Tony's fare that February evening was a tall, beautiful, sophisticated, and very pregnant blonde. He got out of the cab and helped her into the back. "You want me to take you to the hospital?" he half-joked.
"No, just Grand Central."
"You got it." He went back around and got in the driver's seat. He drove in silence for awhile, slowly, since it was a Friday in Manhattan and there were a few snow flurries. He wondered about his passenger. He'd picked her up at Wallace & McQuade, which was a big advertising agency. What was she doing working that late in a pregnancy? Maybe she wasn't married. Or maybe she was but her husband was a bum and couldn't support her. Or maybe the agency needed a pregnant woman.
"You a model?"
She laughed. "I'm flattered, but you should know it's a waste of time to use pick-up lines on me."
He scowled. "I was just making conversation." He drove in silence again.
...
Angela could just imagine how her mother would react if she knew that a young, good-looking cabbie, with big brown eyes and wavy brown hair, had hit on her in the ninth month of pregnancy. But then Mother thought Angela should divorce Michael. She didn't understand how important his work was to him. Not that Angela liked him being away so much, especially right now, but he'd promised to be back in time for the birth of their child, and that was still two weeks away.
Angela hadn't planned to keep working this far into her pregnancy, but her work was important, too. And her current major account would've been snapped up by that snake Jim Peterson if she turned her back for a second. She'd finish things up next week and then take some time off for the birth and the recovery. A month should do it.
Not that she didn't want to spend time home with her child. She sometimes had fantasies of herself as a devoted mother with a large family and a doting husband. But she knew that wasn't who she and Michael were.
The cabbie startled her by asking, "You a secretary?"
Was he hitting on her again, or just making conversation? "I'm a junior account executive."
"So junior account executives don't get time off to have babies?"
"Well, most of them are men. And I wanted to keep working."
"Yeah? Well, if you were my wife, you wouldn't be working at all, especially right now."
Great, her cabbie was a male chauvinist pig. "Oh, really? And what would I be doing if I were your wife? Bending over a hot stove, barefoot?"
"I wouldn't make you cook right now, but yeah, you'd be barefoot, so I could rub your swollen feet. And I'd do the cooking."
"Oh boy."
"I happen to be a great cook."
"What a shame I didn't marry you."
He scowled at her in the mirror again. "Listen, Lady, I'm already married, and that's exactly how I treated my wife three and a half years ago."
He seemed young to have been a husband and father that long, but maybe he was just boyish-looking. She felt guilty finding him attractive, particularly since they were both married. He wasn't even her type. She blamed the pregnancy hormones.
...
Tony knew it was wrong to argue with a fare. One of the first things Alex, his mentor, taught him was, no matter how controversial the topic a passenger brings up, don't engage. You don't have to agree, but don't get emotional about it. But this junior account executive broad was really getting to him, from her women's libber attitude to her thinking he was hitting on her. Not that Tony hadn't been known to indulge in some harmless flirtation, but that's all it was. He was 100% faithful to Marie. And if he were going to cheat, it wouldn't be with this chick in the back of his cab.
He was about to apologize, even though it wasn't his fault, when two things happened suddenly, only one of which he immediately realized. A snowstorm blew in out of nowhere, and his passenger's water broke.
"Oh God!" she gasped.
"Yeah, it's really coming down now."
"That's going to make getting to the hospital more difficult."
"Don't even joke about a thing like that."
"I'm not joking."
He looked at her in the mirror and saw she wasn't. "Oh God!"
"Does this mean you're not one of those cab drivers who delivers babies in the backseat?"
"Sorry, no."
"Well, that's going to affect your tip."
It was probably a good sign that she was still making jokes. "Are you having contractions?" She winced in a way that answered his question. "Do you want me to time them?"
"You could but it's my first baby and I don't know how far apart they're supposed to be."
"Me either."
She winced again, but this time apparently at his grammar, since she muttered, "Neither." He was tempted to ask if she'd rather have an English professor deliver her baby, but he didn't think it was the time to be sarcastic with her. Then she asked, "What did you do when your wife had a baby?"
