Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (47 page)
Matthew’s head jerked up. “What Scotsman?”
“A photographer fellow. Asked me to look after his stash. Said if he didn’t come back, he’d send someone for it. I didn’t want to be burdened, but the look in his eyes and our Celtic blood tie made me go all sentimental. He said the one who came for it would be easy to spot, seeing as he’d have a dozen or more women and children trailing after him. But there’s been no one —”
“Here he is!” Cara Amadeo shouted.
Matthew felt Olana’s arms around him first. She kissed his temple just as Possum jumped on his back. All the Amadeo children, hauling the twins, Hugh, and Andrew in a play wagon swarmed around him, grabbing the buttered toast from his plate.
“Oh, look. A piano!” Coretta shouted, and called the two women walking Josephina through her pains closer. She sat down and began playing “Home Ain’t Nothing Like This” as they sang.
Matthew took the canvas bag of Alisdair’s film from the sprite man’s hand. “Would you like a ride to Golden Gate Park, Mr. Callahan?” he asked, convinced that even with his bread and crockery sacks, the man weighed nothing at all.
The shadows of the willow leaves danced gracefully on the ceiling of the makeshift tent. Even Josephina smiled at it, once her contraction eased. Olana wet the laboring woman’s lips with a moist cloth. “Almost there,” she whispered at her ear.Matthew looked into Olana’s shining eyes and found a haven. He turned to his grandmother. She was not beside him. A thin line of perspiration sprouted on his brow. “Where’s Gran?” he whispered. Mrs. Amadeo touched his back.
“Called away,” she answered.
“Away? Away where?”
Another contraction started. The young woman bellowed.
“Down,” Olana reminded her, “send the push down.”
Josephina looked between her legs. “A fish!” she screamed.
Matthew steadied her. “No,” he explained quietly. “Your waters didn’t break, remember? Keep pushing.”
The head came into his hands, still inside the pod. Matthew tore at the membrane with his fingers. The water gushed forth, along with the rest of a purple baby. He put the child over his knee and rubbed her back.
“Come on, little girl,” he coaxed. “Breathe.” He put his smallest finger in her mouth, cleared it. The baby remained still. “Call
her, Josephina,” he heard his own steady voice urge, though his eyes were clouding with tears.
her, Josephina,” he heard his own steady voice urge, though his eyes were clouding with tears.
“Come,” the exhausted young mother called in a high, heartbreaking voice. “Let me see you, my beautiful daughter.”
He lifted the baby gently, his palm under her abdomen, and placed her between her mother’s breasts. She hiccoughed.
“Alive!” Mrs. Amadeo shouted, blunting her cry with the back of her hand. The baby took in another breath, coughed, then howled indignantly at the laughter around her.
Once the afterbirth was delivered safely and he’d cut the cord, Mrs. Amadeo put her bundled new granddaughter in Matthew’s arms. “Go, you and your bride. Take her out to visit with her father. Send in my Cara
mia.
Together we will make Josephina all beautiful, we’ll make the basket a fine bed. Go, go.”
mia.
Together we will make Josephina all beautiful, we’ll make the basket a fine bed. Go, go.”
Outside, the men were thumping Eltore’s back, pouring red wine in his cup. When Matthew and Olana approached, he refused to take his new child into his arms. But he did rush toward the tent to see his wife, doubling back to smear Olana with a kiss and his thanks. Olana laughed, wiping her wine-stained cheek.
“You got it this time, did you?” Matthew teased. Olana took his arm and they walked the baby to a stand of locust trees. There they saw Annie Smithers, holding a pink flannel bundle. Matthew grinned. “Another birth,” he said. As they met, he peered over his grandmother’s shoulder.
“Boy,” she said proudly.
“Girl,” he retorted.
“Ten pounds,” she counterattacked.
“Born in the sack.”
“The mothers … ?” she tried to break their tie.
“Well.”
“Well.”
“Nice work, Gran,” he finally conceded.
“Nice work, Matthew.”
Olana laughed. “The end!” she pronounced.
“Oh no. There’s plenty more,” Annie informed them.
“More?”
