So we return to me kneeling at her grave, my tears are dry now. The act of remembering all that life seems to have dulled death, at least for a little while. I raise my head and look at the headstone one last time. My eyes fall on the epitaph engraved on the bottom. I had it put there as a last-minute addition.
In the week preceding the funeral I had been looking through a box of Lucia’s old belongings. I found a book that I remember her often examining. It was called 101 Inspirational Latin Phrases. It wasn’t the kind of thing I expected her to have, and I can’t imagine her attraction to a dead language. As I flipped through it I noticed some passages were highlighted and circled; she must have liked those. But there was one I found that she had whited out. Purely out of curiosity I’d scraped away the whiteout to reveal the words now engraved on her tombstone. She might not have appreciated them in life, but in death they were the only words I could find to describe her.
They read, OMNIUM RERUM FINIS ETIAM DOLORIS . . . Everything has its purpose, even pain.
HANNAH PERRY
Squish
Squish.
A life just ended. A light has gone out, and not one soul flinched. Three more lights, snuffed, within thirty seconds. They’re scurrying about, following their instincts, when a looming shadow is suddenly upon them. Faster they go, trying to evade the inevitable, but—
Squish.
Legs broken, exoskeleton crushed, antennae bent, and with one final twitch, the ant is no more. The weapon of mass destruction used to wreak havoc among the colonies is the foot of a six-year-old boy. A mop of chestnut hair falls over his eyes; he smiles with elation as he plays.
To him, it’s just a game.
They’re simply ants. They don’t mean anything.
Squish.
One final leg twitches.
Her eyes shine as they walk through the halls. His arm around her shoulders, showing the world that they are together. For two years she had been stealing glances full of longing at the boy who spent his springs playing baseball and autumns competing in soccer. A surge of courage during the beginning of her junior year allowed her to shoot him a smile, which was returned.
Smiles turned to waves and waves spun into hellos. Soon he had taken her to the movies, where she had held hands with a boy for the first time. Things were pleasant as she set her sights on New York University; acceptance to her school of choice would convince her that the universe was on her side.
They were growing up, things getting more real. She wants her relationship with him to grow deeper—reach new emotional levels. She utters the truth three weeks before the end of their junior year.
“I love you.”
He breaks it off the next day.
He didn’t stick around to see the tears begin to drip down her face. They were teenagers—the Youth of America—why ruin that time of their lives with feelings that forced them to stay in one place?
He liked her, for sure.
Lainie was a catch, but she wanted something more than he felt comfortable giving at age seventeen. And it wasn’t as if she wouldn’t get over it and be dating someone new within the week. This was high school, after all.
As he opens the front door to his house, after coming home from hanging out with his friends, he’s not surprised to see his father’s car missing from the driveway.
It’s not important.
Pushing away the looming shadow over his thoughts, he flops down on the couch, discarding his schoolwork, and turns on the TV.
Fingers tap on a keyboard at an increasingly rapid rate, errors becoming more commonplace—not that the man cared. He was running on coffee, deadlines, and the fear of losing his job. Very few people remained in the newspaper firm.
The lights are dim.
Computers turned off.
The boss tells his employees to head home, but the man remains, determined to finish his article on the new bill passed concerning local teachers’ retirement and its effects on the education system. In the back of his mind, a voice tells him to clock out and make it home in time for dinner with his wife and son.
His fingers hesitate for a moment before going back and typing once more. If he doesn’t complete this article by midnight at a level of high quality, the next place he might find himself is the unemployment line. His eyes flit to the phone sitting to his right, buzzing as it rings, his wife’s name lighting up the screen.
He doesn’t answer. Too much work.
He knows the home he’ll return to won’t be a happy one. His wife will act like nothing’s wrong, though her actions will say otherwise. His son will be up in his room, claiming to be doing homework when asked to come downstairs. The man runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as a sigh escapes his chapped lips.
He’s trying; really, he is.
The man loves his family, but the overtime is what allows them to stay where they are. Times might be tough for them, but he knows his family has to understand and possesses the strength to pull through.
They have to.
She looks over at the clock for the fifth time that hour: 9:36 p.m.
She was alone again. The woman rests her head in her hands, elbows leaning on the dining room table in front of her. The silence of the house became the loudest thing she has ever heard. Her son was upstairs, but it still felt empty. Everyone was going about their separate lives, and just so happening to live under the same roof.
Standing up, she moves to the counter with the intention of making herself a cup of tea in an attempt to relax. The stillness of the surrounding atmosphere was unnerving. The vacancy of each room strengthens her craving for someone to be next to her.
One would think a mother could turn to her son, but the distance between them was ever growing. The more she urged him to focus on his studies and make something of his life, the more he insisted he just wanted to be a teenager.
That everything was okay.
That he was young with no need to worry.
