“Thomas is gone? I thought he was still hiding out in the mountains. Gone where?”

“Philadelphia. Last week Reverend Miller and I drove him to Torrington, where he hopped a freight train. He had a little cash set away and has already sent word through the reverend that he got a job driving electric streetcars.

“I told him the sheriff was probably going to drop the investigation after Katherine talked to him, but Thomas doesn’t want to come back. Says it’s too dangerous for any black man who wants to be something and mining’s no life for him anymore.”

Black men and white, I reflect as I pick burrs off my trousers, work side by side in the mines, but a black can never supervise a white or use the heavy machinery. Negroes get the same pay but worse work. If he stayed, he would be handpicking coal forever.

“Thomas wants Byrd and me to come east,” Bitsy goes on. “Says he can get Byrd a job like his with the Atlantic Railway.”

My heart sinks. Truly that hurts me, that I wasn’t included as one of the trusted few when Thomas left and that they are thinking of leaving, but I keep it to myself. “Do you and Byrd want to live in Philadelphia?”

“Maybe.” She stares toward the roaring Hope as a pair of mallards rise. “You could come too . . .”

For a minute I contemplate the idea. I used to think I’d do anything to go back to the city, but now I’m not sure . . . the noise, the crowded streets, the stench of the smoke from the factories.

“No, I lived in Pittsburgh and before that Chicago. I like it here now . . . the sound of the river, seeing the new leaves in spring, watching them turn colors and fly away in the fall.” This surprises me, that my exile is no longer a punishment. “So are you going? Going to Philly to live with Bowlin?”

“I’m thinking about it. I miss Thomas . . . And I have dreams.”

Dreams . . . I let out my air. She has dreams. Of course. Bitsy is young and smart, why would she want to live at the end of Wild Rose in someone else’s house forever? But what are my dreams? I’ve never had any. Just lived from one high or low, one triumph or catastrophe to the next.

Bitsy stands, collects her rifle, and unties Star as if ready to leave. “And it would be better work for Bowlin, driving a streetcar. I can’t help remembering the cave-in at the Wildcat. How the emergency siren went on and on, ripping the sky. I was so scared . . . I’m seriously thinking about it.” She turns for the road, expecting me to follow, and leads the horse back through the brush.

I just sit there. One of the bullets has gone through my heart.

41

Quarrel

Thursday, returning at noon from cutting hay all by myself in the back pasture (Bitsy is off to Hazel Patch again), I’m surprised to find, on the front porch, a cardboard carton with an envelope attached.

Thinking it must be something from one of the families we’ve helped or maybe another gift from Katherine, I tear the box open. What I find is a collection of medical equipment, a blood pressure cuff, some medicines whose names don’t look familiar, and a packet of gauze. There are also two medical books: Health Knowledge, which includes everything from care of infants to care of old people, and Pediatrics, the Hygienic and Medical Treatment of Children, volume 1. This must be something from Dr. Blum. I go back to the note, folded in quarters on lined paper and taped to the top. It’s from Becky Myers.

“Dear Patience, I waited as long as I could, but I thought you might have gone to a birth and I have to leave this afternoon. I’m on my way to Charlottesville to be Dr. Blum’s nurse. He wrote me a few weeks ago asking me to come, and I agreed to go because the state is out of money and has cut my funding. Apparently a public health nurse, in these hard times, isn’t considered essential. Anyway, it will be an adventure.

“I still worry about you. Please be careful!” She underlines “careful.” Always the worrywart, I think. “The mood in town is ugly. So many of the unemployed are just hanging around. You know what they say: idle hands do the devil’s work. I’ll send my address when I find out where I’m to live. Wish me luck driving over the mountains.

“All my best. Becky Myers.”

I kick the carton across the porch. What good is this stuff if I lose another friend? Katherine’s in Baltimore. Bitsy is thinking of moving to Philadelphia. Now Becky’s on her way to Charlottesville.

By evening Bitsy is still not home, so, in a glum mood, I milk Moonlight early and heat up leftover potato soup, all the while getting more aggravated. Around nine, I hear an engine whining up the road and look out the kitchen window to see Bitsy jump out of Byrd’s father’s truck. She kisses her lover, long and sweet, then trots into the house, just a little too bouncy.

“Have a good time?” I ask sarcastically, but she doesn’t get it. I’m itching for a fight; I just need a topic.

“You bet! I delivered a baby, and Byrd showed me how to drive a tractor! We were helping the Millers bring in the last of their hay.” She pulls out a two-dollar bill and proudly lays it on the table.

“What baby? Whose baby?”

“Oh, this lady from Cold Springs. You don’t know her, Fiona Lincoln. She was visiting Hazel Patch and this was her fourth . . . her third or her fourth . . . She’s Mildred’s cousin, not due for another few weeks, but the baby was fine and breathed right away. When her water bag broke, they called me in from the fields.”

“Bitsy, you can’t just go around catching babies whenever you feel like it! You aren’t even certified. What if something happened?” In my irritation, I ignore the fact that I’m no great expert. I was only certified a few years ago.

“And besides, you didn’t have any supplies. What if the cord was tangled around the neck? What if the feet came first? What if the mother hemorrhaged? You think this birthing business is a lark, but it’s truly life and death!”

“Mrs. Miller was there. She’s been to four deliveries, and I’ve read DeLee’s text on obstetrics cover to cover. Mildred boiled water and scissors and twine for the cord . . . What was I supposed to do? The baby was coming . . .”

There are tears in her eyes, and even though my attitude is unreasonable, I don’t care. I stand and throw my soup bowl into the sink, watching with satisfaction as it breaks and the potato gruel splashes up on the wall, then grab my work jacket and slam out the back door. “You were way out of line!”