The Sweet Blue Distance, page 41
Carrie was deeply pleased to realize that she had understood every word.
As she followed the boy—one of the Goldblums, she assumed, but too shy to introduce himself—Carrie tried to recall what she knew of Reizl, the only one of the wives she had not met during her first visit days before. Reizl, who would feed her, according to Josefa. It was so odd a comment that she would wonder about it until she could ask for more information, but there was no predicting when she would have that chance.
The boy led her to a recessed entrance at the rear of the general store and bounded off. Then the door swung open before she could raise her hand to knock.
The woman who stood there was someone she had never seen before, but simple logic told her that this had to be Reizl Goldblum.
Not a young woman—Carrie would guess that she had already seen her fiftieth birthday—but she held herself like someone closer to Carrie’s own age. Her posture was perfect, her bone structure defined. Reizl Goldblum reminded Carrie of ballet dancers she had seen perform onstage, but someone who came from one of the Mediterranean or North African countries, with her high coloring and strong features. It was the way she dressed that really set her apart.
This Mrs. Goldblum wore an unusual loose-cut day dress of light, flowing fabric, block printed with birds on flowering branches. Even in the shadowy hall, the colors were vibrant: greens and golds and splashes of scarlet and ultramarine.
She had a good smile, and used it to advantage while she stepped aside and inclined her head, inviting Carrie to come forward.
“Welcome, Miss Ballentyne. I am Reizl. Levi’s wife. Come in, please. I’ll take you to Miriam, but first you and I will talk.”
In less than a minute Carrie found herself seated at a table set for breakfast. There was tea and coffee, bread still warm from the oven, and, most surprising of all, a smooth brown egg in a cup. An unexpected but very welcome egg.
“You are surprised,” Reizl Goldblum said. “Someone told you there were no hens in New Mexico Territory?”
“They did,” Carrie said. “But I am glad to have been misinformed.”
Reizl said, “There were once hens, but some years ago now a pestilence wiped out every flock.”
“Do you know what the disease was?”
She pressed her lips together, as if it caused her pain to speak of such things.
“If it had a name, we were never told. Hens keeled over, dead. No warning. But my Levi knows how much I love eggs. Go on, eat. I’ve already had mine.”
Carrie picked up a spoon and broke the shell. The firm egg white gave way, and the liquid yolk, a glossy deep saffron yellow, showed itself. She paused long enough to sprinkle salt and then began, determined not to rush, while Reizl told the story of how her hens came to Santa Fe.
“I was missing eggs,” she said. “Nothing tasted right to me. One day Levi said, ‘Reizl, your clothes are loose on you. Soon the wind will blow you away.’
“So.” She shrugged. “I tried to eat more, and while I was trying, my Levi, he was writing letters home to his people and mine. Six months later a ship rounded the horn and then stopped at the first port in California. My brother was on the boat, with two dozen hens and four roosters.”
Carrie couldn’t hide her surprise. “And how did he get from the Pacific Ocean to Santa Fe? It is a difficult journey, people say.”
“My Levi met his ship,” Reizl said with great satisfaction. “He hired ten men to guard them on the trail home. Ten men, all armed, to look after the hens. The roosters could fend for themselves, that’s what he said. Joking.”
“And that was the beginning of your flock?”
“Yes. Now I have about forty hens and always more roosters than I need. We sell the eggs we don’t use, but still everybody wants to know where the hens are. This is the question you will hear. And you will not be able to answer, because I won’t tell you, either.”
Carrie had to smile at this playful bit of storytelling.
“Don’t people offer to buy birds? I would think that some emigrants would want to start their own flocks.”
Reizl’s mouth curled downward on one side while the opposite brow climbed high. “Not everybody is good with chickens, you know. Especially in this climate. It takes a certain—” She paused, and then shrugged. “Kindred feeling. But you’re right. Three times I have sold birds to someone—not just anyone, but someone trustworthy—who wanted to start a flock. And three times they failed.”
And she smiled, as if she had described the most amusing game, one at which she was the all-time champion.
Carrie said, “When I finish here today, could I take payment in eggs?”
Reizl rocked her head from side to side, and answered with a shrug. For Carrie to interpret without words.
It was then that she realized that she needed Reizl as a friend. For her eggs, yes, but also because she reminded Carrie of the women she had studied with at the New Amsterdam. Quick-witted, observant, plainspoken. And unusual. It was a word she disliked when it was used to describe a woman, but sometimes it was the only choice.
“That was very good,” she said, putting her spoon aside. “And now I have to ask, is there anything you wanted to tell me about Miriam? No problems thus far?”
Reizl shook her head. “No problems. Except I must warn you. You will never come across a woman so anxious, so nervous, as Miriam. Her husband, that one has nerves of steel. She could have waited another four or five hours to call you, but no. The only possible trouble, I took care of.”
She pointed with her chin toward the door that led to the adjoining apartment. From her first visit, Carrie knew that each of the brothers had their own living quarters, two here and two elsewhere on Goldblum property.
“I don’t understand.”
Reizl pressed her lips together and then let a puff of air go. “It’s simple. I got rid of them.”
