eight

      First there was the long squeal of brakes and tires. He waited. It was like stubbing a toe, he thought—a short span of time, a few seconds, and then the pain reaches. There it was. Crunching metal, a thud, then the sound of glass. Ferron imagined a rain of splinters across the street.

      “’Im dead! ’Im dead!”

      “Jesus Christ!”

      The rest was just noise. People were running to the scene.

      Ferron stared through the blackness of his palms past the pink line of light seeping in through the tiny space between his little fingers. He framed her in the slit and moved with her like a camera. She was a flash of white light, a quick blur darting out of frame as she rose with unexpected speed for a pregnant woman to go outside to join the others.

      He did not move from his seat in the clinic’s waiting room. His heart thumped. Somebody could have been dead out there. Bleeding. He closed the tiny peephole and listened to the shuffle of feet, the doors opening and closing, the exclamations, the questions, the clamor of horns and engines whenever the door opened.

      * * *

      “Next . . . Mitzie Lowe?” A man’s voice. Ferron looked up. It was a teenager with a card in his hand. He had just walked in. He looked around. Ferron was the only one in the waiting room apart from the nurse who was still on the phone.

      “Mitzie Lowe,” the boy said in a louder voice.

      The nurse looked up. “You might as well go in, you hear,” she said to Ferron. The boy discarded the piece of paper and walked out of the office. Ferron went in.

      The doctor was an Indian with a smile. He spoke like a television commercial with an Eastern lilt: “Eat, avoid stress, no milk—lactose is acidic, you know—rest, and exercise.” He was scribbling down a prescription. “Tell your mother sorry; tell her to come see me, eh? Walk with crackers. Cream crackers. No salt. Forget the prescription, man. The nurse will give you some antacid. Tell her is for your mother. They are friends. No coffee, no cigarette, no booze. Feel better now. Good. Try that. Always try eating right . . . The next person is Mitzie Lowe, you remember that? Easy: Mitzie . . . Just say Mitzie, alright? Or Lowe. Either one. Pregnant woman . . .”

      The doctor did not wait for answers; he just kept on talking. Ferron walked out, tired. The lobby was full again. Evidently the crash victim was either dead or was in perfect health. Otherwise he would have been in the clinic already. Mitzie, the pregnant woman in white, was back at her seat, fanning herself with an old Gleaner. She seemed more excited now, as if she wanted to talk to somebody. The rest of the lobby was completely still. People stared into space. Patient. Ferron looked directly at her.

      “Mitzie Lowe?” He smiled.

      “About time too.” She got up with exaggerated strain. She walked toward him. She was smiling warmly.

      He moved to the side. She followed him. He shifted again and she moved with him.

      “But what is this?” She stopped. Mitzie had a streak of amber running along the side of her hair. She fiddled with a necklace. “You don’t wan’ me to pass, sir?”

      Ferron moved aside. She walked by him, brushing her hips against his hands. There was more than enough space to avoid contact. He decided to wait for her to come back out.

      Ferron bought a corn bread and butter from the Rasta vendor whose cart was parked in the corner of the parking area. Ferron ate slowly, watching the doorway for the pregnant woman.

      She walked out, rummaging in her bag for something. He looked around. There were no cars in the parking area. She did not look like a car owner. Then she looked up and around, spotted the vendor’s cart, and moved toward it. Ferron walked out of the shadow beside the cart. She smiled. He smiled back. The Rasta was hustling.

      “Yes, dawta, yes. Juice, baby mother?”

      “Ice water, in a cup,” she said. She was looking at Ferron. “What?” In the sunlight, her eyes seemed crammed with riddles. They sloped slightly, the eyelashes thick and long.

      “What?” Ferron was suddenly uncomfortable. She was too confident, able at any time to embarrass him.

      “You watching me like that . . . What happen?” She was taking the ice from the Rastaman.

      “The bredda like what ’im see.” The Rastaman grinned. Ferron was grateful for the support.

      “Oh. Is that so?” She turned to Ferron.

      “Maybe.”

      “Maybe, nuh.” She laughed, chewing the crushed ice.

      “You sure yuh nuh wan’ nutting sweet in dere, dawta? Lickle coloring?” The Rastaman had not made a sale and he did not seem about to charge Mitzie for the ice.

      “No,” Mitzie said, still looking at Ferron.

      “Too sweet already, eh?” The Rastaman laughed. “You too perfect already, eh, dawta?”

      “Exactly.” Mitzie moved away from the cart and used her eyes to indicate that she wanted Ferron to follow.

      “You got through?” he asked.

      “Yes, man.” She was chewing on the ice and staring into the street. Ferron followed her eyes. Between the cars you could make out splinters of white, red, and yellow glass. “You woulda believe seh somebody dead, eh? The way the people dem was a gwaan. Old neaga too bad.”

      So nobody had died. Ferron was about to ask her what had happened, but hesitated. This was not what he wanted to talk about.

      “When are you due? If . . .” He was not sure what her reaction would be. “I mean the baby . . .”

      “Next week,” she said, grinning at him.

      “Next week! You shouldn’ be in hospital or something?” He tried to make it sound funny.

      “Yuh never hear say black woman strong. Cho, we jus’ drop de pickney dem one place, wipe off, and is gone we gone ’bout we business.” She did not take her eyes off his as she spoke. “A soh we hard.”

      “I see.” Ferron knew she was laughing at him. He did not mind.

      “Man!” It was an insult, an expletive. She looked back at the street, crushing the ice and sucking in the cold water at the bottom of the cup. “Me notice how you never even look up. You just siddown dereso, like you never even care.”

      “You mean the accident? I was tired.” Ferron saw that she was not convinced. “I just don’ like see dem tings, you know. Is like people just waiting to see a dead man. What do they say first: ‘’Im dead! ’Im dead!’?”

      “Tha’s not the only reason . . .” She stopped eating the ice.

      “No?”

      “No.”

      “So why you run out there, then?” He knew he was pushing it.

      “It coulda be my bredda out there,” she answered. She was looking away from him now. “Or my baby father. A girl must know them things early-early so she can plan the party.” She was laughing again.

      “You know you bad.”

      “Well, is the truth.” She threw the cup on the side of the street.

      “Littering,” he said instinctively.

      “I don’ like when people try tell me wha’ fe do, you hear.” There was an edge in her voice. “So which part you walking?”

      “Half Way Tree,” he answered. He did