“Three in active labor, seven fully dropped and ready to start. Turned away at the make-shift hospital — doctors say they’re too busy with the injured and dying. Best make that tent bigger, they’re all heading this way. You picked a fine spot, Matthew.”
She turned and trudged in the direction she’d come.
Olana smiled. “It will certainly keep our minds off any aftershocks, or lack of comfort, or —”
He kissed her mouth, letting his birth exhilaration loose.
“Get that baby back to her mother!” Annie admonished loudly from the crest of the hill.
His grandmother leaned over them, her fists at her hips. “Rest,” she demanded. “Both of you.”
Matthew looked toward the young woman walking on her mother’s arm. “But Mrs. Patterson … it’s her first, Gran.”
“You caught Mrs. Patterson’s third boy two birthings ago, Matthew. That’s Mrs. Peterson.”
“Oh.”
She wrapped them both in a blanket that smelled of cedar. Olana’s eyelids were drooping, though the smile remained on her lips. Matthew snatched at Annie Smithers’ skirts.
“Hey, Gran.”
“What is it now, you rude boy?”
“You keeping count?”
She leaned over, drew the blanket to his shoulders. “I’d better. Ain’t depending on any no-account banker.”
“Then you know I’m still three up on you.”
“Two. And we’ll see how it tallies in the end.”
“I believe you drugged me, just so you can catch up.”
She gave out a snort of disgust. “Ungrateful apprentice,” she muttered as she walked off toward the laboring woman.
Sleep ambushed Matthew Hart while he was still laughing.
The next he heard was Callahan’s voice. “That does it. If the
smell of my brew doesn’t move him, he’s departed this life.” Matthew heard laughter and tried to pull his eyelids open. Then a woman screamed. He bolted up.
smell of my brew doesn’t move him, he’s departed this life.” Matthew heard laughter and tried to pull his eyelids open. Then a woman screamed. He bolted up.
“Send it down, Ma’am, come on, baby’s coming,” he told Callahan, an assortment of wide-eyed children, nervous fathers, and sleeping dogs. Callahan’s laughter continued as Matthew ran for the tent.
His eyes lingered on his wife’s face as his grandmother spoke softly at his ear. “Mrs. Henley. Birthing a seven-month child, maybe five pounds. Short, fierce labor. Waters just broke and … we got a problem, Matthew.”
The woman was not in one of the common positions for birth. She lay propped on her side, her eyes closed, moaning softly. Olana was on her knees behind her, holding a damp cloth between her legs. Matthew approached, lifted it to discover a tiny blue hand.
“Transverse,” he breathed.
“I tried outside turning. Twice.”
“Gran. This lady needs a doctor.”
Annie let out an exasperated grunt. “Sent for. None’s come.” She took his face between her soft, tanned leather hands. “Darlin’ boy,” she whispered. “We will lose them both soon. I want you to try.”
“All right, Gran,” he said softly, trying to ease the burden she’d carried alone while he slept. He approached, knelt down on the mattress beside the laboring woman. “Evenin’, Mrs. Henley. How’s my wife treating you?”
A smile lit the woman’s broad face as she opened her eyes. “She is an angel. I don’t want to frighten her, her being this way …”
He glanced up at Olana. “Don’t concern yourself on that account. She’s braver than any three men, like the rest of you all.” Mrs. Henley started to laugh, then grimaced as a contraction began. He put his face close to hers. “Blow it out, Ma’am. Let it go.”
Her jaw clenched. “I can’t. I have to push.”
He blew in her face. “Like this,” he urged.
She blew back at him. He caught the scent of licorice root. “Good, good,” he said as the contraction eased. She took his arm.
“I have six other children, Mr. Hart. All healthy,” she said quietly. “They need me.”
“Sure they do, Ma’am. Keep thinking of that.” While I’m putting you through almighty hell, he finished to himself. Olana’s hand descended over the woman’s brow and stroked it. Matthew leaned over and kissed his wife’s knuckles.
“My,” Mrs. Henley breathed there, under the kiss.
Matthew took her hand. “Do you give your other little ones horse rides, Ma’am?” he asked.
