[Excerpt] Black and Red
A New Opening for The Call of Mammitum - Draft 5
The stove clangs shut in the kitchen below—loud enough to wake the dead. I jolt upright, spitting hair out of my mouth as first light leaks through the loft window.
Shuffle—clank. The skillet’s out. Mama’s up. The day is already starting.
My tongue sticks to my cheek and my arm is wet—drool—so when I lift it, something tugs at my elbow.
A paper. Nearly blank, except for my name at the top.
Matilda Mae Albright.
“Unnn.” The History essay—due Monday. Today.
My study guide is open to its list of topics, but all I got down was one line—Ganser and the Great War—before my pencil stalled and my mind ran until the words blurred. The pencil fell. Now—morning.
“Mattie!” Mama’s voice barrels up the stairs. “Time to get up!”
I squeeze my eyes shut, already feeling Mrs. Spaulding’s stare—hearing the little tongue-click when I say I forgot. I always forget. Click.
Time. Time. I’ve still got some. I grab my pencil, but it trembles beside War, so I let it drop with a huff and blink hard at the sting.
I need more light.
I try to stand—my toes curl, numb on the cold wood—but my legs won’t hold. I catch myself on the desk, and the calendar wobbles over it: September, 1921. Bee balms over the grid, blooming with black middles and red petals. Murray’s General printed at the top.
Up to the Twenty-sixth is X’d out—today—with Marcus written in the square.
Pins and needles stab up my legs. Oh! Stomp-stomp. Wake up.
I pad to the wardrobe, Autumn cold licking my ankles. The loft presses in around me—bare wood and slanted squares of dawn, like the hold of a small boat. I step over old boots, past stacked boxes. Three fishing rods lean in the corner—the cargo of our lives.
And a clean gap beside the wardrobe. We traded that bed for my desk—where I’m supposed to study and write essays. I kept Marcus’s—bigger and brass—his.
The door creaks and I dress—brown knickerbockers up, nightgown off, brassiere over. The yellow blouse hangs too big but soft—Marcus’s. The pants are his too, only Mama took in the seat to match the catalogs.
“Waste not, want not,” she said.
And I wanted them.
My shoes bite through my stockings as I yank them tight. It hurts. I pull tighter.
Below, the griddle clanks again. Hot grease crawls up the stairs. The day keeps coming.
But it can’t have me yet.
I hurry to the wash-stand, slosh water from the pitcher, and splash my face—Oh! Cold! Scrub around my eyes, my ears, then pat dry on my pants.
With the basin in hand, I unlatch the window and shove it open. My damp skin chills in the breeze—ripe with salt, sweet with rotting leaves.
I breathe it in. That smell used to mean Papa was coming home.
Not anymore, I know. But I need it to, so I let it—hold the warmth a moment longer—before I toss out the basin.
“Mattie? Bacon’s almost ready.”
The blank essay curls in the breeze like it’s laughing at me. My stomach twists, so I toss the basin onto my bed and clamber out onto the roof.
The dew-wet shingles are slick under my feet and bite through the wool—cold up my thighs as I sit and wrap my arms around my knees, wedging my shoe at the edge where the window sticks out.
Ganser and the Great War. I curl into the knot forming in my belly, chin on my knees, eyes on the eaves—to the ground.
It’s a steep look down, so I look up.
Beach grass and bayberry whip over dunes that roll until the shore flattens smooth, silver with tide. The waves sigh back, and the Sun gleams orange on the wet sand.
Ahead, sails dot the lip of the Atlantic—black against the dawn. Out since May, our fishermen are coming home.
The Moon hangs high—thin and blue—and the morning star sparks above the Phillips Point lighthouse. Papa called me that—his morning star—the day he left, because I got up early to see him off.
That’s what I want to see: Papa’s schooner rolling in from the Grand Banks. It’s been gone five years, but I can bring it back—like a story I know by heart.
I breathe. I breathe—settle the shudder, loosen the knot. I hold in the salty-sweet air, and let that sweetness lie to me for a second.
