The Birth House (9 page)

I smiled at Miss B. “Dr. Thomas, the maternity home is nice enough and all, but I do wonder about the safety in getting there. Going down North Mountain in the winter can be difficult.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that, Miss Rare. Perhaps you would be willing to act as an escort for Mrs. Jessup when the time comes. You could see what goes on, even lend a hand, reassure Miss Babineau. I’d compensate you for your troubles, of course.”

Miss B. answered for me. “We’ll have to see about that.” Archer Bigelow was in the kitchen when I went to put another pot of tea on the stove for Mrs. Thomas. He sat there, legs lazy and wide, with one arm draped over the back of the chair. I could feel the dark of his eyes staring at my back, creeping up my spine.

Grace Hutner and the rest of the card-party girls bicker over who’ll sit next to Archer at church, at pie socials, at Temperance picnics down to Lady’s Cove. It’s not lost on me that he’s handsome, and not like a boy, but as a man who’s nearly thirty. Even his work clothes cling to him like they want something, his pants folded tight in his boots, his thick wool vest buttoned neat. He stood and steadied my waist as I climbed on top of a stool to reach a bag of sugar in the cabinet. He wrapped his arms around me as I came back down, lingering long enough for me to smell pipe tobacco and pomade, ginger beer and shaving soap. I felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered in my ear, “You’re lovely.”

Before I could respond, Archer’s brother, Hart, stomped through the doorway, leaving loose trails of snow on the kitchen floor. “Beware old Archie there, Dorrie, he’s some careless with his affections.” My face blushed with embarrassment as I pushed Archer aside and gave my attention to the kettle, now whistling and spitting on the stove.

My two oldest brothers, Albert and Borden, along with Hart, have long called themselves the “Holy Terrors of the Bay,” always pulling pranks to make me or Mother scream. Father even calls Hart his seventh son. On my thirteenth birthday, Hart hog-tied me while Albert and Borden threatened to lower me into the pigpen. Hart was over six feet tall by the time he was twelve. He started working for Father in the shipyard shortly after. He’d been on less than a month when he caught his left hand between a rope and a pulley and lost three fingers. Miss B. tried her best to save them, but they were a ragged mess. If it weren’t for that, he’d be off to the war with Albert and Borden. Instead, he’s stuck in the Bay, breaking his back, watching his ten-fingered brother sweet-talk and grab all the girls.

Precious came into the kitchen. “Mrs. Bigelow wants to know if you’ve run into trouble.”

Flustered, I answered, “Trouble?”

“With the tea?”

I set the pot, sugar and creamer on a tray and hurried out of the kitchen. “No, no trouble at all.”

The rest of the night I thought of Archer, wished he would come into the room, or that I’d find some excuse to get back to the kitchen. Maybe I’d ask him to tell me what he meant, or say that I wasn’t sure of what it was he had said and could he say it again? Maybe he’d come close, this time staying long enough that the smell of him would linger on my clothes, just long enough so I could go on thinking of him whenever I breathed, without having to mean to, without having to try.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, Grace Hutner was standing at the back door, pulling on Archer’s arm. “Lovely night for a walk, wouldn’t you agree, Dora?”

˜ January 20, 1917

We have finished
Northanger Abbey.
Despite the meddling of Isabelle Thorpe, all has ended well. Catherine marries Henry Tilney.

Miss B. has gone on, night after night, complaining about Dr. Thomas. “
Exact
…How
exact
gonna do her anythin’? Ain’t no
exact
way to have a baby…like catchin’ snowflakes, she’s gone before you got it figured out…
exact,
in all my life…” Most of the time she follows these rants with her thoughts on “how we gots to handle him” and why. Her constant fretting makes me wonder if maybe she’d be better off if she just gave up.

