Hester bends down and picks up one of Star’s front hooves. I’ve never seen the bottom of a horse’s foot before, and I’m almost sick when I see the blood and what looks like bone sticking through. As a midwife, most things don’t bother me, but this gives me shivers.
“Yuck.” I wrinkle my face. “How did this happen?” Bitsy is silent, leaning over my shoulder.
“Well, we aren’t sure. Star had lameness last year, but I wasn’t called in. Since money is so tight, most of the farmers, even the well-to-do ones, don’t call me unless they think the situation’s critical. After a week the limp went away. Then, a few days ago, she got into the cattle’s grain.
“I guess that was it. An overrich diet can cause the horse’s gut to release toxins that go into the bloodstream and eventually settle in the hoof, resulting in an abscess. The same thing can happen after a retained placenta, but this animal hasn’t been bred for years . . . Cushing’s disease can cause it too, but that’s more chronic than acute.” I’m mildly interested, but Bitsy has gone back to the garden. “The point is, the condition is severely painful and usually a death sentence, but I thought of you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. If you and Bitsy have the time, I think we can turn this around and then you’d have a good horse. You need one, don’t you?”
I watch as the mare staggers back and forth on her front hooves, rolling her eyes in pain. I know nothing about horses, and I doubt that Bitsy does either.
“What would we have to do?”
“Well, first off, I’d show you how to bandage her feet; then you’d have to change the dressings. You’d also have to take her down to the creek three times a day to let her stand in cold water. I’d have to keep trimming the bare hooves while the new hoof material grew in. You’d have to keep a very clean stall and give her feed that’s low in carbohydrates. Hay would be okay and maybe a little grass, but not grain. Your pasture would be okay. It doesn’t look too rich.”
I glance over at the ten acres of green, with yellow and white wildflowers that surround the barn. Looks pretty rich to me, but I’m no farmer.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Hester questions. “She could die. Or, if she gets well, it will take around two months and she’s yours. She’s a good mare . . . or was a good mare. Only fifteen. She could still even foal.”
I run my hands along her sides, like I know what I’m feeling for. She doesn’t look bad. Her back doesn’t sway. Really, I’m just feeling her life force. Mr. Hester admits that this foot disorder might be fatal. Do I want to care for an animal that I will get fond of . . . and then watch her die? I make a snap decision, throw caution to the wind.
“Okay, we’ll do it. Bitsy,” I declare, “we have a horse. It’s very sick, but Mr. Hester thinks we can cure her. What do you say?”
“Whatever you say, Miss Patience.” Cut the subservience, Bitsy, I flash with my eyes. Maybe I should have consulted with her first. It’s as though I’ve broken a rule and she’s putting me back in my place. Funny how that “Miss Patience,” in this setting where we live as equals, lets me know that something is wrong.
“Great. I’ll come by to trim the bare hooves twice a week,” the vet promises, missing the whole interchange. “And we won’t use horseshoes anymore, ever.” We lead Star into the barn and clean up a stall, and the vet shows us how to wrap the feet.
When he leaves and Bitsy is back in the house starting supper, I stand in the barn alone, taking in our new animal. She turns to me, her brown eyes wet with what I think of as tears. “It will be okay, sweetie,” I say, like she’s one of my patients.
We have a horse!
March 20, 1930. No moon, overcast sky, fog so thick you could eat it with a spoon.
Eula May Mayle, female infant born to Carl and Ruby Mayle, Upper Raccoon Creek. 6 pounds, 4 ounces. Third baby. No problems. Bitsy and I barely made it to the house. Ruby laughed that she was waiting on us but couldn’t wait much longer! Carl told her she had to hold on because he wasn’t catching no damn baby! Present were just Bitsy and I and the couple. We were paid one live chicken and a hand-knit blanket that will be very useful next winter.
Twyla
The first rush of spring has come and gone, and now there’s more rain. A month ago we were confined by snow. Now it’s red clay and mud.
Yesterday was Easter, and when Thomas came with a cart, Bitsy pleaded with me to go to the chapel at Hazel Patch, but I begged off, saying I wasn’t in the mood, and stayed at home to work in the garden . . . A few hours later, I was surprised to see Thomas and Bitsy returning from church early, the cart laboring back up Wild Rose Road.
“Mrs. Potts wasn’t at church, but she sent word with a neighbor that she wants us to come into Liberty for a delivery,” Bitsy announces. I wrinkle my nose. It’s not that I don’t want to help the older midwife, but I feel as though I’m being dragged into another emergency. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I have farm chores to do.
“What’s up?” I ask, knowing I won’t refuse.
“It’s Twyla, Nancy Savage’s daughter,” Thomas puts in. “Nancy is Judge Hudson’s cook, and her daughter, Twyla, is the Hudsons’ upstairs maid. The kid is having labor pains. She’s only fourteen, has been crying since yesterday, and refuses to go to the hospital. Hudson’s wife is so upset, she fainted, and the judge stormed out. Mrs. Potts has been sitting with her all night, and the judge told her he didn’t want any damn nigger girl wailing in his house when he got back.”
You can tell by the way Thomas tightens his jaw that he’s really angry. “Mrs. Potts wants Bitsy to come too. She says Bitsy may be able to calm the girl down.”
“Who’s the father? Is there a father?”
“Nobody’s saying, but we think he’s Judge Hudson’s son, Marvin, a student at Princeton. He was home this summer. It would be the right time.”
I blow through my mouth. I can’t refuse Mrs. Potts, but a fourteen-year-old girl may not be big enough to birth a good-sized baby and I don’t even know the family.
An hour later we’re clip-clopping across the bridge into Liberty with the Hope River spilling over her banks below. Two bufflehead ducks, with their black-and-white feathers and overlarge teal-and-purple heads swirl in the backwater. Bitsy is still wearing her go-to-church clothes and I’m looking presentable enough, I think. My dress is a ten-year-old blue chemise, and hers a yellow flowered affair she inherited from Katherine MacIntosh. We have aprons for the birth in our satchel.