Helen Murray | 2017

It was a regular Monday night. Max was finished with his homework. His mother was home from work and had ordered chinese takeout, the families typical Monday night indulgence. His father had yet to return from the office; maybe he had a meeting. The home was small. There were mismatched shelves full of books throughout and the walls were painted warm shades of brown and gray and white. The home was dimly lit aside from the light from the television screen. The hardwood floors were cold to the touch, signaling the beginning of the middle of fall. The heat wasn’t on, yet, at the insistence of Max’s dad that they could live through the cold for a little while to save some money. Max wore a sweater that his mother had knit for him last Christmas and some thick wool socks. He thought the sweater still fit, but his mother claimed it was short in the sleeves. He had to press his fingers into his palms to hold the sleeves over his hands. Max padded out to his mother. He barely made a sound.

“Hey, Mom?” Max asked, as he sat down next to her. She was folding laundry while half watching the nightly news. She had changed out of her work clothes, a pencil skirt and blouse, into sweatpants and a bleach-stained t-shirt. She, too, protected her feet from the icy floor with some wool socks. She still had her makeup on and her hair pinned up, though. She usually twisted her box braids into a bun near the top of her head. Max thought it made his mom look regal, powerful.

“Yes?” She said, picking up a pair of pants that could have been Max’s or his father’s.

“Can I ask you something?” Max stared intently at a hangnail and began to pick at it. His finger began to bleed.

“Of course. What is it?” Max’s mother replied, continuing to fold laundry. She finished folding the pants she had just picked up and placed them on the couch next to her.

“What do you do when you really like a girl. When you like her so much that your palms get sweaty when you’re around her and you can’t look at her because she’s so pretty and then she talks to you and you can’t even say words and–”

“Who is this girl that’s got you so preoccupied, boy? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like this,” Max’s mother took a break from folding the laundry and turned to look at Max. She studied his caramel face that still clung to the last remnants of baby fat. She tried to look into his deep brown eyes that hid beneath thick caterpillar eyebrows. He would not look back at her. She smiled slightly, remembering the first time she had loved. It hadn’t been Max’s father. 

“Her name is Nina. She’s a year ahead of me.” Max stated, proudly.

“Nina Goode?” Max finally looked at his mother, and she seemed disappointed. Her eyebrows were drawn together and she had picked up her folding again. She was folding slower and more deliberately now, though, working on a tank top now.

“Uh huh.”

“Oh. That’s great.” This wasn’t the reaction Max had hoped for, but maybe his mom was just tired. Or maybe she was still paying attention to the news. He went back to picking at his hangnails, inspecting the one that had begun to bleed. He wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the bleeding finger and squeezed gently, as if to try and stop the flow.

“Yeah, ok, any advice? Any thoughts? You always have some sort of opinion, even when I don’t want one.”

“Crushes can be hard, but you’ll get over it.”

“What, you don’t think I have a chance with a white girl?” Max snapped back, reflexively. He stood up and faced his mother, blocking the television.

“I didn’t say that,” She said, calmly continuing to fold the laundry. Now she had moved on to some underwear. Max and his father never managed to keep theirs folded in their drawers and she knew it. She still folded it, out of habit.

“You don’t have to. I’m white. White enough,” Max replied, frantically. She looked through him trying to see the television.

“You are also black. Do not ever forget that. Also, sit down and stop standing over me. You know I don’t like that. You’re blocking the TV.”

“What’s on the TV that’s more important than your son?” Max asked incredulously as he sat back down next to his mother and looked at the television. At first, it was hard to tell what news story they were covering. Then, a picture of a policeman and a picture of a young black boy flashed up on the screen and Max understood why his mother wanted to see the television. His mother frowned at the television and then turned to look at her son. She frowned at him, too.

“You know, sometimes I think I did you an injustice,” She said, placing her hand on his shoulder. She drew her eyebrows together, and her crinkled eyes held his.

“Why, Mom? What makes you think that?” Max replied, confused. He shrugged her off and she removed her hand, slowly, lingering for a moment. Max went back to his hangnails. The blood had crusted on his finger. He started on another one. He chewed and chewed and still, it would not come loose.

