Caul Baby

belly.
“Good afternoon, Laila,” they replied one after the other.
The women—Sydney and Constance—could smell the sweat and sweet, doughy aroma stemming from her groin. They squinted with intrigue when they could not find that caul, that special cork skin-like membrane dangling from her neck. What else would explain why she was still pregnant if not for the extra assistance that no gynecologist could provide? When these meddling women did not say anything else after their initial greeting, Laila followed their intense eyes to her bare neck and nervously rubbed her throat.
“What are you staring at?” Laila asked.
“Sorry, it’s just—I mean, it’s a miracle that you’re still pregnant,” Constance said. She received a sharp elbow to the side of her left breast by Sydney.
“What she means is that it’s a blessing, and we’re happy for you.”
“Thank you, but that still doesn’t answer the question. What were you looking at?”
Sydney and Constance looked at each other with uneasy, tense faces.
“What? Spit it out!” Laila laughed, but inside she found nothing funny about the moment.
“Well—” Sydney answered. “We thought that you might have gotten help from those Melancon women.”
“Oh no. Nope.” Laila wagged her right pointer finger in the air and shook her head. “I don’t want to get involved with that mess. You’re not saying you actually believe in that, do you?”
“I admit that I’ve been curious from time to time,” Constance said. “I mean, have you ever seen one of them up close? They must have something extra on their skin because it doesn’t look like ours. It’s like . . . another layer, like a shield, it’s hard to describe. What if it’s true what they say, that it can protect or heal you?”
Laila stared at the ground and made small circles with her right foot. Her belly was extending her shadow, and she imagined the day when her shadow would part into two: she standing, her small child leaning against her side. “I don’t know,” Laila said. “I don’t know. It just seems weird.”
“Well, we’ve all heard the stories,” Sydney said. She sighed. “You have to wonder why some gossip like that would float around all these years if there wasn’t a lick of truth to it. And since you got money, it’s—” Constance elbowed Sydney again. “All right, jeez! Hey, listen, if you don’t believe, go to their bodega up on 142nd and Adam Clayton Powell. The daughter, Josephine? She may be in there.”
“Good luck with your pregnancy, Laila.” Constance gently pulled Sydney away so that they could walk in the opposite direction of Laila. They argued all the way to the end of the block over whether or not it was appropriate to bring up the Melancons until they became too distant for Laila to hear anything else that they were saying.
It didn’t matter. The seed was planted. Laila rubbed her throat and sternum as she reconsidered their questioning of her pregnancy. In fact, Laila forgot which errand had made her leave her brownstone in the first place. Who was she kidding? Laila thought. For all the kicks and hunger pangs, she was haunted by the fear of another miscarriage. No matter how many times her doctor assured her that the baby was safely growing with a steady, fast heartbeat, she could not be too certain. What if there was some truth to what they said about the Melancon women? She’d never actually seen one up close. Her curiosity got the best of her. She decided to see if they appeared just as Sydney said.
The bodega was on the end of a block full of similar real estate, as was the way with many a Harlem street corner: another deli, another Crown Fried Chicken, and a Laundromat. When Laila entered the store, there was a young, curly haired woman filing her nails at the cash register and a man placing hamburger patties on the griddle. But Laila was the only customer. The entrance door chimed, and Laila turned her neck to see a sophisticated woman strutting into the bodega wearing black patent leather pumps and a cream-colored tweed suit dress. She had mahogany skin and amber eyes that alternated between rolling around and cutting into two fine slits as she reprimanded the cashier for her repeated tardiness. She had to be one of the Melancon women. She was indeed a sight to behold! Laila strolled down the aisles and saw the usual brands of Oreos, Cheez-Its, multipurpose house cleaners, and canned goods. These items were cheaper by forty or so cents than those sold at the bodega closest to her home. How was it that this woman could afford such expensive attire from managing a run-of-the-mill bodega? Did she think she was too good to wear T-shirts and jeans like everyone else who worked behind those counters? From there, Laila created an entire narrative in her head about this woman: she had to be stuck-up, and her attire was a way to prove that she was better than everyone else. Most stuck-up people tended to be bitchy and rude. That’s probably why people always gossiped about the Melancons but no one ever knew them. They didn’t let people get too close because they were bougie, and though the moniker applied to her too, Laila knew that bougie Black folk were the most insufferable kind of Black folk.
Laila looked over the top shelf of the aisle where she stood and saw that Melancon woman watching her.
“Good afternoon,” she said, and flashed an ebullient smile. Her voice was like fresh silk, with a slight rasp at the end.
Laila’s throat dried up. She cleared it and said, “Good afternoon.”
“Let me know if you need any help, okay? We’ve moved some things around in here.”
“Huh. Oh. Sure. Thank you.”
Laila lowered her head and grabbed two boxes of Chips Ahoy! for when she would be hungry later. When she approached the register, the Melancon woman was watching the television mounted on the back wall beside all the over-the-counter drugs and travel-sized toiletries. The local news was reporting