Anytown

Anytown J L Higgs

Hands gripping the steering wheel, Gabriela leaned forward, straining to see the roadway. In the moonless night, the unforecast rainstorm had turned torrential, wiper blades fighting a losing battle. Fog had rolled in further reducing visibility. Finding a safe place in the night had become a priority. A pair of high beam headlights struck Gabriela’s rearview mirror, blinding her. Where had that car come from? She didn’t recall seeing it before, and under such treacherous conditions, it was much too close. A glance at the dashboard clock showed it was 1 am. At this rate, it would take well over an hour to get home. Since childhood, Papi had told Gabriela to go to the police if she was alone and felt unsafe. In America, unlike their country, people could trust the police to protect and keep them safe. Though that was sound advice, she was driving in an unfamiliar area and had no idea where to find help. Before she left home that afternoon, Papi had asked Gabriela if she felt nervous. She had lied and said no, adding that tonight was only a presentation and book signing at a small-town library. He’d dismissed her remarks with a wave of his hand and told her how proud he was of her for what seemed like the zillionth time. Gabriela’s book, The Dreamer’s Story, had started out as a paper written for a college course assignment. Her professor had been so impressed, she suggested Gabriela expand it to be the full story of her life. Taking up the challenge, Gabriela had written the story and been shocked when the university’s press expressed interest in publishing it. Even more surprising had been the phone call she’d received from the Memorial Library’s community coordinator, leading to tonight’s presentation and book signing. Though the book’s promotion materials described it as 31

a young woman’s memoir, Gabriela felt it was actually Papi’s life story. He’d immigrated to America with her after her mother was killed in a shootout between two rival drug gangs on her way home from the market. Leaving his homeland had not been easy, but Papi had done it willingly so his one-year-old daughter could grow up in a safer environment. Upon reaching America, he’d found a woman to look after Gabriela while he worked menial jobs like fruit picking and highway maintenance. Though laboring in the blazing sun often left him physically exhausted he never complained. At its core, Papi’s immigration story was not that different from those of other immigrants in America. Except for the descendants of Africans brought to the country in chains against their will, most everyone had come fleeing violence, persecution, or poverty and dreaming of a better life for themselves and their children. Before Gabriela left for the library, Papi had recited his list of reminders, the AAA card in the car’s glove compartment, keeping her phone charged, and using the GPS to avoid getting lost. Joining his recitation, she’d laughed as they ticked off the last item. “It’s not a very long drive,” she said. He’d eyed her sternly. “I know,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You just want your only daughter to be safe.” For most of the trip, the GPS performed flawlessly, but it froze when she entered a tunnel. That caused Gabriela to miss her exit and arrive at the library 10 minutes late. As they met for the first time and the librarian greeted Gabriela with a warm and affectionate hug her pulse quickened and muscles tensed. But once the older white woman told her how deeply she’d been affected by her book, Gabriela’s heightened sense of alertness started to subside. Barely a quarter of the meeting room was occupied. Still,

the presentation had gone well despite Gabriela’s disappointment that not a single face had been brown like hers. Though the white-haired ladies there had been attentive, to Gabriela, their empathetic expressions belied a familiar passivity typical among those who never denounced or confronted injustice displayed by friends, family members, or acquaintances. Like most white people, nothing was more important than convincing and reassuring themselves they were good caring people, Christians, etc… when in fact their failure to fight against injustice that did not directly impact them only confirmed their hypocrisy and complicity in enabling injustice to perpetuate itself. Following the presentation, Gabriela chatted with the women while signing copies of her book. One expressed admiration for Gabriela’s work ethic: waitressing and working at a nursing home while writing her book and attending college full time. Several just wished her well after grad school. Having signed all the sold books, Gabriela began packing the rest in cartons. It was then that a woman who had lingered after everyone else had departed approached her. “Do you think it’s fair for DACA people like you to be allowed to remain in America?” asked the woman. Gabriela stopped packing and stared at her. How come no one ever asked if it was fair to deport people who’d lived in America their entire lives, to countries that were literally foreign to them? Places where they might barely speak the language or not at all? What about dangerous places or countries where America was hated and the possibility of being killed was exceptionally high? And why were immigration restrictions exclusively targeting non-white, or non-European people? Gabriela had never broken a single law, not even received a parking ticket. Like Papi, she worked hard and posed no threat to this woman, her life, or lifestyle. America was her home as much as this woman’s, yet only one of them was now being hunted like a fugitive. Was that just? Coming over, the librarian asked, “Can I help you carry