“Boy, stop that,” Max’s mother said, swatting his hand away from his mouth. “Look what you’ve done to yourself!” She had noticed his bleeding finger. Hers were not much better, despite the care she took to go to the salon every two weeks to get an acrylic fill. Instead of pushing her cuticles, like they told her to, she would bite them when her acrylics started to grow out. “Sometimes I think you forget that even though your dad and I treat you like you’re special, in the eyes of the police you are no different from that poor boy who got shot today. I feel like it’s my fault that you don’t see that. But I will always love you, I just wish the world could understand you the way your father and I do. And that Nina girl. I just worry she’ll go out with you and then get bored and move on, or that you’ll have to deal with rejection. I don’t want you to get hurt. No mama wants that. And you have to remember, she has all the power–” 

“But what about you and Dad?” Max interrupted, confused. As far as he knew his dad wasn’t bored with his mom. As far as he knew, his mom and dad were equals.

“What about us?”

“Well, you’re still together.”

“Well sometimes it works out, I suppose.”

Max felt a tear in his eye and tried to blink it back. There was no reason to be crying. There was absolutely no reason, and yet he felt the tears welling up. Max hastily wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, hoping his mother didn’t see. She did. She knew he didn’t want her to, so she didn’t say anything. They watched the news in silence for a while until the front door burst open and Max’s father walked in, shed his coat, kicked his shoes off, and threw down his bag. The boy had been shot 5 times. Max’s father smelled like crisp, cold air. The policeman had been scared. The candles his mother had lit flickered slightly as the door opened and closed. The boy’s mother wept on the television. The candles flickered again as Max’s father walked by.

“How was your day?” Max’s mother asked him, as he gave her a swift kiss on the lips. She kept her eyes on the television.

“What we watchin’?” Max’s father asked, pushing aside some of the folded laundry in order to sit down on the couch with Max and his mother.

“The news,” Max’s mother replied, retrieving her folded laundry from the floor and moving it to a chair across the living room. “Max, can you put away your laundry?” She asked, and pointed to the other stack on the floor. Max got up and picked up his stack of laundry. His mother always made a pile for each of them. He carried it to his room and was starting to put it away when he heard raised voices coming from the living room.

“No, we can not watch something else. I am watching this!”

“I’m not going to sit here and listen to them talk about yet another young man who stepped out of line while you lecture me about how these thugs should not be getting shot down–”

“Excuse me? Your son could be one of ‘those thugs’ one day!”

“Not my boy. He’s better than that. That boy was probably being shifty or some shit. We have a good boy.”

“To the police it don’t matter! He–”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?”

“You mean it doesn’t matter,” There was silence for a second. Max held on to the pair of pants he was about to put away, listening intently. Max’s mother whispered something he couldn’t hear, and then there were footsteps and a door slammed. Probably the door to his parent’s bedroom. Max continued putting his clothes away and then flopped down onto his bed, putting his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle. He stared up at the ceiling and felt the quiet of the house closing in around him. He felt it press on his chest, he felt it push on his temples, and he felt it weigh down his eyelids. Max stood up and walked over to his mirror. He looked at himself and for a moment took the time to notice how many of his mother’s features he had. He usually only paid attention to his wavy brown hair, his thin pointed nose, and how light his skin was compared to his mother’s. Now he started seeing his wide eyes, defined cupid’s bow, and realized he never really thought about how all of his friends were lighter than him, even in the summer.

Max walked back out to the living room to see if there was any more laundry that needed to be put away. His father was stretched out on the couch, watching Monday night football. “Why did you say that to Mom?”

“Say what, son? Come sit down and watch the game with your old man,” His father said, patting the small space on the couch near his feet.

“No thanks, Dad. Why’d you pick a fight with her?” Max asked.

Max’s father just continued to lay there and watch TV. Max loomed over his father. Still no response.

Max gave up and picked up his mother’s laundry pile. He shuffled over to her room and knocked on the dark wooden door softly. She responded with a shaky voice, “Who’s that?”

“It’s Max. It’s your son.”

“Okay,” he opened the door and placed the laundry on her bed. “Thanks, Max,” She said, “I just don’t want you to forget where you come from.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Naw, son. I don’t think you do. Just be careful, okay?”

“Alright!” Max snapped at her. He started to walk away but his mother reached out and grabbed his wrist. He turned around to face her. Her big dark brown eyes glistened. A single tear was trapped by mascara.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, Mom?”

“You’ll understand, someday.”

Max crept back to his room, trying not to disturb his father. He opened the door to his room and laid down in bed again. The home was quiet for a while. Max in his room, his mother in her room, and his father in the living room, head propped up with a pillow as he laid across the couch and watched the Monday night football game. Eventually the doorbell rang. Max’s father answered the door and to his delight, the Chinese food had arrived. He called everyone into the kitchen. They all portioned out their meals and returned to their separate rooms, but the calming candle smell was replaced by the smell of greasy Chinese food. It was a regular Monday night.