Authors: Ami McKay
“G
ET ME TWO
long-handled spoons and grease ’em up good with tallow, Dora.” Miss B. was sitting on a chair by the bed, one hand slid up between Grace Hutner’s thighs. “What the devil you got stuck in there, anyways?”
Grace held her breath as Miss B. inserted the spoons and gently pried the object out of Grace’s body. “Look at that! Look who was grinnin’ back at me.” Miss B. held up a small, rounded piece of porcelain painted with pink flowers and the smiling image of a Chinese empress, one of the teacup covers from Mrs. Hutner’s prized Gilded Lotus set. “That must have been some tea party you went to, Gracie.”
Grace grabbed the teacup cover from Miss B. “I’ll take that. It belongs to my mother.”
Miss B. scolded her. “It sure don’t belong up in your little sweet spot. Don’t be puttin’ things up there that don’t belong, no matter how handsome he is.”
Grace sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. “Some men just won’t take no for an answer.” She smiled at me, fluttering her eyelashes. “And then there’s some you just don’t
want
to say no to, isn’t that right, Dora?”
I clenched my teeth. “It never hurts a man to wait.”
She laughed as she pulled up her stockings and fastened them to her garters. “Really? They always tell me different.”
Miss B. called out from the kitchen. “You gonna be a little sore for a couple of days, then you’re good as new.” I followed Miss B. and watched as she got into the cupboard and brought down a heavy jar filled with what looked like steeped brown roots. The label read:
Beaver Brew.
“I’ll give you somethin’ that’ll keep you clean ’til your next moon time, so you don’t have to worry ’bout your little princess there. Just this once.”
I stood next to Miss B. and hissed at her. “What are you doing?”
She strained some of the mixture into a small jar. “I’m makin’ you a weddin’ present. Now leave it alone ’til she’s gone.”
Grace looked into the canning jar that Miss B. had handed to her. “What’s in it?”
“No concern of yours.”
“It smells awful.”
“Make sure you drink it all, now, or it don’t do no good.”
She whispered to Miss B. “It really works? I can’t get a bun in the oven?”
“Drink it down.”
Grace took a sip and nearly gagged it back up. Miss B. laughed at her. “It’s easier if you just take it in one go.”
She took the rest and left, grinning and smirking at me as she went out the door. “See you at church, ladies.”
I sat at the kitchen table with Miss B., hot, angry tears coming down my face. “How could you give her something like that? You know she’ll go after Archer.”
“No matter what I done, you know she gonna go after him and anybody else who’ll look at her twice.”
I stared at the floor. “Do you hate me that much for leaving you? Don’t you want me to be happy?”
She came up behind me and put her arms around me. “You’d be hurtin’ a lot more if Gracie went and got herself knocked up with your man’s child.”
Miss B.’s gotten slow, her back looking more hunched and broken every day. She complains in the morning, says she can’t taste her coffee, can’t smell it, can’t feel its bite. “Don’t know whys I bother drinkin’ it.”
She still says she won’t give up tending to the women of the Bay until she’s dead in the ground, but since Dr. Thomas’s lecture to the White Rose Temperance Society, the women in the Bay have all but given up on Miss B. Once in a while, they’ll ask her to mix up a remedy to ease their courses or come looking for a bottle of her cough syrup to soothe a child’s sore throat, but more often than not they avoid her, busying themselves with false chatter whenever she comes close.
The women from away are still faithful to her. Mabel Thorpe, Bertine Tupper and Sadie Loomer have been leaving baskets on the doorstep every other day, loaves of brown bread, pints of cream, applesauce, pickles. This morning I watched Sadie waddle down the road, her belly heavy with child, turning every so often to see if Miss B. had come out to collect her offerings. Miss B. left the jars lined up on the kitchen counter. “Some pretty, ain’t they? I’m almost afraid to eats ’em, ’fraid I’d be swallowin’ that poor little mama’s guilt into my gut.” She shook her head and clutched her rosary. “She’s some small, that Sadie. And her babies are some big. I pray to Mary and sweet baby Jesus that Mister Doctor know what he’s doin’.”