"Bought cigars."
"I don't think that would help right now."
He knew Louie would probably fire him for this, but he pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the engine, and said, "Button up your coat."
...
Angela stared at the cabbie. Was he kicking her out into the snow? She should've known better than to argue with him, but she'd been so irritable lately. "You're making me walk?"
"Well, I'd carry you but I've got a bum shoulder. And we'd never make it to the nearest hospital. But I know a doctor who lives two blocks from here. I think we can make it in time."
"Oh." He expected her to argue, but after a moment she said, "All right."
He was wearing his hat, gloves, and jacket already. Louie always stuck him with the taxi that had the worst heater, he said because Tony was the rookie, even after six months. Of course when he started, around Sam's birthday, it had been the taxi with no air-conditioning.
Angela's internal thermostat was out of whack because of pregnancy. Sometimes she sweated even on cold days. Still, she buttoned up her coat since she'd be walking two city blocks in a snowstorm. She couldn't think of an alternative, other than waiting in the back of the cab while the driver went for help, and hope that she wouldn't have to deliver the baby all alone.
When they were standing on the sidewalk next to each other, she realized he wasn't much taller than she was. But even with his winter clothes, she could sense he was probably muscular enough to carry a pregnant woman two city blocks, if not for his bum shoulder.
"Uh, you wanna lean on me?"
"What about your shoulder?"
"The right one's OK."
"Oh, yes, thank you."
"All in a day's work."
She nestled against him and his right arm wrapped around her. She felt really right there and Tony felt really unfaithful, even though he was just trying to be a good Samaritan.
"What about...?" she began, and he expected her to ask about his wife. But then she continued, "...My things?"
"Your things?"
"My purse and briefcase. I left them in the taxi."
He let go. "Don't go anywhere."
She felt twenty degrees colder without his body heat, but that wasn't the only reason she shivered. Yes, he was sexy, with, she now noticed, a great butt, but he was also sweet and tender, judging by the way he held her. She envied his wife. Michael had never held her like that.
The cabbie came back with her purse strap across his chest, bandolier style, and her briefcase tucked under his bad shoulder. "How did you hurt your shoulder?" she blurted out.
He sighed. "You wanna hear my life story?"
She shrugged. "It'll pass the time."
He put his arm around her and started leading her towards the doctor. His mouth was near her ear, so she could hear him speaking softly, despite the storm. She was hardly even aware of the snowflakes and wind on her face, although she couldn't ignore the pain she was in from her impatient passenger. Still, the cabbie's deep voice was soothing.
"I was born in Brooklyn twenty-three years and a bunch of months ago. I had my first kiss at eleven with a girl I never saw again. I dated a bunch of girls but Marie, my wife, is the only one I ever loved. I played in the minor leagues for a couple years, till I hurt my shoulder sliding into second. Now I box, since that kind of injury doesn't matter as much in boxing. I have one little girl, Samantha, who looks just like Marie. We hope to have more kids when money's not so tight. We're Italian and Catholic, and we love kids anyway. I guess that about covers it."
"Everything but your name."
He chuckled. "Tony Micelli."
"Angela Bower. Forgive me for not shaking hands."
"Maybe later. So what's your story, Angela?" It felt too informal to call a passenger by her first name, but he still didn't know if she was a Miss or a Mrs., and he was too old-fashioned to say Ms.
"Well, I'm pregnant."
"Really?"
"Yes, just a little bit. And I was born in Fairfield, Connecticut, about a quarter century ago. I had my first kiss at thirteen and didn't date very much. And, um, Michael, my husband, is the only man I ever loved, although I don't see much of him since he travels a lot, as a documentary filmmaker. And you already know about my career."
"You want more kids?"
She winced. "At the moment, my answer is no."
"It's gonna be OK, Angela. We're almost there."
"And this doctor is good?"
"I've heard he's the best. Of course he's not exactly an obstetrician, but they learn everything in med school, right?"
"What kind of doctor is he?"
"A veterinarian. Specializing in cats."
Angela ground to a halt.
