The Birth House. Ami McKay

somewhere between spouting off Bible verses and rubbing those spoons.” I’ve never heard her complain about Fran’s treasures or how little she has for herself. She spends day after day sweeping dust and dirt out the door, one mealtime running into the next, her heavy, tired feet shuffling in front of the hot cookstove. Her back aches from wringing clothes over the washtub and tugging milk from the Guernsey’s udders. She was the pretty one who married for love. Seven children later, I hope she holds tight to that thought, as she tucks our dreams safely under our pillows and kisses Father good night.

      

      I watched the trees go by, birch branches sparkling in the sun, spruces flocked white with fresh, wet snow from the night before. The horses kept a brisk pace, the sleigh cutting a clean path as we made our way down the mountain, winter-brisk air rushing past our faces. Fran shouted above the jangling of the sleigh bells. “I also got three new spoons … Buckingham Palace, the Pyramids of Giza and the Taj Mahal. You should come to tea next week and see them, they are glorious, simply glorious!”

      Mrs. Hutner paused and buttoned the collar of Grace’s coat to the very top. “Only if you’ll come and see my newest pretties …” Grace smacked her mother’s hand away and pulled the button loose again.

      Aunt Fran clapped her hands together. “Oh, Trude, did you get it already?”

      Mrs. Hutner reached for Grace’s hand and squeezed it, tight. “Yes, the box arrived three days ago.” She spoke at a fast, excited pitch. “The Gilded Lotus. Rose medallion pattern, covered with flowers and gilt, and the charming face of an empress looks back at you from the bottom of each cup. They’re so small and delightful, each one with its own little rounded cover, like a tiny Chinaman’s hat. Guywan they call it, a covered cup.” Grace wormed her hand away from her mother’s grasp and then slowly dug her heel into the toe of her mother’s boot. Mrs. Hutner’s eyes began to water. “They have no handles, you know.”

      Aunt Fran handed her a handkerchief. “How very odd.”

      Mrs. Hutner dabbed the corners of her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve been feeling under the weather.”

      Aunt Fran nodded in sympathy. “Something’s going around. The Widow Bigelow started off with a slight cough, but wound up in bed for a week. I guess it’s a good thing we’re going to see the doctor.”

      

      The Canning Maternity Home sits at the top of Pleasant Street. The tall, straight house looks as if it sprang up, white and clean, from nowhere. A stranger to the area would never guess that the place was once the rundown, forgotten house of Captain Robert Dowell, an English ship’s captain who had a wife in London and an extra wife right here in Canning, Nova Scotia. His tombstone in the Habitant Cemetery reads:

      

       Captain Robert Dowell

       1836–1883

       Who gave up his life

       to his one true love,

       the sea.

      Most people might take those words to mean that he drowned, but the fact of the matter is, Captain Dowell met a more sinister fate. After Emily Dowell, wife number two, received a letter from Lucinda Dowell, wife number one, the two women made an agreement. They vowed that the Mrs. Dowell who saw darling “Robbie” next would take a butcher’s knife and run it deep into his unfaithful heart.

      It was Emily who met him first. It was Emily who waited in the dark of the wharf, Emily Elizabeth Dowell, née Trublood, the fair-faced daughter of the Honourable Judge Kingston Trublood. It was Emily who stabbed Captain Dowell, shoved him in the water and made good on the chance to right a wrong. Sadly enough, Emily couldn’t live with the consequences. She couldn’t bear to think that her own father might have to put her head in a noose. When she was done, she turned the knife on herself. Her marker is set next to her husband’s. Underneath a carved hand that points to heaven, it reads:

      

       Emily Elizabeth Trublood Dowell

       1858–1883

       Faithful consort

       True of heart

      The mystery of their two bloody bodies floating in the Habitant River might never have been solved, except for a letter that the Canning postmaster received after their deaths.

       Manchester

       England

      October 25, 1883

       Attention: Postmaster

       The Village of Canning

      Kings County, Nova Scotia

       Canada

      Dear Postmaster, It has been many months since I have heard from my dear friend, Mrs. Emily Dowell. Does she still reside there? Is she well? Please tell me, have she and her dear husband settled their differences? I wouldn’t trouble you, but it isn’t like her not to send word. We are relatives of a sort, through marriage, and I am most anxious to hear news of her.

      Awaiting your kind response,

       Mrs. Lucy Dowell

      The postmaster, a Mr. Martin deGroot, sent a quick response to Lucy Dowell. Even after the gruesome details were explained, they continued to exchange letters, Lucy telling of the lonely damp weather of Manchester and Martin cursing the long Nova Scotia winter. It wasn’t long before the postmaster realized it was the perfect match, Lucy being a widow, and he being in need of a wife. In the spring he sent for her, and Lucy Dowell became Mrs. Lucy deGroot.

      Mother and Aunt Fran’s side of the family is connected to the deGroots through their great-great-grandmother’s sister. She left the Bay to marry into the strong Dutch family and never returned. Mother always points out the deGroot orchards on the way to Canning. “There’s the finest apples in Kings County.” They are round and plump with a red blush, just like the rest of our deGroot cousins, not at all like the small, tart fruit that grows in the Bay. We see the apples and the cousins once a year, in the autumn. Father brings new barrels down the mountain, and in return we get our share of apples and cider.

      It was because of that simple tradition between our two families that Charlie and I always felt we had the “rights” to crawl through the broken cellar door of Captain Dowell’s house. Despite the boarded windows and the faded “no trespassing” sign, we figured (through murder, marriage and loose blood ties) that the house was ours. We’d sneak off to the house whenever Father let us tag along on his Saturday trips to Canning. To clean out the ghosts, we’d run up and down the stairs, howling and screaming. After that, we’d sit in the attic, silent and still, to see if they’d return. Even the ghosts wouldn’t recognize the place now.

      Mrs. Dr. Thomas is a sweet woman, and although I found her to be kind enough, she seemed almost giddy with hospitality. She bounced as she led us from room to room, her expectant belly pushing forward, her hair piled in girlish ringlets atop her head. She rested her hands on her round stomach. “It’s our first, and hopefully one of the many babies to be born at the Canning Maternity Home.” She winked at Aunt Fran. “We ladies of Kings County are lucky to be in such good hands.”

      We followed her through the first floor, touring a small sitting room, Dr. Thomas’s examination room, a large kitchen and sleeping quarters for two nurses.

      The second floor had been turned into one large room. The white walls were lined with neat, square cupboards filled with folded towels and blankets. Under the far window were three large washbasins. Straight down the middle of the room were two long rows of empty white bassinettes. This was the