Not long after he addressed the ladies of the Bay, Dr. Thomas became a full member of the Sons of Temperance, lending his brotherhood and advice to the men of the order. Many men from the Bay attend (most in name only): Father, Uncle Irwin, Mr. Hutner, Laird Jessup. As Laird did with Ginny, Sadie’s husband, Wes, has made it clear that Sadie will be going down to the Canning Maternity Home to have her baby. It’s become a point of pride with these men, to be able to pay for the “proper” things in life. If you want the best saddle for your horse, you go to Pauley’s tack shop in Canning; if you want the best axe, it’d better be a Blenkhorn; and if you want your children born “right some strong,” then Dr. Thomas is your man.
More and more of Miss B.’s days are spent sleeping. When she’s not praying for Sadie, she’s praying for “Louis Faire to guide me to my home-goin’.” Sometimes she’ll wake in a fright, calling to me to help her “Bring the child out, Dorrie. Sing her down through her mama’s bones. Sing the moon down. Sing her on down.” She’s forever reminding me of things that need to be done, roots to be harvested before the new moon, which herbs bloom in June, July and August. She even insisted on teaching me to collect the first dew of May. “Livin’ here it might come as snow, frost or fog…you never know, but no matter how it comes, you gots to gather Mary’s Tears, puts ’em in a bottle and save ’em for blessing the sick.” Under her watchful eye, I stretched a large piece of sailcloth between four apple trees, tying the ends low to the trunks. She handed me a heavy, smooth stone. “Roll this in the centre there, so’s the dew can runs down the middle.” Then she took her wide wooden bread bowl and crept under the shallow canopy, leaving it just under where the rock was hanging so it could catch the dewdrops.
She fretted over me while I put in a garden at Spider Hill. Aside from peas, cabbage and other vegetables, there is now a start from every herb in Miss B.’s garden.
Blue-eyed Mary, Lady’s keys, Our Lady’s bedstraw, Mary’s slippers, Mary’s gold, Mary’s nettle, Mary’s bouquet, Mary’s bed, Mary’s tears, Mary’s washing plant, Mary’s sword of sorrow, Sweet Mary, Jesus wort, Lady’s modesty.
“And don’t you forget to collect the seeds before autumn. You’d think the fruit was the prize, or the leaves, or even the roots…but it’s the seeds that keeps the secrets. Like any other mother, the plant done spent all her life learnin’ the earth. It’s her seeds that does the rememberin’ for her. It’s all right there in the seed.”
While we worked, at least a dozen men were circling the new cellar that Father and Uncle Irwin had dug at Spider Hill. Laird Jessup’s wagon was filled with stones he’d gathered during his spring plowing, and one by one the men carried them to the top of the hill. Even though the shipyard is busy with the men working hard to build the skeleton of their next schooner, they have been spending their evenings and Sundays gathered at the hill, while Father maps out the plans with his footsteps. The men stand together, nodding in agreement, clutching the bowls of their pipes or scratching and pulling at their beards.
Un coup de main,
Miss B. calls it. “Men come together, first for one and then the other. This house is some special, bringin’ us together when the world has done split apart.”
She’s forgiven the Widow Bigelow and seems resigned, but not entirely happy about my upcoming marriage to Archer. She read my tea leaves for my eighteenth birthday, telling the future of my new home. “I sees all the things a house should hold…laughter, songs, but some tears too. And babies…lots and lots of babies to hold.” This made me happy. More than being in love, or being a wife, I have wanted to be a mother.
I promised her that I’d continue to assist her with her midwifing as long as in return she promises to live forever, so she can be there to catch all my babies, and their babies, and their babies after that. She pouted when I said it.
“Don’t you lie. I knows you’re givin’ up on me, just like everybody else.” I told her she was wrong, but she went on. “Now, now…I’ve almost given up on me too. Might as well…no sense hangin’ my dreams on these bones. Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop this old body from makin’ her way to the grave. Time has its way and that’s that.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Archer’s already insisting I stop midwifing once we’re married. “A husband needs the attentions of his wife. You can’t be distracting yourself with the work of spinsters and old grannies and expect me to be happy about it. Besides, Dr. Thomas is more than ready to take it over from Miss B., you said so yourself.” I didn’t say what I’d do one way or the other. I didn’t say anything at all.