I’ve cleared out the loft over the kitchen. With my old feather bed, wool blankets and a quilt, it makes for cozy sleeping. I had been sharing Miss B.’s bed, but it’s too small for the both of us, and if she’s indulged in a nip or two, she’s prone to rattle and snore. Now, with a lamp and my books (rather than hiding from Dr. Thomas), I like it up here, tucked away with strings of wrinkled apples and bundles of sage, catnip, raspberry leaves and rosehips. As in all the other nooks and crannies of her cabin, Miss B.’s got a picture of the Virgin Mary tucked away in the corner. It’s pasted on top of the horsehair plaster, along with crumbling wallpaper and old sections of newspaper. I look at her each night before I sleep, my own way of praying, I suppose. There, in the flickering light of my oil lamp, the Holy Mother smiles at me, her face framed in white roses, her hands cradling a small white dove with a glowing red heart. She stares at me, looking like she knows something I don’t.

Never mind what she knows. Never mind Dr. Thomas or Miss B. All I can think of is the word Archer Bigelow whispered in my ear, the word that sits in my wishes, working with the Devil to get me to believe that it might just be true. He said it. I didn’t imagine it.
Lovely.

11

P
RECIOUS HAS BROUGHT
a new book, Dr. A.W. Chase’s
Information for Everybody,
to my attention. She smuggled it in the bottom of an egg basket and was panting with excitement by the time she reached Miss B.’s door. It’s not nearly as interesting as when she brought me Aunt Fran’s copy of
Sexual Secrets,
with its nine hundred pages of Dr. O. S. Fowler’s commentary on the “electric currents” shared between men and women and how they are “especially regulated and deranged by sexual intercourse.” Sadly, today, the topic on Precious’s mind was not sexual relations, but rather a question of blood. My dear cousin is only fourteen and not yet having her courses, so the following passage put her in a panic.

Allow me here to give a word of caution about taking cold at this period. It is very dangerous. I knew a young girl, who had not been instructed by her mother upon this subject, to be so afraid of being found with this show upon her apparel, which she did not know the meaning of, that she went to a brook and washed herself and her clothes—took cold, and immediately went insane.

Her sweet, round face turned pale as she pointed to the words on the page. “The thought of that young girl thrashing around in a creek, shivering and mad! Can you imagine?”

I explained the menstrual processes as best I could and assured her that I would never let her go mad from bleeding or exposure. I then made her promise she’d come to me as soon as she even suspected one drop of blood. It was a difficult conversation, since her mother has never spoken a single word to her about the facts of life. Storks and faeries have more to do with Precious’s idea of “where babies come from” than anything else. It won’t be long before I’ll have to explain that too, although I’m not sure how to go about it. The poor girl can hardly keep herself from fainting to the floor when she reads the words
blood, death
or
naked.
Aunt Fran does her no favours, always treating her like a baby. Precious never has any chores to speak of, and she gets every new thing she desires, dresses from Halifax, satin ribbons for her hair, sweets before supper. I only wish she clamoured after literature the way I do. I’ve now stolen nearly all the novels Miss Coffill keeps tucked away at the schoolhouse, and Aunt Fran’s collection of almanacs and journals of health is outdated, no matter how entertaining they may be.

I’m surprised Precious spends any time with me at all, now that she’s become one of the “proper young ladies” of the Bay. About the same time Sam Gower stopped pulling at Precious’s braids and started walking her home from school, Grace Hutner invited her to her first card party. I can’t say how many more times we’ll comb each other’s hair, share brown bread and cream or sing the refrain,
“I don’t want to play in your yard; I don’t like you anymore. You’ll be sorry when you see me, sliding down our cellar door.”
Each day she becomes more and more like her name, her golden hair twirling into ringlets around my fingers, her eyes and thoughts bright with privilege. I keep more and more of my thoughts from her, knowing I can’t explain why they’ve grown so dark. My skin’s never washed as pale as hers. When I blush, it never shows. I feel dirty when I sit next to her.

