I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [17]
Streaking by her, I called back, “Hi, Mrs. Sullivan—need any help?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” she panted. That stopped me up short. “I have to get to the hospital and can’t carry these bags upstairs. Could you put them under the stairwell for me? I’ll take them up when I get back.” So I grab the milk, put it under the staircase, and scoot back, while she continues to hold up the building.
“I’ll help you to the hospital,” I say, figuring she looks really sick, and it’s only four or five blocks to Columbia Presbyterian. I could take her and be back in fifteen minutes. Doing a good turn like that, I’d get credit with the Boss, and, according to the nuns, credit with Jesus in heaven. So I give Mrs. Sullivan my arm, and we inch and shuffle up the block. Uh-oh! This was going to take more than fifteen minutes.
“How’re you doing, Mrs. Sullivan? How are the boys? All that milk sure looked heavy to carry. You must be very strong,” I jabber nonstop, until she stops on the corner of 164th Street and says, “This way,” and angles east off St. Nicholas toward Amsterdam Avenue. “Stop. Mrs. Sullivan, where are we going? Presbyterian Hospital’s up that way.” Then she spoke the doomsday words: “Oh no, I’m going to Mother Cabrini, the Catholic hospital across Amsterdam Avenue.”
Amsterdam Avenue was a demarcation line. West of Amsterdam was predominately white. On the east side of Amsterdam Avenue, the blacks lived, filling the apartments and creating a neighborhood of their own. No one from our side ever crossed to the other, and I never saw a black person walk through our block. “Don’t go over there, they’ll get you,” we told each other, adding, “If any of those black guys come to our block, we’re gonna get them.” No one ever defined what “get” meant.
Mrs. Sullivan led me, dragging my feet, across Amsterdam Avenue to the black block. I, head down, watched my heart pulsating through my shirt. Every symptom of fear I had ever imagined or read about—weak knees, shortness of breath, sweating, and trembling—worked as a team to quiver me. She clutched my arm, and I froze a big grin on my face as we arrived on their block.
It was like my block, but everybody on it was black. Children of every age played the same games we played in the street—ring-a-levio and Johnny Chase the White Horse. Stoops were filled with teenagers, mothers, and children. Others were leaning out of windows or sitting on fire escapes, gossiping. We shuffled down the block. People stopped and stared. In the middle of the block, I spied the Cabrini Hospital emergency entrance. I sped up, dragging Mrs. Sullivan.
“Where you going?” a voice came from somewhere. “Oh, I’m just taking her to the hospital,” I squeaked to the air. “She has to go to the hospital.” And I thought to myself, “They’re not going to get me, because I’m with her, protected by this little old lady. She’s better than St. Christopher.”
Some of those black bodies were stirring on the stoop and moving in. I was stuck in an anxiety nightmare, and I wasn’t even asleep. It seemed we had performed a thousand slow-motion steps just to get to the middle of this average-sized block. I tried to keep my eye on the sanctuary: the emergency entrance.
Phew! We made it to the hospital and safety. Mrs. Sullivan unclutched me and latched on to a nun in a starched white habit, and I slipped back into real time.
“I’ll just wait for her,” I announced.
I calculated that after they finished treating her, Mrs. Sullivan would escort me back across Amsterdam, and with her protection I would survive the trip. All I would have to bear was the wrath of the Boss for showing up so late for dinner.
Then thunder struck. “We may have to keep her overnight. Better go home.” I stared up into the face under the white habit. She smelled