A NEW DAY
(Click Cover To Order)
By
Margaret Johnson-Hodge
Copyrighted by Margaret Johnson-Hodge. All Rights Reserved.
Harlem on a winter night was a dismal place to be.
Remnants from the last snowfall clung to curbs in mottled clumps of gray. Litter gathered in frozen heaps around trashcans and against metal sewer grates. Buildings once grand, now stripped of their cornices, crowns, and molding, loomed like dead colossi above the sidewalks.
Street lamps painted the streets in surreal stroke. Metal cans full of furnace ash looked like forgotten solders from some proletarian war. People moved about quick and urgent like lost souls in the darkness. There was no joy, no beauty, just disdain and hopelessness. It clung to Max like a body bag.
It was not a night for walking, but Max walked. His tall body bent, his strong shoulders withered. Despite the cashmere coat, fur-lined gloves, and wool scarf tucked around his neck, Max was cold.
The wind rushed him like a hurricane, stinging his face, nipping his ears. The bitter cold invaded his bones to the marrow. Max’s regality was gone, his sense of self and purpose, vanished. Everything he was had abandoned him.
Who am I? For a few minutes Max didn’t know. He couldn’t remember his corner office on the fifteenth floor of the Regor Building. Could not recall his title—director of mortgage, who he was—tall, handsome, and single. The color of his skin—chocolate brown, nor where he lived, West 158th Street.
For a few minutes Max didn’t know anything but pain. It washed over him like a rough tide. He looked up, seeking answers, the universe blinked cold stars in his direction. Why? His heart shouted, but Max knew. His unwillingness to ask had brought him this grief and as a result four years of love had been annihilated.
Max hadn’t been certain of anything. The only tangible he had was Samone’s withdrawal and her announcement that she would be busy Saturday.
She had spoken of wanting to go shopping and do some real house cleaning. The stores were having a wonderful after-holiday sale and with New Year’s Eve just around the corner, she needed to give her apartment a good cleaning.
“You know how much you hate tagging behind when I’m shopping, and when when’s the last time you helped me clean? I need Saturday for myself. We can get together Sunday,” she’d insisted.
Not once during Samone’s barrage had Max pressed her for the truth. He allowed her lies to eat at him most of the night till morning came and his conscience demanded that he stop her. That he call her and tell her not to do it. Don’t kill our baby.
Max had suspected weeks ago. Samone’s body had felt different, she was tired all the time and her pack-a-day cigarette habit had vanished overnight. He told himself that Samone was too smart to get caught. Still a part of him braced himself for her announcement and her need to ‘run down to City Hall before the baby comes.”
A part of him had hoped Samone would do just what he’d done, but here in the cold darkness of night, Max wanted to take it all back. Wanted the baby he could no longer have.
An hour ago Samone had stepped out of the cab, her face drawn and gray, the abortion draining her of life and color. Max had rushed to her, his tears coming quick. They had hugged outside her building. Her sorrow—“Oh, Max”—breaking his heart.
Together they rode the elevator up to her apartment, Samone went to take a shower and Max made her tea. Their conversation grew hostile quickly, accusations flying fast and furious around the room.
“Christmas morning,” Samone had yelled at him, “that’s when I decided. Hell of a day to choose, isn’t it? I opened my gift and saw a bracelet. Knew you still didn’t want to marry me and a baby would have made it worse.”
Max swallowed. Another tear fell. He wiped his eye, studied the city night sky. A gust of wind rushed his back—move on. Max wiped his eyes one last time and quickened his pace; the cold winter night, no place to be.