A Northern Light(22)

I wanted to see what Minnie thought about Barnard, for she was clever. She'd made her wedding dress from an aunt's castoff, and I had seen her recut a frumpy woolen overcoat into something stylish and new. If there was some way to fashion myself a ticket to New York out of nothing, she would know it. I wanted to ask her about promises, too, and see if she thought you always had to keep the ones you made just the way you made them, or if it was all right to alter them a bit.

I had so much I wanted to tell Minnie. I thought I might even tell her about my wagon ride with Royal, but I didn't get to tell her anything that day, because as I was halfway up the plank path, I heard a scream. A terrible one, full of fear and pain. It came from inside the house.

"Minnie!" I shouted, dropping my flowers. "Minnie, what is it?"

All I got for an answer was a low, trailing moan. Someone was killing her, I was sure of it. I ran onto the porch, grabbed a log from the woodpile, and dashed inside, ready to bash that someone's head in.

"Put that down, you damn fool," a woman's voice said from behind me.'

But before I could even turn around to see who'd spoken, another scream pierced the air. I looked across the room and saw my friend. She was lying in her bed, drenched with sweat, heaving and arching and screaming.

"Minnie! Min, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. She's in labor," the voice behind me said.

I whirled around and saw a hefty blond woman stirring rags into a pot of boiling water. Mrs. Crego. The midwife.

Labor. The baby. Minnie was having her baby. "But, she ... she's not due," I stammered. "She's only eight months gone. She has another month. Dr. Wallace said she has another month."

"Then Dr. Wallace is a bigger fool than you are."

"You building a fire, Matt?" a weak voice rasped.

I turned again. Minnie was looking at me and laughing, and I realized I was still holding the log aloft. Then quick as it came, her laughter stopped and she groaned, and the fear came back into her face. I saw her twist herself against it, saw her hands clutch at the bedsheets, saw her eyes huge and frightened. "Oh, Mattie, it's going to tear me apart," she whimpered.

I started whimpering right along with her until Mrs. Crego yelled at us, telling us we were witless and useless, the pair of us. She put the pot of rags down near the bed, next to a milking stool, then she took the log out of my hands and pushed me toward Minnie. "Since you're here, you might as well help," she said. "Come on, let's sit her up."

But Minnie didn't want to sit up. She said she wasn't going to. Mrs. Crego got into the bed behind her and pushed, and I pulled, and between the two of us, we got her up and over the edge of the bed. Her shift was all up around her hips, but she didn't care. Minnie, who was so modest she wouldn't undress in front of me when she stayed at our house.

Mrs. Crego crawled out of the bed and knelt down in front of her. She pushed Minnie's knees apart, peered up between them, and shook her head. "Baby won't make up his mind. First he wants to come early, now he don't want to come at all," she said.

I tried not to look at the crimson streaks on Minnie's thighs. I tried not to look at the blood in the bed, either. Mrs. Crego squeezed the water out of a steaming rag and put it on Minnie's back. It seemed to ease her some. She had me hold it there and went to dig in her basket. She pulled out dried herbs, a knob of ginger, and a jar of chicken fat.

"I was on my way up the road to visit Arlene Tanney—she's due in a week—and I thought I'd just stop in to check on your friend here. Even if she ain't my patient," Mrs. Crego said. "Found her on the porch steps, helpless. Said she'd been having pains off and on for two days. Said she told the doctor, but he said she shouldn't worry about it. The jackass. Like to see him have pains for two days and not worry about it. She's lucky I came by. Luckier still you did. It's going to take two of us to get this baby out of her."

"But ... but Mrs. Crego," I stammered, "I can't help ... I ... I don't know what to do."

"You'll have to. There's no one else," Mrs. Crego said matter-of-factly. "You've helped your father bring calves, haven't you? It's the same thing. Pretty much."

Oh no, it isn't, I thought. I loved our cows, but I loved Minnie so much more.

The next six hours were the longest of my life. Mrs. Crego ran me ragged. I built a fire in the hearth to warm up the house. I rubbed Minnie's back and her legs and her feet. Mrs. Crego sat on the milking stool and rubbed Minnie's belly and pressed it and put her ear against it. Minnie's belly was so big it scared me. I wondered how whatever was in it would ever get out. We gave her castor oil to speed the contractions. She threw it up. We got her up and made her walk around and around the room. We sat her down again. We made her kneel, we made her squat, we made her lie. Mrs. Crego had her eat some gingerroot. She threw that up. I stroked her head and sang "Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey?", her favorite song, only I changed Bill Bailey to Jim Compeau, which made her laugh when she wasn't moaning.

Toward afternoon Mrs. Crego took another herb out of her basket. Pennyroyal. She made a tea out of it and made Minnie drink a big cupful. Minnie kept that down and the pains got worse. She was in agony. She suddenly wanted to push, but Mrs. Crego wouldn't let her. She pushed instead—on Minnie's enormous belly—and rubbed and pummeled and kneaded until she was panting and the sweat was streaming down her face. Then she wrenched Minnie's knees apart and peered between them again. "You son of a gun, you ... Come on!" she yelled, kicking the stool away. Minnie sank back against me and cried weary, hopeless tears. I put my arms around her and rocked her like she was my baby. She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine, and said, "Mattie, will you tell Jim I love him?"