“Not lately,” she said.
Soft laughter.
“I want you to get up like that, on all fours, you know?”
“What?”
“We’ll help,” Annie told her, “and Matthew will keep you company while Olana and I make you decent.”
“All right,” she said uneasily.
Matthew shifted the pillows higher under the woman’s head as Olana and Annie draped her lower half in sheets. Matthew rested his face beside hers on the pillow.
“Your baby’s caught sideways, Mrs. Henley,” he said. “Did Annie tell you?”
“Yes. She tried to turn it.”
“I’m going to go inside you, ma’am. To dislodge the shoulder, so you can go on with your birthing.”
She grasped his hands between her own, kneading them. “Good,” she said, but her teeth were chattering.
“Gran!” he called. Annie drew a blanket up to the laboring woman’s shoulders. Her chill passed. She inhaled between his hands.
“They smell like Christmas,” she said.
He smiled. “That’s the clove oil.”
“And pine. Mr. Hart?”
“Ma’am?”
“Are we going to die?”
She had him. She had his hands, his eyes. Damn these women, he thought. These beautiful women. “Not if we three have a say in the matter,” he finally offered. It was enough. She released his hands. “Good. To your work, then.”
He left their patient in Olana’s care while he rolled his sleeves high and scrubbed his arms with the dwindling piece of soap. He saw a boy standing in the tent opening, a steaming kettle of water in his hands. As Annie took it, the child peeked around her skirts.
“Hello, Mama,” he whispered.
Mrs. Henley opened her eyes, smiled. “Hello, Pete,” she returned his greeting as if he’d interrupted her hanging wash or putting bread in the oven. Matthew Hart pulled on his spectacles and held his arms over the basin.
“Pour,” he instructed his grandmother.
“But Matthew —”
“Pour.”
She put down the kettle. “Wait. You missed a spot.”
“No I didn’t.”
“There, just under your elbow,” Olana said.
Annie took up the brush and scrubbed around his elbows, then started his hands all over again.
“Gran,” he chided her gently this time. “Pour.”
When she did he gasped a string of blasphemies together so fast they were indecipherable. His skin turned red. The night air felt good as he shook off the excess water.
He approached. Annie and Olana nodded, their eyes calm. He touched the inside of the birthing woman’s thigh. “I’m here, Mrs. Henley,” he whispered. “Feel my fingers?”
“Yes,” she breathed without opening her eyes, “warm.”
He took up the tiny blue hand and felt a flicker of life. It sent a rush of hope through him for the tiny child. Olana felt it too. He saw a light in her eyes. He checked around the baby’s hand for a chord. There was none. As he tucked the hand back inside the woman, his fingers probed deeper. Mrs. Henley’s low, tormented groan ground into his ears.
Her womb was extended by six children before this small one. Matthew knew that would help his chances. He kept going. There. He felt the tiny buttocks. It fit easily in the palm of his hand. He stretched his fingers along the delicate spine and pushed. Mrs. Henley’s groan became a long, sustained wail. Her baby was moving to its steady call. Annie and Olana encouraged, telling her to keep the cry open, telling her this torment would be over soon. He was causing it. He was hurting her, as he’d hurt other women over his lifetime. He’d never meant to, as he didn’t mean to now. Still, her scream almost paralyzed him. It was his grandmother’s hands on his shoulder that kept him sane, and moving. Matthew slipped his hand from the baby’s torso down his legs. He hooked his fingers at the heels, and pulled. Small purple feet emerged with his hand. Mrs. Henley’s cry sharpened. The feet began to curl, slip back.
“Down,” Olana said.
“I can’t!” she cried out. “He’ll fall!”
“No he won’t My Matthew’s got him! Push!” Olana demanded.
Matthew heard them both groan together. A baby boy emerged slowly, to past his shoulders. Matthew slid his fingers along the upper arms, gently bringing each down across the chest and out. The baby’s head rotated until it faced his mother’s back. Matthew held the small body higher. Annie pressed on Mrs. Henley’s abdomen with her next contraction. The boy’s head slipped out, his wrinkled skin quickly matching the red of Matthew’s arm.
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