˜ July 1, 1917
This afternoon, Archer and I went out to Lady’s Cove for a picnic lunch. The tide was stretched out away from the shore, leaving the mud flats bare and shining in the sun. I walked barefoot, collecting mussels and a few clams, the warm, heavy sand giving way up to my ankles. Archer built a fire, his happy whistling echoing in and around the tide pools and cliffs.
After we ate, he pulled a locket from his shirt pocket (a beautiful gold thing engraved with a circle of lilies) and handed it to me. He said his mother wanted me to have it for our wedding day.
When I said I thought it was too generous a gesture, he stood and loosened his belt, his trousers dropping down past his knees. He grinned as he stared at me, touching and putting himself on display, asking me for a little thank you for the groom-to-be.
This way of my giving thanks started the night after Grace Hutner’s visit to Miss B.’s. I hadn’t expected to have him standing in front of me, half-dressed, before our wedding night, but it seemed the only way to keep my virtue (a welcome requirement for Archer’s inheritance) while keeping him away from Grace. I’ve been meeting him at the church or down in the shallow caves at Lady’s Cove as often as I can.
I’ve seen my brothers naked many times, running down to the brook with their parts dangling down, three sheets to the wind, innocent and laughing. But Archer never laughs, and what he’s got between his legs is far from innocent.
Come on, Dorrie. Just get on your knees. It won’t take long, no one needs to know. Now open up that sweet mouth of yours and take me in.
I wonder if this is the way love starts for most girls. Not out of devotion, but from the need to make a man happy.
Sometimes it takes more than kisses to say thank you. Just think of it as my way of saying I trust you. That I want you more than anyone else. I’m at your mercy, my love.
He’s particular about the way it’s done.
Always, always on your knees.
Hair pulled back away from my face, his hands tugging at my braids, guiding me…slow at first, then
faster, faster.
Despite the way it makes my jaw ache, and the bitter, salty taste it leaves in my mouth, it does change him. There’s a gentleness he shows that isn’t there at any other time.
Little girl, you’re my sweet little girl.
He coaxes and groans as if he’s the one giving in. I just hope it’s enough.
Just as he was stroking my cheek, bringing my face close to him, and to the stale, musky smell of his body, Hart’s voice rang out from the edge of the cliffs above us. As Archer scrambled to pull his clothing back together, Hart made his way down to the cove. Archer’s face was red with anger.
“Save something for the wedding night Archie, or Mother’ll disown ya…”
I got to my feet and busied myself with throwing sand on the fire, not looking in Hart’s direction. I wish he hadn’t seen us like that. It’s not that I fear the fires of hell for what I’ve been doing, or even that Hart might judge me to be no different from Grace. It’s just that when I kneel in front of Archer, I feel as if God will be disappointed if I don’t let him have his way, that I should thank heaven he wants me at all. Having someone witness it makes it that much worse. My only comfort is in something Miss B. told me long ago: “It’s been proved over and over again, right as rain—The Lord made men so they just can’t help themselves.”
˜ July 5, 1917
All the contents for the house arrived today. Five wagons were lined up in the road, and dozens of men were moving boxes and crates up the hill. The women were all there, the Widow Bigelow directing the men as to where to put the furniture, Aunt Fran gossiping to Mrs. Hutner. “My cousin, Clara, in Halifax, she bought the makings of an entire house right out of the Sears catalogue. The Aladdin Built in a Day House. The entire house came by train. An
entire
house, clapboards, shingles, doorknobs and all!”
Archer winked at me as he dragged the iron frame for our bed into the house. There’s no turning back now.
Rare–Bigelow Nuptials
M
r. and Mrs. Judah Rare of Scots Bay are pleased to announce the wedding of their daughter, Dora Marie, to Mr. Archer Bigelow. The Reverend Claude Pineo performed afternoon nuptials at the Scots Bay Union Church, Friday, July 11. The bride was attended by her cousin, Miss Precious Jeffers. The groom was attended by his brother, Mr. Hart Bigelow. Mrs. Francine Jeffers, aunt of the bride, offered her talents in song by singing a fine rendition of “Oh Promise Me.” The ladies of the White Rose Temperance Society, along with the Widow Simone Bigelow, mother of the groom, hosted an evening celebration at Lady’s Cove, with many residents from far and near in attendance. The happy couple will make their residence at Spider Hill and will receive well-wishers at once.