those books to your car?” “Yes, thank you,” said Gabriela gratefully as the other woman turned and walked away, unwilling and uninterested in hearing whatever Gabriela might say. While the parking lot behind the library emptied, Gabriela and the librarian stood talking until only their cars remained. Before getting into her car, the librarian gave Gabriela a parting hug, thanked her again, and promised to stay in touch. Alone in the deserted lot, Gabriela climbed into her car and turned the ignition key. The car responded with three loud clicks. After a few unsuccessful attempts to start the car, she called AAA. 45 minutes later, a white truck bearing the AAA logo pulled into the lot. It parked alongside Gabriela’s car and a young man, who looked about Gabriela’s age, got out and strolled over. “Car won’t start?” he asked, loose strands of blond hair poking out from beneath his ball cap. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.” Following a cursory look, he went back to his truck and returned carrying a flashlight and a few other items. Hands moving around the engine, he hummed while checking its parts. Then, reappearing, he came back around the side of the car. “See this,” he said, pointing to a set of numbers printed on a strip of paper. “A couple of your battery’s cells are nearly dead. It’s not generating enough volts to start ’er up.” Lowering the driver’s side window, Gabriela asked if he could fix it? “Yeah. I’ve got a replacement battery in the truck.” “Fine. Let’s do it,” she replied. The young man installed the new battery and asked Gabriela to start the car. As it roared to life, he gave her a thumbs up. Then, clipboard in hand, he came to her window to get her signature on the final paperwork. “Gabriela,” he said, looking at her signature. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “What’s yours?” “Tom,” he answered with a shrug. “Just plain old Tom.” “What was that you were humming before, plain old Tom?” His face turned red. “Sorry. Didn’t realize I did that.” “No, it sounded good. What was it?” “Nothing really. Just something I’ve been playing around with on the guitar.” “Well, you should definitely keep at it. It sounded good.” She smiled. Returning her smile, he reminded her to reset the car’s clock and any preset radio stations. “Nice meeting you, Gabriela,” he said with warm sincerity. “Drive safely and have a good night.” With the road’s surface becoming slicker, Gabriela gently braked. Flashing blue and white lights from the trailing car then lit up the inside of hers. She guided her car onto the road’s shoulder, unsure whether or not to feel relieved. With her car parked, Gabriela recalled Papi’s instructions. She took out her license and registration and set them on the dashboard. Then she placed both hands on the car’s steering wheel where they could easily be seen. In the rearview mirror, she watched the police cruiser’s door open, and a large shadowy figure emerge. As the figure approached, Gabriela’s heart began racing. Breathing rapidly, palms sweating, she stared ahead into the darkness beyond the windshield. Hearing two raps on her window, Gabriela pressed a button, lowering it. She turned to face the open window and was immediately blinded by a high-intensity flashlight. “License and registration,” came a voice from out of the gloomy night. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Gabriela slowly raised the other so it remained in view while she retrieved the documents. As she did that, the flashlight scanned the interior of

her car. Hand trembling, Gabriela handed over the documents. Then, taking a deep breath, with extreme politeness, asked why she’d been stopped. “What’s in the cartons?” “Books. Copies of a book I’ve written.” Acting oblivious to the rain, the looming figure went back to the police cruiser. Gabriela’s mind ran through every reason she might have been pulled over, but came up empty. After what seemed an eternity, the cruiser’s door opened and the officer made his way back. “You live in this area or neighborhood?” “No.” “What are you doing around here?” Motioning toward the cartons of books on the back seat of her car, Gabriela said, “I gave a presentation and did a book signing at the Memorial Library. Now I’m on my way home.” Without another word, the nameless, faceless officer shoved her documents at her and strode back to the cruiser. The flashing lights were snapped off, and the car raced out into the forbidding night with a squeal of its tires. Breathing deeply, Gabriela tried to calm herself. Why had the officer pulled her over? The more she thought about it, the angrier she felt. Despite the dense fog and torrential rain still obscuring the road ahead, she started the car, determined to do whatever it took to be safe at home.

Self-Portrait as Unnoticed Object

Jordan Charlton

You could have been anything. I kicked you in the dark of night and you felt heavy against my foot there in the middle of two rooms. I wasn’t expecting you there because there had no name before I saw you. Neither did you. I switched on the light and to my shock, there you lay, quite larger than I’d imagined.

