Precious Cargo

“Conker” by Lucie Ware

Some folks are healed so they can get back to work. Some need to be talked through healing, and some need to be sung to. Some need loved ones holding their hands, and some need to be left alone in silence and darkness. I’ve been around all types, and I’ve learned ways to help the afflicted recover from whatever assails them. And, by God, you can count on me, Ida Rose Delap, the midwife. If I say I’m coming to help you, I’m coming, rain or shine, hail or Old Testament thunder.

Here’s some things I know: natural remedies need to settle before they take. You got to abide patiently while waiting for a cure. And too much of anything can kill you. For instance, the pokeberry’s something you need to take only as shoots, never its roots. The shoots can be boiled right soft and helpful, but the roots will light a coal inside you that won’t go out. Pokeberry roots can kill you deader than four o’clock. But here and now, this evening I’m not messing with pokeberry. While it’s cooling off I’ll get started yanking Johnson grass and jimson weed out of my garden.

All this is on my mind as I walk out the front door, heading for the garden when I see him standing in the yard, hat in hand, waiting for me. “Hello there,” I says. “What can I do for you?”

My visitor’s a slender young fellow with problem skin, so I begin forming ideas about how to explain ways he can cure his acne, if that’s what he’s come for. His face is broke out and blemished. Taller than me, but not broad across the chest and shoulders, his dark hair’s unruly, and he’s got an anxious look. Not being one of those mind readers, I smile kindly as I can to help him speak up.

“Hidy, ma’am,” he says. “Am I speaking to Miz Ida Rose Delap?”

“You are,” I say. “Who’s asting?”

“I’m Gorry Jackson,” he says. “I work over in the Clinton Engineer Works.”

“Gorry, you say?”

“Like sorry, but with a G.” He gives me a shy grin. “I’m the only Gorry I ever heard tell of.” As he says this, he glances back over his shoulder at a red pickup truck parked a ways down the road, and I’m wondering why he didn’t park closer.

I shake his hand. “What can I do for you, Gorry Jackson?”

“Can I show you?” he says, bending over so he’s got both hands on his left pants leg, waiting for me to answer.

“Your foot?”

“My shin.” Pulling up his pants leg, he reveals an ugly, weeping wound from ankle to knee. “I got burned last week,” he says. “And a guy I used to work with, Ervin Davis, told me you fixed him up real good when he came to see you with his leg. He told me not to waste my time with the infirmary. Come see you instead.”

“I remember him,” I says. “Big hulk of a man. Maybe six foot four. He had that ulcer on his knee which had come to a boil, but never flinched when I lanced it.”

“That’s him,” Gorry says, his face suddenly blushing red. “Mr. Davis says you’re better than the doctors over at the X-10 Infirmary. And you didn’t cost him any time off neither. He couldn’t afford to miss work. Neither can I. I need every dollar for---for---.”

I wait for him to finish, but he never does, so I say, “Let me see that burn.” I kneel down to study the wound where it’s wept, crusted dry, and cracked open in a couple places. It appears he ain’t touched it, just toughing it out, which is not the way to go. Painful and unsanitary. It’s swollen with a pink tint just outside the crust, and, when I press around it gently, my finger leaves a shallow depression, paling until the fingerprint slowly disappears. All this as Gorry flinches just a bit, holding his breath while I poke him.

Standing up, I says, “You ain’t put anything on it, have you?”

“I scrub it every morning with hand soap and again at night after work,” he says. “It hurts when I do that, so I’ve been sort of gentle last two nights. Daytime I just power through, not thinking about it. Trying not to.”

“You got a little infection showing,” I says. “Let me scrub off the crust for you and use a poultice.”

“Oh, would you?” he says, brightening up as if I’d just handed him twenty dollars. Once again he’s looking back at his truck, nervous about it.

“Be happy to teach you to do it your own self.”

“Oh,” he says. “I don’t think I could do it good as you.”

 “Let me work the way you need,” I tell him. “Let me do what I do.”