The Canning Register,
July 25, 1917
E
MBROIDERED SILK ILLUSION.
Seed pearls and blown glass beads. Fine tatted lace made from Aunt Althea’s sleight of hand, turned into roses and forget-me-nots.
Three weeks before, the ladies of the church auxiliary had sung a song and said their pledge, and Aunt Pauline Rare had read the minutes from the last meeting. Then, to my surprise, she announced that the next order of business concerned “the wedding of Dora Rare to Archer Bigelow.” The women smiled and stared at me. Mother patted me on the knee and grinned.
For the next few hours they bickered and laughed, arguing over who makes the tastiest buttercream frosting and who has the finest voice to sing “I Love You Truly.” In the end it was decided that July 11 was the luckiest day for a wedding (as the men won’t set sail on a Friday). It would be a sunset service at the Union church, Reverend Pineo to officiate, and bonfires with baked lobster and mussels at Lady’s Cove to follow.
Aunt Fran asked, “And what will we do about the rum? You know the men insist on bringing it out for weddings and funerals…”
Mother nodded. “I say, none ’til sunset and done by dawn. And no man to touch a torch or a fire or we’ll lose at least one boat, barn or even a house.”
A round of “ayes” went through the room. Bertine Tupper added, “Each wife tends to her own, too. I’m not having anyone else’s husband lying in my garden when I wake up. Hardy makes a fine mess between the cabbage and peas all on his own.”
After the laughter fell away, Aunt Fran raised her voice again, this time sounding quite serious. “And what about a wedding gown?” She looked at my mother. “Charlotte, is she wearing yours?”
Mother sighed. “That’s a concern…” She busied her hands with darning a sock as she spoke. “When I married Judah, I never thought I’d have a daughter. You all know the saying,
Rare men bring Rare sons.
In hundreds of years of living in the Bay, it’s held true…until Dora.” She looked at me with sadness. “I used my dress to make christening gowns for your brothers. I’m so sorry, dear.”
Aunt Fran shook her head, her voice filled with disgust. “Well, I suppose she could wear mine.”
Mother made a quick reply. “She’d swim in your gown, Frannie…and besides, you’d be the first to admit, it’s rather old-fashioned looking nowadays.”
Aunt Althea tried to comfort Mother. “You know, Charlotte, I did the same thing with my dress.”
The other wives of my father’s brothers chimed in. Aunt Irene, Aunt Lil, Aunt Pauline and Aunt Tilly all admitted to taking apart their wedding gowns and piecing them into baptismal dresses. Aunt Lil giggled and added, “I made some beautiful pillow shams from part of the train too. The satin’s so nice to sleep on. Who could have guessed you’d be needing it for anything else?”
Aunt Althea turned to Aunt Fran. “Did you bring any of those ladies magazines with you?”
Aunt Fran reached under her chair and handed a stack of
Ladies’ Home Journal
s and
Butterick
pattern books to me.
“What are these for?” I asked.
Aunt Althea smiled. “Pick a dress you like, and we’ll find a way to make it for you. Pauline and Tilly are the finest seamstresses around; they’ll make silk from a sow’s ear if they has to.”
On my wedding day my feet danced under the scalloped hems of fourteen delicate christening gowns. Crowned with wax orange blossoms and waves of silk tulle, I married Archer Bigelow.
At sunset, we made our way down to the cove. Hart, Charlie, Sam Gower and Uncle Web carried me on a piece of sailcloth as if I were the Queen of Sheba. Archer chased after them, threatening to steal their share of rum if they tried to steal his wife.