You were the picture I hung the day before or maybe two. Dust-sized glints of light burst around your body, clouding the scene. You looked perfect otherwise, all your jagged shards still in the frame, and really, who’s to say you didn’t find me?

If I were to fall like you did, I’d want every piece of me on display. I would not go bump in the night. There would be no thud, only glass.

And blood. And bits, so many bits.

Black Opera: Singing Over Ourselves

Emmanuel Henreid

I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, often called “the Whitest City in America.” I’m a Black opera singer, dancer, actor, composer, musician, and educator. I strive to weave all these worlds together and bring culture and diversity to my listeners. When I was around seven years old, I turned on the TV one day and saw my first opera. It was on the only channel that came through at the time. I sat down, and I started to recognize the grand gestures of 1990’s Marvel superheroes. Many may think opera is a stuffy thing, but for this seven-year-old’s eyes, it was full of villains, people cheating on one another, hearts being broken, death, betrayal. Fascinated, I ran to my siblings and to my stepdad and said, “I want to be an opera singer! Oooo-ooh!” I hadn’t hit puberty yet. I had this high soprano voice, and I was singing around. Little did I know, years before I was born, my mother also wanted to be an opera singer. She auditioned and was accepted for the Portland Opera. Then someone came along and told her that she couldn’t do it because she had three kids. She gave up that dream and never told me until later in life. When I was ten years old, my father passed away, and there wasn’t a lot of conversation around his death. From that moment on, I went mute. I was quiet that entire year, except for when I made music. People didn’t have a chance to get to know me. One thing I held close was music. I would sing over myself. I’d weep and cry. I would sing hymns from church. Songs would comfort and console me. Music was a real, tangible thing for me. My whole family sang, but I didn’t have any training. They told me I should probably never sing. As my aunt said, “the gift wasn’t given to me.” I accepted her judgement until the day, on my way to church, I had a fateful encounter with a dog. The dog ran straight toward me and into a fence, knocking it down. Without time to 38

think, I used a big, grand voice that commanded the dog’s attention. The dog stopped and looked straight at me, and in that moment I realized a voice did live inside me. This voice was convicting, honest, and authentic. It had power. I wanted to cultivate these qualities through my voice, so I began to study classical music for three hours a day in my garage. I began to compete, and eventually I became the number one high-school-age baritone in the state of Oregon. I was told that I should not sing classical music because my voice was “soulful.” It was implied that the Black color of my skin was connected to a different type of music. I was told I should stick with what I know. I also made gospel music, and I tried to keep both worlds very separate. I toured with Josh Groban. In his song “You Raise Me Up,” I noticed gospel backgrounds interweaved with Groban’s pop music, and thus found my niche. Today I use the same technique. I write original music that combines soul, indie, traditional classical music, and Black gospel music. My EP, Livin’ in the Light, is a fusion of all of these traditions. On my first day working as a professional opera singer, I met a Slavic woman who was the opera building custodian. She greeted me, and we had a brief conversation in Russian. She told me that no one had spoken to her in weeks because her English is broken. She appreciated me taking the time to talk to her. I went down to rehearsal. Then the artistic director, who had briefly noticed that conversation, approached me, “So, your last name is French?” I said, “Yes, it is.” She said, “...but you speak Russian.” “A little.” She said, “You also speak French?” “Yes, some French.” At that moment, she looked me in the eye, and there was a full pause. She said, “What are you, a part of the witness protection

program or something?” We both laughed awkwardly. Then she looked at me again. I realized that if I said that I was a part of the witness protection program, it would be more believable than the truth that I was an African American young person who also had the skill set that everyone else in this room had. All opera singers are linguists. You have to study three or four different languages to sing in the opera. But it was inconceivable for me to be in the same space with non-Black artists and simply love the same music. I realized, from that moment on, that all eyes were on me, questioning why I was in the room. This came in the form of persistent questions: “How did you get here? Why are you here?” No matter what, I had to pay attention and show up. Despite any difficulties, I had to learn my music, figure it out, and do my best to shine. I was featured on Oregon Public Broadcasting, and then other doors began to open up. Still, it was odd and lonely. I have felt like a poster child. I dressed up, played the part, and then went home to a world that looks nothing like the opera. Opera audience members see me as a part of the story the opera is telling, but they don’t necessarily see me as a person outside of that. African American men face two stereotypes: either you are overweight and funny, or you are a muscular sex symbol. These stereotypes limit and suffocate our individuality, and every day I face the work of breaking that mold. In activism, speaking, singing, and living, I encourage other nonstereotypical creatives to know you are not alone. I wonder, after performing all across the world and learning to sing in five languages, is that enough for me, as a Black man, to belong here? After investing more than $150,000 into my training as a professional musician, is that enough? America, is that enough for you to see me in my complexity, in my multitudes, and include me in your future vision? Why are Black men

