The Birth House (22 page)
Authors: Ami McKay
W
IDOWED AT THE AGE
of nineteen.
Already I’ve grown tired of wearing black to church and town. It makes me feel useless and old. Aunt Fran constantly reminds me that Archer’s mother has suffered the greater loss. “She never complains—may the good Lord bless her—Simone Bigelow lost two husbands and now her oldest child. That poor woman will have to wear black, day and night, rain or shine, for the rest of her life.” While I’m no authority on fashion, I’d guess that the Great War will leave those who insist on bowing to etiquette no choice but to change their standards. There can’t possibly be enough crepe and Henrietta cloth to cover the doors of the homes that have been touched by death, let alone the grieving wives and mothers who have been left behind. The world is dark and weary enough as it is. My parading around like a ghoul won’t make it any better.
For once, Mother agrees with Aunt Fran. She scolded me when I asked for her help in sewing a new Sunday dress. “It’s too soon. If you trade in your mourning dress for something new, you’ll lose the support of the Bay. There would be talk. You have to mourn for at least a year and a day, no less. After that, you can start looking for a new husband. Maybe then you’ll have children of your own.”
Wrennie
is
my own. No matter how I got her. My moss baby.
A blue moon child,
as Miss B. would say.
Blue moon babies don’t cry, don’t mind nothin’. They’re sent by Mary herself to poor mamas who ain’t got room in their heart for any more sour. I know one as soon as they’s borned, it’s as if they come down with one finger still touchin’ heaven.
When she’s older, when she’s learning to stand on her own, when she clings to my legs, hides her peek-a-boo face in my skirts, she should find herself wrapped in the colour of sunshine, the blue of cornflowers. She should see that her mother isn’t afraid to laugh, that she’s not afraid of anything. This is how to raise a child to be happy, to be the girl that everyone loves.
Mother and most of the other women treat me as if I will break, always shushing me and patting my knee, then bringing me another cup of warm milk. Bertine understands, having known of Archer’s outburst last autumn. Sadie and Mabel and even Ginny might listen, but to speak ill of a dead man, to any woman who has a husband, is to tempt fate.
Hart’s the only person I have shared my true feelings with since Archer’s passing. He comes to the house, feeds the horses, mucks the stalls, stacks firewood in the cellar for the coming winter, just as he did when Archer was away. Wrennie adores him. He folds his long arms around her and sways from side to side, singing, “
You’re the prettiest girl of them all,
” then she nods off with her face buried in his neck. After she’s asleep, we sit together for tea and sometimes a late supper. It’s such a relief to be able to admire the beauty of a sunset, or to curse the stubborn purple raspberry stains under my fingernails, and not feel guilty for living.
“I didn’t give him my caul.”
“You gave him your locket. I remember you putting it around his neck.”
“There wasn’t anything in it.” I was feeling guilty, my hands shaking. “Maybe if I had…do you believe in that sort of thing?”
“Archie always got more than his share, Dorrie. Especially from you.”
“It’s all I have that’s worth anything. At least that’s what I was thinking when he left to go to the wharf. I thought I might need it. More than I needed him.”
“And some would say you were right. Or at least they’d think it.”
“But that’s a horrible thought. It’s as if I wished him dead and then it happened.”
“That’s not what happened.” He looked me. “I let him go. I could have jumped in after him. I could have saved him…”
“Or you both could have drowned.”
“I saw what he’d done to you, Dora. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The last time he grabbed at my hand, the last time he gasped for air—I thought of you. I let him go.”
I
T WAS THE FIRST OF
August when Mrs. Ketch came to the house. Seeing her at my door made me catch my breath. More than three months after Wrennie’s birth, had she come to say she wanted the baby, to raise her as her own? Even if she had the means (and I’m certain she’s never had two nickels to rub), her husband has the Devil in him. No doubt he beats them all, right down to the littlest one.
She was standing on the porch, her face showing what was left of Mr. Ketch’s latest outburst, one eye drooping, swollen red ears, her nose bent to one side. She bore all the trademarks of a rum-induced left hook. If it was Wrennie she was after, she’d have to kill me first.
“Mrs. Bigelow?”
“Come in, and call me Dora, please.”
“Thank you, Dora…”
Her voice was small and flat. She sat straight to the back of the kitchen chair, hands folded tight in her lap. I watched her scared, watering eyes blinking behind her ratty brown hair.
