Issue #34

The ghosts in Belle were not malevolent. What they were was misfits who died in a bully town.

Some could be fooled by Belle’s apparent Northern-ness. But in its heyday it was far from cosmopolitan, tolerant or worldly. It was rather insular — completely white until the 1980s, save the maids, gardeners, and health aides who cared for the well-off, then drove back to the city where they belonged. The town was cruel even to the poor and queer it called its own (the white ones). Misplaced boyishness, effeminacy and ill-suited hand-me-downs were all punishable with a lifetime of shame and creeping loneliness. Insistent picking-on and picking-at accrued as wells of sadness in the bodies of the tormented, in those who sat alone and shrunk themselves.

Of course the first Black people who moved to Belle were double-damned — including those Black girls, Thema and Alice, who couldn’t find a home in the town’s ecosystem but also seemed unable to leave it.

Enanga dips her fingers in moon water before starting her daughter’s twelfth braid. The warmth of it eases her shoulders and triggers soothing tingles on her scalp. Ripples pulse across the water — a soft turquoise blue. For a good three seconds, Enanga lets her fingers linger in it. She always does on the first dip. Finally, she raises her wet fingers from the porcelain bowl and firmly drags them down the parted section of her daughter’s hair. Moisturize. Cleanse.

Akoma’s hair has grown faster than Enanga hoped for. Back length, now. As Enanga drags on another coating of moon water, drops of it twinkle on Akoma’s curls. If it wasn’t morning right now, she would’ve mistaken them for midnight pearls.

Enanga smiles when Akoma’s small body trembles with laughter, the brightness of it ringing throughout their apartment living room. A cozy sweater envelopes Akoma. Imprinted on it is Princess Tiana in an elegant blue dress with a full moon hovering above her. The sweater is one size too big, swallowing her whole. But as soon as Enanga saw it on sale last month, she couldn’t resist. It was worth it. Akoma’s excited squeals, the shimmering of her eyes — Enanga won’t give her anything less.

They say right before a star dies, the celestial heavens send its grief upon the world with a great primordial wail — summoning a death chant that could stir ancient earth from its slumber. And thus — after the first storm swept through the provinces, I was summoned to the heart of our meteorite edifice to address the conclave of Matriarchs. The soothsayers spoke of a great red rain next.

When the message came I was already shaking the cosmic dust from my frayed cape and fastening on my disk hat, for I had dreamt of the death chant nights ago. During that time, I could taste no food nor feel the heat of my candle fire — only the chokehold of an unfathomable nothingness seizing me. I isolated myself deep in meditation.

More undisciplined Matriarchs succumbed to insanity as a result of the star’s unearthly chant, only heard in the mind, and threw themselves into the canals. That is what I heard, at least. A great astral beacon within the black of death, the dying Olotafi star was but one celestial teardrop upon the cheek of our great deity, Cry’Lah. For us, it was a reminder that even the heavenly bodies came to an end — and so our grasps at immortality were the quintessence of inferiority in the eyes of the Black.

“Mom and Dad are getting divorced.” Ty’s voice sounds pained over the phone. Hushed, as though anyone else overhearing the words will expedite the process, make the situation crash into reality sooner than planned.

“No shit?” Monty’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. He pulls the blunt away from his lips, pulls the phone closer to his ear. “Deadass?”

“I’m serious,” Ty replies, his voice lowering until it’s nearly inaudible. “Dad’s been sleeping on the couch. Packing his stuff.”

Monty’s glad he’s states away. This way, nobody can see the smile breaking out on his face. No one can tell him that he shouldn’t feel the way he feels as he exhales a puff of smoke, a laugh, and one word: “Finally.”

“Ma! I’m back!” Cas called as he ducked under the short curtain to Wright’s Clinic. A man with sunken eyes and joints that stuck out like bolts and nuts moaned on a cot. Cas’s mother ignored him. She stitched the forehead of a firm-looking woman, her graying hair braided back from her worn-out face. Cas kissed her on the cheek.

“Lillith here was lifting aluminum on the pulley downtown,” she said by way of greeting. The condescension in her voice was palpable.

The woman, Lillith, scowled. If Cas knew his mother, she’d already scolded her. She was a blunt woman who didn’t have time to entertain stupidity. Supplies were scarce and whatever the reason this woman had for moving aluminum, probably hadn’t been a good one. But then again, there were very few “good reasons” in this world.

“Are you almost done?” Lillith grumbled.

“Just about…”

Cas felt just as impatient as the woman looked. “Where’s Zola?” he asked finally.