Manhattan, New York
Summer, 1956
A Baby? The Wolfman?
“Mitchie, look at that lady!”
Heading towards the Brooklyn Bridge and home, they’d stopped for the very long traffic light near Union Square, at the always busy, multiple intersection of Broadway, Fourth Avenue, East 14th Street, and Park Avenue South.
A few car lengths ahead, at the intersection there was an elderly woman wearing a multi-colored wool tam and – in August – a topcoat.
Held in the woman’s arms there was what appeared to be a baby swaddled in a light blanket. Walking along the curb, going from car to car, looking through the window, asking something, getting a negative response, working her way to the Ford convertable, approaching, settling a corner of the blanket over the baby’s head, still on the curb, “Please,” the woman said, looking over the top, directly into the car, “My baby is sick and I’ve got to get him to the hospital!”
Marsha had found that most of the New Yorkers she’d met, unlike mid-westerners, seemed to be rather cold and distant. But to refuse a ride to woman with a sick child? A child who needed to get to a hospital yet! “What hospital? Where is it?”
Stepping off the curb, coming closer to the car, glancing down, checking to see if the baby’s head was covered, “Not far from here,” the woman said, “it’s on Amsterdam, near the Lincoln Center.”
Looking at him beseechingly, Marsha shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s more than five miles away...” he said softly, “in the opposite direction.”
“Yeah, but, Mitchie, how can we turn her down?” Not waiting his approval, which, knowing her husband, she knew was coming – and even if it weren’t – opening her door, stepping out of the car, Marsha pulled the passenger seat forward, so the woman could get into the back... which she did, with a barely noticed nod of her head.
Finally, the green light. Rather than angling to the south on Fourth Avenue, the Ford took a right turn going north on 14th Street.
Twisting on the seat, looking over her shoulder, “What’s wrong with your baby?” Marsha asked.
“She’s, uh, got diarrhea.”
‘She’? I’d swear she said ‘he’ before. But maybe, Marsha thought, I misunderstood. Marsha did know, though, that diarrhea was not, usually, a hospital treated condition.
14th Street clear, as the convertible gained speed, the wind, coming above and over the windshield unexpectedly lifted the triangle of blanket covering the ‘baby’s’ head. Glancing at Marsha, replacing the blanket quickly, the woman held it down with her hand.
Turning forward, Marsha looked out the window a moment, then opening the glove compartment, removing a pencil and a small Spiral Notebook, she wrote something... Poking Mitchell on the side of his thigh, Marsha motioned for him to read what she had written.
Slowing the car, glancing about to see if there was any approaching traffic, looking down, he quickly read: That’s the hairiest kid I’ve ever seen. Kind of looks like Lawrence Talbot. Picking up speed...
Looking out the window, catching the woman unaware, the wind once again tugged at the blanket and, sniffing the air, a hairy, gray head with pointed ears and a black snout poked out.
Looking in the rear view mirror, “Lady,” slowing again...
Forcing the head down, recovering it, the lady looked at Mitchell.
... the car pulled to the curb, “that’s not a baby, is it?”
“I never said it was a baby!” The woman said defensively, nastily, her thinly penciled eyebrows jiggling on her forehead, “I said it was my baby!”
“Oh!” Mitchell looked at Marsha, whom, attempting to hold back laughter, held her hand over her mouth. Looking at the woman, “And is your, uh, ‘baby’ really sick?” Thinking, If she says yes, I’ll take her wherever, within reason, she wants to go. But...
“No!” the woman said belligerently.
Turning forward, glancing at Marsha, he drove to the Amsterdam Avenue intersection where she might get another lift. Pulling to the curb, the Ford stopped. Opening his door, turned on the seat, pulling it forward, he waited as the woman, and her Schnauzer stepped from the car. Then...
Pulling from the curb, Mitchell joined Marsha in a gale of laughter.
In Wolf Man movies, the wolf man’s real name, when human, is Lawrence Talbot.