He’s positively quivering, which ain’t unusual with some of my patients, the youngest children or most delicate females. Not usually working men. Maybe he’s hurt beyond what he’s told me. My intuition tingles about this.

He says, “Not sure I can watch you. Is it all right if I turn away?”

“If you can make it to my house every other day,” I say, “I’ll clean it up and medicate you proper for a week or so. Maybe ten days.”

“All right,” he says, reaching for his wallet. “What do I owe?”

“I’ll let you know next time you come. Set on that cinder block while I’m mixing up the ointment. Keep still while I’m working.” He sets kind of fidgety and restless, so on a hunch I says, “What’s Ervin up to these days?”

“I’m not sure,” Gorry says, scratching his nose. “Pretty much the same old same old.” He’s wanting to look at his truck again, but he fights it off.

Back in the house I grab some primrose ointment in a jar, but I want to add a few fresh leaves, a little lard and salt. I boil water and pour the ointment in the pot, using a coarse sieve to thin out the mixture. It needs to cool considerably before he’ll be able to stand getting it slathered on his wound. Out front I find him smoking a cigarette, his leg splayed straight out, pants rolled up to his knee. I put the pot down and go back in for soap and water. When I get back outside, I set down by him and ask, “How’d you get this burnt?”

“I’m a courier, delivering valuable items, packages and mail, all around the CEW, but every now and then they assign me to help the mechanics doing transmissions and mufflers, and one of them mufflers burnt the crap out of me last Friday.”

“I’m going to wrap it up for you to keep your pants from sticking to the ointment. That ain’t sanitary. I can show you how to wrap it.”

He shakes his head. “I druther come back and let you wrap it, Miz Ida.”

When the pot has cooled enough, I soap up the rag and tell him, “Take it off slow or fast? It’s going to hurt some whether it’s took off long and slow or ripped off quick. Folks want to know how it’s going to go with their pain instead of getting surprised.”

He screws up his face, and whispers, “Get it over with.”

Gorry’s good when I scrub and scrape on his leg. He’s looking the other way, taking deep breaths while I get that ugliness off his leg. Tenderly as I can, I ladle poultice on his wound and that’s when I have myself a brainstorm. I run back in the kitchen, grab my honey jar, and come back to drip some slowly on the wound. Honey has its own enchantment. That’s how I see it as I tear rags into strips, wrapping them around his leg.

When I’m done, I tap his shoulder, and he turns to look at me, his face having lost some color, but he seems all right. I ask, “I’d like to hear how Ervin’s doing.”

Gorry’s face shows some tumult, shifting back and forth from obvious physical relief and gratitude that the hurt is over to some brand of regret. “I’m sorry, Miz Ida,” he says, letting his breath ease out slow. His cheeks are blushing up again, “I ain’t been truthful with you about Ervin and maybe waited too long to come see you.”

“What is it?” I says. “Has something happened to him?”

“Naw, it ain’t that,” he says. “It ain’t happened to him. Can I roll down my pants leg now?”

“Go ahead,” I says. “But I’m getting the feeling something I did might have backfired on Ervin somehow.”

He stands up and walks around in a tight little circle in my front yard. Finally, he says, “Come walk with me. I got somebody in my truck I want you to meet. That’ll probably explain better.”

I look at the truck, and I don’t see anybody setting in it, but, as we get up closer, I can see there’s somebody scrunched down in the passenger seat. She’s a young redheaded teenager, pale faced, laying on her side, possibly napping. But when we get up to the window, I can see she’s pregnant, belly big as a watermelon, her dress stretched tight across her front. She’s a pretty girl with high cheekbones and freckles splashed across her face. She looks almost full term. I turn to Gorry to ask about her, but he beats me to it, saying, “Miz Ida, meet my wife, Judith. We’re having us a baby any day now.”

“I can see that,” I says, reaching out to offer her my hand. “Hidy, Miz Jackson. Pleased to meet you.”

