Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
Turquoise eye shadow edged with black-winged eyeliner, Loretta puckers her nude glossy lips, smiling in the bathroom mirror. Fluffing up her curly afro, she twists side to side to capture the best angle of her beige, short-sleeve jacket and bell bottoms, a salmon top beneath, all held together by a stark belt. The same outfit they met in, open-toe heels and all.
The smile slowly fades as reality sets in. It's not like Christopher would notice. He was either too tired or caught up with some work from the Goodwill office. It’s their ninth anniversary, yet he'd be there once the food was cold. Probably ‘cause he had to double-check the paperwork’s signed for the fourteenth time, knowing it was an hour and a half past the time they decided they’d eat.
She glances at the napkin beside her makeup set, a blueberry resting atop. Her saving grace. Out of all the French Quarter, she placed her faith in Crazy Al—albino negro-spiritual dread-head. He'd been trying to sell her this 'magical blueberry' at the neighborhood shop, always on and on about 'It'll make what you see in your sleep come true.' A berry to make her dreams come true.
Loretta bursts out in laughter. It's ridiculous Louisiana voodoo. The only thing keeping the pearl ring on her finger was the longsuffering of the holy spirit. She plopped the berry in her mouth, humoring the 'magic.'
Leaving the bathroom, she went to the spotless kitchen, smoky entrails of vegetable gumbo and an oversized leg of lamb wafting into her nostrils. Their favorite ever since they stood under that arbor in New Orleans. She grits her teeth, recalling the subtle glowers at her and Christopher, eyes putting a tag over them; n and n-lover. It's probably why his side of the family avoided dinners at their villa.
***
Christopher mimics the smile on the back of the Industries phone. The half-head smiling is plastered on the white phone, lodged in the azure wall, Goodwill's insignia. He glanced at the phone, the hairs on his back standing stiff as nails. His stomach sunk like he swallowed a bowl of needles. If they were his family, they’d support him.
I’m not dragging them to dinner. ‘Just making sure they come over for a bit. Already was hell trying to convince them. ‘Don’t want to deal with their rigamarole, but Loretta’ll love it. Eat together like a real family. He thought.
He looks at the noir portrait of Loretta and him beaming at one another, nose to nose. He's in his lavender blazer with the white button-up beneath and a lavender tie tied about the neck. She's in her short-sleeved, white-laced dress that drags against the floor like cascading waves of water, turquoise eyeliner brightening her complexion.
He remembers the day, drowning in her brown opal of eyes. Running his fingers through her bundles of curls, silky to the touch. Exigency strikes him, pulling the phone to his ear and dialing his mother's number. After four rings, she picks up.
"Jazelle, you on your way—"
"Yes," he can feel her eyes roll, "We're punctual. What're you, my dad?"
"Meet me in front of my house in 10."
"That's how you ask for shit?"
"Please," he sighs, "meet me in 10 minutes. Please."
"Whatever," she pulled away from the phone for a moment, "JULIAN! THEODORE. GET OFF YOUR ASS—" and the phone cut out.
Christopher never called her mom ever since she talked down on their marriage. Something like, 'You think I want half-babboon grandkids?' and the ever so frequent, 'Whaddya even see in the bitch?'
Same with his father's outdated science that's probably pulled out his ass, 'Negros are an invasive species. We've gotta weed out the population. We're endangered. Don't know why Johnson caved in. What is a Civil Rights Act? They were fine over there; we were fine over here—lines in the sand, drawn for a reason. Nixon oughtta veto it, but he loves them just as much. Fucking sellouts.' Then Julian coughs his violent, mucus-filled cough, takes another hit of a cigar, and coughs again.
His brother is quiet, a curious observer. Theo watches and takes notes, his mind a tablet of critiques of Mom, Dad, and probably him. Christopher wonders how his mom pushed out a genius who manages not to hate her or Julian. At least he never vocalizes it.
Christopher fixes his stack of bills for the donation center amidst his desk. He grabs his beige trench coat, straw fedora, and black briefcase, turning off the lights as he runs out the door.
He is usually the last to leave the building, overworking himself to death. Last week, he caught a single strand of gray sticking out of his blonde hair. He locks up, jumping in his navy blue Maserati Kyalami. He adjusts his mirrors, throwing his briefcase in the passenger seat.
Key in the ignition, he floors the gas. He screeches past the street lights, blurred by his speed. The same golden shimmer he saw out the window of Antoine’s ten years ago.
Loretta used to wait at the Antoine's on St. Louis Street. Christopher was a regular for dinner, Loretta knowing what he'd ordered: Apple Smoked Bacon Boursin Cheese for $3.06. She'd call him 'Chris' and asked how his day went. It evolved to Chris asking to see her after work to talk over a bottle of Galliano and orange juice.