There’s a tug between my eyes—soft as a thread—and I tilt into it.
Not sleep. Not really. This is my place.
The dream races in, sails beating to windward, and I catch the rigging—hold fast—tacking it to a course of my own. I can steer my dreams. It’s nothing special. I just… play.
The blur clears and I’m small again, but big enough to climb the lighthouse all by myself. I lean on the rail and scan the horizon.
I spot it. Papa’s boat! Bright blue against the black water.
My feet stamp the metal grate—ting, ting—and I can’t wait; I race down to the wharf with my pigtails flapping, feet pattering over the old planks. I weave between barrels, dodging crates and pairs of legs.
Oh! There he is at the wheel, waving high as his old boat trundles in. His beard is full—hair blown wild under a grey sou’wester. His eyes sparkle when he sees me.
Mama’s there, and Marcus too—whole. I spin in place, too full of light to stay still.
Happy.
“Mattie! Wake up, you’ll be late for school again!” Mama breaks in.
Oh! Don’t lose it. This is my favorite part. He’ll leap down the gangplank; I’ll jump into his arms. No words, just that light—a little joy to get me through this day.
A cackle rips across the harbor.
No—what is that?
Something yanks my dream, stealing it, and I fight to keep it—grabbing the wheel, holding fast.
Clouds spill like ink over the Moon and swallow the Sun. The water churns at the edge of the harbor where a thin black boat rises from the sea. At the deck gun there’s a man—a shape of shadow with eyes glowing green—aiming.
Papa’s grin tightens until his teeth bare and his eyes go white and wide.
Flash—the black boat barks. Bullets whip through the air and the wharf splinters around me. His mast shatters. His bright blue hull crumples and caves.
I scream, but there’s no sound as his body jerks, spits, bursts. He folds over the wheel, and falls over the side.
The water blooms around him in black and red.
I lurch, gulping air as the dream snaps—gone. My hands are shaking; cold dew from the shingles soak my—shup! My foot slips. Shingles skid under wool and I slide—roll—sky, roof, sky—until my palm hits the edge and my fingers wrap the eave.
Stop.
Bramble below. That rotten fence right where I’d land. One more roll and I’d have—
I grind my teeth and push back. “Clumsy!”
Rolling back to sitting, I pull my knees up, feet locked on the edge, blinking at the sting until the world blurs wet. My hands shake as I wipe them and my chest heaves.
Oh. That was mine—my favorite dream—and now it’s broken by some shadow, some terror that followed me out of the night.
The breeze dries the wet on my cheeks. I don’t move. I don’t want to move.
“Mattie, hurry up! I need you to make your aunt her toast!”
But the day won’t let me go.
I curl tighter, chest aching. After my tenth birthday—late in July—there was a Coast Guard captain on our step, hat in hand. It was the war, he said. A U-boat. The crew were out in dories, but Papa went down with his boat. He lay there still.
A gust whips my hair across my face and I shiver. Motors grumble in the harbor below, their smoke biting the breeze. Barrels crack onto the wharf where men scuttle about—small, like bugs. Shouts echo up the coast, and Ganser staggers inland behind them—brick, glass, and smoke.
Ganser and the Great War.
I know the stories. The fishermen told them over and over, and loud until the details seeped in the cracks of our town. I kept them out anyway. Papa was lost. Not… taken.
Now the word burns behind my eyes, tightening my jaw—how Marcus must’ve felt before he left.
Scowling, I crawl back inside.
From the chest at the foot of my bed, I pull out Papa’s silver watch—Waltham on a white dial—wind it, and pocket it. Beneath it is the yellow paper: Western Union. Marcus’s. I unfold it and stop at the first two words—Deeply regret—today.
My breath shudders. I fold it gently along the old crease and lay it back down.
I pull a green kerchief to dab my eyes, blow my nose, and stuff it in my pocket.
“Mattie! It’s getting late! You better not still be sleeping!”