Which, in turn, only caused her to worry more. Her lips go to the mug in her hands, the soft steam of the tea warming her nose. Herbal flavors mixed with cinnamon and orange dance on her taste buds as the liquid spills down her throat, warming her core. Her eyes flicker to her phone as she sees its screen light up the dim room; there is a text message from someone the voice in the back of her head tells her to stop talking to.
Setting down the mug, she picks up the phone to examine the message. It’s a response to a question she had asked earlier in the day when they were speaking face-to-face. The someone had recently become a regular customer at the diner she had been waitressing at for twenty years. Conversations began as small talk while taking his orders, which turned into her joining him during her break, and soon the two were meeting up for coffee when she was off work.
He listened to her. Cared for her. Made her feel wanted again.
She honestly felt that he understood her when she would speak of the regrets she had from never attending university; her hidden desires to do more with the mind she knew she had. His hand would envelop hers, and everything would seem alright again.
He said she was beautiful, that every line on her face was just another part of how she became who she is today.
Fingers tap at the screen, responding to the answer he had given. And, under the assumption that her son was asleep, she slips out the door.
Rays of sunshine stream through the windows of the school, tempting the teenagers with the wonderful weather they would experience after they end their final day. Most of the students hold light hearts with the anticipation of getting another three months of freedom, except for the girl whose heart beats with adrenaline at the thought of what she is about to do.
The final three weeks of her junior year have been anything but pleasant, tears and profanities both being spilled on a regular basis. Questions still racing through her mind, ranging from frustrated to irritated to confused to hurt.
As soon as the final bell rings, releasing the horde of hormon
al beasts from their cages, she makes it her mission to locate her target. In under thirty seconds, her eyes lock on to his familiar chestnut mop. He turns to face her when a friend points out the blonde making a beeline straight for him.
Slipping his hands into the pockets of his jean shorts, he attempts to seem collected and casual, when in reality he’s dreading what’s about to come. It didn’t come as a surprise that she was going to beg for him back—they had been good together—but he has to make her understand that things weren’t going to work out.
“Why?”
The simple question catches him off-guard. He blinks, not knowing how to answer from off the top of his head. A clap on the shoulder from his friend signifies a wish of good luck before he’s left alone with the girl.
She asks it again. “Why?”
Reasons begin to flood into his brain, despite his efforts to push them back. He swallows. “I told you why, three weeks ago.”
“No, you told me that you didn’t want things the same way I wanted them. You didn’t tell me why you felt that way.”
He remains silent. She doesn’t.
“I loved you, Jeremy. Heck, I still do. That isn’t why I’m here, though. I’m here for an answer about why you don’t care. Why don’t you care about me? Why were we together if you don’t care about me?”
It takes him a moment to utter the quiet words, “I did. I do.”
“Then why end things?”
“I don’t care about you as deeply as you do about me. I probably could, over time, but that isn’t what I want.”
“Why?”
The question rings throughout his mind, stirring up thoughts and emotions he has done so much to keep under wraps. He stares at the girl in front of him, who is desperate for some kind of closure. Closure he knows he can’t give her. Taking a deep breath, he starts to turn to walk away, but not before giving her the simplest answer he can:
“It just isn’t, Lainie.”
A door opens, and shuts with a bang. Heavy footsteps clomp through the house, and a tired body slumps in a dining room chair. A head pops in from the living room; her apron is still wrapped around her waist from work, an exhausted look in her eyes.
Her husband was never home this early these days. Tentatively, she steps into the dining room, unsure of whether she wants to hear what’s going through his mind.
“You’re home early.” Her voice is quiet.
The man looks up at his wife, the woman whom he has been in love with for as long as he can recall. The woman who, at the mere thought of her, kept him going in the roughest of times. The woman whom he was not pleased to see.
“I’m going to be home for a while now.”
He allows the statement to linger in the air, for the realization to sink into his wife’s mind. Her face falls further than he thought possible as she slowly lowers herself into the chair next to him. She watches her husband, waiting to see if he will say any more, but no words are uttered. Eyes glancing over his being, she takes account of how he is slumped over, shoulders tense and elbows on the table; his brow is furrowed and mouth set into a deep frown. Part of her says that he is visibly upset due to the current situation, while the other points out that he also didn’t look very delighted to see her.
The woman chooses her next words carefully, not wanting the tension to explode. “How are you handling it, James?”
His hard gaze burns into her. “As well as to be expected. It doesn’t help that this house isn’t exactly a place I wanted to come back to.”
Her defenses rising, she snaps, “And why not?”
“I think you know precisely why, Annie.” An accusatory tone weaves throughout his reply.
She begins to recount the increasing questions her husband has been having about her whereabouts and the fact that during the past week, he hasn’t been calling to check in on her at lunch like he normally does. Her eyes drift away from him, unable to create a legitimate excuse for her own actions.
He sits up straighter in his chair, voice rising. “You aren’t even going to deny it?”
Her tired eyes travel back to him. “And how would lying help the situation?”
