Through a Glass, Darkly Read online

  But a second contraction came, and then a third, and she sat on the side of the bed in the darkness, trying to force herself to remain calm. It would be hours, even days, before the baby would come. Dorrie had said it took a long time for the first baby even once the pains started, and her mother had written she had been in labor for eighteen hours before Bill was born. There would be plenty of time for Janson to go for the doctor when he arrived home from his shift in the mill. That would be early morning—but still she got up and lit the lamps, feeling safer in the glow of the kerosene light. Janson had told her that a light burning in a mill house in the middle of the night would bring someone to check to see if there was trouble, so she expected—

  But no one came, and, as she listened to the storm intensify outside, she knew that no one would. She thought things were going faster than they should—first babies were supposed to take a long time, but surely this could not go on for eighteen hours or more. She knew she would never be able to stand it.

  She sat in the rocker and watched the lightning flash outside, trying not to hold her breath when the contractions came. She had already found out that doing so only made it hurt worse—she had to have help. She could not take the chance on the baby coming with her alone, or of something going wrong, and she realized she was almost crying as she got the oversized wrap Janson’s Aunt Rachel had given her and wrapped it around her shoulders—all she had to do was walk next door, just across the length of the front porch, she told herself, and she could have the Breedloves’ oldest daughter run for Dorrie. The girl would be watching her younger sister and brothers while their parents were working their night shifts. Elise would just have to be careful as she made her way across the front porch—she could have Dorrie here shortly to wait with her, and send Clarence Keith or one of the boys for Dr. Washburn if the time came before Janson got home. Dorrie would know when they would need the doctor; she had been through this six times herself, with her four boys, a little girl who had been stillborn, and twins, one having died in childbirth and the other only a few hours after—and Elise wished she had not thought about that now. Oh, how she wished she had not thought about it.

  She had to stop halfway across the floor, catching hold of the foot of the bed for support as another contraction came, making her bend with the tightness that built into what she knew was coming. After a moment she straightened and made her way to the door. She watched her footing carefully as she stepped out onto the wet porch. Lightning flashed and struck something nearby, making her jump. Rain was pouring down, beating heavily on the porch roof and blowing in to wet the hem of her gown as she made her way across the narrow distance to the Breedloves’ front door. She could hear the sudden squeal of frightened children from inside as lightning flashed again, followed by thunder so intense that it rattled the upper panes of the windows. She banged on the door, feeling the wind whip the rain under the edge of the porch roof, quickly soaking through the bottom edge of her gown and making it stick warmly to her legs. She banged on the door again, then reached down to twist the doorknob in her hands, finding it locked. Lightning flashed again, forking off into two bolts that seemed to hit the ground at the far edge of the village. There was the sound of the strike, then the clash of thunder so powerful it shook the boards of the porch beneath her.

  She banged her fist on the door again, yelling out the name of the eldest girl. “Carolyn! It’s Elise Sanders from next door—please let me in!” But, even as she yelled the words and twisted the doorknob in her hands again, she realized the children would never hear her over the sound of the storm. She banged again, calling out the girl’s name, but stopped as another contraction started to build.

  Elise leaned against the damp wood of the door, bending slightly as the tension built into the pain she knew was coming. She made herself breathe, riding the contraction to its peak—what am I going to do? she thought, raising her hand to bang at the door again, feeling so absolutely alone.

  The morning was a dark gray, clouded and reluctant. Little light showed through the windows of the card room, and it was only the mill’s whistle that told Janson it was time for the workers to come in for the shortened Saturday shift.

  He left the card room that morning more tired than he had felt in a long time. He passed through the picker and opening rooms and stood in the wide double-doors that opened out onto the loading dock, staring at the rain. It was still coming down steadily, drenching everything outside, slacking up just to start down in torrents again only moments later. The clay road looked ankle-deep in red mud, the trees and bushes soaked and drooping. Pneumonia weather, Gran’ma would call it.