Carrie felt herself start. “Pardon?”
“I sent Chava and Rivka away. Gave them a chore that will keep them out of town until late in the day. You think I’m interfering? That’s because I am. I am interfering.”
Her expression was grimmer now, but unrepentant.
“If you knew the trouble I’m saving you, you would thank me. And one more thing, you should be prepared. Miriam is stubborn. To say she is stubborn like a mule is an insult to the animal. You can deal with this?”
Carrie had to smile. “I can,” she said. “I haven’t come across a woman in labor yet who can out-stubborn me.”
“Good,” said Reizl.
They had come to the open door of a bedchamber where servants were busy getting things in order. Linen and dressings were being stacked, trays of food and tea laid out on small side tables, jugs of fresh water were lined up against the far wall, and a servant was busy arranging beeswax candles everywhere, though it would be twelve hours before the sun set. There was so much activity in the room that at first the only sign of the laboring mother Carrie could make out was the very top of a high, rounded headboard.
Reizl said a few words, and the servants shuffled out, revealing Miriam. She lay in her bed, head tilted back. A compress covered her eyes, and her hands rested on the great swell of her belly. The day was already very warm, and there was a sheen of perspiration on her throat.
Standing beside the bed, her hands tucked into her sleeves, Reizl made a tsking noise.
“Such drama,” she said. “And so far to go yet. So tell me, what’s wrong?”
“Chava and Rivka have abandoned me.”
“Oh, those two.” Reizl gave an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t need them here, telling you what you’re doing wrong and what you did wrong yesterday and even still, what you’ll do wrong tomorrow. You’ve got the midwife Ballentyne and me. What more could you want?”
Miriam had pulled the compress off her eyes to show her scowl.
“Never mind,” Reizl said. “I’ll answer the question myself. You want a healthy child with as little fuss and pain as possible. So, no Chava, always knowing best and telling you so. No Rivka, with the tears and the caterwauling. And where have your manners gone? You don’t say hello to the midwife Ballentyne? Tell me, have you seen her hands? Look.”
Carrie had no idea of where this was going, but could see no way to forestall it. She held out a hand. Reizl held out her own hand beside Carrie’s, and Carrie heard herself draw in a sharp breath.
She had seen mangled hands before, but the patients had always been men who worked with heavy machinery or large animals. In the worst cases, amputation was the only choice, but Reizl was missing only the small finger on the left hand. Every other finger—every bone and joint—had been broken, and none had been properly set. Her hands resembled claws, and would make any kind of fine work—such as sewing—impossible.
“You see?” Reizl was saying. “You see. Beautiful strong hands. Long fingers, narrow palms, perfect midwife hands. And my hands, you know about them.” She pulled away, and her hands disappeared back into her sleeves.
“You be glad of the midwife Ballentyne, my girl. Things could be much worse for you.”
It took some time for Carrie to collect her wits and sort out her supplies, simply because Reizl and Miriam were such a distraction. In between labor pains—which were still far apart and mild—they talked. About their husbands and children, about sisters-in-law and their families, about neighbors and army officers and the wives of the army officers. And about chickens.
No information was divulged, and this struck Carrie as funny. As if she might have a plan to rob the Goldblums of their flock if they said too much.
Carrie wondered if she should suggest that Miriam try to sleep while it was still possible, and then realized that Reizl had somehow robbed the laboring mother of her tension and anxiety. Her good mood would not last very long, and so Carrie let them carry on.
Women in labor were unpredictable. The timid housewife whose whole life revolved around church and charity and caring for her family might curse her husband, her other children, and the midwife to eternal damnation in the fires of hell. The next day Carrie would attend the wife of a city commissioner, generally known as demanding and intolerant, and learn that a difficult woman could make her way through labor and delivery with grace and good manners.
Some wanted to be left alone as they labored, while others wanted every female relative and friend nearby. In this case Reizl knew Miriam well, and made sure she had as much talk as she needed, and no more.
At noon Reizl excused herself to make sure that the men and children were being properly fed.
“Your tray will be coming in too,” she told Carrie. “I won’t be gone more than a quarter hour.” And then she paused at the door.
“Maybe two.”
Deprived of Reizl, Miriam’s attention shifted to Carrie. She wanted to know about her training. She wanted to see what was in the carpetbag where Carrie kept her supplies. The medicines interested her especially, and she studied each bottle and box closely, and declared herself dissatisfied.
That medicine labels should be written in Latin struck her as absurd and, more than that, duplicitous. English would be simpler, after all. Latin was another way to hide the truth from patients.
A particularly strong contraction put a stop to this line of inquiry, and then Carrie asked Miriam to get out of bed.
She widened her eyes and smiled as if Carrie had make a joke.
“I am serious,” Carrie assured her. “On your feet, please. Walking will do you good.”
“But that’s ridiculous.” She yanked the coverlet up to her neck. “Nonsense. Did you come up with this idea? I can’t imagine a real doctor asking such a thing of a woman so near to delivering.”
“Hmmm.” Carrie hummed under her breath while she gathered her thoughts and decided how to handle the mulish version of Miriam.
