I smile to myself. Having a garden won’t be that different for me. I learned how to cultivate from Mrs. Kelly and from trial and error. Though Katherine has a point; I may have to enlarge the plot and preserve more food.
“Also, it doesn’t look right you living alone. People talk. And it’s not safe. What if something happened to you?”
“Nothing’s going to happen. I’ve lived alone for more than a year. Anyway, what do you mean, talk about me?”
“William heard them at the Oneida Inn when he had his Elks meeting.” The Oneida Inn, twenty miles away, is a restaurant and hotel that’s far too rich for me, and there’s a speakeasy in the back. Not that I’ve ever been there.
“What do they say? What could they say? I live a good, clean life.”
“People just talk. They wonder about you. A single woman living all by herself on the side of a mountain. You must admit it’s unusual. If Bitsy lived with you, it would seem more proper.”
“You don’t think it would cause more gossip? A black and a white woman living together?”
“Well, she’d be your servant, right? Your maid.”
My maid! I’ve been a maid myself in the past, a milkmaid with the Chicago Lying-in Dispensary. I’ve never had hired help, never had the money, and anyway, having someone wait on me makes my skin crawl.
“There’s something else.” Katherine continues her pitch. “Bitsy could bring you some business.”
I frown, not sure what she means.
“Black babies,” Katherine whispers, her hand to her mouth as if this is hush-hush.
“What?”
“The Negro expectant mothers would start coming to you if Bitsy was your helper. The only midwife they’ve got now is Mrs. Potts, but she’s over eighty and is slow getting around. Bitsy would bring you clients, and you’ll need them now that Dr. Blum has dropped his fees and put a sign in his window, ‘New patients welcome.’ ”
That surprises me. He’s always seemed so expensive. “What’s his fee now?”
“Twenty dollars for the delivery and a two-night stay at his hospital. Fifteen dollars if he comes to your home, but that’s only for people in town or the rich farmers. He won’t go out to the coal camps.”
That’s almost the same fee I charge! Not that I get it.
Katherine turns and strolls to her vanity, sits on her padded chair, and combs her short blond bob with her silver brush. Then she picks up the carved silver mirror with a little handle and stares back at me. “If you will take Bitsy, I’ll give you this.” She pulls a gold-and-pearl brooch out of her jewelry box and holds it out, dangling in her thin hand.
I stare at the offering, a gleaming crescent moon with a pearl the size of an eyetooth. You can tell it’s real gold.
“I couldn’t. That’s ten times too much. I’ll just wait until you and William get on your feet.”
“Patience, it could be years . . . Mary’s daughter is like family. This will be for my beautiful baby and a beginning of a new life for Bitsy. You can teach her to be a midwife.” She stands and drops the heavy brooch in my lap.
“Won’t Mr. MacIntosh object? If he needs the money, he could sell this.”
“It’s not his. My mother gave it to me. Anyway, he hardly notices what I wear for jewelry, or even my clothes. He probably doesn’t know I own it.”
I shake my head and pointedly lay the ornate crescent moon with the pearl at the tip on the bedside table. It must be eighteen carats, though my experience with jewelry is limited.
“I need to examine the baby.” I change the subject. “He’s beautiful. I’m sorry I put you and William through the pain of thinking he was dead. I’m still not sure why I couldn’t find the heartbeat, and then you said you didn’t feel him move.”
Katherine sits beside me on the bed and smooths the dark brown satin quilt. “You gave me comfort in the night. You gave me my son.” Her face is flushed, and there are tears in her eyes.
Our happiness for this one live baby drowns out my other worries, my lack of cash to survive the winter, my fears that I am over my head in calling myself a midwife. I don’t even notice when Katherine drops the golden brooch into my apron pocket.
8
Bitsy
First hard frost last night, and all the remaining tomatoes are ruined. I thought if I left them on the bushes, they might redden up, and I was mad at myself all day until Charles Travers came for me and I was called to another delivery. This one made up for the near tragedy at the MacIntoshes’ and the strangeness of Delfina’s birth in the coal camp. It reminds me that most of the time Mother Nature knows best.
November 15, 1929. Almost full moon and the first hard frost.
Uncomplicated delivery of Ruth Ann Travers, firstborn of Charles and Abigail Travers of Liberty. Six pounds, 9 ounces. One small tear that didn’t require stitching. I bicycled home singing because I was paid five dollars! Others present were Abigail’s mom, a mother of seven. She was a great help to me.
Mrs. Kelly’s ornate parlor clock chimes five as I rest my leather journal across my chest. It’s extravagant, I know, and the fire will burn out faster, but I’ve left the door of the heater stove open to enjoy the flames in the late-afternoon light. The coals shimmer like rubies. I allege that I don’t know much about jewelry, and that’s true, with the exception of Mrs. Vanderhoff’s ruby. The ruby . . . the ruby ring.
Under the sound of the wind, I catch another sound, the clatter of wagon wheels coming up Wild Rose Road. When I jump off the sofa to look out the window, I see in the gloom a cart piled with split wood pulled by two burros, which are also laden with bulging gunnysacks. A small dark woman balances on top of the logs with a bicycle tied on beside her. Mr. Cabrini is driving, and Thomas Proudfoot, Mary’s son, walks by his side. They pull up to the porch and tie their animals. The woman climbs down. She has a worn cardboard suitcase and two firearms, a rifle, and a shotgun. It’s Bitsy.
Before I left the MacIntoshes’ a few days ago, I returned to the kitchen and conferred again with Mary. I tried to be honest, tried to explain. “It’s not the color thing. You know it’s not. It’s just I’m not used to people waiting on me, and truly I have so little money. I know I look better off than I am, with a house and a small farm to my name, but that’s only because I inherited the land from the older midwife, Mrs. Kelly, and the cottage is so tiny, really, I’ve no need for a maid. Right now I have only a few dollars to my name and not enough coal or wood for the winter.”