene. The teacher was behind her, a backboard of flesh and bone.

“Come on, my dear,” Imogene breathed in her ear. “Just once more.” Taking a deep breath, Sarah pushed and the sweat ran in rivulets. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her hands.

“It’s coming. Thata girl. Thata girl.” Mrs. Thomas talked her through. The baby’s head was emerging; the mirror over the chest of drawers reflected the round mass pushing through. Sarah’s skin ripped under the strain, and blood poured around the baby’s skull. Valerie looked up, saw the image in the glass, and stopped breathing. “It’s huge,” she cried. “It’s too big.”

“You hush!” Mam hissed.

“The baby’s head is out,” Mrs. Thomas called cheerfully. “The worst’s over. One more.” Again Sarah caught her breath and strained until the veins stood out on her temples, and the infant was delivered into the midwife’s waiting hands. Exhausted, Sarah fell back against Imogene. “Mam?” she whispered.

Margaret looked at the squirming, blood-covered bundle in Edna’s hands. “A boy. He’s beautiful, hon.” The tears welled up in Sarah’s eyes as Mrs. Thomas laid the newborn child on his mother’s stomach. She put her hand on her son’s tiny head and smiled. “He looks like a wee, wise, little old man.”

Tears also streaked Imogene’s face as she reached timidly to touch a little clenched fist with her finger. “He’s perfect.”

The cord stopped pulsing and Mrs. Thomas cut it, Imogene insisting that she soap and rinse the knife beforehand, the way the black woman had in Philadelphia. Sarah was delivered of the after
birth, but she still bled where the flesh had been torn around the birth canal. Mrs. Thomas packed the boiled rags that Sarah used during her menses against the tear and made Sarah as comfortable as possible. Mam changed the bed with the help of a sick and shaky Valerie.

When the baby had been bathed and lay at Sarah’s breast, and Imogene had washed the new mother’s face and brushed her hair back into its satin ribbon; when the soiled bedding had been spirited downstairs to be burned on the trash heap and the bed was fresh and clean; when all traces of the agony and the blood and the sweat were cleared away and hidden like the secrets of female necromancers—only then did Mam call Gracie and send her to the field to fetch Sam.

The girl returned out of breath. Sam wouldn’t come. He said he had some burning to finish, and he’d be in around six o’clock. Angry, Mam stomped about the room, straightening the night’s undoings.

Lost in the wonders of the new child, Sarah and Imogene were indifferent to Sam’s absence. They lay on the bed, the baby between them, counting his fingers and toes and expressing delight at his every move and sound.