She said, “I can assure you that my position on this is nothing out of the ordinary. Any doctor or midwife would encourage you to walk. The idea is to let gravity do some of the work.”
“Gravity?” Miriam’s voice took on a rasp, and she yanked the sheet up another few inches in a dramatic gesture that most actresses wouldn’t dare try.
“Gravity,” Carrie confirmed.
“What is this gravity? I knew you would try to bring some Indian potions into the room. Well, I won’t have it. I won’t have any of your gravity. Where is Reizl? She will put an end to your absurd ideas.”
Carrie realized that her choices were limited. She could try to explain Newton’s law of universal gravitation, or she could change the subject.
“Walking will speed up labor,” Carrie said, approaching from a different angle.
“Ridiculous. Where did you hear such a thing? I want Reizl, she will tell you what’s what.”
“Reizl is not your midwife,” Carrie said. “I am your midwife. You sent for me and asked if I would attend you.”
Miriam frowned, but Carrie didn’t give her a chance to interrupt.
“Because I am your midwife, you will have to trust my decisions. If you can’t, then it would be best if someone else attended you.”
This shocked her out of her outrage.
“You would leave?”
“If you do not walk, I will. Yes. Walking will help labor progress, and so you will walk. Let’s start with a turn around the room.”
In the end Miriam climbed down from the bed, but she had walked no more than ten steps, leaning on Carrie’s arm, when she stopped.
“Do you treat all your patients this way? Because if you do, I’ll have to listen at the door when Chava goes into labor. You two will be at each other’s throats.”
At the door Reizl said, “Miriam, what’s all this nonsense? I do you the favor of sending Chava away, and you start sounding like her at the first opportunity. Keep walking, and stop badgering the midwife.”
As the day wore on and her labor progressed, Miriam worsened, and Reizl’s power to distract waned. At the end of a long and difficult contraction when it was almost time to push, Carrie decided to try something that often worked to focus the mother’s mind.
She said, “I delivered a baby on a horse trolley last year. Middle of January, full dark at five in the afternoon. The snow was knee-deep and the wind was merciless. Just awful weather. The trolley was full, but more people kept pushing their way in until we were packed together.”
Carrie was growing concerned about how little movement she was seeing, but she kept that to herself even as she got up and went to the table where food had been laid out. She picked up a large silver spoon and an elegant tray, walked back to the bed, and hit the tray three times, with as much strength as she could muster.
Both Reizl and Miriam jumped, but Carrie’s attention was on the swell of Miriam’s belly, where she was relieved to see that the newest Goldblum was jumping too. Small knees and elbows poked out in a flutter, and settled again.
“Was that really necessary? Did you need to scare me half to death? Is it too much to ask for—”
“It is too much,” Carrie assured her. “But with any luck I won’t have to do that again.”
“Good,” Reizl said. “But what I want to know is about the woman in labor on the horse trolley.”
Grumpy still, Miriam agreed. “It’s bad manners to start a story and not—”
A contraction carried her away, and it was a few minutes before it had finished with her.
Without further urging, Carrie went on. “You can imagine,” she said. “The aisle crowded with people, everyone tired after a day of work, everyone out of sorts. Broken-down wagons and carriages blocking the way, so we were inching along while the weather got worse and worse. There were sharp little exchanges between strangers. ‘Sir! You are standing on my foot.’ ‘Madam! Your package is poking me in the ribs,’ and so on.
“There were two ladies who kept complaining about the breath of the man who stood beside them. ‘Like the hottest day in August,’ one of them said. ‘Worse,’ said the other.”
Miriam’s next contraction was particularly hard and long, but when it had ebbed, she didn’t hesitate to make demands.
“So? And? Will you drag this story out until dawn?”
“That’s not my intention,” Carrie said. “If you listen, I’ll tell you what happened. I had a seat on the aisle. In the row before me was an old man, sound asleep with his head against the window, and a lady. She kept leaning forward as if she was looking for something on the floor. She was moaning, I’m sure now, but with the noise of the trolley and the traffic and people griping and complaining, I really didn’t hear her. Then she let out a shriek.”
“A shriek?” Reizl’s eyes were perfectly round.
“A shriek that any midwife would recognize.”
Carrie glanced up at Miriam from the station between her upraised legs. “Are you ready to push, Mrs. Goldblum?”
She roared, “When you finish the damn story, I’ll push!”
The contraction ebbed, finally, and Reizl was ready.
“So tell us,” she said while Miriam panted. “Was she alone, this woman? A stranger, alone in New York City?”
“I don’t really know. She didn’t speak English, and I don’t speak Russian.”
“But what did you do?”
“I asked the other riders to clear the end of the car so that I could tend to her. It took some convincing.”
A year ago on that trolley, Carrie had been truly angry, but enough time had passed that she could almost smile at the memory.
Over the next hour, while Miriam worked on delivering quite a large child, Carrie told the story in bits and pieces. She described the banker who insisted Carrie was wrong, he had six children and knew what women sounded like when they were about to deliver, and how could a young lady such as herself claim to be a midwife?