taxed by this, as a prelude to belonging? I grew up in the ghettos of Portland. There were ghettos here, believe it or not. One summer, there were six killings—people didn’t happen to die; these were murders. To grow up in an environment like that, and then to arrive and work within an opera community, singing week after week inside auditoriums with predominantly white audiences, is quite a tension, quite a dichotomy. I address that tension by using my voice in public. I sing in clubs, bars, churches, on street corners, anywhere I can reach people with the unique joy of making. Classical music is a mostly European, white form of music. Right now, I’m in a Black opera with an all-black cast singing about gentrification. Most African Americans come from a soulful, gospel style of music, or a jazz or rock and roll background. Our culture is the genesis of those genres. To end up in an opera about the history of gentrification in Portland, which was initially founded as a white utopia, is wild. I was not ever necessarily wanted in this city; my family was just allowed to be here. White planners and bankers created ‘red lines’ to restrict us to living in certain neighborhoods, using zoning and lending practices to keep us out of white areas. Real estate agencies as well as individual landlords often refused to sell or rent to Black families. To navigate this history artistically and honestly, and for all races to now be doing race and soul work together, is exciting. I encourage every artist to use their voice to their advantage by helping to educate others, both in history and in love. And of course, to continue to be students themselves. We’re losing the power of the voice in many ways. This began way before COVID-19. We’ve designed a sanitized society in which we’re afraid to advocate for ourselves and speak out about right and wrong. We’re addicted to texting and social media, usually silent forms of communication. We have to wonder why it’s so scary to sing karaoke in front of even our closest friends. There’s something vulnerable about using the voice. The voice is very telling. Now is the time to reclaim the voice, prefera-

bly in public. Artists, not politicians, will be the ones to envision, collaborate around, and organize around whatever our future reality might be, especially post-COVID. The future is our potential, our right, our responsibility. I invite all artists across America to respond to this cultural moment. Please harmonize with me. Let’s continue to show up and engage with the crucial questions of race, class, and equity that face us now.

The Future is Black: Are You Ready Jay Grider

Wounded Dog

Loretta Moore

The blues helped me from there to here…. But the memory b’tween is always near… Won’t much I could do when my woman left me… So with a broken heart, I made me a new start. But whenever I went I had my song, night and day It went along…..

I sang the blues, I sang the blues, I sang the blues…. I sang the blues, good or bad news, I sang the blues.

*To listen, scan the QR Code or visit: https://youtu.be/ wdUYsxyqUQA

Bertha’s List

Linda Trice

Bertha Hudson was in a hurry. Why was there never any paper around when you need some? Finding one of the standard rejection letters Winston sent writers, she turned it on the blank side, folded it in half, and jotted down the names and addresses of her appointments for the day. Her first stop was her appointment with Abe Smith, the lawyer who handled all her family’s finances, even before father had turned over the reins of Sable Magazine to his son in law. Father had the misguided idea that a woman’s place was in the home. Bertha was ushered into the lawyer’s gloomy office. Purple velvet drapes covered paned glass windows letting in little light. Bertha sank her large hulk into a heavy chair that was covered in black leather. A secretary tiptoed in and set a silver tray on the lawyer’s immense oak desk. She silently poured coffee into two porcelain cups and left. Bertha pulled the list out of her large, black leather handbag that went with her everywhere. She angrily pressed the list down the middle, over and over. “Winston said things aren’t going well in the publishing business and money is tight.” Abe Smith drank without pausing then set the empty cup back on the tray. “My dear Bertha, whatever made you think that money is a problem? You and Winston are doing better financially than ever.” Bertha was so angry that it was moments before she could speak. “Winston said that we didn’t have enough money to send the twins to college.” Abe roared with laughter. “Not have enough money? You have enough to send four children to college.” Bertha remembered the diamond pin that had belonged to her great grandmother. Winston sold it as well as the cameo 45

