The Reluctant Midwife (9 page)

It's time to go job hunting again. The thing is, the humiliation at Stenger's, when the pharmacist gave me a quarter, still stings.

To prepare, I dress my mute companion in a clean white shirt and at the last minute decide to give him a tie. Dr. Blum was always a nice dresser. Snappy, you might even say, because Pricilla, his wife, bought all his clothes and
liked her men to look attractive
. I smile. The pretty blond flapper had a way with the fellows, but Dr. Blum was so busy he never noticed.

I use a little lipstick and dress myself up too, in a pale green blouse, plaid pleated skirt, and hose, my last pair. I want to look professional, but I must be prepared to take anything—charwoman or laborer on a road crew.

Before we leave, I adjust the back seams in my stockings, hoping I have them straight, then I get out the money jar and stuff the last ten-dollar bill Mrs. Bazzano gave me in my pocketbook. It isn't until I've loaded Blum into the auto that I remember my nurse's bag. I'd promised Patience I'd look in on Lilly. That's where I'll make my last stop, I decide. I'll see the pregnant woman and pick up the few groceries we need.

We are most of the way into Liberty, just crossing the bridge over the Hope River, when the gray clouds break open and a patch of blue illuminates my heart. I promised myself that I would try to see things more positively.
Look at the daisies covering that field! Look at those two bluebirds sitting on the fence!

Things aren't so bad, really. There are many who are poorer than the two of us. I think of the people in the Midwest where nothing can grow because of the drought. I should count my blessings. The important thing is to have hope, not to give up even in the face of despair.

Why, look at Dr. Blum and me, all dressed up like any middle-class couple, driving along in our late-model auto!
“Blue skies smiling at me!”
I croon at the top of my lungs, but no one can hear me except the doctor, and you'd swear he was deaf. He doesn't react, doesn't tap his toe or cringe, either one.
“Bluebirds singing a song . . . Nothing but bluebirds all day long!”

We park in front of the pharmacy, between a horse cart with two mules and a green army truck with wood sides.
CIVILIAN CONSERVATION CORPS
it reads on the door.

When I enter the building, I'm surprised to see Mr. Stenger's wife at the counter talking to a tall man in a CCC uniform. I'm glad it's her. Mr. Stenger may still be miffed about the scene with Nick Rioli when we tried to buy the epinephrine. It makes me tense just thinking about it. Also, I don't want him to give me another quarter.

“Will the young man be okay?” Mrs. Stenger asks as she wraps up a collection of medical supplies—a compression gauze, cotton
balls, and Merthiolate. She's a pretty lady, with her dark wavy hair tied back, and she wears her husband's long white lab coat that droops almost to the floor.

Mrs. Stenger, I remember from my previous years in Liberty, is an inquisitive, college-educated woman of about fifty, with five children whom she raises like wildflowers.

“I'm sorry we don't have a physician in town anymore,” she goes on in her low voice. “Are you sure you don't want to buy a sling or some plaster? What if you need to make a cast?”

“No, this should be fine. The boy's arm doesn't seem to be broken, just scraped and bruised. He was clowning around and fell off the truck. Fifth District is sending Dr. Crane from Camp Laurel tomorrow.” The CCC man strokes the head of the purring orange cat on the counter.

I'm feeling shy, but have to speak up. “I'm a registered nurse. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, Nurse Becky. I didn't recognize you.” That's Mrs. Stenger. “My husband told me that you and Dr. Blum were back in town.”

“We've just returned from Virginia, Dr. Blum and I, but Dr. Blum is not well.”

As I move toward the counter, I can see the man is nice looking with a straight jaw and small, flat ears, but a scar down his cheek mars his handsomeness. A military injury from the Great War, I imagine. Most of the CCC officers, Patience told me, are from the army reserves, and General Douglas MacArthur is in charge of the program.

“I know first aid and can even set a broken arm.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but we'll be okay.” The gentleman salutes and limps toward the door. From the looks of him, his face was not the only part of him wounded. Still, he carries himself well and doesn't seem outwardly disabled. He turns at the door. “Miss? Miss . . .”

“Rebecca Myers,” Mrs. Stenger offers.