She pushes herself up to a seated position and nods warily, shaking my hand. “Likewise, Miz Delap.” Her eyes shift to Gorry. I get the feeling his introducing us wasn’t expected.

I says to Gorry, “Is she what you haven’t told about?”

“Well, yes and no,” he says. “I should have come before now because of my leg. Should have spoke up before now about us having a baby because we want you to bring the child into this world.” He checks with Judith before saying any more. There’s something more important yet to be revealed. Gorry’s absentmindedly scratching at his his burns so I grab his arm. “Stop that.”

He says, “Judith is Ervin’s daughter. We got a little ahead of ourselves with the baby coming, and that doesn’t set well with him.”

Judith says, “I never seen him so angry when we told him. He cussed a blue streak and said, ‘I’m just glad your momma ain’t alive to see this.’ I thought he was going to bust a blood vessel in his brain. We been tippy toeing around him ever since.”

I hold up my hand. I says, “Give me a minute to get all this straight in my head.” They look to one another, maybe grateful for my suggestion.

Judith gets out of the truck, and Gorry moves to take her hand as she takes short steps, like she’s walking on egg shells. She goes around the truck to rest on the rear bumper. I note how slender she’s built, wondering if her hips will be adequate for child birth. That could be a problem, but I hope not. She has just settled, resting against the bumper looking down the road when she says, “Oh, Lordy!” And I look to see what she’s talking about. A vehicle’s headed our way coming fast enough to raise a cloud of dust on the gravel road.

“That’s him,” Judith says. And the closer the truck comes, the better I can see it’s Ervin’s Ford. When he gets fairly close, he stops, and the dust billows past him toward us. He sets there in the front seat, and Gorry says, “You do the talking this time, Judith. He won’t listen to me.” She puts a hand on her belly like she’s reaching for her child, squinting into the dust cloud.

“I’ll talk to him,” she says, “but be ready to go if he gets hard headed.”

Ervin gets out of his truck, trudging our way, head down, studying the gravel under his feet. He’s much more stout than his daughter, broad-shouldered and heavy in the chest, while she’s a long, tall drink of water, slender and willowy. She must take after her momma. When he gets up close, his mouth is set hard, and I cringe because I’m better managing childbirthing than I am refereeing between hot heads.

“Judith,” her father says a little louder than I’d wish. “I’m here to take you home unless you need to get to the CEW Hospital.” He glances at Gorry, then at me, but he’s talking only to his daughter.

“Unless you’re going to pay the doctor bills, Daddy,” Judith says, “you don’t have no say in this.”

Ervin huffs his breath out, no actual words in reply. He puts his hands on his hips, glaring at everybody. “Judith Elizabeth Davis, you’re not thinking straight. You never have.”

“It’s Judith Elizabeth Davis Jackson!” Gorry says, fierce as flint. “She’s my wife. You don’t get to decide about where our baby’s born.” His voice has got that shrill, hostile tone, and if them ain’t fighting words, I don’t know what is. Gorry’s puffed up like a bantie rooster, but if things get physical it’ll be no contest because Ervin’s probably three hundred pounds to Gorry’s half that. We’re all four of us engaged in a staring contest. The only sound now is the chorus of cicadas singing in the trees all around us.

Suddenly, Judith lays both hands on her belly, and I recognize the gesture for what it surely must be. She wipes her hair out of her eyes, looking to Gorry, who had been looking at Ervin and missed what happened. I glance at Ervin, who did see it.

“I felt a jolt,” she says, and now she’s looking at me. “I think I wet my pants.”

“Your water must have broke just now,” I says. “Your time’s coming quick.”

Ervin and Gorry have forgotten their stand off, not knowing what to do. They’ve been struck dumb, so I jump into the situation as I typically do, asking Judith, “How old are you, darling?”

“Fifteen,” she says.

“Too young to be having a baby,” her father says, trying to explain, not angry, but more plaintive.