she had inherited from another great grandmother. Bertha’s heavy black brows knitted. Her fury was mounting. That wimp of a husband of hers sold her engagement ring last week. All she had left was her wedding ring. She fingered the simple golden band. She was angry with herself for allowing her husband to deceive her. First father for turning over the magazine his grandfather had founded to Winston the Wimp, now Winston lying to her about their finances. Men! Disparaging her. Lying. Abe Smith poured more coffee into his cup. “Now my dear, I want you to make an appointment to see me about a different matter. The twins are of age now. You need to write another will. What you and Winston have is a ‘mirror image will’. If one of you dies, the other gets the complete estate. If, heaven forbid both you and Winston were suddenly to pass away, the twins will inherit nothing. Winston is coming in next week to remake his.” Bertha sat back and sipped her coffee. She had no cause to be angry with Abe. But what was causing Winston to lie to her? “You’re right. Of course. I’ll make an appointment on my way out.” “Before you leave my dear, tell me, who is Mohammed?” “The founder of Islam?” “No, a live person named Mohammed.” “I don’t know anyone named Mohammed.” Abe flipped through the file on his desk and said, “I see one of my young associates has made out some papers. Your husband has taken a new life insurance policy. He’s named this Mohammed person as the beneficiary, not you or the twins. Very strange. Strange indeed.” He closed the file, a worried look on his face. ~ Bertha’s final stop of the day was lunch at the Metropolitan Hotel with Imani Tinubu, the Editor-in-Chief of Sable Magazine. Imani was excellent at recognizing outstanding talent.

They had almost finished eating before Bertha confided, “Imani, Winston told me that the magazine is dire financial straits. Is it?” “No. This is the best year the magazine has ever had. Sable Magazine is still the leading Black literary publication in the country and one of the best in the world. Writers know that publication in Sable assures them a place in Black literary history.” Bertha was bewildered. She poked at the limp broccoli spears on her china plate. They were cold now. A striking woman whose skin was the color of espresso coffee strode in and was shown to a distant table. She wore her thick, luxurious hair long. A lady simply didn’t wear her hair free flowing like a horse’s mane. But judging from the Chanel suit, the distinctive shopping bags, a blue one from Tiffany’s, the tan one from Gucci, the exotic woman was a lady. The woman turned her head. She looked familiar. The cover of a fashion magazine? A ball at the country club? Bertha gasped. The lady resembled Latoya, her former cleaning girl. Latoya hadn’t worked for the Hudsons for very long. Winston hired her. He said she came from Palmetto, Florida. Bertha didn’t like her from the start. Latoya was volatile and couldn’t clean. Bertha fired her. “That woman,” Bertha whispered to Imani. “She looks like a cleaning girl I once had.” Imani looked across the room. “That’s no cleaning girl. That’s Nevis Mohammed. She comes from some rich family in Trinidad. They run the island. They own everything. “I shouldn’t talk about things like this but it is your father’s magazine, God rest his soul.” Imani lowered her voice. “Nevis is used to getting whatever she wants. Right now what she wants is to get published in our magazine. But it’s not going to happen. She can’t write. Everything she submits is worthless.” Imani finished the rest of her Chicken Divan and pushed the plate away. She leaned over and in a soft voice confided to Bertha, “One day one of the assistant editors told Nevis that she

had a comma in the wrong place. Nevis went berserk and started throwing things around the poor girl’s office. Papers, books, magazines. I think she even threw the girl’s extra pair of shoes across the room. The girl ran out the door, looking for a security guard. Luckily for Nevis, Winston came down the hall then. I guess he calmed Nevis but the assistant quit Sable immediately. I don’t think she ever came back.” “Latoya had a volatile temper,” Bertha said. Imani shook her head. “A cleaning lady from Florida and a rich woman from Trinidad do not have anything in common.” “I’m not so sure,” Bertha said. Imani ignored Bertha’s doubt and said, “What Nevis needs to do is to forget about writing and go on back to Trinidad and run her family’s business, whatever that is. Bertha, you should see the junk she hands in. It’s terrible! I don’t know why Winston took her under his wing. I insisted he tell her the truth this week, and in person. You know the kinds of rejection letters he writes. They always say the same thing.” “But he writes them by hand.” Bertha wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend her husband. Habit perhaps? “He says the personal touch softens the blow more than a form letter.” “But they don’t. They always say the same thing don’t they?” “Yes,” admitted Bertha. Imani signed the bill with a flourish. “Don’t worry about it, dear. The company account,” she reminded Bertha. “Stay. Have dessert. Got to go. I have a magazine to run.” The waitress poured more coffee into Bertha’s cup. Bertha didn’t touch it, still shaken by Imani’s revelations. Winston came into the restaurant and walked directly to Nevis, kissed her cheek and picked up her shopping bags, one from Tiffany’s and the other from Gucci. His arm around the woman’s waist, the two left the restaurant. Bertha was stunned. By the time she got up and followed them, they were in an elevator. As the doors closed, Bertha saw

