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

Hallow, who was the youngest person in the room by far, flashed a smile and nodded.

The majority of people there had a crop of gray in their hair. A long communal table was placed in the center of the room and a small round table was pushed into the far corner. One woman was setting out scones, muffins, cinnamon rolls, biscuits, and fruits when Maman and Hallow entered. She took a breath and said, “Mornin’,” her bottom lip tucked into her mouth. Maman reciprocated the greeting and ushered Hallow to seats on the side of the table farthest away from the woman. Each person who came in the door was immediately drawn to Maman and Hallow but dropped their eyes to the ground as soon as Maman looked back at them. Some flocked over to the food and beverage volunteer and engaged in merry conversations; others broke off into smaller exchanges at the table, their bodies turned away from Maman and huddled together.

“Okay, everyone.” Patricia, a pint-sized middle-aged woman who’d served as the uncontested president of the block association six years running, emerged from the kitchen with several sheets of paper in her hand. “Take one, pass it down.” She plopped the stack in front of Maman, who was taken aback by the impudence of the move. Nevertheless, she did as she was told and took out a pen, pressing the head onto the agenda sheet.

Patricia took her place at the head of the table and adjusted her pearly frames. She cleared her throat, smearing a bit of her fire-engine-red lipstick on the side of her pointer finger, then folded her hands on the surface. “We need to talk about the prostitution on this block.”

The murmurs and scoffs began.

“Forgive me, Marceline.” Patricia motioned to Maman. “Had I known you were bringing one of your grandchildren, I would’ve—”

Maman shook her head. “She’s precocious for an eight-year-old, trust me. She’s fine.”

“Very well. Prostitution. Now, I don’t have a problem with what grown people do in the off-hours, but it’s getting to be too much. They’re loud. Sister Evans’s niece just had a baby, and there are other children on this block. Parents are starting to complain.”

“What if we just call the cops on them? Simple as that,” one white woman, Abigail, suggested. She attended every meeting, and when she ran to be a part of the board, other members voted her in for her diligence and because she’d been living in the neighborhood for over a decade.

“They’ll take them down to the precinct, where they’ll be for seventy-two hours tops, then be back to their old stomping grounds but smarter the next time,” Patricia said.

“Besides, do we really need the police coming up and down the block? I mean, yes, technically they are breaking the law, but they’re just loud. They aren’t shooting or robbing and stealing. Surely, there’s another way besides getting the police involved.” Sister Evans extended her hands across the table and looked around for supporters, to which she found plenty who nodded.

“We shouldn’t get involved—just let the police handle it,” Abigail insisted. “Look how old we all are. Those girls are young, but they’ve been on the streets long enough to know how to fight or carry a weapon to protect themselves. It only takes one second for them to think we’re getting too smart, then boom. Next thing you know, they break our noses and our hips need replacement.”

The group laughed.

“I’m not that old,” Sister Evans said meekly.

The group awkwardly quieted down.

“Well, you know what I mean—”

“I don’t.”

“But anyways!” Patricia interjected. “Should the first go-to solution really be the police?”

“What other solution is there?” Abigail asked.

The group scoffed. Abigail looked around the room at how everyone was exchanging discreet glances with one another.

“All right.” Abigail leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, let’s hear it. Speak up.”

“Well—” Sister McCleary, who sat beside Sister Evans, cleared her throat. “It’s just . . . easy for you to say, Abi.” She checked to her left and right. “That’s all.”

“Easy for me to say? Every one of us has a phone. We can dial three digits—Oh. Oh.” Abigail stretched out her moment of comprehension with a resounding, singsongy sound. “I see what this is about.”

“What I’m tryin’ to say is that—” Sister McCleary half smiled. “We don’t usually—historically do that around here. That’s the most . . . extreme . . . approach. There are—”

“What she’s trying to say is that you white people always want to run to the police for every little thing. What they call it, minor infraction?” Claudia, who had become more frank since her husband passed away, said.

“You call prostitution a ‘minor infraction’? It’s not like someone is littering or playing music too loudly.”

“But y’all call the police on that too! I got a cousin living in Bed-Stuy, and she and her people can’t even play music past nine because a new white couple have had enough.”

“Well, was it on a weeknight?” Abigail asked.

The group scoffed again.

“That’s not the point. It’s tradition. The police don’t need to be called.”

“Look. All I’m saying is that if you have any other de-escalation method, then put it on the table. Otherwise, let’s just ask them to keep it down.”

“Marceline, what do you think?” Patricia attempted to refocus the conversation. “You’ve been mighty quiet, and you’ve been on this block longer than any of us.”

“Give them what they want: money,” Maman said.

“Money?” Abigail asked.

“Yes. If the girls are coming around here often, then this may be where they make a good portion of their money. Give them enough to keep them away.”

“But what if they just come right back?”

“Give them enough so they won’t come back for a while. Make a deal with them.”

“And how do you expect us to pool together our resources for that? Is this charity? Can I use this as a tax write-off?” Claudia asked.

“You won’t have to. I’ll pay them. Let’s decide on a figure and do away with this problem.”

“With what? That caul you got?” someone