When we were young, the other girls forgave Precious for staying at my side. When we were finished playing, she’d turn and run to them, explaining it away as a cousin’s duty. I understood. Now I see them wanting her, the pretty-mouthed girls pulling her into their teasing and gossip. It’s only gotten worse since I’ve been living with Miss Babineau. They bend their heads together, whispering in the back pews of the church, “The old midwife is teaching her to spin, so’s she can be a witch.” “I heard she’s learning to tip tables and teacups.” Like anything else in this world, some of it’s true; most of it’s not. Sooner than later, they’ll make Precious choose.

She begged to stay for a cup of tea. It’s not that she especially cares for Miss B., it’s more as if she wanted to leave with something to tell her magpie friends…as if they’d dared her to sit in the rickety two-room shack of a Cajun witch and have her tea leaves read. I forgive her for it. She hasn’t yet learned the difference between acting out of kindness and acting for herself. Judging by her mother’s actions, I’m not sure she ever will.

“Please, Dora…”

I scolded her, imitating Aunt Fran. “It’s not long ’til dark, dear. You know that walking in the night air causes a young lady nothing but illness and poor complexion.”

Miss B., who had stayed silent until now, laughed out loud. “Get home now, Precious. Your
maman
will have your lily-white hide if she finds out you been sittin’ ’round my fire.”

12

A
UNT
F
RAN POKED HER HEAD
through the door of the cabin and called out a cheerful “Anyone home?” Miss B. invited her in and directed me to set another cup and saucer on the kitchen table. The best I could find was an old tin mug and a biscuit plate. Aunt Fran ran her fingers around the cold metal rim, her face pinched in disapproval. I forced a polite smile and exchanged my usual chintz-ware demitasse for her mismatched set.

“Why thank you, Dora. How very thoughtful of you.” She lifted up the sugar bowl, looking all around, searching for a pair of tongs, no doubt thinking of the heavy silver ones that came with the sterling tea service she had inherited from Uncle Irwin’s mother. I wiped my teaspoon with a clean tea towel, and placed it in the mouth of the bowl. If she couldn’t bring herself to use her fingers to pick out her sugar cubes, she would have to make do with that.

Miss B. barrelled through to more practical matters. “Nice to see you knows your way to this part of the Bay, Fran.” She pulled the curtain away from the kitchen window and looked out to the dooryard. “I sees you come alone too…didn’t know you had it in you to mind a horse like that. What brings you here in such terrible cold? No one’s sick, I hope?”

I thought of Father being kicked by a horse while hitching up the sleigh, Mother with a fever, one of the boys sick with measles or mumps.

Aunt Fran chuckled, blowing streams of air over the edge of her cup, steam wetting her nervous lips. “No, no, no one’s sick. No bad news. Everything’s fine. Just fine.” She took a sip of tea from the tiny cup, pinky finger high and proud. “Actually, I’d like to speak to you alone, Marie…you understand, don’t you, Dora? It’s a
female
concern.”

Miss B. tsked and shook her head. “You a female, Dora?”

I smiled. “Last time I checked.”

“Well then, it concerns you too…don’t go anywheres.”

Aunt Fran tried again. “But, Marie, this is a delicate matter.” Her voice fell into a hissing whisper. “It’s about my
courses.
”

The old woman hissed back, making light of Aunt Fran’s seriousness. “What’s the matter, Frannie, ain’t the Redcoats a landin’ on your shores no more?”

Fran picked up the teapot and poured more for each of us, trying not to shake as she did so. “I said I was fine.” She offered Miss B. sugar and milk. “I was just wondering…” Her voice trailed off. “I was wondering if there’s something to make sure they come on. The courses, I mean.”

Miss B. kept at her. “What’s that? I didn’t hear what you said.”

“It’s almost time, three, maybe four days away at the most. Can you, is it possible…to make sure they come, on time?”

“You worried they won’t come at all? What’s got you doubtin’ the moon? You ain’t
expectin’
otherwise, are you?”

Fran sighed with frustration, digging into the pocket bag in her lap. “I’ll pay you for your trouble, Marie. Do you have something or not?”