He fed me roasted lobster tails, raspberries and wedding cake. He held my waist tight as we danced. He told me he would always love me, and I said I’d never doubt his word. Between two fiddles and a wheezy concertina, I watched my parents at the end of the reel, Mother smiling as they met, Father bending a bit as their hands joined to form the arch. Their love is an easy, well-worn fit. Where did it come from? As a new bride, did she enjoy at least one day of bliss? A day, or two, or even a week when she was required to think of nothing else but her fragile little world of two, of husband and of wife.
Father was about to make his fifth or sixth toast of the evening when Bertine Tupper came running down the cliffs, shouting my name. “Dora, you gotta help. Sadie’s in trouble, says the baby’s comin’ right quick.”
“Where’s Wes?”
“He went to get Dr. Thomas. Sadie wouldn’t go down to Canning, said she’d never make it.”
“Where’s Miss B.?” I asked.
“Can’t find her. I went to her cabin first, then the church, then here.”
I kissed my new husband good night and asked him to look for Miss B. on his way home.
You gots to be a two-headed person. And what I means by that is you gots to think and see two things at once.
Where was Miss B.? She’d been at the wedding. She’d come to me afterwards, held my hands, her bony, familiar fingers whispering against my palms. She said she was tired, “Ain’t no place for a blind old granny at a dance…my feet gets in my own way.” I asked Charlie to walk her home, but she said she wanted to walk alone to enjoy the sunset and the warm evening. I kissed her cheeks. She whispered, “Mind her bones,” and walked away. I thought it was a blessing for my wedding night. I was wrong.
The baby’s shoulder stuck as it was coming down, and Sadie was getting tired. Where was Miss B.? If things didn’t change soon, I’d have to break the baby’s collarbone to get it out.
Mind her bones. Bring them bones down. Sing ’em on down.
I crossed my heart, found as many of Miss B.’s words as I could, spit on my finger and drew a cross on Sadie’s belly, singing, “Mother Mary, bless this mother, bless her child, bless this house.” I moved Sadie to the edge of the bed, so she was all but hanging off of it. Bertine sat behind her, holding her up, coaxing her along. “Come on, Sadie. A little while longer.”
I gave a firm, slow twist, bringing the baby’s shoulder to the soft of Sadie’s skin. Bertine and I both called out for her to “Push, push!” and with that, the baby slid right out. A beautiful baby boy.
Dr. Thomas arrived, too late to catch the baby or the afterbirth. He took off his coat and paced around the house, grumbling about women not knowing what’s best for themselves. “Since she chose to have the child at home, I’m afraid I’ll have to limit the care I give her. I’ll examine both Mrs. Loomer and the child, and then I’ll have to be on my way.”
Wes pulled the doctor aside, his two sleepy toddlers clinging to his legs. “You won’t be back to look in on her again? We already paid.”
“Yes, but the certificate clearly states that the mother’s confinement and care are to be attended to at the Canning Maternity Home.”
Bertine came into the kitchen where the men were standing. “Dora and I will see to her. And I’m sure when Miss B. comes around she’ll look in on her too.”
“Are you a relation of Mrs. Loomer’s?”
“No, but—”
“As Miss Rare can tell you, I don’t allow visitors of any sort at the maternity home. I don’t recommend it for home births either. Health concerns, you understand.” He turned to Wes. “I really must be on my way.”
Bertine stood in the bedroom doorway, her large arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping as she stared the doctor down. “Dora’s done a fine job here. I don’t know that Sadie or her baby needs you poking at them.”
Dr. Thomas ignored her and pushed his way into the bedroom.
Sadie held her child tight. “Anyone can see, we’re fine. No need to touch.”
Dr. Thomas shook his head. “Good luck to you both, then.” He looked at me. “Good night, Miss Rare.”
Bertine said, “It’s Mrs. Bigelow. Dora just got married tonight.”
He tipped his hat as he walked out the door. “Well, I wish I could congratulate you under better circumstances.” He looked me up and down, noticing my wedding dress, now stained with blood and afterbirth. “I’m sure you made a lovely bride. Good night.”
Bertine and I made tea and porridge for Sadie, then tucked the other children in for the night. Wes was standing nearby as I got ready to leave.
“Sorry about your dress.”