“It is truly a young age,” I says, “but I expect you’ll be strong, Judith, withstanding labor pains. And they’ll be strong and fierce, believe me.” I turn to the men. “I’m watching you two fools set against each other, arguing about someone you both love. Daughter to one, wife to the other. And then there’s me right here with you, and I’m the one that knows what to do to get babies born. Gorry, you’ve brung a precious cargo to me, and that’s well and good. But you two need to put your arguments aside and do what I tell you to do. Most likely, Judith and me will need help from the both of you. Like any child’s birth, this is a serious situation we got here.”

Ervin and Gorry have long faces, thinking about what I’m saying. I turn to Judith. “Come on into the house. We need to get you onto a bed.” The men are staring at us, neither one budging an inch so I light a fire under them. “Don’t just stand there, you two. Come in, come in.”

I have them stay in the front room while I get Judith set up in my bedroom in the back. I fuss a bit at the men. “You two behave now. Don’t start nothing in my house.” I holler at them from the bedroom as Judith slides onto the bed here in the rear. “Take your shoes off,” I says softly to Judith, and she does that with a curious look on her face, which makes me think she’s got something to say about her father…or maybe her husband. Or maybe she wants to use my chamber pot. Not sure what she wants.

“You doing all right?” I ask, talking low so the men won’t hear.

Now she’s antsy, gesturing for me to come closer. I’m judging her condition as she drops her shoes by my bed, and I set myself on the edge of the bed so she can stretch her legs. If she’s had her water broke, she’ll be straining for quite a while. But it seems she must not be having contractions, at least, not rough ones. Sometimes this happens, so I’m ready to deal with a woman’s anxiety and ignorance, what most first-time mothers go through. I know all the different ways delivery might test us.

But I’m not prepared for what happens next. She hops right up from the bed, looking out the window, striding quickly around the bed so she’s closer to the door than I am. She sidles up close to the wall, listening intently to the men in the front room. I hear the sound of their voices, but not the actual words. I watch her eavesdropping, and she seems satisfied with what they’re saying. All I get is the basic notion that they’re not angry with one another. They’re not fussing.

She’s examining my bedroom, all my nooks and crannies, my dresser and trinkets, coming back to the bed to set by me. She ain’t in labor. I recognize that right away. She’s in control. I can see that as she lays a hand on mine, asking, “How long can you spend with me?” No pretense she actually needs a midwife’s help. She needs something else.

“I got some time this evening,” I says. “But I need to be somewhere by noon tomorrow.” I study her face a while before asking, “What do you need me for anyhow? Your water ain’t broke, has it? What is it you’re planning to do here?” I stare hard at her, but my questions don’t faze her none. I don’t think her water’s actually broke yet.

“I’m trying to put out the fire between Daddy and Gorry while I’ve still got the strength to do it,” she says. “I can’t let the friction between them spark more than it already has. They could burn us all down to cinders. Including the baby. I need to fix things proper and do it right now, but I ain’t one hundred percent sure how to go about it.” She’s still eye to eye with me, wavering a bit, slipping into uncertainty, but determined, too. I’m beginning to think more of her.

“I see your purpose now,” I says. “And you’re right to do it because giving birth don’t always go according to Hoyle. It can lead you safely down one path and then backtrack the opposite way that’s not so safe. You’ll be worn down to a nub by labor pains because you can’t tell how long that baby’ll wait to get born. And fatigue makes cowards of us all.”

I watch to see how she’s reacting to what I’m saying. She’s got her Daddy’s mouth and chin, but pale blue eyes rather than his deep brown. And there’s a quiet strength in her eyes. “I tell you what,” I says. “You just follow my lead, and, if things go the way I want, they won’t be no fire left to put out between those two.”

The corners of her mouth start curling upward in a smile, but she keeps a straight face, and she says, “Thanks. I been all muddled up for a while, loving them both, not wanting to lose either one. They been talking mean to each other, and I’m afraid they’re going to bust out fighting.”

I think about that, stepping over to the window, looking out over my garden, considering exactly how to turn this from potential fracas to a proper welcome for a healthy newborn, but I’m curious about one particular thing. I turn to Judith, asking, “When did you get the idea that you should be the one to calm those two down? You got enough to do, getting ready for the baby.”

