Such capricious advice went on and on, but Will's amusement died when he found what he'd been looking for: "Preparations for Labor." It began with a list of recommended articles to have on hand:
5 basins
1 two-quart fountain syringe
15 yards unsterilized gauze
6 sanitary bed pads; or,
2 pounds cotton batting for making same
1 piece rubber sheeting, size 1 by 2 yards
4 ounces permanganate of potash
8 ounces oxalic acid
1 tube green soap
1 tube Vaseline
100 Bernay's bichloride tablets
8 ounces alcohol
2 drains ergotol
1 nail brush
2 pounds absorbent cotton
My God, they'd need all that? Will began to panic.
The opening instructions read,
The nurse should prepare enough bed and perineal pads, sterilizing them a week before, along with towels, diapers, 1/2 pound absorbent cotton and some cotton pledgets.
Nurse? Who had a nurse? And enough? What was enough? And what did perineal mean? And what were pledgets? He couldn't even understand this, much less afford it! Pale now, he turned the page only to have his disillusionment doubled. Phrases jumped out and grabbed him by the nerve-endings.
Cramp-like pains in the lower abdomen ... rupturing membranes ... watery discharge ... a marked desire to go to stool ... bulging of the pelvic floor ... tearing of the perineal flesh ... temple bones engaged in the vulva ... proper manipulation to expel the afterbirth ... stout clean thread ... sever immediately ... exception being when child is nearly dead or does not breathe properly...
He slammed the book shut and leaped to his feet, pale as seafoam.
"Will?"
He stared out a window, knees locked, cracking his knuckles, feeling his pulse thud hard in his gut.
"I can't do it."
"Do what?"
Fear lodged in his throat like a hunk of dry bread. He gulped, but it stayed. "I wasn't reading about electricity. I was reading about delivering babies."
"Oh ... that."
"Yes, that." He swung to face her. "Elly, we've never talked about it since the night we agreed to get married. But I know you expect me to help you, and I just plain don't know if I can."
She rested her hands in the bowl and looked up at him expressionlessly. "Then I'll do it alone, Will. I'm pretty sure I can."
"Alone!" he barked, lurching for the book, agitatedly flapping pages until he found the right one. "Listen to this—'The cord is usually tied before being cut, the exception being when the child is nearly dead and does not breathe properly. In such a case it is best to leave the cord untied so that it may bleed a little and aid in establishing respiration.'" He dropped the book and scowled at her. "Suppose the baby died. How do you think I'd feel? And how am I supposed to know what's proper breathing and what isn't? And there's more—all this stuff we're supposed to have on hand. Why, hell, some of it I don't even know what it is! And it talks about you tearing, and maybe hemorrhaging. Elly,
please
let me get a doctor when the time comes. I got the car filled with gas so I can run into town quick and get him."
Calmly she set the bowl aside, rose and closed the book. "
I
know what we'll need, Will." Unflinchingly she met his worried brown eyes. "And I'll have it all ready. You shouldn't be reading that stuff, 'cause it just scares you, is all."
"But it says—"
"I know what it says. But having a baby is a natural act. Why, the Indian women squatted in the woods and did it all alone, then walked back into the fields and started hoeing corn as soon as it was over.
"You're no Indian," he argued intensely.
"But I'm strong. And healthy. And if it comes down to it, happy, too. Seems to me that's as important as anything else, isn't it? Happy people got something to fight for."
Her calm reasoning punctured his anger with surprising suddenness. When it had disappeared, one fact had impressed him: she'd said she was happy. They stood near, so near he could have touched her by merely lifting a hand, could have curled his fingers around her neck, rested his palms on her cheeks and asked, Are you, Elly? Are you really? For he wanted to hear it again, the evidence that for the first time in his life, he seemed to be doing something right.
But she dropped her chin and turned to retrieve the bowl of nuts and carry them to the cupboard. "Not everyone can stand the sight of blood, and I'll grant you there's blood when a baby comes."
"It's not that. I told you, it's the risks."
She turned to face him and said realistically, "We got no money for a doctor, Will."
"We could get up enough. I could take another load of scrap metal in. And there's the cream money, and the eggs, and now the honey. Even pecans. Purdy'll buy the pecans. I know he will." .
She began shaking her head before he finished. "You just rest easy. Let me do the worrying about the baby. It'll turn out fine."
But how could he not worry?
In the days that followed he watched her moving about the place with increasing slowness. Her burden began to ride lower, her ankles swelled, her breasts widened. And each day brought him closer to the day of delivery.
November tenth brought a temporary distraction from his worries. It was Eleanor's birthday—Will hadn't forgotten. He awakened to find her still asleep, facing him. He rolled onto his stomach and curled the pillow beneath his neck to indulge himself in a close study of her. Pale brows and gold-tipped lashes, parted lips and pleasing nose. One ear peeking through a coil of loose hair and one knee updrawn beneath the covers. He watched her breathe, watched her hand twitch once, twice. She came awake by degrees, unconsciously smacking her lips, rubbing her nose and finally opening sleepy eyes.
"Mornin', lazybones," he teased.
"Mmm..." She closed her eyes and nestled, half on her belly. "Mornin'."
