From My Grandfather, I Learned About Honor
A story from more than a century ago
The knock came after midnight. Dr. Waller answered the door nonetheless — 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,” they commanded. “Now.”
The doctor nodded, 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 the knives in the men’s hands glinting under the porch light.
The men took my grandfather to their campsite. Still in lockstep, they marched him to within a circle of women attending one of their own. I don’t know that the gypsies had princesses, Mama said, but I know she must have been someone they loved.
The woman had been in labor for many hours. She was gray with pain and close to death.
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, long after his death, Mama always kept on her bureau. Carefully, he sets his bag down on a blanket next to the woman and…