“I first come on the idea when I heard them arguing about my name. And I figure the baby changes everything, I guess. That’s when I understood what Gorry and my Daddy’s got in common instead of just listening to them fuss about what they got against one another.”

Just then she lurches, putting both hands on her middle. “There’s another jolt,” she says.

“Do you still feel it tightening in your middle?”

She colors in her cheeks. “Never thought about my middle the way I’m doing now,” she says.

I pat her shoulder. “Let me check you. Lay back, and don’t be shy. Maybe today your baby will come; maybe tomorrow. And that will mean we won’t have to do no play-acting. This could be the real thing. Like I said before, just follow my lead on this.” She nods, laying herself back on my pillows, and I check her progress. She’s pretty near starting, but not just yet.

I walk out to the front room and says to Ervin, “Go in there and get some of the cushions from the settee to prop up your daughter. Things are getting serious.”

I tell Gorry, “Run yourself back home to get her some more clothes. Underwear, socks, any more gowns she might want, and her blanket.”

“Her blanket?”

“It’ll help her feel at home in bed, smelling her own bedclothes and such,” I says. “Now don’t argue with me. Get in there, give her a kiss, and then skedaddle back to your place to fetch what I said, and anything else you feel will comfort her.” I turn to Ervin who’s still standing there listening. “Let Gorry see her first. When he’s gone, you get back in there to make her comfortable. Ask if she wants a back rub or if she wants anything rubbed. Feet, legs, shoulders, anything. Don’t talk unless she asks a question. Be quiet as a mouse. This is about her and the baby, not you, not Gorry.”

So I let the men go as directed. Gorry’s quiet with Judith and out of the bedroom quicker than I’d have thought. Judith murmurs something to her father as he enters my bedroom, so quiet I can’t make out her words. Her tone sounds right, so I busy myself in the kitchen, watering some of my little potted herbs, which have got too dry, thinking how to let this whole situation play out. Ervin’s taking too long, so I waltz into the back room and shoo him out. “You’ve had enough time,” I tell him. “Go out back of the house to my stacked firewood and bring me a dozen sticks of wood plus some kindling.”

“What for?” he says, petulantly. “It’s early August, woman. You don’t need no heat in here.”

“Ervin Davis,” I says. “It ain’t up to you to tell me what I need. It’s the stove I need because she may need some broth or soup. I may need boiling water for cleaning linens and towels. Don’t be arguing against what I tell you.” I take the broom and swat at his legs. “Git now! Do as I say.”

Big as he is, he could withstand any battering I give him, but I’m more experienced when it comes to bringing babies into this world, so he’s vacating the house, grumbling out the door.

It occurs to me that I ought to give Judith a tonic because this baby might decide to come when we least expect it. The first thing that comes to mind is Rosemary Tonic. It’s rosemary, cloves, nutmeg, eggs, sugar, and a little scuppernong wine, and I keep some on my top shelf all the time. It prevents miscarriage, and, Lord God, that’s exactly what we need here, a regular, normal childbirth. So I get that tonic ready, but I also prepare some Saffron Tea, which refreshes the spirits. It’s good against fainting and palpitations of the heart. I measure out a quarter glass for Judith and full glasses for the men, recalling that too large a dose brings heaviness to your head and sleepiness. It won’t hurt Judith to calm down a little, and it’ll do a world of good for the men to settle down even more. A few minutes later I go in to check her, and I can see her face is flushed, and she’s breathing quicker. “I think I’m wet now,” she says. And she’s telling the truth now.

I tell her, “We’re cooking with gas now. Try to slow down your breathing. I’ll be back with you soon.” Her face is tight, her eyes squinting.

Ervin brings my firewood into my front room, and I lay a fire in the stove, telling him, “Here. Drink one of those full glasses I just poured.”

He’s still cranky. “Why? What is it?”