  He looked up at the clouds that hung low and heavy over the village—then ducked his head and hurried out into the downpour, going down the sidewalk before the mill, and then along the sloshy mud streets, the action of his own steps, and that of the few automobiles that made their way down the slippery roads, quickly covering the legs of his overalls in red mud. The village had come to life in the gray, early-morning hours. There was the damp smell of woodsmoke coming from kitchen flues as biscuits baked in ovens and sausage, eggs, and bacon fried in skillets the village over. The mule-drawn wagon that was sarcastically referred to as the “ice-cream wagon” sloshed down a muddy street on its rounds to clean the outdoor toilets. The ice truck was parked in front of a house, Mr. Harper nodding a greeting as he hoisted a block of ice destined for use in someone’s icebox, and Janson watched as neighborhood children crowded about him even in the rain for the treats of chips and slivers of ice that he always gave them.

  He was soaked long before he reached the house, Luree Breedlove giving him a disapproving look from her open front door, making a pointed comment about muddy feet and tracking the porch, which he chose to ignore. He heard a soft sound from the bed as he entered the house, and he turned to see Elise lying there, the sheet twisted and knotted about her, her reddish-gold hair damp with perspiration and matted to her forehead.

  “Elise—” He moved quickly to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it, taking her hand in his. Her face was drawn and tired, her skin even paler than usual. “It’s started? Why didn’t—” But he could not finish the thought as she suddenly tightened her hand in his, digging her nails into his palm. Her face twisted with pain, her breath catching in her throat for a moment before she seemed to force herself to breathe again. He waited through the pain with her even as she twisted his hand in hers, feeling helpless. At last the grip on his hand decreased. She took a deep breath and licked her lips, looking exhausted and so young for a moment that he could do nothing but look at her. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say as he brushed the sweat-drenched hair back from her forehead. “I wish it didn’t have t’ hurt—”

  She managed a weak smile. “I’m just glad it’s finally time. I think you’d better go for the doctor; I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”

  “Will you be okay until I get back?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet, still holding onto her hand, unwilling to let go.

  “I’ll be fine—go and ask Dorrie to come wait with me until you bring the doctor back.”

  “I will.” But still he did not let go of her hand.

  “Go on, Janson. I’ll be fine—”

  He released her at last and moved toward the door, looking back at her one more time before going through out onto the front porch. Once free of the house he ran, almost stumbling in the front yard, but catching himself, and running on into the muddy, red clay street.

  Dr. Curtis Thrasher rubbed his tired eyes and set about repacking his medical bag, going through the contents that morning with eyes and hands that were tired from lack of sleep. He had spent many nights with little or no rest in his forty years of practicing medicine in Eason County, but the past week, with Dr. Bassett bedridden with a back injury, and Dr. Washburn out of town on a family emergency, had seen him as the only able-bodied physician in the county, and had resulted in a stat
e of exhaustion he had not known in many years. He had spent few nights as long or as distasteful as the one he had just been through, however, the one spent cleaning up after a poorly done self abortion on Clois Eason, working through the entire night just to try to save the stupid girl’s life. Well, now he knew she would live, and there would be no child, perhaps no child ever, so badly had she done herself, and perhaps that was for the best. In Curt’s opinion, there were more than enough Easons in this county already.

  He stretched, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his back—I’m too old for this, he told himself. He’d become a doctor to save lives and help people, not to clean up after some stupid girl doing away with her child—but I ought to be used to it, he thought. It was not the first time he’d had to attend to the after-effects of an abortion, not even the first time he’d had to lend such care to one of the Eason girls, but, then he’d been called upon to do so many things for the Easons over the past forty years, things that medical school had never prepared him to do. It was just that he was so tired, so unbelievably tired, and not just in body alone.