I smiled. “Why don’t you go on in and see that new boy of yours. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
It was nearly dawn by the time I got to Spider Hill. My dear husband was snoring in our bed, still in his wedding suit, hog-tied. Hart was sitting in a rocker, his head lolled back in sleep and the weathered handle of a broadaxe cradled to his chest. He mumbled and stirred, his eyes opening to narrow slits.
“What’s that? Dorrie, that you?”
“Yes, Hart.” I motioned to the bed. “You trying to keep him in?”
“More like keeping Grace Hutner out.” He yawned, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Now there’s a girl who can’t hold a drop. Boy, she put on a show…pounding at the door. She called Archie a yellow-bellied witch-loving coward, and kept going on and on, yelling about how this should have been her house.”
“Oh dear.”
“Don’t worry. She won’t be back. Her father came and dragged her off, swearing right and left that he was going to send her to live with his sister in Halifax.”
I knelt down by the side of the bed and started to untie Archer’s wrists.
“I wouldn’t do that. He’ll be some mad when he wakes up. Best just to let him sleep it off and wake up compromised.”
If I hadn’t smelled his stale breath and seen his face twitch, I would have thought he was dead. “Did he check on Miss B.?”
“No. He couldn’t get himself home, let alone make his way to Miss Babineau’s.”
I left my soiled dress hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, changed into fresh clothing and walked to Miss B.’s.
˜ July 12, 1917
I knew something was wrong before I even got to the door. A letter sat on the table, next to the Willow Book and five strands of rosary beads, all laid out and waiting.
Dear Dora,
My, what good we’ve made of each other. I would never have known of Miss Austen without you, never had a notion of what it was like to have a home in this place. You made these humble walls sing.
A long time’s past since I made my way here from the Bayou. Now it’s time to take a walk to my next place, my last place, my home-goin’. If I done it right, this life, then you don’t gonna see me no more, that’s all.
You don’t gonna cry, neither. You got to say a prayer instead. That’s the way of the traiteur. We make our tears into prayers…not to beg or plead with God, but to remember the stuff we are made of. Same as Mother Mary, or your smart little Missy Austen, we’re all the same, same as the moon, the stars and the sea.
Offert ou pas, Dieu est ici.
Bidden or not, God is here.
Marie Babineau
I believe it’s possible Miss B. just vanished. Every day she had been getting closer to it, praying, calling out to heaven, raising her arms up to the sky, making herself lighter and lighter, her dress trailing after her like feathers, until she might have flown away.
There were many times that I thought to myself I’d do anything not to end up like her, to keep from being pushed aside like some sad have-not, forced to live alone in a leaning, aching, rundown shack. That was before I came to know her. Many times over these past few weeks, while everything seemed to be ending for her and beginning for me, I wished that the moon she worshipped each night would come and put some of Miss B. in me—that I’d wake up wise, with silvery prayers on my lips, saying whatever was on my mind (whenever I wanted). Next to Mother’s sensibility, she seemed half an angel, half fright, somehow always knowing what I needed.
After reading her note, I felt more tired than sad. Tired of the day, of having to tend to Sadie’s birth alone, of fighting with Dr. Thomas, tired at the thought that the time had come to leave this place behind and act like someone’s wife. I lit candles all around the Blessed Mother, singing “Ave Maria” and praying that Miss B.’s soul would have a safe journey home. I twisted her rosaries around my neck and sat in her old rocker, pulling her quilt around me, crying until I fell asleep.
I dreamed of her laughter and the scent of coffee brewing in the morning, of the crooked handwriting that lined the pages of the Willow Book, every statue and likeness of the Holy Mother singing her prayers to me as I slept. I dreamed that I had come back to what was left of the place, set it on fire to burn to the ground, the flames bursting high up into the night. Shadowy men shovelled seaweed around the edges of the fire to make sure it didn’t spread, bringing things they didn’t want anymore, a broken-down buggy seat, rotten apple barrels, used-up lobster traps. Then the women came. They cried over Miss B. while they held their children tight. They stood next to each other, sharing stories of the births they had under her care. I held my mother’s hand and rested my head on her shoulder while Miss B.’s ghost flew all around us, singing.
They gonna need you, Dora.