Authors: Ami McKay
“Thank you.” He spooned in the sugar and doused the coffee with a large splash of cream. “Imagine the benefits that modern medicine can offer women who are in a compromised condition…a sterile environment, surgical procedures, timely intervention and pain-free births. The suffering that women have endured in childbirth can be a thing of the past—”
Miss B. interrupted him, catching his eyes with her gaze. “What you sellin’?”
Dr. Thomas’s stutter returned. “I, I…I’m just trying to tell you, inform you of—”
“No. You ain’t tellin’, you sellin’…if you gonna come here, drummin’ up my door like you got pots in your pants, then you best get to it and we’ll be done with it.”
She waved her hand in the air as if to shoo him away. “Oh, and by the way, whatever it is, I ain’t buyin’. I figure if I tell you that right now, you’ll either pack up and leave or tell me the truth.”
Dr. Thomas continued. “The truth is, Miss Babineau, I need your help.”
She settled back in her chair. “Now we’re gettin’ somewheres. Go on.”
“We’re building a maternity home down the mountain, in Canning.”
Miss B. interrupted him. “One of those butcher shops they calls a hospital?”
Dr. Thomas answered. “A place where women can come and have their babies in a clean, sterile environment, with the finest obstetrical care.”
She scowled at him. “Who’s this ‘we’?”
“Myself and the Farmer’s Assurance Company of Kings County.”
“How much the mamas got to pay you?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Nothing.”
Miss B. snorted. “You’re a liar.”
“I won’t charge them a thing. I won’t have to, we—”
“You got a wife?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s a good girl, a lady who deserves the finer things?”
“Well, of course. But I don’t see—”
“How you expect to keep her if you don’t make no money?”
He laughed. “I get paid by the assurance company.” He lowered his voice and smiled. “And you could get paid too…if you participate in the program. They’ll give you five dollars for every woman you send to the maternity home.”
Miss B. got up from the table. “What I gots, I
give,
and the Lord, He takes care of the rest. There’s no talk of money in my house, Dr. Thomas.” She held his coat and hat out to him. “I gots all I need.”
Dr. Thomas took his belongings from her, but motioned towards the table. “Please, I didn’t mean to offend you. Let me at least have my say and then I’ll go.”
She poured the doctor another cup of coffee and sat back down at the table. “You got ’til your coffee’s gone or it turns cold.”
Dr. Thomas quickly made his case. “Many families in Kings County, Scots Bay included, already own policies with Farmer’s Assurance. A small fee, paid each month, gives these families the security of knowing that if something happened to the man of the house, he could get the medical attention he needed and they could still go on.” He spooned more sugar into his cup. “As you well know, the mother is just as important as the father; she’s the heart of the home, she’s what keeps everything moving.”
Miss B. nodded. “I always say, if the mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
Dr. Thomas grinned. “Exactly! For the price of what most households spend on coffee or tea each month, a husband can buy a Mother’s Share from Farmer’s Assurance. This guarantees his wife the happiness of a clean, safe birth and the comfort of having her babies at a Farmer’s Assurance Maternity Home. The family can rest well knowing that ‘Mother’ will be well cared for during her confinement.”
Miss B. stared at him. “What if a mama wants to have her baby at home?”
Dr. Thomas looked confused. “Why would she want to do that when there’s a beautiful new facility waiting for her?” He tried again to convince Miss B. “You are a brave woman, Miss Babineau, taking on this responsibility all these years. Everyone I talk to has said how skilled you are, how blessed, but with new obstetrical techniques available, women can rely on more than faith to see them through the grave dangers of childbirth.”
Miss B. sat there, humming and knitting, looking up at him every so often as if to see how much longer he was going to stay.
Frustrated, Dr. Thomas tried to further the conversation. “Do you know Mrs. Experience Ketch?”
Miss B. took a sip of tea. “Some.”
“Her husband, Mr. Brady Ketch, came to my offices about a month ago with some disturbing news. Since you’ve had your hands on so many babies in this area, I wonder if you might be able to make some sense of what he told me.”
Miss Babineau smiled. “I’ll certainly do whatever I can.”
The doctor’s tone grew serious. “Mr. Ketch was quite distressed. He said that his wife was bedridden and too weak to stand. He was afraid she might die. I followed him to their home and found her to be in poor health. She was pale and wouldn’t speak.”
Miss B. shook her head. “Well, that’s just some awful. I hope you could help her.”