Without blinking, Miss B. snatched up the salt and sprinkled it over the table. “Put your filthy money away, Fran Jeffers.” She tossed a handful of salt in Aunt Fran’s face. “I gots a mind to ask you to leave, makin’ such
sacrilege
at my table…if you think you can buy honest help, then I’d say you’re best off gettin’ back on your rig and goin’ down to Canning to pay your Dr. Thomas a visit.”

Miss B. closed her eyes, clasped her hands together and began mumbling to herself, her grey hair falling out of its topknot and down around her face, looking as old as a thousand prayers. “Perfect Mary, Mother of all, bless this house. Save this home from evil. From greed, from sin. Bless this poor, wretched woman, come to me with her pockets and heart lined with sinnin’, bless her, Lady, bless this house.” Aunt Fran shook her head, looking impatient and tired all at once.

I leaned towards Miss B. and whispered in her ear.

Aunt Fran sighed. “Stop telling secrets, Dora.”

Pulling a strand of beads loose from around her neck, Miss B. began to finger her way through the rosary. “Hail Mary, full of Grace—”

“Marie Babineau, are you going to help me, or not?”

Aunt Fran’s face was red. It wasn’t a blush of embarrassment or even anger, but more from the kind of heat that rushes through your whole body when you’re helpless, when you know you’ve done something that can’t easily be made right. My aunt, who had always made everything about her life seem grand and important, now looked scared and small.

I put my hands on Miss B.’s. “Please help her.”

She stopped praying and fell silent, as if she were listening for an answer. When she opened her eyes, she looked only at me. “Alright, then.” She walked to the cupboard and pulled out three jars of herbs and the Willow Book. “High Tide Tea—it’s all right there…give her enough herbs for a week’s worth. That should do her fine.”
Three days before her courses are due, a woman should start drinking this tea. Twice daily, at high tide. Keeps the courses regular.

Patting the quilts on her bed, Miss B. called to Aunt Fran. “Come on now, pull down your bloomers and I’ll see if I can’t give you some extra help in callin’ the angel down.” Aunt Fran lay down, her face turned up, staring at the ceiling. Miss B. took a thin, white candle from a trunk at the end of the bed, and rubbed oil up and down the length of it. She turned and whispered to me, “Slippery elm. This’ll get her goin’.” Holding the candle, she made the sign of the cross over and over again above Aunt Fran’s body. She pulled back her skirts and slipped the tip of the candle between Fran’s legs. Aunt Fran let out a whimper. Miss B. stopped and looked at her. “You gots to let me in, Frannie. All the way to your Holy of Holies.”

Aunt Fran took a deep breath. “Just be done with it.”

Miss B. went on, Aunt Fran letting out a short groan. Miss B. said more prayers as she removed the candle and placed it in Aunt Fran’s hands. “If not tonight, then surely by morning you gonna start to bleed, and be havin’ some pains too. Nothin’ too bad. Just take to your bed like you’re not feelin’ well. Make sure you light that candle for the next three nights. Say a prayer to Mary, thank her for her kindness, thank her for the moon, thank her for the tides. You’ll be good as new.” She helped Aunt Fran get her things together and sent her out the door. “Don’t forget to take your tea.”

Miss B. didn’t say anything for the longest time after Aunt Fran left. It wasn’t until after supper that she broke her silence. “What you gots to know is this…” Her fingers circled one of the strands of beads around her neck. “It don’t matter one way or another. I ain’t God. No matter how hard you try, it’s always gonna be between she and Him, whoever
she
might be. I’m here to deliver women from their pain. Simple as that.”

She busied herself, lighting candles and putting them all around a statue of the Virgin Mary. “Woman’s got every right to look after herself. She’s got every right to be scared, too. She can feel the rope gettin’ tight, even if her husband or some other man don’t pay no mind. If he forces his self on her, it’s simple enough for me to make it right, and I can’t believe that it’s no accident.” She tied dried herbs together in a bundle, dipped it in lavender water and shook droplets all around the cabin. “If she’s the one who made the mistake…well, she’s probably just tired. Tired of looking after herself, too tired to get after her man about it, or thinkin’ she’ll lose him if she does. Only the woman knows if she’s got enough love to make a life. It’s
love
that’s gots to make the choice. No matter what anybody says, no matter how much money or fancy this and that you think she has to her name, only the heart knows what it’s got to lose, one way or another. Understand?”

