by Jill Eldredge Gabriele
I heard a small voice cry out: “Mom!”
A young, heavily pregnant woman had boarded my southbound A train at 125th Street with her 3 year old son. The evening rain-drenched commuters were packed together like soggy sardines. As the young mother looked imploringly for a vacant seat, a young man stood and smiled. Well, I thought, maybe the world isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.
The train lurched forward. Smugly steeled for the non-stop to 59th Street, my mind wandered into a New York cocoon. Just think how much faster this is than the traffic above. Especially with this rain…
“Mom!” the child insisted. “I really have to GO!” My reverie interrupted, I exchanged raised eyebrows with a commuter. The next stop was at least 14 minutes away.
Nearby, a woman tilted her head back, finishing her coffee. Quickly shoving the empty coffee cup into her neighbor’s hands, she jerked her head towards the impending doom. A tenuous hope crept across the young mother’s face as she gratefully accepted the empty cup, and smiled weakly at her son.
“Maaaahhhhhm!” the boy whined, his eyes darting around the crowded car. The child wanted privacy.
As if on cue, the three nearest people turned their backs on the child and opened their coats, as if flashing the train’s inhabitants. Startled eyes were raised and then lowered in semi-reverence. The train clicked on, as did the time. At some point, the coat wall relaxed, as did the child.
At 59th Street, the doors opened. The mother clutched her son with one hand and the coffee cup in the other, disappearing into the crowded station like every other New Yorker.