A pan clatters. The smell of bacon creeps up the stairs. My stomach growls—though it hurts.
“I’m coming!” I bark.
But I sit at my desk and grab the pencil. The lead digs in beside War—cracks—breaks. I fling it, and it clatters in the corner.
Papa’s watch is heavy in my pocket. Marcus’s telegram is heavier in the chest.
I jam a stub of pencil into my Algebra book, fold the blank essay into my study guide—for all the good it will do—and strap everything tight.
Stomp-stomp.
I drag myself down the steep stairs, each step creaking louder than the last.
The kitchen is warm with wood-smoke, blue dawn sifting through the windows while orange flickers from the potbelly’s grate—oak I split over the weekend.
Great Aunt Millicent sits at the table in her Sunday dress, shawl tight, earrings flashing purple and gold—her teacup trembling in her spotted hands.
I hover in the doorway until my face loosens—then she looks up, flinches, and tugs her shawl tighter.
I step in. “What’s wrong, Auntie? Why are you all dressed up?”
She touches her earrings and shakes her head. “Oh—no good reason.”
She nests the cup in its saucer. “Just a tad addlepated this morning, Mattie. It’s that time of year—when I heard you on the stairs, I expected you one head shorter, in pigtails.”
Her eyes go bright. “Do you remember when we’d all be gussied up, waiting on your Pa to wash the fish off so we could go into town?”
I pull up a smile, but it doesn’t stay put—she’s forgotten faces and days before, but she’s never misplaced me.
Mama bustles into the kitchen, already talking: “All I remember is the fish never really washed off.”
She stops at the oil stove; her eyes catch mine, and her voice is already pushing me out the door. “Did you not get your aunt her toast? I asked you to do that. I gotta keep these eggs from burning, and you gotta get to school—no being late today.”
I fold my arms tight. “I just walked in.”
I cut thick slices from the loaf and lay them on the pyramid toaster beside Mama’s eggs.
Mama smells of the factory—muslin, machine oil, sweat gone stale on yesterday’s dress. She didn’t wash after her late shift. I hope she slept instead.
Behind me, Auntie’s voice wanders on.
“Your brother looked so handsome in that green vest. He’d carry you into town on his shoulders—both of you singing Yankee Doodle all the way. You remember that? Oh, Mattie—you and Marcus were so close.”
I swallow; it sticks. We were.
“Always up to no good, too,” Mama mutters to the eggs.
My jaw locks. I butter and cut the toast into neat triangles—just how Auntie likes it.
When I turn, her smile is gone. Her fingers worry a loose thread on her shawl.
I slide the plate in front of her. “Here you go.”
The smile returns, soft and crinkled at the corners, and I breathe. She nibbles a triangle as I kiss the top of her head—hair thin on my lips like corn silk, camphor tingling up my nose.
I wish she were younger. But I know better: wishes don’t stop Death. He lives with us in the empty chairs at the table. He’ll move into the room down the hall soon enough.
“Thank you, Mattie,” she says, butter shining on her smile. “You’re such a good girl.”
The words land warm, so I tuck them away—like mints in my pocket.
“Eat up.” Mama hands me a plate of eggs. “Then grab your books and go.”
I take the plate but don’t sit. I stare at Mama’s back and swallow around a burn that won’t go down.
School. The blank essay. Mrs. Spaulding’s tongue-click—click—I feel it in my teeth.
“Can I stay home today, Mama?” My voice scrapes. I clear my throat. “Let me help out here. Give you a break. Just today.”
Mama shakes her head once. “Every day counts.”
“But... I’m not well.” The words come out too fast. “And you came home so late. You need rest before your next shift.”
Mama stiffens. Her spoon scrapes faster—louder—as if to drown me out. Her head shakes side to side. I grit my teeth.
“I’m not arguing this again,” she says to the eggs. “I work. You go to school. That’s what we do until you get as much learning as this town can give you.”
Her breath goes high and tight; mine’s already there. My jaw locks, then my shoulders, then my chest—one by one—like a door being latched.