She sees her husband visibly reel back from her words, stunned that not only were his accusations confirmed but that his wife didn’t seem to care. His heart clenches, a whirlwind of emotions racing through him—betrayal fills his chest, anger blinds his eyes, confusion grips his brain, and disbelief shakes his soul. Breathing becomes deeper as he attempts to calm himself down, but as his mind works through the information he has just gained, the harder that becomes.
The whirlwind settles down to just one glaring feeling: pure rage.
Shooting up from his seat, his eyes bore down on his wife, his body seething with anger. She glances up at him with empty eyes, knowing and ready for what was about to come—which just makes his infuriation increase.
His voice echoes throughout the house as he speaks to the woman he married. “You are tearing this family apart!”
This denunciation doesn’t sit well with her, causing her placid expression to be replaced with one of disbelief. She stands up to challenge her husband’s stance. “Me?! At least I’ve been home every night, trying to spend time with our son!”
“And how is that turning out for you? He never comes out of his room, and I’ve been working so late so that he has a room to stay in!”
The discourse continues, insults being thrown back and forth in an attempt to disarm the opponent. Unbeknownst to either, the youngest member of the small family sits on the flight of stairs just outside of the dining room, listening to the result of the tension reaching its boiling point. His mind is still flipping through the real answers to the question he had been asked earlier in the day.
Why?
This is why.
The shouting begins to numb his mind to the point that he can no longer hear his own thoughts. Standing up from his place on the stairs, he takes silent steps past the dining room, past the kitchen, and out the front door.
A layer of gray clouds coats the dark sky, blocking the limited stars he can see on a good night. The air is warm and humid, causing sweat droplets to form on his back. He has been walking for over ten blocks, not caring how far he goes from home.
He wants to get as far away from home as possible.
The stillness of the night helps to calm his nerves and allows him to understand his thoughts more clearly.
Why?
Because he hates the feeling the unknown gives him. Because he doesn’t understand anything and yet he understands more than he thinks. Because he wants to talk but he doesn’t know who to talk to.
Because he doesn’t know the point.
A feeling builds in his chest that he is unable to describe. All he knows is that it feels like he has fallen down a gaping hole with no bottom in sight. His head hangs, the path in front of him lit only by the dim amber glow of the streetlamps.
His eyes watch the sidewalk in front of him, taking note of every crack, leaf, stone, and blade of grass attempting to poke through. His footsteps come to a halt when he catches sight of a small black dot walking about a foot in front of him.
The minuscule black ant scurries along the hard surface, doing its best to reach the haven of the green jungle just ahead. Six little legs are moving quickly, avoiding the sticks and climbing over the small grooves in the pavement.
The boy watches as the ant gets halfway to its destination. It is so small; harmless, really.
He raises up a foot, allowing it to hover over the tiny ebony creature before stepping over it, and both are able to continue on their way.
This time, there is no squish.
VICTORIA RICHARDSON
Black and White
Birmingham, Alabama, 1956
I ALWAYS LIKED TO think stepping off the bus was the beginning to my summer. I could almost smell the honeysuckle outside Auntie May’s home when I stepped off that bus. Summers at Auntie May’s had started after my mother
died when I was five, and I was in no hurry to change it. I had no way to know that this summer was about to change my life—whether I was ready for it or not.
“Auntie May!” I threw my arms around my aunt’s neck and pulled her tight.
“Lottie! How are you, darlin’?” She pulled me even closer.
“Doin’ just fine, Auntie! Duke! How are you?” My fourteen-year-old cousin, whose age showed in his attitude, stiffened when I gave him a hug.
“Lottie.”
I laughed. “I’m so excited to see everyone, Auntie!”
Auntie May smiled. “And they’re all excited to see you! And your welcome party will be tomorrow night. I thought you’d like to rest tonight.”
In silence, Duke took my suitcase as his slouched figure walked to the car.
“How was your school year, darlin’?”
My grin faded before I could freeze it in place. “It was fine, Auntie.” I glanced over at Duke, hoping for a subject change. “Duke, you’ve gotten so tall! You’re taller than me now!”
He straightened and turned. “I’m almost as tall as my dad now.”
We settled into the car and Auntie took the wheel. “Honey, I invited Ruth and Beau over for dinner tonight. I thought you three might like to catch up.”
I turned my head to the open window and breathed in the sweet summer air as I grinned. This summer was going to be perfect.
“Lottie!” Ruthie flung her arms in a welcoming hug.
I squealed and hugged my best friend before turning to Beau, who twirled me around. He put me down and I tried to imprint the memory of his scent and his strong arms holding me.
Ruthie cleared her throat. “Do I need to leave?” Her eyes twinkled.
I blushed. “No.” Beau threaded his fingers through mine and we all walked out to the backyard. Ruthie and I sat on the swings leftover from Duke’s early childhood while Beau leaned against the set.
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