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

front of the cake facing the street and said, “On the count of three, one . . . two . . . three . . .” Unexpectedly, the crowd joined in with the Danville women to sing “Happy Birthday” to Hallow before segueing into the Stevie Wonder version.

Hallow blew out all her candles, and the resounding cheers made her blush.

“Wait, wait! You didn’t want to make a wish?” Laila asked.

“I didn’t need it.” Hallow smiled. “Denise, I didn’t realize how good of a voice you had.”

“Oh God, here we go,” Amara said with a groan.

“Don’t get her started,” Laila said and started making Hallow’s plate.

“What?” Hallow asked.

“It’s in my blood. Our blood, rather,” Denise responded as she cut the cake. “My great-grandmother was a cabaret singer. In fact, it was said that her voice was what attracted our great-grandfather Alex, who, from what was passed down, was married at the time, but that’s a story for another day. If it wasn’t for them, none of us would be here. Okay, now eat up, baby.”

Hallow grabbed the silverware and took one bite of the macaroni and cheese before shoveling as much as she could into her mouth. She poured herself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher then speedily pulled apart a fried chicken wing before hissing and waving her hands in the air because they were still steaming hot.

“Slow down, slow down.” Amara laughed. “The food ain’t going nowhere. Take your time.”

“Sorry,” Hallow said. She set her silverware down and lifted her head from her plate to see a mysterious figure standing away from the crowd underneath the streetlight. As the rest of the Danville women diverged into another conversation entirely, Hallow squinted, hoping to see this person, whom she presumed to be a woman, beyond her trench coat and cloche hat. The woman tipped her nose toward the streetlight, and its illumination highlighted enough of her face for Hallow to recognize her as Josephine. Hallow stopped breathing, unsure of whether to invite Josephine up to the porch or let her stay exactly where she was. So she stayed still and watched her mother, whose smile juxtaposed melancholic eyes.

After Maman’s death, the authorities contacted Josephine to inform her of another account Maman had. The money was to be divided evenly amongst her descendants, but Josephine could not get in touch with Helena or Iris, so the money was left to her. The settlement wasn’t enough to live lavishly, but it was enough for her to afford a tabby cat and an apartment in Sugar Hill where she could spend her days people-watching and dining at the nearby Ethiopian and West Indian restaurants. When she first moved there, often someone would recognize her and would have something slick to say. But when Josephine wouldn’t verbally lash out, and no one heard of her trying to sell her caul to anyone—white or Black—the comments ceased, even if passersby would still give her a side-eye here and there.

She didn’t have friends whom she could call on, but she had acquaintances with whom she’d engage in casual conversation as she got her morning coffee or retrieved a package. She never heard from Landon again, but she was too self-satisfied to miss him. At the end of the day, Josephine Melancon was free. But she did yearn for Hallow most nights, which is how she ended up strolling through Harlem on All Hallows’ Eve, in hopes that she’d get just a glimpse of her daughter somewhere celebrating her birthday.

Now that Josephine saw Hallow from the crowd, she was afraid that the people would try to hurt her daughter. She had her right foot in front of the left with the intention of moving forward, but when she figured out how different this crowd was for the Danvilles and their home versus the Melancons and theirs, she stepped back.

“Hey.” Amara placed a hand on Hallow’s shoulder, and Hallow faced her. “You okay?”

Hallow checked the streetlight again, and Josephine was gone just as quickly as she’d appeared. She straightened up her back and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” The crowd started to disperse, and a group of trick-or-treaters reluctantly advanced toward the gate, holding their jack-o’-lantern buckets close to their chests and gawking at Hallow.

“You can come up. It’s okay,” Hallow said. She grabbed the bucket of assorted candy and held it out to the trio. They stood still. “It’s okay.” The tallest one looked at the caul’s sheerness then placed his entire open hand in the bucket, at which Hallow laughed. Then the other two ran and did the same before sprinting to the next stop while yelling out their gratitude. Laila, Amara, and Denise watched Hallow straighten her back and breathe a deep sigh of relief into the night. She didn’t get hurt. She didn’t get hurt, and she was hesitant but willing to believe that she would be okay, one day at a time. This one holiday reconfigured her life as a Danville and a product of Harlem itself—a girl whose body forged the gap between myth and reality.

She could start anew. She would heal in places where the caul could not reach.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to all of my family and friends, particularly Danny Vazquez, Jennifer Baker, Jade Jones, Maraiya Hakeem, Liz Cook, Sire Leo Lamar-Becker, Brigitte Malivert, and Brandon Zamudio, for all of your support.

Thank you to my editors, Emily Griffin and Amber Oliver, for their constant shepherding through all the nooks and crannies of this world and (fictitious) women who I hold dear to my heart.

Thank you to Monica Odom, my wonderful agent, as well as the rest of the HarperCollins team for always taking such good care of me.

Thank you to Dennis Norris II for being a beta reader in the midst of a global pandemic and international protests in honor of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. This book would not have been completed on a pressing deadline without your critical eye and warm guidance.

Thank you to all of the doulas, healers, midwives, and doctors who care for Black mothers