Page 2 of Salty Pickle

A wavering voicenext tome says, “You know, you’re supposed to keep pets in a carrier.”

I turn to the woman. She has sleek gray hair and huge red glasses. Her checked suit and shoes undoubtedly cost more than my yearly income.

Tucked in her lap isa supple red purse with a furry face sticking out.A Pomeranian,bymy guess, although it’s groomed within an inch of its life.

“I don’t think Matilda would appreciate being in a bag,” I say.

“Hummph.” Her disapproving lips pinch together like a squished tomato.

Will she tell on me? Nobody stopped me from getting on the subway with a goat. Of course, I hadn’t seen a single attendant or official-looking person in the station. We’d followed a lady with a baby stroller through a pair of swinging gates, then got on the first traingoingto Manhattan.

As the subway moves forward, an older gentleman sits next to me.“I used to have a goat,” he saysand reachesdown to pet Matilda.

She preens under his hand like a puppy. She’sfull grownbut barely tops the knees of most travelers. Her beautiful white coat is broken only by the cotton diaper tied to her hindquarters. Pooping on the subway would definitely get us kicked off.

I beam at my new neighbor. I knew I’d find my people here. “What was your goat’s name?”

He sits back in his seat. “Oh, we didn’t name them. They were meat goats. Raised them until their fat, round bodies were ready for the butcher. Made the best stew.”

I can’t stifle my gasp, pulling Matilda away from him.

He sniffs. “Don’t worry. I seeshe’sa milk goat. She a good producer?”

As ifmy baby is nothing more than a factory!

Except…she isa good producer. I can’t help but be proud of her and say, “Two quarts a day.”

“Nice. I do love a hearty goat cheese.”

I glance down at her. Oh, no. Matilda’s nosing her way into a mother’s diaper bag, probably foraging for snacks. I try to pull her back, but then one of the lightning-quick pains rockets across my midsection. I suck in a hard breath and press my hand to my belly.

The woman next to me leans away. “You’re not in labor, are you?”

Right. I forgot to mention that, too. I’m eight months pregnant. I’m headed to meet the father.

I didn’t call. I don’t have a cell phone.

I didn’t email. No computer.

He has no idea. I’m going in cold and hoping for the best.

But first, to breathe through this pain.

The man next to me sounds alarmed. “Should we call an ambulance? Are you due?”

My voice is a squeak from the darting cramps. “No. I have a month to go. It’s just pregnancy pains.”

The woman frowns like she doesn’t believe me, sure I’ll shoot a newborn out onto her red leather pumps.

“Does the baby’s father work in the financial district?” the man asks. “He should have gotten you a car.”

“I think so,” I say.

“You don’t know?” The woman’s tomato lips tighten again.

The pain finally eases, and I can talk normally. “I only knew him ninety minutes.” Give or take.

“Ninety minutes!” Both the lady and the man cry the words at the same time.Thismakes even more passengers turn their heads to look.

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