I turn to stare him down, not saying nothing, waiting him out.

“Ain’t you going to tell me?”

I keep on staring, breathing deep and slow, and after a minute he picks up the glass and drains it. I knew he’d drink it because of all the sugar I put in it. When Gorry comes back, he takes the things he’s got in a tow sack in to Judith, and I give him a few minutes to love on her a little bit, to find out how she’s doing. Then I call to him, “Gorry, come here. I got some medicines for Judith and you.”

He answers just like Ervin did, “Why? What is it?” and I reply the same as I done for Ervin. I hand him two glasses. “This is hers, and that one’s yours.”

After he delivers Judith hers, he lingers next to her bed. I give him a little while, but eventually I call him back out. “Come here, Gorry. I need to tell you and Ervin what’s going to happen next. Come on now. I need to say something, and I ain’t saying it but once.”

Judith says, “Sugar, do as she says. I’m feeling all right just now, but she says it can get rough in a hurry, and I need to be ready when it does. I’m putting myself in her hands, and I want you to do that, too.” It’s quiet for a while there, but I look over to Ervin who’s heard it just like I did. We can hear Judith’s voice, but not her words. I strain to catch anything Gorry’s saying, but hear nothing. I whisper to Ervin, “Can you hear anything from him?” He shakes his head.

After another minute Gorry comes out, sees Ervin, and sets down across from him in a wooden chair at the little table by the cupboard. He’s still holding his glass of Saffron Tea. “Drink up,” I tell him, and he does it without comment. I get a brainstorm about another medicine, so I tell the men, “There’s one more drink we’re all going to have, each one of us, me included.”

That raises their eyebrows.

“But first, Ervin here’s the plan for you: put your hands on her whenever you can. Rub her aches away. Let your hands talk to her. Let them tell her how you adore her, how you’re already adoring her baby, boy or girl. Can you do that for her?”

He whispers something I can’t make out, nods solemnly, then stares at his lap.

“Now you, Gorry,” I says, “let Ervin use his hands to embrace his daughter. But you…I want you to sing to her.”

“Me sing?”

“You can sing, can’t you? Does she have a favorite song you know the words to?”

He looks up at the ceiling, and I can see the cogs working in his brain, and he’s got one. “I know of one she likes very much, I think.” He looks proud for remembering, and I watch the cogs turning again as he’s remembering the words. His lips moving silently.

He tries not to smile, but can’t help himself as he gets up and walks back there to her. Ervin says, “You got any more of this?” indicating his empty glass.

“Sure do,” I says.

While Ervin sips from the glass I’ve handed to him, I mix up lemon zest, cinnamon, crushed dandelion leaves, a little shine I been keeping, plus some sugar syrup, stirring the whole mixture fast as I can so it froths a white, bubbling head to it. I pour two glasses full.

“One for you,” I says, “and one for me.”

Ervin hesitates. “What’s this? More of the saffron?”

“No, sir. It’s a cordial I ain’t made in a long time, an herb liquer called Perfect Love.”

He sips it, nods, and says, “Good. It’s what we need.”

From the back room we hear, “I was dancing with my darlin’, to the Tennessee Waltz, when an old friend I happened to see---.”

Gazing over the rim of his glass, Ervin’s face has gone soft and calm. He looks back at me, murmuring, “That was her momma’s favorite, too.”

Danny Thomas played varsity football for Alabama’s legendary Bear Bryant before beginning a career in education in North Carolina in 1971. He spent twenty years in Durham with his wife Cynthia, two daughters, and a son, before moving the family and taking administrative positions first in Salisbury and eventually in Sanford. When he retired in July, 2006, he took on consulting work which allowed him to spend most of his time writing. Cynthia and he moved in 2011 to be near children and grandchildren and divide their time between home in Winston-Salem and summers at an island retreat in Northern Ontario. While he’s had stories published in West Side Story Contest, Hackney Literary Awards, Deep South Magazine, and Potato Soup Journal, he’s currently at work on a collection of short stories.