her husband passionately kissing the would be writer from Trinidad. Bertha stood still, staring at the closed elevator doors. Finally overcoming her shock she went to the front desk and demanded the number for Winston Hudson’s room. The clerk didn’t hear her. A couple with screaming babies had his attention. He found the couple’s reservation, handed them their keys and tried to tell them about the amenities of the hotel over the screams of the little ones. “….the number of Winston Hudson’s room!” Bertha demanded loudly. The clerk looked up and possibly mistook Bertha’s big, black bag for a delivery but before he could ask, the couple with the babies were back. “We didn’t …” they said, then the babies started crying again. Three more people came to his desk but the clerk couldn’t hear their request either. He was flustered. “I need…” Bertha insisted. The babies screamed louder. A couple with two barking poodles asked for their keys. The clerk told Bertha without thinking, “Mr. and Mrs. Hudson are in their usual suite — Number 2020.” ~ Bertha took the elevator to the twentieth floor. She’d confront them and then what? She wasn’t sure. She wanted to sock her husband in the mouth and throw the tramp off the balcony. Arriving on the floor she saw the hotel’s maid pushing a cart out of the suite. “I’m Mrs. Hudson.” Bertha ordered her, “Leave the door open.” Bertha entered and closed the door behind her. The suite was empty. She walked onto the balcony. Manhattan’s asphalt sidewalks were twenty floors below. Bertha came back inside, leaving the balcony doors open. She saw shopping bags on the bed, one from Tiffany’s, the other from Gucci. They must have deposited them and left

for the opera or dinner. Who knew when they’d be back? She sat at the desk intending to wait and confront them. Time passed then Bertha decided to leave them a note. She opened her purse and took out a pen. The only paper she could find was her list. She’d write something on the blank part of it. What does one say in a situation like this? She didn’t know. She folded the paper, over and over, trying to figure out what to write. She couldn’t think of anything. She still pictured socking her husband in the mouth and throwing the tramp off the balcony. Bertha sighed, tore the note in half, stuck her pen back in her purse and left. ~ Two days later, Bertha sat in her nicely appointed living room. A kindly policeman in the navy blue uniform of the New York City Police Department sat opposite her. He’d been talking to her for more than thirty minutes. It was finally beginning to sink in. He explained again, “Mrs. Imani Tinubu made the identification at our morgue. She asked me to tell you personally. Your husband Winston Hudson jumped or fell to his death from the balcony of the Metropolitan Hotel. I’m sorry.” “No one else was in the room?” Bertha asked. “No, Ma’am.” “There was no sign of a woman?” The officer shook his head. “He wasn’t pushed?” “We looked into that. There was no sign of foul play.” Bertha thanked him and showed him to the door. “I almost forgot,” the policeman said a bit shamed faced. He handed her a brown envelope. Stamped on the outside was, “Property of the New York City Police Department.” The officer said, “The suicide note’s inside. Again, please accept my sympathies on your loss, Mrs. Hudson.”

Winston was buried on Sunday. The lawyer, Abe Smith came out on Monday, offered his condolences and helped Bertha with the necessary papers. The magazine would revert to Bertha and the twins. The money, all the money they needed would be theirs. After the lawyer left, Bertha sat at her kitchen table, her coffee getting cold. Something nagged at the back of her mind. She looked at the note again. She was sure of it now. It hadn’t been a suicide note at all. It was what was left of the rejection letter — the note she’d torn in half.

can’t go on Give up It’s hopeless. Death is preferable

Bertha recalled the entire letter: “You can’t go on writing this drivel and expect to be published in Sable Magazine. Give up the idea of a writing career. It’s hopeless. Death is preferable to reading this nonsense.”

THE END