The Greatness of a Nation

The sun did not come out on Wednesday, and people had begun to whisper. It was becoming increasingly difficult, for some, to ignore what we saw and what we heard. Nevertheless, today was Thursday, and the sun did come out, as was told to us. I was coming home from work, after stopping at the store, carrying the cranberries and the green beans. The turkey would be almost done by now, I knew. I walked to punch in my code for my building, which was guarded by thirteen armed escorts, and, as per mandate, carried my bags on my left arm in case my right hand was needed for fingerprint identification at any time.

I passed by Roberta, the blondest of the receptionists, as she beamed a great smile. “Your son is healthy,” she cooed, as she moved to flip off the camera which was live-streaming from my apartment to her monitor. We both smiled and nodded our approval at this.

I lived on the sixth floor in our building. The elevator would stop at every level, even if I was the only one riding it. An armed escort stood in the corner as we rode up. I avoided eye contact, as per mandate, and remained facing forward at all times. On the third floor, he stepped closer to me. “Identification.” He demanded. I immediately produced my right hand, and he forcibly placed my index finger on his scanner. Then ran his hand up the length of my arm, pushing back the loose satin sleeve of my blouse. I stared blankly at his shoes, the only acceptable place to look, as he leaned in. We made it to the fifth floor, where Mrs. Williams, a woman of sixty, saw us, his tongue lacing my neck, and my eyes steadfast on his shoes. She looked down at hers as she waited for the next elevator.

….

I took out my keys to my apartment. Once again, I fluffed my hair to ensure all strands were more or less in place. I tugged at my blouse and double-checked that my skirt was not backwards. I wasn’t worried that my mascara had run, but I ran my finger over the crease below my lip, in case my lipstick had.

Then I unlocked my door. My heels immediately found a stuffed toy lying on the ground, and I was only grateful it didn’t have wheels. I began to kick it to the side. My seven-year-old son came running from his room. “What the fuck!” He shouted, throwing his hands to his head, “Don’t kick that! What’s wrong with you?”

Silently, I proceeded to the kitchen and set down my items. My son ran to his toy, screaming all the way, and took it up in his hands only to smash it against the wall.

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Jess, how are you?”

I should have been used to Emily’s direct, incorrect manner of speaking, but every time she did over my line, a twinge of fear dripped into my chest and rippled through my blood. “I am happy, because my son is healthy and happy, thank you for asking.”

I heard Emily sigh. There was a silence, as Emily did not have children, so there was no question for me to reciprocate. It was customary for her to introduce another topic.

“Have they come yet?” She asked.

“Not yet. They have told me five thirty.”

“So, it’ll be soon. How are you doi-”

“It will be good for my son to see his father.”

At the sound of this, Sam posed to me, “WHEN? When is daddy getting here?! I want to see him now!”

My ring finger twitched. Sam screamed and punched his toy into the wall several times, before bashing the wall with his bare hands.

For a moment, I remembered Thanksgiving of last year. Caleb and his mother sat at my table, and my son sat in his grandmother’s lap. Carol was a regal, frail old woman. Older than my mother by nearly twenty years, her more white-than-silver hair was pulled into a high bun, and her onyx earrings absorbed all the light from the soy candles. “He’s growing!” She cooed approvingly, inspecting Sam from stem to stone. “He looks just like his father at this age.” Caleb didn’t look up from his turkey. Caleb was quite invested in his meat: ripping at the breasts with his canines, and tracing his tongue along the bone.

Carol continued, “I am so glad my son picked you that day. You made a beautiful baby, Jessica. It’s the greatest gift any woman can receive. Being a mother is wonderful. And there’s something magical in it; after all, mothers always love their children. There’s simply no choice in the matter.” She smiled as she brushed Sam’s hair from his eyes. “And so, we’re always so grateful. Regardless of how it happens.”

It happened when I was fifteen, walking home from school, in broad bloody daylight. The neighbors saw, the police saw, my parents saw. I screamed all sorts of things, things that no one would ever take seriously, like, “stop”. What could a woman possibly know about it? It was the same kind of insanity she screamed during birth, but all would be forgiven and forgotten once she brought a baby into the world.

The T.V. flickered as a special news report interrupted the parade. We stood at attention as the Father of our Nation appeared on the screen, and addressed his citizens with the hopes of having a happy holiday. When the speech was ended, the broadcasting returned to its original programming, and we sat down once again.

Sam pounded his head into the wall, knocking himself over, bringing me back to the present.

“Call me if you need me,” Emily was saying.

I hung up the phone, knowing full-well that she would be dead by the end of the year.

There was a knock at the door, and I braced myself to answer. And as I moved to the door, unknowing whether it would be a guard, a neighbor, a friend, or the monster that made me a mother, I swallowed as I breathed, whispering the national mantra to steady myself: “This is the greatest country on earth.”