Caul Baby by Morgan Jerkins (read any book .TXT) 📕

almost fell from her arms, but she crouched down before anyone else could take it away from her.

Once the EMT and police officers opened the door and Laila saw the large crowd taking up both sides of the street and cursing any driver who had an issue with the traffic, her determination sharpened. There was her loss, in her hands, for the world to see. Loss knew her body better than her husband. If loss could not be expelled from her body, then it would be her coconspirator. “You gon’ be awright, Miss Lay!” “You still a mother, Miss Lay!” Women from imperceptible spots in the crowd called out to her as Laila made her way down her stoop. She smiled and nodded. She was still a mother. A lossed mother but a mother. The double ambulance door opened and one of the EMT officers gently told her to watch her step. She took one last look at the crowd and saw Valerie hugging all three of her children to her stomach.

“Give me one second, please?” Laila asked. “Just a moment. I need some air before I go in that truck.”

“Sure.” The officers radioed the hospital dispatchers from the side of the vehicle, which gave Laila the perfect opportunity to stagger away. The EMT officers attempted to grab Laila, but the crowd intercepted and formed a train behind her. Cars honked as they passed by. More onlookers hanging outside of bodegas, delis, and barbershops stepped outside to witness the pandemonium and fuse themselves into the crowd.

After Laila turned the corner, limping but pressing forward, an uncle outside of a deli took his cane and stood up from his wheelchair. “Here you go, Miss Lay. Go on and get in.” She sat her blooded self in his wheelchair, and once she got situated, Denise was able to break through the crowd to push Laila herself. With each block they passed, more people added to the crowd.

“You okay, Lay?” Denise asked.

“Just keep pushing until I tell you to stop.”

No one knew where she was going, but they knew from the anger stewing in her brow that she was going somewhere, and they didn’t want to miss it. Aunties abruptly broke out into song and others joined in to contrive some revelry, but the growing number of police cars and ambulances patrolling the streets—yet unable to infiltrate—was the gas that made the dough rise. The people kept multiplying, and whoever had an issue with the inconvenience was quickly cursed back into reticence.

Once they arrived at West 145th and Frederick Douglass Boulevard, Laila told Denise to inch a little bit farther down the block until she saw the letter M outside a particular brownstone. Once she did, Denise helped her out of the wheelchair. The crowd quieted and swirled around her. Reluctance dented her momentum, but standing with countless people behind her should have been enough to get someone to step outside. After a few moments of inactivity, murmurs rippled throughout the crowd. Josephine peeked out one of the front windows and down at Laila with her baby. The hand that was gripping the side of the curtain was covered with a black glove.

Come outside, you bitch, Laila mouthed. She repeated herself using all the strength in her throat. Josephine closed the curtain and Laila strengthened her posture. One minute passed. Then another. She wasn’t coming. Laila screamed, “If you would’ve given me the caul, my baby could’ve had a chance! My baby could’ve had a chance! But my money wasn’t good enough? And for what? For what? Step outside!” Laila spat and laid the baby down at the foot of the gate. She stomped each foot, ready to charge. The crowd was fluctuating between drawing near to Laila and backing up, hesitant to step into her wrath. She grabbed onto the fleur-de-lis spearheads and screeched, pressing her palms into the points till blood streamed down her wrists. While repeating her demands, Laila disrobed and beat her chest. The first mention of a caul from her lips divided the crowd. Many dispersed, seeing the childbirth as causing a fissure not only in her body but also her sanity. Those who stayed parted ways for the police to arrest her and the ambulance to take the child.

As Laila sat handcuffed in the back of the police car, Amara was watching from the sidelines with the last remaining bystanders. One of her neighbors had run to fetch her just as the crowd was beginning to grow, and she was able to get a good view once people were dispersing. She soured at the sight of her aunt with spittle still glistening from the side of her mouth, hair matted and lopsided, head too heavy to sit upright on her neck, and eyes unable to focus. The car pulled away, and Amara remained standing on the sidewalk. She looked back at the brownstone with the wrought-iron gate and saw the curtains fluttering. Josephine’s face floated behind them. The two women did not remove their gaze from each other. Amara felt a rough flitting in her stomach and touched above her belly button. Josephine squinted at her, then disappeared again.

“Why her, God?” Amara looked up at the sky with tears in her eyes. “Why didn’t you take my child instead?”

2

The pot of boiling water that Denise used for Laila’s labor had been left unattended for hours. As she waited in the psychiatric ward of Mount Sinai Hospital for any updates on her sister, a set of police officers found her in the waiting room to tell her that the pot had caught on fire, as had the rest of the kitchen. It wasn’t safe for anyone to live in that brownstone until repairmen could gut the interiors and reconstruct what was incinerated. All the while, the nurses working the front desk of Mount Sinai had been trying to get ahold of Ralph, leaving a voicemail every hour on the hour about his wife per Denise’s