by Katharine Valentino
The story has it that the knock came long after the
family had gone to bed. Dr. Waller answered the door nonetheless, for in those
days, doctors were on call 24 hours a day. Standing on the porch were two swarthy
men with long black hair, wide sleeves, intricately stitched vests—and knives. Come
with us, they commanded. The doctor nodded soberly, reached for his medical bag,
and left the house with one of them on either side.
My mother was never sure she actually saw her father
leave with the Gypsies, but she always said she could somehow remember their knives
glinting under the porch light.
As my mother tells the story, the men took my grandfather
to their campsite and, still in lockstep, marched him within a circle of women
attending one of their own. I don’t know that the gypsies had princesses, but
whoever the woman was, she was of that caliber. She had been in labor for many
hours. She was gray with pain and close to death.
In my imagination, my grandfather stands still for a
moment. He has already lost one woman in childbirth. He takes a deep, calm
breath, looking at that moment exactly like the sepia photograph of him that my
mother always kept on her bureau. Carefully, he sets his bag down on a blanket
next the woman and kneels beside her. He washes his hands in a pail of water. Then,
he goes to work.
Some hours later, the knives are put away. It is not necessary
to threaten this white man to make him do his best for a Gypsy.
I know that the Gypsy princess lived. I know this not
because I remember the end of the story I’m telling you. I don’t. But I do remember
what my mother told me about my grandfather:
In a career spanning four decades, most of that time as
the only doctor in Angola, Indiana, my grandfather delivered thousands of
babies. He drove a horse and buggy, or later on, a Ford Model T, to outlying
farms where births were often already in progress by the time he could be
summoned and arrive. He delivered babies with frightened husbands or children
as assistants. He delivered babies in antique bedsteads, on scrubbed kitchen
tables, even on un-scrubbed floors. He delivered babies with no more equipment
than would fit in the kind of medical bag you now see only in old movies.
Despite all that, my grandfather lost only one woman in childbirth.
That woman was his wife.
The child was my mother.
In my imagination, the circle of gypsies opens. My grandfather
sees the amount of blood on the blankets. He stands very still for a moment, grief
slicing through him. Then, he takes a deep, calm breath. Life. Only life. This woman will not die. His pain will
be with him forever, but this woman and
her child, too, will live.
When he goes to work, his mind is clear and his hands are
strong and steady.
