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T he corner of King and Bay is perfect for certain things: planning an office coup alone or with others; talking into a cell phone while walking briskly to the gym; emerging into sudden sunshine after shopping underground; picketing. It's not a good place for doubt or disability. Especially during evening rush hour, when tower-dwellers are anxious and don't need some loser to step over on their way home. Especially if the evening is in December, and snow is falling in fat flakes that disappear on the overheated sidewalk, leaving it clean and shimmering. Remember that.

It's as good a place as any to run for the streetcar that will propel you home to the East end. East of money, your workday, the heartbeat of the country.

Nothing unusual about running for the streetcar. It's rumbling blocks away. You'll make it if you sprint past the glassy acreage of Commerce Court and across Bay Street - assuming the lights go your way. You believe in two types of commuters: those who accept waiting for the next car, staring at the infomercials looping in the intersection airspace, and those who run for it. You're a runner.

But falling isn't part of the plan. You jog along clutching your purse, overstuffed briefcase and shopping bags to your side, holding onto your middle, trying in vain to stop the painful ups and downs. Just past the heating grate, your feet slide out from under, and you glide the rest of the distance like a curling stone.

In your hometown you'd blame black ice; does such a thing exist in the city? You're a hick in the world-class metropolis. A glance at the queue of businesspeople confirms it. They turn as one toward the streetcar bearing down. Your left hip hurts where you landed. You envision a continuous slide past the line of black rubber overshoes, your body bumping off the curb and onto the tracks. But you've stopped moving.

You roll awkwardly onto hands and knees and push up. The suede pumps with the cunning faux buckle detail are ruined-no friends to pregnant feet, but you loved them anyway-as are the stockings, new out of the package today.

However, you still have your token, and you've made the Queen East streetcar, the direct one. You won't have to wait to transfer, contemplating your inadequacy across the street from Babeland, where neon silhouettes of skinny-busty Girls!! pulse the night away. Never mind whether the babes inside were born that way or manufactured. Their existence is depressing enough at the best of times, let alone in your third trimester.

The driver doesn't look up when you fail to snatch the transfer she waves in your direction. You make a second grab and get it, forgetting that you don't need it today. It's your habit to take what is offered. She wears black knit gloves with the fingers cut off. A gold racing stripe has been scratched down the centre of each fingernail.

"All the way back," she booms, imitating a bullhorn-voice.

You decide to resist the cattle call for a moment. Stand there - no one's getting around you - and look her full in the face.

"Thank you," you say with intense goodwill, spacing each word. "Have a great night."

"Ummm, my night. Move on, little Mama."

You flush and consider protesting but reject the idea because you'd look ridiculous, an upholstered, white Rosa Parks. So much for reaching out - was that what you thought you were doing? Better to prepare for battle.

There are empty seats at the back. You won't have to hang from the ceiling strap, swaying and fuming until someone notices your protruding belly. You could die waiting for that.

Since the pregnancy you've become something of a transit sociologist, mentally filing away the habits of the commuting public. Most people sit tight. But sometimes a woman will heave herself out of her seat with a self-satisfied smile. She's been there. She'll feel compelled to disclose how many children she's borne, making your experience, your aches and pains, even your miracle baby, all seem trivial. Countless multitudes of women have survived this; you're no special case. Did you think you were?

Or an old man might stand up, usually so old that you feel it's a legitimate toss-up. He needs to sit more than you do, but will refusing the kind gesture hurt his pride? This sort of social transaction can leave you distracted for hours.

The most likely type to give a pregnant woman his seat is the young man you can only think of as a hood-overly jewelled, hair-slicked, chewing a toothpick and probably hopped up on something, but there it is: unfailingly chivalrous. What this says about Toronto early in the 21st century you can't begin to guess.

And that's just the seat issue. Don't get started on the folks who can't keep their hands off your middle or say it must be twins - you're so big! - or glare at your coffee. You don't dare snarl back. Your personal belly has become public property. Get used to it. It's the first of many changes in life as you know it. You make for the back, scoping the car. This crowd looks pretty typical, reading or listening to music in a purposeful way, warding off anyone who might be inclined to chat. They don't have to worry about you.

You notice a man in a grey suit and overcoat with cropped dark hair, third to last row, aisle seat. He wears minimalist glasses in a softer dove grey and reads from an open file folder. The paper on top is stamped "Confidential". He's the one you're going to sit behind. You might as well learn something while you're stuck between work and home.

You've just hit the seat, have only begun to unclench the muscles supporting your altered centre of gravity, when the singing starts.

Swing low, sweet char-i-ot

Comin' for to carry me home -

You look for the singer out of the corner of your eye. He's staring at each rider in turn, willing a connection. He picked a tough northern place for this kind of thing.

