The Midwife of Hope River by Patricia Harman

wonder about, since he’s never had the money to pay me.
    â€œHe promised he’d give you five dollars for helping Mary over the holidays,” I continue my argument. “Five bucks would go a long way this winter. Maybe you can even bring home some more coal and tea. Maybe some sugar and flour. That’s cash money, and you know we need it.”
    â€œBut it’s Christmas. You shouldn’t be alone.”
    â€œReally, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t believe in all that.” I know this hurts Bitsy. We’ve talked religion a few times, how I grew up Presbyterian but lost my faith a long time ago. She grew up in the A.M.E. church, African Methodist Episcopalian, and hates to hear me talking like a sinner.
    The discussion is cut short by the sound of an automobile laboring through the mud on Wild Rose Road, and Bitsy runs upstairs to get ready. Mr. MacIntosh is here, right on time, and after he wipes his feet, he takes a seat on the edge of the sofa. He takes a deep breath and looks around curiously.
    â€œHow are Katherine and the baby?” I ask to fill the silence.
    â€œGood. Great.” He strokes his sandy mustache. Must have been a real looker when he was young, as handsome as Katherine is beautiful, but worry now alters his face. “Her mother and sisters are coming up on the train from Baltimore for the holidays. Bitsy will be a big help.” Despite their new poverty, the MacIntoshes will put on a big show for their relatives. Upstairs Bitsy clumps around, packing her few belongings.
    â€œRadio out of Wheeling says a massive storm’s coming,” William says, changing the subject. “Big snow from the southwest. They’re always the worst, the ones from the south. You better get some more wood in.” It’s the second time recently that some fellow has felt the need to advise me about basic survival.
    I glance toward the window. The shadows of low gray clouds skim over the mountains. He could be right, but the ground’s still bare and the sun shines intermittently. In five minutes, Bitsy is dressed in a full-length navy coat, a hand-me-down from Katherine MacIntosh, and standing on the porch with tears in her eyes. I hold out her Christmas present, a pair of green mittens that I knit for her, and she hugs me so tight I lose my breath. It’s the first physical sign of affection she has shown, and I find myself grinning. Except by a few of my mothers, I don’t get hugged often.
    â€œReally, Bitsy, I’ll be okay.”
    Then the sound of the auto fades as it takes the bend on Raccoon Lick and I’m alone. Still no snow, but the air is colder and the pale dove sky has turned slate. “Alone,” I say out loud as I smile, then tidy the kitchen, bring in more wood, and get out my yarn to begin knitting a pair of brown mittens for Thomas.
    While I work, I keep an eye on the clouds.
    Â 
    December 18, 1929. Rising moon, half full.
    Called to another birth, not four hours after Bitsy left with William MacIntosh.
    Female infant, Dora, 6 pounds, 9 ounces, born to Minnie Boggs, only 14 years old. She surprised me by delivering quickly. Labor eight hours. I only made it for the last hour. Small tear, no repair. Blood loss minimal.
    Minnie wanted to get up and bathe right away, but I said no. Not for one week. Her granny and mother agreed with me, but I doubt she will do what I say. Her husband, Calvin Boggs, ten years her senior at 24, has no control over her either. I found myself missing Bitsy. She would have been a comfort going out after dark, but she’s at the MacIntoshes’ helping Big Mary with Christmas.
    Â 
    Mercy
    I pull up a chair, balance my cup of peppermint tea on the windowpane, and stare out at the gray day. Spending a few hours with fourteen-year-old Minnie reminds me of my year at the House of Mercy in Chicago. Gray. That was the color of everything, or that’s how I remember it. Gray walls. Gray uniforms.