by Michael Salcman
Dr.
Williams was making his rounds:
one
dilapidated house, then another,
powdered
oxygen on the aluminum siding,
brown
shingles on the roofs.
In
between visits, he’d sit in his car
a
notebook on his lap and arrange words—
instruments
on a surgical tray—
uterine
sounds blunt as tire-irons,
scalpels
sharper than paper.
Often
a cry from within the house
would
bring him running past its yard,
past
a tomato plant or wheelbarrow or red hen,
things
he took in as he sprang
up
the porch steps, hoping the family
was
already in the parlor, had put the kettle on,
had
found clean towels and disinfectant
to
swab the wound or welcome the crowning head.
He
put down his old-fashioned doctor’s bag,
a
satchel peaked like a dormer at both ends,
his
initials stamped in gold, long ago faded,
and
took off his wool overcoat. Tonight,
he
noted the burdened book shelves,
responsible
chair, the goose-necked reading lamp,
the
desk loaded with papers, writing tools
and
a folding pince-nez: the father
was
a professor or writer of some degree,
who
could afford both coal and electric.
He
suspected they were Jewish, the mother
of
German ancestry, the father Sephardic—
but
had no reason to know. In truth
he
had only a cursory familiarity with their tribe
and
knew no Hebrew. But the mother’s cry?
Soon,
it was going to be soon. He timed her pain
until
a dark spot between her labia grew
and
it was time to prep and drape her;
then
he encouraged the head with a gloved hand
turned
the shoulders and delivered the rest.
Dr.
Williams told the father it looked like a writer,
this
noisy boy, vigorous and exploring.
They
would name him Allen.
from the Harvard Review, Issue No.20, pp.100-101, 2001