Only two passengers gape openly, a pale girl and boy sitting in side-facing seats toward the front. He has freckles and an innocent, unformed look. His lips are parted, revealing a hunk of pink gum that he's working on and off. She has long, dirty-blonde hair. Her hand is on top of his, pulling his pointer finger down.

They look too young to be riding the streetcar alone, especially in the early dark of winter, but what do you really know about children anyway? How old would be old enough?

Unparented children: they roam the street where your husband has talked you into purchasing a brick semi-detached fixer-upper, its single hallway no wider than the streetcar aisle. A lanky kid showed up the day after you moved in and has been making excuses to chat ever since, stopping by whenever you're in the yard. You like this stray girl well enough and find yourself wanting to take her inside and feed her, an unaccountable desire that's grown over time. But what's the protocol? She effortlessly swats away queries about parents. Says she's fourteen, but you think maybe eleven or twelve. So far you've resisted inviting her in.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see-ee?

Comin' for to carry me home?

Your new neighbourhood is a little dodgy, in transition as the real estate agents say, but close enough to the Beaches for them to cash in. The Beaches are getting bigger every day. It's obvious from the westward creep of upscale coffee shops and reclaimed furniture stores, pioneers settling the wilderness.

Ama-zing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me -

The voice is a deep baritone penetrating your shell. You wonder about wretch; wasn't it replaced with something? At the moment you feel wretched though, squeezed into this metal can of malodorous wage-slaves at the end of their day.

You blink back tears. Music often makes you cry. Church music, cancer stories, your boss already discounting every word you say-all of these open the ducts.

"You need a permit to busk in the transit system," says Grey-man from the seat in front of you, looking over the slash of glass hanging low on his nose. He doesn't direct this to anyone in particular.

"I'm glad you asked that, Sir." The singer stands, one hand casually holding the metal pole, the other on his heart. Sincere.

"I wasn't asking, I was telling." You think of your father and stifle a laugh.

"And I have something to tell you. Greatest story ever told." He picks up his worn Bible and waves it in the air. This guy is well put together; you can't help noticing that. He exudes vitality. Unlike anyone else in this car, he loves his job. Which may not even be a job, but a vocation. His mission in life. What would it be like to have one?

"Let's cut to the chase, folks. You're bottom-line people," he says. "Who among us has never sinned?" He points around the car. "You? You?" The kids can't take their eyes off him.

You think about this question in spite of yourself. Do you believe in sin? It seems old-fashioned in a world where everything can be explained as part of something else, illness or economics or self-preservation. Do you? Don't look at him. Fumble in your bags, finger the cashmere scarf purchased for your husband. Probably your last splurge gift. The financial impact of family responsibility hasn't hit yet. And you doubt your ability to adjust. You weren't born with the frugality gene.

A girl unfolds her beat-up stroller in the aisle and drops a baby boy into it. She reaches up to pull the cord and then angles the stroller forward. Could be the mother or the older sister. She's concentrating. The moment the doors swing open she bumps the stroller down the steps, leading with her baby tilted backwards. You scream and cover your mouth as she pulls back just in time. A car in the curb lane has flown past the stop signs. She tries again, not looking too upset. The lane is clear this time. For the moment, it's safe to leave the streetcar.

You slump back, thinking: how did I get into this? Even the most careful person, the best mother, can't stop a driver racing the streetcar to the end of the block. Of course you do realize how you got into this situation. But what are the options, realistically? What is in must come out.

Your dreams have been troubled. You awoke the other night putting the baby to sleep in the refrigerator, covered in plastic wrap. Not feeling prepared, are you? You're forgetful. How will you remember to put the food in the fridge and the child in the crib?

"What about you, Ma'am," the preacher says. He noticed your reaction to the near-accident. He sees everything. "Have you accepted Jesus? Have you invited Him in, opened your door?"

The blood pounds in your ears. Rattle your newspaper so he knows you have other things to do.

But something stirs. Maybe it's contempt for the detachment of everyone around, excepting those poor children up front. You want to make amends. You try to answer - what was the question again? Hedge.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," you say, looking into his eyes at last. They're full of peace, warm and dark in a broad face. You could hide in those eyes.

The preacher continues his patter - you're just a human prop for him, a relief. But he's induced a humming panic in you. What do you believe? How can you be fit to guide a child through life if you don't even know the answer to such a simple question?

The streetcar is stopped at River. It should have started moving again by now. The driver's voice cuts to every part of the car.

"You don't got the fare, do you?"

You lean into the aisle to see up front.

"No ride, you got that Jack?"

