NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 18 Issue 3 - Fall 2018 | Page 12

The women who went to town returned
to Westchester House on schedule, but
Anne was not among them. No one
knew where she had gone. Laurie was
not unduly alarmed. Anne would
show up later or tomorrow with some
outrageous excuse for her absence.
Three days passed with no word from
Anne, who was now officially missing.
Laurie was worried and so were their
friends. At dinner, they sat at a table
in front of the buffet counter, very
dispirited as they ate, complaining that
the roast beef was overcooked, the
Parker rolls as hard as golf balls, and
where in the fuck was Anne?
“I phoned Deborah,” Fat Agatha said,
her puffy face sweating, “and scared
the hell out of her. She said homeless
women were always in danger of being
beaten up, robbed and ending up in
the morgue.”
“Vete el Diablo,” Rosie, interrupted,
“don’t even think that. Wherever Anne
is, she can take care of herself.”
Nancy, as belligerent as ever, pointed
her fork at Laurie. “Where did Anne
go instead of shopping? I think you
know more than you’re telling us.”
“Screw you,” Laurie retorted.
That was the last word on the subject.
They finished their dinner in silence.
Only Abigail, pale and withdrawn, had
made no comment, eating her food
with brooding intensity. Her room was
next to Laurie’s, and after dinner they
walked back to their quarters together.
There was a gentle knock on her door.
“Come in.”
It was Mrs. Broady standing in the
doorway.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, as
Laurie rose to her feet. “We usually
don’t question our residents about each
other.”
“No bother,” Laurie replied.
“Do you know where Anne went when
she left here?”
“She said she was going shopping.”
“Do you have any idea where else she
might have gone?”
“No,” Laurie lied.
“We have notified the authorities that
she’s missing. Anne can go wherever
she pleases, of course; we just want to
know that she’s all right. If she contacts
you, I would appreciate it if you let
me know.”
“I will,” Laurie said, now fully alarmed.
“And please keep me informed, if you
hear anything.”
“Of course.” Turning around to leave,
Mrs. Broady stopped. The shawl
covering the mirror had caught her
attention. “Laurie, why is…?”
Interrupting, Laurie hurried to explain.
“I read somewhere the folklore that when
somebody died, all the mirrors in the
house were covered. That’s so their spirit
wouldn’t get trapped in the glass and be
unable to continue to the next world.”
Mrs. Broady nodded. “I’ve heard a
similar Irish folk tale. So you’re
mourning the loss of someone dear
to you?”
“Yes.”
“Please accept my condolences.,”
She looked so weary, so haggard, that
Laurie inwardly cringed. Mrs. Broady
had enough to deal with without this
crazy shit. Tell her the truth, that you
covered the mirror so you couldn’t see
your hateful self in it. Tell her now.
“Sometime soon,” the house manager
said into the silence, “perhaps you will
share this folklore with us at a group
session. Good night, Laurie.”
*****
The garden was a sanctuary. The
evergreen pines smiled down on the
peonies and hydrangeas that lined
the pathway, and they in turn, secure
in their floral beauty, encouraged
the troubled female soldiers to sit on
the benches and admire them.
On the way to her psychiatrist
appointment Laurie sat down in the
garden for a moment to compose
herself, attracted by a purple hydrangea
swaying in the gentle breeze. The
blossom was so lovely, its florets so
delicate and exquisite, that she allowed
it to occupy her mind and soothe her,
which was unusual. She had not been
bewitched by the flowers before.
The psychiatrist’s office was a small
room sparsely furnished. When Laurie
arrived Dr. Anita Holloway was putting
some folders in a file cabinet next to
the window. An attractive, trendy
woman, she was wearing a v-neck
ruffled blouse, her stiletto heels tapping
rhythmically on the floor, as she
walked to her desk. She had grey eyes
that intrigued Laurie, eyes so colorless
that they were not a barrier but an
invitation to step inside, trust me.
The analyst had two children and a
psychiatric degree from Columbia
University. Laurie decided that if her
shrink could juggle all of those
responsibilities, then she herself could
surely get her act together.
“Good morning, Laurie,” Dr. Holloway
greeted her. “I love it when my clients
appear on time. It means they’re looking
forward to our meeting, and I don’t
have to hunt them up like a witch on a
broomstick.”
“You’re a good witch,” Laurie replied,
“and I’m glad to know you.” She sat
down on the chair facing the desk.
The analyst smiled. “Thank you. “I’m
going to turn on the tape recorder now.
Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Other than Anne still being missing, is
there anything in particular upsetting
you today?”
Laurie was startled. “Why do you ask?
“Your hair is on the wild side.”
Distracted, Laurie had not picked
and shaped her Afro as usual, and her
wooly hair was shooting out at in all
directions. She patted it into shape, a
sheepish look on her face.
“I dreamed about my dead grandmother
last night, doctor. She was straightening
my hair. I said, ‘Mamarita, don’t you
like my Afro?’ She didn’t say anything,
just kept on straightening it. Then I
woke up.”
“What do you make of that dream?”
“Nothing much. My grandmother was
a beautician, and that’s what she did
for a living. Straightened people’s hair,
including mine ever since I was little.
Since she didn’t answer me, I guess my
Afro’s okay with her.”
“Is that important to you?”
“Well, I always wanted to look like her,
and she didn’t have an Afro. She was
a black beauty really. Once, when I was
little and she told me, if I ate my carrots,
it would make me petty, I gobbled
them down and raced to the mirror.
To my disgust I hadn’t changed at all.
Even eating carrots couldn’t make me
beautiful like her.”
“Sounds like you loved her very much.”
Laurie nodded. “She was always so
proud of me.”
“Why did this dream about her disturb
you?”
“The Viet Cong never called me a
nigger.”
Dr. Holloway did not blink. “The Viet
Cong, Laurie?”
“That’s what my grandmother said
quoting Muhammad Ali.”
“She was one of his fans?”
“Not a boxing fan just him refusing to
fight in Vietnam.”
“And what has that to do with you?”
Laurie’s voice grew stronger tinged
with self contempt. “The Iraqis never
called me a nigger.”
The words sat in the room like a living
presence, an accusation she could not
deny. “I went to war willingly, doctor.
The National Guard had been good
to me, so I was paying my dues. And
I was too young to be afraid of dying.
Death was not my friend. I would do
my tour of duty honorably for my
country and come home a respected
veteran. But I should have been a
conscientious objector. Perhaps if I
hadn’t called them fucking hajjis and
ragheads, I wouldn’t have been so
trigger-happy. My grandmother would
not be proud of me. I refused to think
about how she hated war. Shoved it
into the back of my mind and forgot
about it.”
“Until now.”
“Yes. It made me feel so guilty.”
“Let’s get this straight, Laurie.
You feel guilty about being a soldier
but suppressed the fact that your
grandmother was anti-war. Correct?”
“Yes. It seemed like double jeopardy.”
“Indeed it is,” the doctor agreed. “One
of our goals here is to unravel guilt and
its damaging trauma. But we can’t do
that when there is concealment.”
Stubbornly Laurie repeated. “My
grandmother would not approve of
what I did.”
“That’s understandable. She may not
approve, but would she disown you?”
“Disown?” Laurie repeated, her mind
tangling with the word. To not own
me, her flesh and blood? Her beloved
grandchild. Mamarita, I call your name
and you always come.
No disrespect came from the grave. n
*****
Inside her room Laurie collapsed in the
chair, feeling that it wasn’t like Anne to
leave her in the lurch. How could she
cover for her friend, if she didn’t know
what in the hell went down?
Anne did not cry, which Laurie
understood. Weeping did not alleviate
guilt married to your soul.