Page 111 of The Frozen River

Like Beulah, I might be getting a little long in the tooth. But I am not so old that I forget basic facts. Like Samuel Coleman telling me that Dr. Page has rented the McMaster home.

I am just about to turn and walk away when the door is thrown back. This Benjamin Page looks nothing like the arrogant, well-kept physician who has plagued me for months. He is a wreck. Hair sticking on end. Sweaty brow. Glassy eyes. Clothing rumpled. Still, he musters enough animosity to insult me.

“What the hell is she doing here?” he demands.

If you had asked me in December if there would ever be a scenario in which I would thank the Almighty for Mrs. Hendricks, I would have laughed. And yet, all those months ago I’d never seen her in her true form. As a Boston matriarch. The sort of woman who can intimidate a Harvard-educated man. That is the version of herself that she presents to the petulant, frightened Dr. Page.

“Stand back, young man!” she orders. And her voice is so loud and so sure that he stumbles two steps backward into the dark hall. “I called for this woman, and you will do exactly as she says.”

“But I—”

“Shut up. Take us to your wife.”

He is flummoxed. So beside himself that, for once, the man doesn’t argue. We follow him down the dark hall. Up the dark stairs. Into a bedroom so dark that I can barely see the hand in front of my face.

“Where is she?” Mrs. Hendricks demands.

“There. On the bed.”

I see only a shadow surrounded by other shadows.

“Why is it so dark in here?” I ask.

Dr. Page snorts. “Because, science has proven that a dark room relaxes the patient. If you knew anything about medicine, you would know—”

A whimper from the bed silences him.

“How long since her pains began?”

“Yesterday. Early.”

“And how long since she was last up and moving?”

“She hasn’t been up. She must keep her strength!”

If he was closer, I’d slap him. “And since she last ate?”

I can see only the outline of his face in the darkness, but I hear the disdain in his voice clearly enough. “As I’m sure you well know, Mistress Ballard, a full stomach will cause indigestion in a laboring woman. She’s eaten nothing since her first pain.”

The man’s an idiot, that much is clear. And I will not argue with him. “Do you want me here?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does your wife want me here?”

“She has no say in the—”

Mrs. Hendricks has finally had enough. She grabs his ear and twists so hard he lets out a howl that would rival that of a dying dog. Dr. Page swats at her hand as she hauls him to his wife’s bedside. When she releases him, he plops to the mattress like a marionette that’s had its strings cut.

Mrs. Hendricks leans over the bed, and I must squint to see her put her palm to the young woman’s cheek. “Hello, dear,” she says. “We’ve come to help. Would you like that?”

There is a muffled answer that sounds affirmative.

“Very good. This woman here is a midwife. Her name is Martha Ballard. And she saved my daughter’s life. If you would like, she will help you get this baby into the world.”

Again, the affirmative.

“Excellent,” Mrs. Hendricks says. Then she turns to Dr. Page and says, “Go find a chair and sit somewhere out of the way. Perhaps you will learn something.”