“Miss Myers, if you're ever interested in helping out at the camp, we accept volunteers. . . . It's Camp White Rock. Do you know where it is?”

“I've heard of it. I can get directions.”

“Then I hope you'll come by.” He gives me a smile and I see that his teeth are strong and white.

“I'll think about it. I'm caring for Dr Blum in his convalescence, so that makes it complicated, but I'll think about it.”

“Just ask for Captain Wolfe.” He salutes us both again and then turns with a snap and marches down Main.

“Becky, Becky. Becky,” Mrs. Stenger gushes coming around the counter as if we were once best friends. “It's so good to see you and oh, my holiness . . . the captain . . . what a man. He was nearly killed in the Invasion of Lorraine. . . . So how is the doctor? How is he? Terrible! Terrible! What's his condition, anyway?” The woman floats around the counter flapping the long white medical coat and looking like the older sister of the actress, Joan Hopkins, same dark hair and big eyes.

I take a deep breath. “He's stable, but he's suffered some kind of brain damage.” I keep the story short, wanting to stay on task.

“Such a tragedy. And you, dear, you must come to dinner.” I ignore the invitation and get on with my mission.

“Well, Mrs. Stenger . . .”

“
Lucille
,” she commands. “Call me Lucille.”

“Lucille, I know many people are worse off than the doctor and me. I've seen the soup lines, but I
have
to find work. Do you know
of
anything
? Any work at all? It doesn't have to be nursing. Housework or cleaning, or clerking in a store? Anything?”

Mrs. Stenger doesn't answer at first. She walks back behind the counter and starts putting a new shipment of Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound on the mostly bare shelves.

“I'm sorry, dear. I'll keep a lookout, but times are tough and men must have work first . . . for their families. I'm not sure this was the best place to come back to. Surely, it would have been better to stay in Virginia. Doesn't the doctor or you have family?”

I don't know how to answer this, so I just say, “No.”

It's too shameful to admit here in West Virginia, where kin always takes care of kin, that Blum's own brother kicked him out. And it's too sad to admit that I too am alone.

For the next hour, with Blum in the car, I swallow my pride and walk up and down Main, visiting every establishment.

How did this come to be? Rebecca Myers, a college graduate, wandering the streets of a small mountain town, unemployed, almost destitute. I quickly review my downward spiral.
State funding for my Women and Infants' Clinic cut . . . Moved to Charlottesville when offered a job as Dr. Blum's office nurse . . . Priscilla Blum's life cut short by her tragic crash into the James River . . . Dr. Blum withdraws into silence and neither of us works for over a year . . . All savings gone . . . Eviction imminent . . . Escape in the night . . . Return to Liberty. Now here I am . . . impoverished, alone, walking the streets, looking for work, any work at all
.

Not quite
any
work! Get a grip, Becky
.

Pulling myself together, I continue my search and poke my head in Sheriff Hardman's office at the courthouse. He comes around from behind his desk and shakes his head.

Since I last saw him, his hair has thinned and the scar on his chin, from a knife fight long ago, is more prominent, but he's still a big man, someone you wouldn't want to mess with.

“I don't need cash money. I'd work for food.”
God, this is hard! I feel like I'm begging
.

“I'm sorry, Miss Myers. I'll let you know if I hear of anything. Can I walk you out to your car?” At the side of the Pontiac, he looks in at the doctor and taps on the window. Isaac doesn't blink, doesn't even turn his head. The sheriff taps harder and studies the side of Blum's stony face. “Damn shame,” he comments, then tips his hat and turns away.

Only two last places to go and my fruitless day will be over. I need to get gas and some kerosene, then a few supplies at the grocery, where I'll check on Lilly Bittman, the young pregnant woman whom Patience is worried about.

I stop first at the Texaco station where Loonie Tinkshell, the owner, comes out wearing khaki coveralls and a cap like a military man. He salutes like one too and wipes a long strand of his hair off his forehead leaving a line of grease. “Hi, Miss Becky. Dr. Blum.” Loonie is not really loony; people just call him that. His Christian name is Louis.

“Car trouble?”

