42 MINUTES AND A BURNED OUT CLUTCH

By Loretta Franta

When Doe got out of prison I saw her on the street and she said
--What’s up, my little white bitch?
That’s how she talked to me so I didn’t blink.
Doe.
Five foot three, bright skinned, beautiful till she opened her mouth.
Like they say, drop dead beautiful.
Short for Doretha.
Nobody was supposed to know.
She’d been set up.
Some violation.
Probably about money.
She went to downstate women’s prison when six months pregnant.
It was nothing new—jail or pregnant.
When her time got close, she got transferred out of general population to Cook County Jail Hospital.
She delivered a boy.
Then they called Shorty the father.
Shorty: because whenever he went to buy a bag he was always short.
Nobody cared because he was such a good customer.
He put his driver’s license in his back right pocket, borrowed my car and took two women.
They both worked for him so they didn’t really have a choice.
Shorty parked on California Avenue.
Nita and Millie didn’t come in.
They waited in the car, high as kites.
At the hospital, Doe and Shorty had ten minutes together, tops, without the three-inch glass between them.
It wasn’t much of a conversation.
Shorty signed a Department of Corrections receipt and swore he had someone in the car to hold the baby home.
Then a deputy handed Shorty the baby.
He smiled at the baby until the elevator hit the first floor.
He walked back to the car and handed the baby to Millie in the back seat.
Nita was in the front to keep Shorty awake for the drive back.
42 minutes, start to finish.
That’s what they give you.
On the way home, Shorty burned out the clutch.
--What’s up, my little white bitch?
--Not much. You owe me six hundred bucks.