My Dear Dora,

I am grateful to both you and Miss Babineau for your recent hospitality. It is my fondest wish that our pleasant visit will stay in our memories only.

You are a dear niece and a wise young lady. Never forget the values of loyalty and family.

Your adoring Auntie Fran

Aunt Fran was smiling and happy at church today, bringing Guernsey cream for Miss B. and extra kisses for everyone else. Miss B. ignored Fran’s twittering and stared at Ginny Jessup.

What Miss B. calls her “occasional” limp, a slight dragging of her left foot led by her cockeyed hip, forced her to reach into the aisle for support. Ginny’s arm just happened to be near by. “Well, look at you, Missy. Ain’t that a fine, round belly you gots there.”

Ginny gave a polite nod. “You alright there, Miss B.?”

Miss B. put her arm through Ginny’s and patted her hand. “My bones is just tryin’ to run off without me again. Other than that, I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me.”

Laird Jessup came up behind his wife. “Let’s get you settled in the pew.”

Ginny gave an apologetic look as Laird pulled her away from Miss B. “He worries over me, especially since it’s getting so close and he’s back logging in the woods most every day.”

Miss B. nodded. “And so he should…so he should.”

The congregation bid farewell to a small group of boys, some headed for Camp Aldershot, others to Halifax, before leaving to join the fight. I am sad to say that my brothers Albert and Borden will be among them. Reverend Norton assured them that God would be smiling on their efforts.
William Cooke, Guy Jessup, Avery Morris, Samuel Morris, Albert Rare, Borden Rare, Byron Wallis, Tom Ketch.
“The good Christians of the world have endured far too many tragic stories these last two years. Every newspaper carries the accounts of vicious acts by a barbaric enemy. They have taken innocent lives, they have slashed the throats of nuns, they have destroyed farmlands and homes…and let us not forget the
Lusitania.
Our enemies have no remorse.” He leaned forward, his hands grasping the edges of the pulpit. “But we can take comfort in knowing that the Almighty Lord has no patience for the wicked…and these fine men will see to His reckoning.”

He seemed almost anxious to see them go, sending them off with prayers for their safe return, for
victory.
Victory isn’t anywhere near the same as peace. Surely there are mothers, sisters and lovers in Russia and France, Belgium, England and even Germany who feel the same. Scores of men on both sides are already dead.
Glen Ells, lost at Corselette, age 19. Alfred Hiltz, lost at St. Eloi, age 26. Carey Tupper, lost at Ypres, age 38.
They will never see home again.

Most husbands and fathers in the Bay have stayed behind to take care of their families and their fields, to work in the woods, to hunt and to fish, to carry on with life the same as always. It’s the younger men who will go, those without wives, those with dreams of seeing someplace far away from here, those who feel the weight of duty and guilt. After the service ended, the boys stood outside, holding their heads high and proud. Mothers, aunts, sisters and grandmothers filed past, kissing their cheeks, slipping coins in their hands, filling their pockets with wishes and prayers.

When the line ended, the card-party girls circled around, twisting their curls, pretending to ignore the flirtatious teasing of the new recruits.

Tom Ketch, whom I hadn’t seen since the day his mother lost her baby, stood to the side, watching. No one had come for him, not his father, or any of his brothers or sisters, or even his mother. He’d made his way up from Deer Glen, up the long road with only the hard, bitter February winds off the Bay beside him. His arm brushed past my shoulder as he started for home.

“Dora.”

“Tom?”

He said nothing else and walked away.

As I tried to hide the tears that came each time I thought of my brothers leaving home, I watched the rest of them, their parted lips and turned shoulders, coy smiles on either side, pulling one another in for a closer look. It’s a sad thing to see the boys begging for kisses and letters from home, sad to think I am not one of those girls.