“Have a cuppa? The pot’s on the stove, already hot. Did you walk all the way here?”
“Yes, I didn’t want…I mean, yes, I walked.”
“Quite a hike, so late in the day.”
“Yes.”
She held the teacup in both hands, her chapped thin fingers turning red. Putting the cup to her face, she breathed in the sweet steam of raspberry leaves and rosehips between her dry, peeling lips.
I carried on with the conversation, hoping to get rid of the sick feeling in my stomach and my guilt that I had somehow stolen something from her. “How’s your family? How’s Tom? Have you heard from him?”
“Tom’s dead.”
“Oh. I—”
“Blown right up in the trenches. Nothing left of him. They sent his pay, his second pair of shoes…and some letters he kept in his locker…one from you in there, I think.”
“Yes, I wrote him, once. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
I went on, not sure what to do with the silence.
“Would you like to see the baby? She’s napping right now, but I could—”
“No, don’t bother. Anyway, it’s you I come to see.” She drank down her tea in fast, nervous gulps. When she finished, she wiped the corner of her mouth with the frayed cuff of her sleeve, then stared at the empty cup. “I’m in the family way.”
“Oh.” I busied myself with pouring more tea in her cup, trying to think of a way to get out of helping her. Nothing good had ever come from my knowing her or her family. Nothing except Wrennie. “Perhaps you should see Dr. Thomas, then. I’m sure Mr. Ketch would prefer it. Besides, I’m not really midwifing anymore.”
“Brady don’t know. I tried a few things already to lose it—all those things grannies say ain’t good for a woman that’s with child. Raisin’ my hands above my head, spendin’ too much time at the spinnin’ wheel. I even tried slippin’ off the porch the other day, but none of it’s worked. I gots enough children to feed and care for, and you know Brady can get some angry, has a real bad temper. I know most people would say I should be grateful, that if it’s a girl I could name her Iris Rose, and if it’s a boy, I could call it Tom, that it’s only right, that it’s God’s way of makin’ up for the ones I’ve lost.
“My mother had three baby girls named Experience—Experience Ruth, Experience Esther and Experience Hope. Experience Hope, that’s me; I’m the only one that stuck…she said it was the
Hope
that did it. Well, whatever it was, it don’t make any difference now. I gots my hands full.” She looked at me with tired, pleading eyes. “You can make it go away, right?”
Mrs. Ketch had more than any woman’s share of children.
That woman’s got more babies than she can count on her fingers; she’s got so many babies, she’s got toesies.
I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to have another child, but more than feeling sorry for her, I wanted to tell her there was nothing I could do and just turn her away.
“Like I said, I’ve given up—”
“With or without your help, I ain’t gonna have this baby.”
Without my help she’d turn to throwing herself down the cellar stairs or poisoning herself with yew bark tea. If mother and child survived, what then? One more mouth to feed, one more body to keep warm, one more like Darcy, or Iris Rose, or Tom…one more for the back of Brady Ketch’s hand.
Only the heart knows what it’s got to lose, one way or another. I’m here to deliver women from their pain. Simple as that.
I breathed deep, Miss B.’s beads feeling heavy around my neck. “Well, then, we should see how far along you are. Why don’t you lie down on the bed and let me take a look at you?”
She obediently followed me into the bedroom and propped herself against the head of the iron bed, her legs spread out, hands folded on her chest. I began searching across her middle with my fingers, feeling for the ridge of her womb. She sank into the quilts, her nervous body hung with bruised, pale skin, her breasts pulled low by the constant strain of too much mothering and fear.
“When did you last have your courses?”
“Let’s see…it’s August now. So, the end of April, I think…yes, April, there was fiddleheads pokin’ up in the woods behind the house.”
She was further along than I had hoped she might be. Not like when Aunt Fran had come to Miss B., wanting to just move things along. I excused myself to get the Willow Book, looking for the page that explained how to make an angel come down early.
It was laid out clearly.
One moontime past—she gets the Mary Candle and High Tide Tea.
Two moontimes past—she gets the Mary Candle and Angel Water.
Three moontimes past—she’s too late.