“No, we just need a fill-up and some kerosene, but can you check the oil?” I notice the prices on a handmade cardboard sign:
10 CENTS A GALLON FOR GAS. 5 CENTS FOR KEROSENE. CASH MONEY! NO CREDIT!

A few minutes later, I pull out my ten-dollar bill to pay for the gas and feel ridiculous. Loonie looks at the paper money, looks at me, and then without saying anything walks into the station to get
me my change. It takes him five minutes. Damn, now he will think I'm a moneybags.

Just because I feel bad, I tip him two dimes, but then I feel worse. In a couple of weeks, I'll need those coins.

I am surprised when I enter the Bittman's Grocery to find more shoppers than last time. Two women and a man move up the three aisles in slow motion, probably trying, like me, to maximize the nutrition they can get with their meager cash. One woman carries a pale thin child with a cleft lip on one side, and I shiver remembering the first baby I delivered. The little boy reaches out when they pass the pickle barrel, but doesn't make a sound and the mother pulls his hand back.

I step up to the counter. No point looking at things we can't afford. B.K. Bittman greets me in his brown apron. His short dark hair sticks up like he forgot to comb it and his hazel eyes have a worried, haunted look.

“Miss Becky, how can I help you?” he says in a monotone.

“Good morning, Mr. Bittman.” I fumble in my jacket pocket, looking for my short list. “How's Lilly?”

B.K. holds my gaze. “Poorly. Did you know she's in the family way?”

“Yes. The midwife told me.” I don't need to explain which midwife; there's only one, since Mrs. Potts passed away and Bitsy moved to Philadelphia.

“Could I see Lilly? I told Patience I would stop by.” I set my little leather nurse's bag on the counter as if this makes my visit official.

“Yes, sure. We'd appreciate it, but just so you know, I can't afford to pay. Can I gather the things on your list while you visit?”

The grocer opens a door to the rear and shows me up a set of steep wooden stairs that lead to the couple's apartment.

“Lilly, honey,” he yells, “Miss Becky, the home nurse, is on her way up.”

“Hello,” I call, entering a kitchen with a sink full of dishes, leftovers still on the table, and a back door that leads down another set of stairs to the alley.

“I'm in here.” Lilly's voice draws me toward a bedroom where a pale young redhead sits up in bed, a book on her lap and three books on the bedside table. The startling thing is her eyes, aqua blue. She turns in my direction, though I know she can't see me. The books are in Braille.

“Miss Becky. It's so nice to have you back.” She reaches out for my hand and her soft fingers run up and down my wrist, her way of connecting since she can't meet my eyes.

“Thank you,” I answer formally. “Most everyone has been very nice, but it's been a hard landing. I thought the economy was bad near Charlottesville, but it's much worse here. I can see people are really suffering. Anyway, enough about me! How are
you
? Patience said you're pregnant again. I take it this is a good thing?” Here I raise my eyebrows waiting for her response and glance at her small protruding abdomen. It's strange to use my face to convey concern when Lilly cannot see it.

“Yes, we were very happy. It took five years to get pregnant last time, four years this time and we were wondering if it would ever happen again. Now I'm not sure. I mean, we still want the baby very much, but you heard about the cramping. I'm afraid I'm going to lose it.

“B.K. and Patience insist I stay in bed and they're probably right, but there's so much to do. Did you see the kitchen? The housework has gone to the devil, and B.K. needs help in the store . . .” She shrugs. “And . . . and if I'm going to lose the baby anyway, I might as well get up.”

“Have you been to the doctor's in Torrington?”

“Yes, I went there a few weeks ago to see the specialist, Dr. Seymour. He wanted to admit me, but Boone Hospital has become a rat hole. There's no money for upkeep. You even have to bring your own pillow and, anyway, we couldn't afford it.” She's still stroking my wrist. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“And then there's B.K. He's wearing himself thin. I can't see him, of course, but I
feel him
, his ribs sticking out. He's trying to hide it from me, that the store's in trouble, losing money. I used to tend things when he did deliveries, but I can't anymore. They call this the Great Depression, but it's not just the economy, it's everything.” I see the tears in her unseeing eyes and she wipes them away.