  He closed his medical bag, then stood for a moment staring down at it where it rested on his desktop. He needed sleep, and badly, but he knew there would be no sleep for him this morning, and perhaps not throughout most of the day. He would not be seeing patients in his office, but there were hospital rounds to make even on a Saturday, the occasional emergency, and at least one drive to a patient’s house he could not avoid. After having worked through the night to save the life of Clois Eason, he would now have to spend the morning with her grandmother, as he had to spend almost every Saturday morning. There would be nothing wrong with Patricia Eason, at least nothing that sunshine and fresh air would not cure, but the weekly visit was obligatory—she was certain she was ill; she was always certain she was ill, and her husband, Walter Eason, demanded that Curt be there for her whenever she asked for him. Curt would make the perfunctory examination, prescribe his sugar waters and pills, and listen to her complaints—and the listening, he knew, would be the most effective medicine. He could almost feel sorry for the woman, considering the two sons she had raised, the younger of which she had buried before his eighteenth birthday, and her three grandchildren, the two girls being little better than alleycats, and her only grandson, Buddy, being—

  There was a sudden, hard pounding at the exterior door that opened into the reception area of the office. Curt sighed, knowing it would be some emergency that would deny him any rest at all today. He made his way from his book-lined office and across the deserted reception area, wishing he had already left to make the visit on Patricia Eason, for that might have avoided this one extra burden.

  He opened the door, preparing himself for some mother with a sick child, or mill hand with a bloody injury. The man standing on the doorstep appeared uninjured, however, and the sight of someone bothering him so early on a Saturday morning who was obviously in no dire need of help replaced Curt’s exhaustion to a degree with anger.

  “You’re th’ doctor?” the man asked, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. He was soaked, his overalls muddy; he was dark, too dark to be a white man, and had to be from the mill or village, considering the amount of cotton fibers matted in with the wet black hair that was plastered to his forehead.

  “Yes, I’m—”

  “You’ve got t’ come with me—”

  “I don’t have to go anywhere with you—” Curt snapped, then he forced a degree of control over his exhaustion, making himself speak in a more reasonable voice. “Is someone injured at the mill?” he asked, rubbing his eyes again.

  “It’s my wife—she’s havin’ a baby. You’ve got t’ come—”

  “Your wife? What’s her name?”

  “Elise—Elise Sanders. She’s hurtin’ real bad—”

  “Well, of course she’s hurting, man, she’s having a baby,” Curt snapped, then took a deep breath. “Her name’s not familiar. She’s not one of my patients—”

  “She’s been seein’ Dr. Washburn. There wasn’t nobody at his place, an’ th’ woman next door, she sent me here—”

  “How close are her contractions?” But the man only stared at him. “Well, take her on to the hospital,” Curt said, turning to start across the room toward his open office doorway, hearing the man trudging across the clean floor behind him. “I have a patient to see right now, but I’ll come to the hospital to check on your wife as soon as I’m through. Labor can last for a long while—”

  “I ain’t got no way t’ get her t’ th’ hospital.” There was a sound of desperation to the man’s voice.

  Curt turned to find him just a few steps behind as he reached the door to his office. “Well, then get a midwife to help her. That’s what most of you mill families do anyway.”

  “I promised her a doctor. I’ve got th’ money. You’ve got t’—”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Curt said, losing his patience with the man. He had already offered to care for the woman; what more could he do? There were too many other patients needing his services today for him to spend the entire day waiting for one woman to give birth. It could be hours before she was ready to deliver—hours wasted, with hospital rounds to make, and no one else to tend emergencies. That was what midwives were for, when Curt had two other doctors to cover for, the hospital, and Patricia Eason still waiting for his visit. “Now, go on and find a midwife for your wife. There are many good—”

  “She wants a doctor. I’ve got th’ money. It’s at th’ house; all you got t’ do is—”

  “I’ve already told you I don’t have time for this. Either get your wife to the hospital, or get a midwife to tend her. Now, I’ve got a patient waiting—”

  “Elise cain’t wait. She’s bad off; there ain’t no time for me t’ get a midwife. You’ve got t’—”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “I’ll give you every cent I got, an’ more when I get it.” The look of desperation in the man’s eyes made Curt feel all the more tired—the woman was probably hours away from delivery, and this man wanted to drag him out in the middle of a rain storm just to sit by her bedside and wait.

