The Blue Cotton Gown by Patricia Harman Page A

all works the same.” I show her some tricks of positioning, some techniques for massage.

    Three weeks before her due date, Laura and her husband, Lou, ask Tom and me to come over for dinner and one last childbirth class. They live in a large converted barn in relative luxury, four couples and three kids under seven.
    On Saturday we drive down the rutted dirt road into their hollow. On either side of the narrow lane, redbud and dogwood are blooming, everything’s alive and expanding. The barn, a huge, sturdy, insulated two-story structure, comes into view. I’m impressed when Lou gives us a tour. Each family has its own space in the loft. The common areas are downstairs: kitchen, living room, and library. The commune even boasts an indoor commode and hot running water. After dark, when a spring snowstorm comes up, we decide to sleep over rather than get the jeep stuck in the mud. Tom, Mica, and I are shown to an empty bedroom, and after a luxurious hot shower, we settle down for the night.
    Around three I hear rustling, low voices, and footsteps back and forth to the john. Maybe one of the commune’s toddlers is sick . . . Tom sleeps through it all. At four in the morning, Star comes to our door. “Can you come, Patsy? Please! Something is happening.”
    I pull on my jeans and turtleneck and follow the woman up wooden stairs. Star wears a long paisley skirt and has disheveled golden hair down to her waist. She looks as if she’s been up all night. “At first it just seemed like a backache,” she whispers. “But it’s got to be more than that. I’ve never had a kid, so what do I know? Laura’s been up most of the night. Now she’s started to puke and there’s blood down her legs.”
    The small woman pads down the hall on her calloused bare feet and leads me up narrow wooden steps. We stop at the door to a bedroom illuminated by dozens of candles. Pachelbel’s Canon plays low on the stereo. On a mattress on the floor, Laura crawls naked, moaning and swinging her head.
    Lou kneels beside her in shorts and a tie-dyed shirt, massaging her back. His long ponytail droops over his shoulder. “It’s coming, Patsy! I don’t know what to do. We planned a home birth and I was

    supposed to catch but I can’t. I just can’t . . .” His face is as white as the bedsheets. “ You have to do it,” he says to me.
    I go very still. Pregnant woman . . . almost full term . . . moaning
    . . . blood . . . muddy roads . . . hospital two hours away. That’s what I’m thinking. Then there’s a pop, Laura groans, and a gush of clear fluid squirts out of her vagina. “Go get Tom, Star, he’s hard to wake up. You’ll have to shake him—and get the birth kit. You have something prepared, don’t you, Lou, some supplies?” The man looks around wildly.
    “Top drawer—bureau,” Laura snaps between moans. “My back hurts so bad. Damn! I have to push, but when I do it only hurts worse.” She lets out a wail and starts shaking. So much for childbirth breathing. “Get a grip, Laura,” I tell her. “Yelling is not gonna help, and it scares the baby.” I don’t know where I came up with that line, but it works. I’ve used it a hundred times with women in labor since then. She shuts up.
    Then Tom steps into the room with Star and takes in the situation at a glance. “Where’s the birth stuff ?”
    “Inside the chest. I need some gloves. She’s gotta push.”
    Something is bulging between Laura’s legs as she wags her butt back and forth, and I haven’t even washed my hands. Tom pulls a paper sack out of the drawer and finds a box of exam gloves. They aren’t sterile, but neither is anything else, and they’ll have to do. “It’s almost over, Laura. I’m going to touch you. Don’t move around.” I part her labia and am startled to find a head covered with
    dark wet hair, about the size of a large apple.
    Laura moans again. “I got to get this fucking baby out of there. It’s killing me.” She growls like