Page 114 of The Frozen River

Suddenly I find myself missing Mrs. Hendricks. She’d likely rip his ear clean off at those words.

“Is that what you really think of me? After today?”

“I think you are full of yourself. A country woman bloated with the idea of your own skill.”

I nod sadly. “And yet you still want to pay me?”

“It is the right thing to do.”

“Let me ask you a question,” I say.

He looks at me but doesn’t respond.

I stick my finger in his face. “Have you ever successfully delivered a child?”

“In medical school I assisted any number of doctors in—”

“No. That is not what I mean. On your own?”

“I don’t see how that—”

“So the answer is no. And the result is two of Hallowell’s children dead born. Such things might not matter at Harvard. But here they matter immensely.”

Page lifts his chin. “You do understand that they call it the practice of medicine for a reason, don’t you? The consequences of such practice can be unfortunate. But no doctor expects less. Nor should the citizens of any town.”

“And yet you are willing to practice on your own wife. Shame on you.”

He says nothing.

“Here is what I require for payment. You stick to doctoring. I will do the delivering.”

His eyes are blank. Uncomprehending.

“You will never attend another woman in childbirth. Not in this town. If you are too arrogant to call for me, then call someone else. I care not. But I do not ever want you to set your hand to a laboring woman ever again. Do you understand?”

The young Dr. Benjamin Page grows still. Then pale. I see his jaw tremble with rage. But he steps aside to let me pass, and before he closes the door, he nods. Just once.

And that is enough.

DR. COLEMAN’S STORE

The ice is thickest in the shallows, near the riverbank. Toward the center of the Kennebec, however, it creaks beneath my feet. Like old floorboards. Like old bones. And even though I know it will bear my weight, I proceed carefully, medical bag in one hand and the other outstretched, each footstep purposeful, listening for popping sounds, feeling for shifting and sinking beneath my feet. Sam Dawin is not the only man to have fallen through the ice, though he is one of only a handful to survive. The river is at least four hundred feet wide in most places, deep in the middle, with a ruthless current and, at this time of year, lethal temperatures. If you go under, you are gone. And if they find you, it is usually bobbing in a Boston boatyard weeks later, your skin and clothing torn to shreds.

After attending to Melody Page, I am the kind of exhausted I used to think impossible. In my youth, when I first took to this profession, it was not uncommon for me to spend multiple days rushing from one birth to another. I could function on minimal sleep and sporadic meals. But something shifted once I turned fifty. My body started rebelling at the inconsistent schedule. And now my entire physical being protests the long night. The combative conversations with Dr. Page and Mrs. Hendricks have left me drained. My neck is stiff, and my eyes are dry. My bones feel loose at the joints, but my muscles tight. I am hungry.

“Home soon,” I mutter as I traverse the midpoint of the river.

It takes an effort not to hasten my steps, but I continue the careful, methodical passage until my right foot lands on firm ground. It is a short hike up the bank, and then I stomp my feet on the boardwalk, knocking the snow from the soles of my boots.

The moon is bright, and the clouds are wispy and low, making the sky look like an oyster shell, striated with shades of gray. I will be home in an hour if I am lucky, and then it’s a cold dinner and my own bed. But first I must collect Brutus from where I left him stabled at the tavern. Though the residents of the Hook are comfortable walking back and forth across the river, few of us are brave enough to ride a two-thousand-pound steed over the ice.

I am turning toward Pollard’s when I see that the lanterns are lit in Coleman’s Store. Odd. He usually closes shop by six o’clock. The front door is only a few steps away, so I go left instead of right and try the knob. It turns easily in my hand, and I step inside to the sound of bells tinkling merrily above my head.

Samuel Coleman looks up from his place at the counter. “Who’s there?” He asks, milky eye squinting at me.

“It’s only Martha.”

“Ah,” he says. “You’re out late.”