“I made her as comfortable as I could under such circumstances, but there’s one thing I still don’t understand. When I asked Mr. Ketch what had brought about his wife’s illness, he said that she had just given birth the day before, and that you and a young girl were there to attend it.” Dr. Thomas stared at Miss B. “Was there
nothing
you could do to keep her from falling into such poor condition?”
Miss B. completed her row of knitting and shook her head. “Did you happen to catch wind of the man’s breath?”
Sugar spilled from the doctor’s spoon before he could get it to his cup. “Pardon?”
“I’m sorry to say so, Doctor, but the only truth Mr. Brady Ketch is good for, is in tellin’ the innkeeper when he’s reached the bottom of a whiskey barrel. If his wife’s in trouble it’s ’cause he can’t keep his hands from her one way or another. If he’s not puttin’ a bun in her oven, he’s slapping her black and blue. If I’ve ever given Experience Ketch a thing, it’s been to tell her she’s workin’ herself to death.”
“Are you telling me that you don’t know anything about her having a baby?”
Miss B. pulled on the ball of yarn in her lap. “Did you see one there?”
“No, Mr. Ketch said it was a stillbirth.”
Miss B. rolled her eyes. “Why, I’d guess we’d both know it if she’d just had a birth, as I’m sure you gave her a thorough examination.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, staring at his cup. My handkerchief was sitting near it, the one that Precious had given me for my last birthday, my initials embroidered in a ring of daisies. “Mr. Ketch said Mr. Judah Rare’s daughter might be able to shed some light on the matter.”
“Miss Rare is a proper young lady who’s kind enough to keep company with a wretched, feeble granny like myself. She’s also wise enough to know better than to find herself in Brady Ketch’s part of the wood. Nothin’ there but lies and brew. Either one you choose, you’re askin’ for trouble.”
Dr. Thomas picked up the folded square of cloth and looked it over. “Dora’s her name, isn’t it? I stopped by her house and spoke with her mother before I came to call on you. What a kind woman she is. She guessed that I might even find her daughter here, with you.”
Miss B. calmly put out her hand, reaching for the handkerchief. “Left this behind last time she was here. You know how forgetful them young girls can be. Can’t tell you what they done that same mornin’, never mind yesterday, or last week. Some flighty too, never know when she’ll show her face at my door.”
Dr. Thomas frowned as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. It’s the same thing Father does when he knows something he’s planned on paper isn’t going to work with hammer and nails. “Maybe I’d better visit Mrs. Ketch again and see if she can remember anything now that she’s back on her feet.”
Miss B. gave a cheerful response. “No need for that, my dear. Brady Ketch may well forget he ever knew you and shoot you on sight. It’s best you leave the women of the Bay to me.”
The doctor mumbled under his breath. “Leave them to have their babies in fishing shacks and barns.”
Miss B. scowled. “What’s that?”
“I think you should be made aware that the Criminal Code of 1892 states: ‘Failing to obtain reasonable assistance during childbirth is a crime.’”
Miss B. ignored him and said, “I’m wonderin’, Doctor, how many babies you brought into this world?”
“During my residency in medical school, I observed at least a hundred or more births—”
“How many children you caught, right as they slipped out of their mama’s body?”
“Well, I—”
Miss B. stopped him from answering. “It don’t matter…” She pulled at the tangled mass of beads around her neck. “See these? That’s a bead for every sweet little baby.” She pulled the longest strand out from the neck of her blouse. “See this?” A tarnished silver crucifix dangled from her fingers. “As you’ve probably heard tell…this child’s mama ‘give it up’ in a manger.” She let it fall to her chest. “So’s next time you come out here, tryin’ to save the
barn-babies
of Scots Bay, you remember who watches over them.” She stood up from her seat. “I believe your coffee done got cold, Dr. Thomas. I’d ask you to stay for supper, but I know you’ll want to get back down the mountain to your dear wife. The road has more twists when it’s dark.”
Mother didn’t wait long to ask me what it was Dr. Thomas wanted. “Did he find you at Miss B.’s? He seemed nice enough. Quite the thing to come way out here. Your brothers couldn’t get over that automobile of his. What’d he want, anyway?”
“He just wanted to find out how many babies were born in the Bay last year. Part of some records they keep for the county, or something like that.”
“That’s interesting. How many babies were there?”
“When?”
