Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(3)

“Such a big name for a little baby,” Ruth said, but since it was Bartholomew’s will she accepted it. That winter Ruth bought several yards of bunting at the company store and hemmed it into four soft baby blankets. In the center of each one, she embroidered a large “J”.





In February, two days after a blizzard passed through West Virginia and left the mountain covered in snow so deep the mine closed down, Ruth’s labor pains began. For almost forty hours she was wracked with pain, and by the time the baby passed through the birth canal her eyes had rolled to the back of her head.

“No!” Bartholomew screamed and lifted her into his arms. “Please, Ruth, please don’t leave me.” He held her for hours as little Paul wiped the baby clean, wrapped her in a warm blanket, and placed her in the same cradle they’d used for him.

Just before dawn, Ruth’s eyelids fluttered open and she asked, “Jeremiah—is he okay?”

For the first time in many hours Bartholomew smiled. “Your prediction was wrong. Jeremiah is a girl.” He placed the baby in Ruth’s arms and sat beside them. “I think maybe we’d best come up with a new name.”





Ruth looked up at her husband. He was so strong and yet so gentle. He was a man who asked for little and gave much. She thought back on how this baby had kicked, how she’d struggled to be free. Paul was like Bartholomew, strong but gentle. This child was stronger. She had a lust for life and a fierce determination to live it. She’d waved her tiny arms and legs and celebrated life even before the time had come. The words Ruth spoke were her gift to Bartholomew.

“We’ll name her Jubilee,” she said, “because this child is a celebration of our love.”

Bartholomew smiled and nodded his approval.

And so it was.





Cruel Winter



They called the child Jubie for short. Right from the start she was small, undersized even for a girl. Whereas Paul had been a content child who slept for hours after being nursed, Jubilee was a red-faced, squalling bundle of energy who cried through the night and slept during the day.

Before she was a year old, Ruth could see the girl was the spitting image of Anita.





In the winter of Jubilee’s first birthday, a plague of influenza came to Coal Fork. First folks stopped going to church; then children dropped out of school. The company store closed down for a full two weeks, and half the men who worked the mine stopped showing up. The men who did continue to work, the men like Bartholomew, carried heavier loads and worked longer hours.

The week before Christmas Ruth began coughing. “Just a cold,” she told herself and continued with her daily chores. After three days she could no longer hold food in her stomach and was weakened to the point where she had to sit and rest after walking across the room. Sitting in the straight-backed kitchen chair, she’d explain to Paul how to make the biscuits and stoke the stove.

When Bartholomew returned from the mine a warm dinner sat atop the stove just as it always did, but Ruth was in bed.

“Mama’s not feeling so good,” the boy told Bartholomew.

After a long day of hunching over a pick and shovel, Bartholomew was weary to the point where he could barely lift the spoon to his mouth and he had no strength to question the boy.

Day after day Paul cooked the food and tended to his baby sister. “You’re such a good boy,” Ruth gasped, but even speaking those few words exhausted her and she fell back into her pillow.

Finally one night the boy went against what Ruth had asked of him. When Bartholomew sat down at the table, Paul said, “Mama told me I ain’t supposed to worry you with this, but she’s real bad sick. She don’t get out of bed no more.”

Bartholomew looked at the boy quizzically. “Since when?”

“Monday.”

“Monday?” Bartholomew repeated. “Why, that’s five days back!”

Bartholomew left the food and hurried into the bedroom. Leaning close to Ruth he placed his hand on her forehead. Despite the coal dust still clinging to his fingers, he could feel the heat of her skin.

“Good God!” he shouted. He turned quickly and headed for the door of the cabin. As he passed through the kitchen he gave Paul an angry glare. “You should’ve told me sooner, boy,” he said. “Your mama’s got the fever!” With that he slammed out the door.

Bartholomew ran three miles down the mountain, once sliding partway into the creek bed and twice stumbling to his knees. When he reached Doctor Hawkins’ house, every light was turned off and it was obvious they’d all gone to bed. Bartholomew pounded on the door with such ferocity that lights popped on in the house next door as well as Doctor Hawkins’ bedroom. “You’ve got to come right now,” he said. “Ruth’s come down with the fever!”

It seemed the doctor pulled trousers, boots, and a jacket over his pajamas at a pace too slow for even a snail. “Hurry,” Bartholomew urged repeatedly.

Riding in a car the return trip up the mountain took nowhere near as long as his journey down. But the moment they entered the house, Bartholomew could hear the wheeze of Ruth’s breath.

“Get a pot of water boiling,” the doctor ordered. Bartholomew waved a finger at Paul, and minutes later the boy had the coal fire blazing and a full pot of water atop the stove. Bartholomew followed the doctor to the bedroom and remained there, his hand clamped tight around Ruth’s. The doctor wiped Ruth’s face, arms, and legs with clean diapers dipped in icy cold water, and when the heat coming from her skin lessened he gave her pills to swallow and moved her to a sitting position so she could breathe in wisps of steam from the boiling water.