Helen Murray | 2017<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t on, yet, at the insistence of Max\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHey, Mom?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes?\u201d She said, picking up a pair of pants that could have been Max\u2019s or his father\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I ask you something?\u201d Max stared intently at a hangnail and began to pick at it. His finger began to bleed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course. What is it?\u201d Max\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you do when you really like a girl. When you like her so much that your palms get sweaty when you\u2019re around her and you can\u2019t look at her because she\u2019s so pretty and then she talks to you and you can\u2019t even say words and\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho is this girl that\u2019s got you so preoccupied, boy? I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve ever heard you talk like this,\u201d Max\u2019s 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\u2019t been Max\u2019s father. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHer name is Nina. She\u2019s a year ahead of me.\u201d Max stated, proudly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNina Goode?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUh huh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh. That\u2019s great.\u201d This wasn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah, ok, any advice? Any thoughts? You always have some sort of opinion, even when I don\u2019t want one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCrushes can be hard, but you\u2019ll get over it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat, you don\u2019t think I have a chance with a white girl?\u201d Max snapped back, reflexively. He stood up and faced his mother, blocking the television.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t say that,\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to. I\u2019m white. White enough,\u201d Max replied, frantically. She looked through him trying to see the television.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou are also black. Do not ever forget that. Also, sit down and stop standing over me. You know I don\u2019t like that. You\u2019re blocking the TV.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s on the TV that\u2019s more important than your son?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know, sometimes I think I did you an injustice,\u201d She said, placing her hand on his shoulder. She drew her eyebrows together, and her crinkled eyes held his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy, Mom? What makes you think that?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBoy, stop that,\u201d Max\u2019s mother said, swatting his hand away from his mouth. \u201cLook what you\u2019ve done to yourself!\u201d 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. \u201cSometimes I think you forget that even though your dad and I treat you like you\u2019re special, in the eyes of the police you are no different from that poor boy who got shot today. I feel like it\u2019s my fault that you don\u2019t 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\u2019ll go out with you and then get bored and move on, or that you\u2019ll have to deal with rejection. I don\u2019t want you to get hurt. No mama wants that. And you have to remember, she has all the power\u2013\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut what about you and Dad?\u201d Max interrupted, confused. As far as he knew his dad wasn\u2019t bored with his mom. As far as he knew, his mom and dad were equals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat about us?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, you\u2019re still together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell sometimes it works out, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t see. She did. She knew he didn\u2019t want her to, so she didn\u2019t say anything. They watched the news in silence for a while until the front door burst open and Max\u2019s father walked in, shed his coat, kicked his shoes off, and threw down his bag. The boy had been shot 5 times. Max\u2019s 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\u2019s mother wept on the television. The candles flickered again as Max\u2019s father walked by.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow was your day?\u201d Max\u2019s mother asked him, as he gave her a swift kiss on the lips. She kept her eyes on the television.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat we watchin\u2019?\u201d Max\u2019s father asked, pushing aside some of the folded laundry in order to sit down on the couch with Max and his mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe news,\u201d Max\u2019s mother replied, retrieving her folded laundry from the floor and moving it to a chair across the living room. \u201cMax, can you put away your laundry?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo, we can not watch something else. I am watching this!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m 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\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExcuse me? Your son could be one of \u2018those thugs\u2019 one day!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot my boy. He\u2019s better than that. That boy was probably being shifty or some shit. We have a good boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTo the police it don\u2019t matter! He\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExcuse me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou mean it doesn\u2019t matter,\u201d There was silence for a second. Max held on to the pair of pants he was about to put away, listening intently. Max\u2019s mother whispered something he couldn\u2019t hear, and then there were footsteps and a door slammed. Probably the door to his parent\u2019s 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\u2019s 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\u2019s. Now he started seeing his wide eyes, defined cupid\u2019s bow, and realized he never really thought about how all of his friends were lighter than him, even in the summer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cWhy did you say that to Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSay what, son? Come sit down and watch the game with your old man,\u201d His father said, patting the small space on the couch near his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo thanks, Dad. Why\u2019d you pick a fight with her?\u201d Max asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Max\u2019s father just continued to lay there and watch TV. Max loomed over his father. Still no response.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Max gave up and picked up his mother\u2019s laundry pile. He shuffled over to her room and knocked on the dark wooden door softly. <\/em>She responded with a shaky voice, \u201cWho\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s Max. It\u2019s your son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay,\u201d he opened the door and placed the laundry on her bed. \u201cThanks, Max,\u201d She said, \u201cI just don\u2019t want you to forget where you come from.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNaw, son. I don\u2019t think you do. Just be careful, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAlright!\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat are you sorry for, Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll understand, someday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" 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 continue reading…<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[4],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=52"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":53,"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52\/revisions\/53"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=52"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=52"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hfmurray.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=52"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}