“Last year. How many babies were born in the Bay last year? I can think of three, at least. There was Mrs. Fannie Bartlett, and—”
“Oh, you know, I can’t recall. I think she just laughed and said, ‘the usual.’ You know Miss B.”
Mother went back to stirring a big pot of beans on the stove, wiping her brow as she inhaled the word
yes.
˜ November 16, 1916
Never have I had so many things I couldn’t say out loud. At least my journal listens to the scribbling of my pen.
When Dr. Thomas left Miss B.’s, his face was all flushed, looking like he wouldn’t be happy until he’d found a way to make Miss B. say she was wrong and he was right. I told her that I couldn’t bear to see her locked up behind bars, that maybe she should consider asking the women of the Bay to seek Dr. Thomas’s care from now on, but she just smiled and strung a single bead of jet on a string and hung it around my neck. “He ain’t gonna come back. There’s nothin’ out here for him. All the money’s down in town. Them people down there come to doctors with every little ache and pain. They empty their pockets right on the examinin’ table. Why’d he want cabbages and potatoes for pay, instead? Besides, a man who can’t drink my coffee straight ain’t got nerve enough to do me harm.”
She’s probably right, but it hasn’t kept the nightmares away. It’s been the same one for the past three nights. First I’m dreaming I’m with Tom Ketch, and he’s looking down on me, gentle and sweet, like he might even kiss me. I close my eyes, but when I open them, Brady Ketch is holding me tight, his unkempt beard scratching against my cheek, his foul tongue pushing into my mouth. I try to scream and my voice won’t sound. I try to get away and my body goes limp, like I’ve got no bones, and then I’m falling, falling into the ground, into the dark, wet hole under the Mary tree. There’s moss and bones, leaves and skulls, potato bugs and worms. I can hear a baby crying. I dig through the muck until I find it. It’s Darcy, only this time he looks like the most perfect baby in the world. He’s pink and beautiful, plump and whole, his clear blue eyes staring up at me, waiting for me to take him home. When I go to reach for him, the Mary tree comes to life, her roots turning to arms as she pulls the baby up from under the moss. I call out to her, “I’ll take care of him this time, I promise.” She doesn’t speak; she just takes Darcy and starts to walk away. I cry out again, “Please, bring him back. I’ll take care of him.” I follow her, hoping that at least she’ll take him up to heaven, but she just keeps on going, walking out of the woods and down the mountain, until she’s standing at Dr. Thomas’s door.
˜ November 20, 1916
Tonight we strung apples to dry and made coltsfoot cough drops. Miss B. pulled what looked to be an old recipe book from the shelf and placed it on the table in front of me. “This here’s the Willow Book.” She closed her eyes and stroked its cracked leather cover. “For every home in Acadie that was burnt to the ground, there’s a willow what stands and remembers.
By the Rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
We put things here we don’t want to forget. The moon owns the Willow.” She untied the thick piece of twine that was holding its loose, yellowed pages together, thumbing through until she found what she was looking for. “Thank you, Sweet Mary. Here it is: coltsfoot. Some likes to call it the son-before-the-father ’cause it sends up its flowers before the leaves. Just the thing for an angry throat. You write your name down in the corner of the page, Dora. So’s you remember to remember.”
From the last apple, she made a charm, grinning and singing as she pared the peel away to form a long curling ribbon of red. “The snake told Eve to give Adam her apple, oooh, Dora, who gonna get yours?” She threw the peel over my left shoulder and then stooped on her hands and knees to study it. She crossed her chest, then drew a cross in the air. “Look at that…I sees a pretty little house, a fat silk purse and the strength of a hunter’s bow.”
I bent down to join her. “What does it mean?”
“Nothin’—not right now, anyways.” She patted my hand as I helped her to her feet. “You’ll knows it when it do.”
I’d beg her to tell me more, but there’s no use in bothering Miss B. with questions. She’s said all she wanted to say. I suppose Tom Ketch is a hunter; he’s got to have a bow, living in Deer Glen and all…but there’s no pretty little house and not enough money to fill a thimble, let alone a silk purse. Miss B.’s never wrong about these things. She can tell a woman that she’s with child before the woman knows it herself. She can tell if it’s a boy or a girl, and the week the baby will arrive, most times getting it right down to the day. She can touch a person’s forehead, or hold their hand, and tell them what’s making them sick. So, even though she never said
who,
or even
when,
I can’t stop guessing at her clues and thinking over each word.