"Happy birthday."
Her eyes opened but she lay unmoving, absorbing the words while a lazy smile dawned across her face.
"You remembered."
"Absolutely. Twenty-five."
"Twenty-five. A quarter of a century."
"Makes you sound older than you look."
"Oh, Will, the things you say."
"I was watching you wake up. Looked pretty good to me."
She covered her face with the sheet and he smiled against his pillow.
"You got time to bake a cake today?"
She lowered the sheet to her nose. "I guess, but why?"
"Then bake one. I'd do it, but I don't know how."
"Why?"
Instead of answering, he threw back the covers and sprang up. Standing beside the bed with his elbows lifted, he executed a mighty, twisting stretch. She watched With unconcealed interest—the flexing muscles, the taut skin, the moles, the long legs dusted with black hair. Legs planted wide, he shivered and bent acutely to the left, the right, then snapped over to pick up his clothes and begin dressing. It was engrossing, watching a man donning his clothes. Men did it so much less fussily than women.
"You gonna answer me?" she insisted.
Facing away from her, he smiled. "For your birthday party."
"My birthday party!" She sat up. "Hey, come back here!"
But he was gone, buttoning his shirt, grinning.
It was a toss-up who had to work harder to conceal his impatience that day. Will, who'd had the plan in his head for weeks, Eleanor, whose eyes shone all the while she baked her own cake but who refused to ask when this party was supposed to happen, or Donald Wade, who asked at least a dozen times that morning, "How long now, Will?"
Will had planned to wait until after supper, but the cake was ready at
. and by late afternoon Donald Wade's patience had been stretched to the limit. When Will went to the house for a cup of coffee, Donald Wade tapped his knee and whispered for the hundredth time, "Now, Will ... pleeeease?"
Will relented. "All right,
kemo sabe
. You and Thomas go get the stuff."
The stuff
turned out to be two objects crudely wrapped in wrinkled white butcher's paper, drawn together with twine. The boys each carried one, brought them proudly and deposited them beside Eleanor's coffee cup.
"Presents?" She crossed her hands on her chest. "For me?"
Donald Wade nodded hard enough to loosen the wax in his ears.
"Me 'n' Will and Thomas made 'em."
"You made them!"
"One of 'em," Will corrected, pulling Thomas onto his lap while Donald Wade pressed against his mother's chair.
"This one." Donald Wade pushed the weightier package into her hands. "Open it first." His eyes fixed on her hands while she fumbled with the twine, pretending difficulty in getting it untied. "This dang ole thing is givin' me fits!" she exclaimed. "Lord, Donald Wade, help me." Donald Wade reached eagerly and helped her yank the bow and push the paper down, revealing a ball of suet, meshed by twine and rolled in wheat.
"It's for your birds!" he announced excitedly.
"For my birds. Oh, myyy..." Eyes shining, she held it aloft by a loop of twine. "Won't they love it?"
"You can hang it up and everything!"
"I see that."
"Will, he got the stuff and we put the fat through the grinder and I helped him turn the crank and me 'n' Thomas stuck the seeds on. See?"
"I see. Why, I s'pect it's the prettiest suet ball I ever seen. Oh, thank you so much, darlin'..." She gave Donald Wade a tight hug, then leaned over to hold the baby's chin and smack him soundly on the lips. "You too, Thomas. I didn't know you were so clever."
"Open the other one," Donald Wade demanded, stuffing it into her hands.
"Two presents—my goodness gracious."
"This one's from Will."
"From Will..." Her delighted eyes met her husband's while her fingers sought the ties on the scroll-shaped package. Though his insides were jumping with impatience, Will forced himself to sit easy in the kitchen chair, an arm propped on the table edge with a finger hooked in a coffee cup.
Opening the gift. Eleanor gazed at him. With an ankle braced on a knee his leg formed a triangle. Thomas was draped through it. It suddenly occurred to Eleanor that she wouldn't trade Will for ten Hopalong Cassidys. "He's somethin', isn't he? Always givin' me presents."
"Hurry, Mama!"
"Oh ... o' course." She turned her attention to opening the gift. Inside was a three-piece doily set—an oval and two crescents—of fine linen, all hemstitched and border stamped, ready for crochet hook and embroidery needle.
Eleanor's heart swelled and words failed her. "Oh, Will..." She hid her trembling lips behind the fine, crisp linen. Her eyes stung.
"The sign called it a Madiera dresser set. I knew you liked to crochet."
"Oh, Will..." Gazing at him, her eyes shimmered. "You do the nicest things." She stretched a hand across the table, palm-up.
Placing his hand in hers, Will felt his pulse leap.
"Thank you, dear."
He had never thought of himself as dear. The word sent a shaft of elation from his heart clear down to the seat of his chair. Their fingers tightened and for a moment they forgot about gifts and cakes and pregnancies and pasts and the two little boys who looked on impatiently.
"We got to have the cake now, Mama," Donald Wade interrupted, and the moment of closeness receded. But everything was intensified after that, tingly, electric. As Eleanor moved about the kitchen, whipping cream, slicing chocolate cake, serving it, she felt Will's eyes moving with her, following, questing. And she found herself hesitant to look at him.