Aunt Millie’s lips smack over a bite of toast. A log pops in the potbelly. Mama scrapes the eggs.
“I want to get a job at the factory,” I snap.
She stops stirring.
“I’m old enough, and can work the machines good as anyone. I’ll take the day shift so you don’t have to work doubles. You can rest—”
The spoon cracks against the stove—did she break it?
Auntie shakes her head, shoulders bouncing. “Ohh! Now, ya done it.”
Mama whips around—eyes bright blue like the stove’s flame.
I back into the table; Auntie’s teacup titters on the dish.
“The factory?” Mama’s voice sizzles. Smoke curls up from the eggs burning behind her.
“You think I’d trade a few shifts so you can waste what you’ve got? Girls who finish school make office wages. Girls like me sew knickers for thirty-two cents an hour.” She steps closer, spoon still in her hand—unbroken. “I will not let you waste your life making lacy underthings for those hoity-toity hussies up in the hills.”
Heat floods up my neck from the roots of my hair. My hands clench. My teeth grind. I’d back down—I always back down—but today—
“I’m good with the typewriter.” I swing the plate; the eggs almost fly. I set them hard on the table. “I’ll put in at the records office.”
She points the spoon straight at my chest. “And how far will that get you? Stuck in that old building. Stuck in this old town. You have a chance to step into the world an educated woman—with the vote, no less.”
Her words hit—slap, slap, slap—right under my ribs, and I want to believe her. But school isn’t made for me. It’s made for girls who can sit still. Who can keep their eyes forward and their backs straight. Who can finish their essays. It’s a fight I can’t win, and I want to scream it at her.
“I—” But it sticks in my throat.
Her eyes glimmer; pain flashes behind them—fuel for her flame. Mama’s strong. I saw her cry once when Papa died. The rest I hear locked behind her bedroom door.
So, her next words hurt.
“And don’t think you can rely on a man to take care of you. You need a fallback in case he puts up his aunt’s home to buy his own boat… then never comes home. Leave you to pay back what the government wouldn’t, while his son goes off and—”
“Molly!” Auntie’s standing now, tall as her back allows, scowling.
A tear slides hot down my cheek.
Mama’s eyes widen. The flame in them gutters. The spoon sinks.
She pulls the eggs off the fire, and shuffles over, both hands warm on my shoulders.
I look away.
But her eyes find mine. “Mattie… you’re smart. Smarter than you give yourself credit.” Her voice goes softer, and somehow that’s worse. “But you need an education. Get out of this town. Go see the world. Do something amazing. That was the plan.”
The plan. Papa’s plan: a big house, a good education for me and Marcus. Now Mama’s holding it by a thread. I watch it beat her down day after day.
And me? I’m the splinter in the switch.
Mama breathes in through her nose and lets it out slow. She fusses over my shirt, tugging the collar, and smoothing the wrinkles with her palm. Then she starts in on my hair, which I forgot to brush.
I let her. I don’t trust my mouth.
Aunt Millie’s hand finds my elbow. She looks between me and Mama. Then she says what we won’t.
“This family’s taken some mighty blows, and it’s just us girls now. So, we gotta take care of each other—each doin’ our part as hard as it is.”
Mama looks away but squeezes my shoulders. “Right, Mattie love. You let me handle the working, because you are going to finish school and make something of that sharp head of yours.” Her fingertip taps my forehead. “I won’t have it any other way.”
My breath hitches. I let it out. “Okay, Mama. I’ll go.”
She lifts my chin and holds my eyes. “Promise?”
I nod. “Promise.”
My throat is still tight, and when she kisses my forehead I almost fall apart—so I look up hard until the sting falls back down.
I kiss them both, shrug into the too-big DryBack jacket, squeeze my books to my ribs, and snag a strip of bacon as I rush out.
My shadow stretches long onto the road ahead, and that cackle skitters through my skull.
When I close my eyes, all I see is water blooming black and red.
This is different from the one you're giving away free, right?