They fell in love, yet Chris knew how his family felt about black people, nonetheless integration. It always felt like Julian and Jazelle had a Ku-Klux-Klan stick up their ass from how religiously they preached Jim Crow. He hated it, and sometimes, he feels just at the brink of hating them.
They fell in love. It was magic. Loretta taught him about himself, what it meant to be African American, and what it meant to be a second-class citizen, and Chris gave her the world. So much so that she'd choose to play housewife even though she was just as capable of running a business on her own.
He wanted to stick it to Julian and Jazelle: a boot to their faces—Chris, a white man, with a black woman. The concept bewitched him. They'd change once they saw the error in their ways. But the ring he slid over Loretta’s finger crystalized their bigotry.
The more they relent, the more the cauldron of resentment boiled within Chris. Resentment Loretta faces the brunt of. He’s a blizzard, and he knows it. Loretta’s checkups, asking him ‘What’s wrong?’ met with a solemn ‘Nothing,’ and a kiss to the forehead goodnight because he has work in the morning,
Chris makes a left onto the street right before his house, his family waiting for him in front of his door. He parks the car behind the silver Chrysler Newport his dad nicknames 'Shelly.' Probably some woman he's actually in love with since he treats the car like his damn wife. Chris grabs his briefcase and leaves the car.
Theo leans against the house’s door, aggressively scribbling on a page. Probably journaling about Julian and Jazelle's lectures about keeping the bloodline pure during the ride here.
Chris tries; he has to for Loretta. He has to make it work. Flinging his arm open, he embraces the three, met with a clash of spicy cologne, perfume with tobacco undertones. His nose was crammed with roses and fragrant timberwood.
Coughing, he cleared his throat, smiling at them, "You see what I'm doing?" he points at his face, "I want you to do this. I don't want any nonsense today. Tonight's special. Loretta needs to feel loved. Yeah?"
Theo nodded silently.
“Not you, Theo.” Chris ruffles his hair with a slight smile. He peeks over his shoulder at his notepad, a stick figure on the floor with X’s in their eyes. Theo was always into horror, but his mom and dad thought it was demonic. They’d know if they paid attention.
"Dinner better be Michelin star-worthy," Julian said, pursing his lips to the lit cigar.
"Sure it’ll be," Chris’ irritation made his smile grow heavy.
"Uh-huh," Jazelle began, "Happy anniversary." She said—eyes lowered—handing him a lavender bouquet from her flower shop.
Julian wheezed so hard it sounded like his soul left his body.
"Put the cigar out for fuck's sake," Chris turned his back to them, about to push the door in, "See you all 5; you’re the surprise."
And he went upstairs, pretending today was like any other.
***
The door creaked, a fatigued groan echoing down the hall—Christopher's signature. Loretta called him in for dinner, but he passed the kitchen straight in his trench coat, giving her the same response as any other day, 'Pack some up for me, baby. I'm headed to bed.'
Loretta's head tilted, bewildered. Did he not know what today was? Carrying the warm leg of lamb to their room, she figured he needed a bit more convincing. Narrowed slits scanned over him, asleep in their bed, suit and tie not even taken off, lipstick sloppily smeared on his lips, and a laced panty sticking out his breast pocket like a handkerchief.
Loretta's eyes twitch, remorse making her jaw clench. Not even the decency to try and hide it. The scarlet letter bore into his forehead. This was why he didn't touch her the same way. This is why she feels alone while he sleeps right beside her. This is what she shoulders the resentment of his KKK of a family for.
Gently resting the tray of lamb on her nightstand, mounds of distaste protrude from her head like a tumor.
All Loretta musters a smile, as always.
James Baldwin's words at UC Berkeley played live on the Philco-Ford, merely white noise.
Lifting the leg of lamb overhead, she brings it down to his face, a crunch filling the room. His nose blue and twisted, he tried to shriek, smothered by the leg once more. Dissatisfied, Loretta pounded his face in again, his skull inverted to that of a pear, blood spotting her clothes. It rained down on him again, Christopher no longer moving, the crack of bone music to her ears.
"If you don’t want me, say that."
The madness that consumed her waned, horrified eyes staring at the bludgeoned body. The leg of lamb dropped on the floor with a thud. She felt the stares in her rear. Peeking over her shoulder, Christopher's immediate family shuddered in fear, his mother soundlessly screaming.
She turned back to Christopher's corpse, the mirage fading. There wasn't lipstick on his lips or panties in his breast pocket. Only a lavender bouquet poking out from beneath her pillow and his wedding day suit beneath his coat.
Crazy Al was right. It's exactly what she saw in her sleep.
A nightmare.
Kenyatta is a Creative Writing Major. He writes poetry, prose, and is getting his feet wet with screenwriting. Kenyatta enjoys making fun of himself in poems and writing. He loves lemonade and Uzo!