She was nearly three times late, but desperate enough that I couldn’t say no. I went through Miss B.’s steps, coating the long, slender taper in slippery elm oil and pushing it slowly up inside Mrs. Ketch. She winced, but didn’t complain. When I tried to explain that she needed to pray with the candle, keeping it lit for the next three nights, she just shook her head and frowned. “I don’t need the witchery. I just need it to work. Is that all?”
I thought about the ingredients listed beside Miss B.’s Angel Water.
Pennyroyal, black stick, a pinch of borax…
“I can give you something, but it’s pretty powerful. You’ll have to stay here tonight so I can watch over you.”
She sat up, her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. “I can’t leave the little ones alone with Brady. Especially not at night. He’s not right most evenings. They’d get no supper and if they complain, he’ll whip ’em ’til there’s no tears left. Just mix it up and I’ll be on my way.”
“At least let me have Hart Bigelow take you home. He’ll be by soon to feed the horses. He can leave you off at the the end of the road to Deer Glen if you like.” I followed Miss B.’s recipe, poured the mixture into a brown bottle and handed it to Mrs. Ketch. “You can put it in your tea. A tablespoon every four hours. Take it all, every last bit. The bleeding will be heavy at times, cramping too. Send word if it doesn’t stop or you don’t feel right.”
She nodded, still looking nervous. “You won’t tell anyone why I was here?”
“If anyone asks, we’ll say you came to see if I had some of Miss B.’s cough syrup left for the children.”
My dog, Daisy, had her first litter of pups when I was ten. Five fat-bellied collies with the sharp bark of Laird Jessup’s best hunting beagle. Father kept two for himself, Nip and Tuck, to chase after pheasants and help bring in the cows. The others went off to live with three of Father’s brothers, Uncle John, Uncle Homer and Uncle Web. Daisy’s second litter came the morning after my eleventh birthday, when I spotted her weaseling her round, wobbly body through a hole in the lattice under the side porch. Frightened she might get stuck, I tried to crawl in after her, but she snarled and nipped at me, letting me know I shouldn’t come any closer. I checked on her through the day as she whimpered out six squint-eyed babies, their pink noses and bodies all struggling and worming over each other for Daisy’s milk.
When Mother called me for supper, I was still lying flat on the ground, staring under the porch. Father was on his way in from the shipyard, hot, dusty and tired. He shook his head as he approached, knowing what was holding my attention. “Don’t go wantin’ to keep those pups, Dorrie.”
Over dinner I did my best to plead my case, promising that as soon as they were weaned I’d stand up in church and announce that we had six beautiful puppies to give away…every Sunday until they all had a home. But Father wouldn’t hear it. He said that, if he recalled correctly, it was Charlie’s fault we had too many puppies in the first place, that Charlie had been the one to let Daisy loose while she was in heat, that Charlie should be the one to “take care of it.” Charlie gave a solemn nod. Mother said she’d make sure he did his job first thing in the morning. We all knew what that meant. I cried into my pillow that night, but I knew better than to say another word about it.
In the morning, after breakfast, Mother coaxed Daisy out from the porch with a steaming bowl of stew meat still clinging to the bone. Charlie crawled through the hole, clutching an empty potato sack. Mother shut Daisy in the barn, and Charlie emerged from the porch with the sack hanging heavy, squirming with muffled cries. “Dora, you go back inside now. Charlie and I will be home soon.”
I waited, staring out the window, until I could see that they were halfway down the path to Jess Brook. Then I crept through the alders, following behind.
Mother watched as Charlie knelt down by the deepest part of the brook. She grabbed the sack before Charlie could plunge it into the water. I could hear the tears in her voice as she told him, “Go away, Charlie, just go on home.” She didn’t turn to watch him run away. She just sat and waited until she couldn’t hear his footsteps, then she closed her eyes and pushed the sack into the stream, leaning in up to her elbows, holding it down with sadness and duty.
I never understood why she had to do it, why she felt Father was right to want to kill those pups. I went on after that day believing that my mother was not who I’d always thought she was, that her face was less beautiful, that her arms gave less warmth than before.
I wonder if Wrennie can feel the coldness in me that comes when I think of Mrs. Ketch, the chill that runs right through me, to my fingers and down to my toes.
It don’t matter one way or another. I ain’t God. Only the woman knows if she’s got enough love to make a life.
No matter how many of Miss B.’s old quilts I wrap around me, I can’t seem to keep warm.
