Crystelle Mourning : A Novel

Chapter OneDarkness resonated in an upward spiral, pushing away the past. She could hear the silence. Then she heard the schoolyard across the street, the traffic, her alarm. She reached out to press down, to quiet the nearest noise, and turned over in her bed, slept soundly for a few moments. And then sudden blare reverberated, reached a certain consciousness, hovering like a bone chilling fog where spirals stemmed. Crystelle opened her eyes, saw nothing, then closed her eyes again. Mist clearing. She threw her hands over her face, listened to the music, and the laughter, and the time.Timelessness shifted places with now as soon as Crystelle opened her eyes. So when her lids drifted down, all she could see was the office where she sat and tried to sell hot chemicals for Black women to pour over their hair. Relaxers. She needed to get ready to go to work. She pulled the covers over her head. She had to go to work. Now she could see the pile of old ad copy on her drafting table. That campaign was over, but a new one would be starting soon. She would have to meet with clients early next week. She would have to do some research, come up with new ideas. What should the model say while she rolls her neck to sell the stuff that straightened hair like hers?'Post that question in your mind,' she whispered into the crushed fold of white sheets. Shadows against light rose walls flickered to the rhythm of wind. Lace lifted and hard wood floors creaked and Crystelle's sigh echoed.She rose and dressed and left her building, but she had gathered only enough strength to get to the roar of trains charging toward her underground. With the rush of old air, Crystelle raised her head and looked down into the dark subway tunnel. As a train approached, she backed up, feeling the grime she couldn't see as it landed on her face, stuck to her lipstick. She wanted to lick. She wanted to use her tongue to get the dirt off her lips but she reached for a tissue instead. Against the dash of bodies moving off and on, the dirt and rogue-stained tissue in her hand, Crystelle stood still. Grime against waxy red against white, and the crush of flesh annoyed her. Too much. Too much like what had been. She backed away from the closing doors and turned. Turned away from the pile of ads and the check each pile brought. Away from the stacks of Black women in two-dimensional gloss selling products, away from the money she earned so she could buy them. Turned toward home. As the train lurched forward, Crystelle was already heading toward the stairwell. She could see herself: 'Climb back to the street. Call in sick. Lie in bed, and be sick.' She knew she could get past the noisy schoolyard, through the late-rushing traffic, and climb the brownstone steps. She could climb the carpeted stairs, too, unlock her own door, walk the hard wood, maybe even sleep.So Crystelle walked across the street with her head held high but her spirit low. So low it gathered bits and flecks of earth as she walked. Against the weaving traffic she saw patterns of steel and exhaust shift. Clouds of smoke and shifting hulks of metal whirred. A man was selling incense on a folding table. Past that, another man was selling videotapes and winter hats. Beyond them all, a man was selling God through a portable microphone. She walked across the street and back into her apartment and there she could lock the door. Her spirit sat down beside her and her head hung low now. It hung so low she could see the flecks and bits caught in the hems of her spirit's skirt. She picked them out. Scooping with her nails like a rake, she gathered the dirt her spirit gathered and she tasted it. So much soil clinging to her disconnected self. Now on her own fingers. Now in her own self. She pressed the gathered earth against her tongue and swallowed the metallic smack of no longer living, of so much decomposed flesh and leaf fertilizing soil. Even in New York City, she could taste death feeding land everyw