  “This is just a waste of time. I’ve told you what you can do, and I have no intention of going over it again. Now, please leave my office; I have more important things to do.”

  A muscle clenched in the man’s jaw. “Ain’t nothin’ more important than Elise. You’re gonna come help her.”

  “If you don’t leave, I will call the police and have you put out.”

  Curt reached for the telephone resting on the desktop, but the man’s hand closed over his wrist before he could pick it up. “You’re comin’ with me—”

  “Let me go, or I’ll—” He tried to free his arm, but the man held it only more tightly. “Turn me—” There was a moment’s struggle, and at last Curt managed to free himself, moving quickly to the fireplace set into the wall nearby to take up a poker from the stand at its side. He turned back to the man, holding it between them. “Now, go on, I told you.”

  The man stared at the poker for a minute, but did not move. The muscle worked again in his jaw, and then his eyes lifted to meet Curt’s over the short distance.

  “Go on,” Curt warned again, raising the poker between them to make certain the man understood the threat. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

  Still the man did not move.

  “You’re not doing your wife any good by just standing there,” Curt said, watching the green eyes, feeling the uneasiness rise within him—the man was not going anywhere.

  But suddenly he turned and strode from the office, and Curt heard the front door slam behind him as he left the building. Curt walked out of his office carefully, looking around the reception area to make certain the man was not simply lying in wait for him.

  He moved cautiously to the exterior door, st
opping for a moment to survey again the reception area before he reached to thumb the bolt that would secure the door against the man’s re-entry.

  It was not until after the door was locked and he returned to his office that he at last put the poker down on the desktop beside his medical bag. He stood for a long moment staring down at it, then reached to take up his bag, knowing Patricia Eason would be waiting for him.

  Dorrie Keith felt as if she were in a nightmare that morning as she stood staring out at the driving rain where it beat against the side window of Elise and Janson’s front room—but her nightmarish feeling could be nothing compared to what even now made Elise Sanders moan from where she lay on the bed. Dorrie made herself turn away from the window and move toward the bed to see if there was anything she could do for the girl, but she knew there was nothing she could do to help. Only time and nature could help Elise Sanders now; time, nature, and that husband of hers if he would only get here with the doctor.

  Dorrie reached to take the cloth from the basin of water that rested on the table beside the bed, squeezed it out, then gently wiped Elise’s sweaty face. She smiled down at the girl and nodded her head, but did not say anything, then she turned and paced across the room, toward the window again, then back toward the front door—where was that doctor?

  She heard Elise moan again as another pain came, and she tried to shut her ears to the sound—Elise was little more than a girl; she ought to be worrying about new dresses and returning to school next year, not a husband, a house, and a baby so soon. Dorrie looked toward the bed, seeing Elise twist and knot the sheet in her hands as the pain peaked and then began to lessen—she just looked so young lying there, her reddish-gold hair soaked with sweat and sticking to her forehead. She was little more than a year younger than Dorrie had been when Wheeler James had been born, but she seemed so much younger, so unaccustomed to the way the world was. Her husband had done this to her, and now he was taking all the time in the world in getting a doctor here to her now, while this baby was getting ready to be born all too soon—where was he, and where was that doctor? If this baby should decide to come before they got here, Dorrie had no idea what she would have to do to help the girl. She might have had babies of her own, but this was altogether different. She’d had little choice in the matter when she had been the one giving birth, and little idea of what the old, black granny woman had done to help her in each birthing. In fact, she had even forgotten the feel of the pain, the hurt, the tearing, especially so bad with the first, in the feeling of holding her baby in her arms for the first time—but now, here in this sticky, humid room, those memories had come back, memories of twenty-seven hours of labor, memories of pain so bad she had thought she would die, and those memories would not leave her now. She looked toward her friend where she lay on the bed, her eyes closed, exhaustion on her face as she waited for the next pain to come. Maybe it was better that it was going more quickly for Elise; Dorrie did not think the girl would be able to survive many more hours of this.