Today's Reading
"Please leave me alone." Her mouth was paper dry. She sidestepped Kathy and turned left, toward University Place, but a hand on her arm held her back.
"I'll leave you alone, but not the baby. You've been on these streets for too long to know what's good for you," Kathy said, her grip growing firmer.
Makeda was confused, by the hand on her arm, yes, but also by the strength of this woman, charged with a power that flowed from somewhere else. "You're hurting me."
"And you're hurting the baby. We're going to a clinic to make sure it's healthy. Now." Kathy's eyes were cold, and Makeda had seen cold eyes before. She wasn't being given a choice.
"Let go of me, or I'll scream," she said. She couldn't decide whether to punch Kathy in the face or call for help. Both could land her, instead of this "poor old white woman," in trouble.
"Go ahead," Kathy dared. "Scream. I'll tell whoever comes to help that you're endangering a child."
"Let go of me, you crazy bitch!" She yanked her arm out of Kathy's clamped hand. But the woman grabbed Makeda's hoodie with a force that nearly pulled her to the pavement.
"Someone help, please!" Makeda shouted. But this was New York, and though a few people walking by slowed down to watch, the chess hustlers and the hustled continued their games unfazed, and the tempo of the djembe drum picked up, with no one doing anything to help; New York Tough becoming New York, tough in a split second.
"You're coming with me." Kathy pulled Makeda toward the curb and held her hand out for a cab.
"Somebody!" Makeda screamed. "I'm pregnant! This woman is kidnapping me! Please!"
With a handful of her hoodie in Kathy's tight hand, Makeda dropped down on all fours, her heavy stomach touching the sidewalk. Cars raced by only inches away, a low rattle flowing throughout her own body. Kick.
A cab pulled up. "Get up," Kathy ordered.
"Please," Makeda wailed as tears traveled down her cheeks. Then she felt it, a slight pop, and warm wetness. Darkness spread across her gray sweatpants.
"Let go of her!" a man shouted, pushing Kathy away from her. Makeda looked up and saw Slim, not just a security guard but her guardian angel, his eyes wide open, jaw set, and no-doubt-bone-shattering fist cocked back.
Now a crowd had formed, the swarm of foot traffic buzzing with anger at this man threatening a woman. Okay, let's just call it what it really was: this Black man threatening this white woman. Kathy seemed to feel this, and looked from Slim to Makeda, perhaps wondering if her whiteness was powerful enough to outrank them both. Answer: it was.
"Lady," the cabdriver said, stretching his neck out the window. "You coming or what?"
Likely realizing there would be many other opportunities to save a Poor Black Child" from its Neglectful Black Mother", Kathy shook her head and got into the cab, her eyes stuck to Makeda's stomach until she disappeared down 14th Street.
"It's okay," Slim said, helping Makeda up. "We're going to get you some help."
He hailed another cab and joined her in the backseat. She grit her teeth against the pain and said, "NYU Langone, please. It's closest."
"It'll be fine, Makeda," Slim said, smoothing her head on his shoulder with one hand as she squeezed the life out of his other. "Don't worry."
She clenched her eyes as her belly tightened, then relaxed. "What about your job?"
"What, being a security guard?" Slim sucked his teeth. "That's my side hustle. I got a million of them."
Makeda smiled. She knew that all the pain she'd experienced in life had encoded itself into her DNA—sometimes she believed that she could actually feel it, like it was crawling just beneath the surface of her skin—but over time, and with his help, she had learned to graft optimism into her genes, too. This was why she wanted to speak, to thank Slim for being there for her, but all she could do now was clutch his hand and hope he knew just how grateful she was.
The cab came to a stop in front of the hospital. Slim jumped out, ran inside, and returned with a wheelchair and staff members, who bombarded her with questions: What was her name, how far along was she, did she want to call the father?
Makeda Solomon. Thirty-six weeks. No.
...