A straggled man, too thin, leans on his canes, each with a brace where he rests his forearms. He's digging in his pockets. A rustle of impatience rolls through the car - let's go, we're waiting - the sentiment hovers, palpable in the air fogging the windows.

"Know what I'm sick of?" the driver says. "Actors and beggars. Why should I feel sorry for you? I got no time for this show." She shakes her head. "I got the worst route in the system, the worst."

Grey-man closes his file and places it on the seat next to him. He stands up and walks forward in a no-nonsense way, reaching into his pocket.

"What you want?"

"I'm paying his fare."

"This a charity ride?" She snorts.

"You can't stop me."

"You can pay and pay, but I say who rides. It's my judgment call." She points at the ragged man. "Get off."

He doesn't argue, just turns and struggles down the steps, then crosses in front of the streetcar. You want to shout at him to stay on the sidewalk - don't put yourself in her path, don't be such a pathetic fool. But he makes it to the other side and curves his body into the wind as he starts to shuffle east.

Grey-man shakes his finger in the driver's face.

"For shame," he says. You're surprised he would say something like that. "I'm taking your license number, do you hear me? You're going to lose your job."

She looks in the mirror before releasing the brake.

"You want to walk home too, Suit?"

She sticks her head out the window and yells at the man on the street. "Ha! Run, cripple! Let me see you run! Ha ha!"

People cluck, but no one else challenges her. It's unsettling to worry about the person piloting the streetcar. Grey-man returns and sits down stiffly. He reaches for his file, holding it closed on his lap. You rest your forehead on the seat ahead of you. Your hair brushes his coat.

The preacher sees a new vision of God's work for him. He grabs his Bible and heads for the front, leaving his coat and backpack on the seat. He must be riding all the way out and back tonight, taking his holy-roller show to a warm, captive audience. He crouches behind the driver, whispering. You wonder where his bell and candle are. The driver starts to laugh, a loud cackle.

Your stop is coming. You gather your things and smile at the children. You allow your hand to graze Grey-man's shoulder as you pass by, a fluttering pat of appreciation that could be accidental. He doesn't appear to notice.

You haul your belly all the way up front, turning and squeezing. The preacher stands sideways to let you by. Before you can stop yourself, you pull the scarf out and drape it around his neck, reaching up and almost losing your balance as the car jolts to a stop.

"Keep warm."

He touches the scarf, looks at you appraisingly. Wrapping the top of your head with his large hand, he says, "God bless you, sister. And your little one."

"That baby doomed," the driver says. "No-good mother like that, I feel sorry for it."

"Go to hell," you say and lurch down the steps. Immediately you turn and wait for the crowd to disembark so you can go back up and do it right. Your stomach pumps acid as you try to summon better curses, powerful ones to maim the monster who blasted your baby when you weren't ready to protect it.

Riders keep coming, bumping your shoulders, annoyed at you for standing so close to the doors. Where did all these people come from? You can't wait.

"Listen, bitch," you scream. "That poor man is dead in the street now, dead at River Street." You look around and open your arms wide to bring the milling crowd onside. Your voice is their call to action, but they're sleepwalkers programmed for home.

"I heard sirens. I saw what you did." You point at her. "Murderer!"

The last person steps down and around you, revealing the driver in the door-space checking her mirrors, lips twitching. She turns to look at you and laughs, shaking her head as the doors shut. The preacher's face appears in a window, his eyes wide and concerned. The streetcar wheels whine as they begin turning.

"In a hurry? Keeping the schedule? I wait on you for hours, Lady. Always late." Your voice goes raw. "Fucking bitch, I hope you die in that driver's seat!"

The streetcar pulls away, shuddering, and a freezing wind whips along behind it. You're trembling. Cold and sweaty at the same time. You pat yourself down, arranging the bags, and try to slow your breathing. The baby kicks you in the ribs. There are only a few commuters left on the sidewalk. You stand as still as possible and meet the eyes of no one.

Your husband appears out of the night, snow dusting his shoulders.

"Oh good, you're here," he says. "There was an accident. I was afraid you'd be delayed."

"Where?"

"Near the Don River. See it?"

You shake your head, collapse into him and hand him all your bags. He's not the kind of man to quibble about carrying your purse. You love that about him.

He talks non-stop during the walk home. He's been working on the house. The nursery is nearly ready to paint. Your role will be picking colours. It's not a good idea to breathe paint fumes or climb ladders, not in your condition. You've been spinning the colour wheel, mulling over the entire spectrum. You're grateful that he'll paint the room as many times as you ask him to.

You squeeze your husband's arm and think how wonderful it is to make a decision with no consequences. If you choose wrong, just paint over your bad judgment.