Novels by Nichole

I have never been to a funeral before. The church was packed full of people, each fanning away the heat with a large fan, their faces glistening with sweat and tears. My heart shattered again each time I heard the cries of anguish coming from Mattie in the front pew, her body wracked with sobs over and over until I am not sure I can take it anymore. Finally, it is over, and they try and take the casket out. I try to look away as Mattie throws herself toward the coffin of her baby and her friends gather around to bring her comfort. There is no comfort and we all know it, we just cannot mentally handle the sounds of her heartbreak any longer or our hearts will break too.My mother says we are not here to mourn, but to witness. We would not forget what happened to Mattie’s boy, and we would not forgive. There were two types of evil, she told us. Those who commit evil acts, and those who see them done and do nothing to stop them. We would not allow this to go unwitnes

The cruelty of a small town is how quickly news travels, and once it starts it doesn’t stop. My heart ached for the mother who wept in the street. She hollered her sons name over and over from what I hear. I also heard they had to carry her home, she couldn’t find the strength to walk. I do not bother go to the hill this week, I know it will be vacant. I know the grass will blow in the breeze but it will not form the shape of my lover.I am not proud of my family, who sneered at the pain of a mother simply for the touch of love between her son and a woman. In fact I wish I could draw myself inwards and separate myself from it all. School is ablaze with the gossip of how he looked, each telling more dramatic and grandeur than the last. I taste the familiar taste of blood within my cheek as I press down, unable to listen further. It was too close for me. To think of the pain of Ida going through that was enough to bring me to the bathroom during lunch, my stom

I sit at my kitchen table and watch as my mother takes off her maids uniform. She has been working for a new family lately and they keep her out late. I know it bothers her being away from us, but we all do our best to pretend her absence is practically unnoticed. She will be gone again before I wake up. She will need to be at the Smith family home before the sun to wake people up and feed them breakfast. It will not be long until I am doing the same thing. Day after day, cleaning after white people who can’t seem to stop making messes. I try and learn as much as possible now, that way when the day comes I get my own family it will not be so hard. My father died in the war when I was little, but people say he was a kind man, full of things to say to make people laugh. My mother says thats why she married him- he could make her laugh in a way nobody ever did. So far nobody has again. Our home is covered in pictures of him, with his wide smile and happy eyes. I have his

1954.“Stand up straight,” My mother breathes the words to me under her breath and her fingers reach out and pinch me where others will not notice. I no longer whimper when she does it. “Do not forget to smile.” It is not a reassurance- it is a warning. A warning to be perfect. I practice at night, pulling my lips into the wide grin she favors. I practice the pitch and tone of my voice as I dutifully extend my hand and repeat over and over ‘Hello, it is nice to meet you’ and ‘I am Rosalie Anderson, it is nice to meet you.’ I practice until I am practically blue in the face and when I sleep I no longer know who I am. If I am Rosalie Anderson, the girl who does not like her mother. The girl who thinks there is more to life than this town. Or if I am Rosalie Anderson, the next beauty queen for the state, trophy daughter of Doctor Fred Anderson and Elizabeth Anderson.“I won’t,

Summer, 1954"Tell me something," I ask her, my eyelids half closed in a relaxed state only she can bring on. My hand is snaked underneath the lace of her top and she is breathing steadily, but her skin prickles in goosebumps that tells me my touch is wanted. I meet her here after work on Fridays, out on the hill right outside of town. Far enough away from people that we can exist without others eyes, but close enough to get back in a rush. Our love is reserved for Friday nights. Every other day it is hidden away like a diamond, stuffed deep down in some stuffy box we try and pretend does not exist.Our families do not know each other.Our friends do not know each other.Weshould not know each other.

Grace is said in blessings over our food in haste as hunger gnawed at us all. The smells were intoxicating, and although I had been there at its conception, the food looked unrealistic, as though it had been plucked down from gods table. Nicola piles his food onto his plate and kisses his wife’s cheek before digging in. Lilliana stared at him through lovestruck eyes as he devoured all of her hard work, pausing only to compliment her cooking. When I looked at them together it was clear that they shared a bond beyond whatever roles they played in this family. I was not sure the same could be said about Giovanni and Frances. The two spouses sat apart and turned their attentions towards other things to keep from meeting each others eyes. Every so often Frances would dip down and wipe food off the mouth of her baby with a tsk, but otherwise I had never seen a woman so stoic. The contrast between the brothers could not be more apparent. The two options of the man my husband could be

When I come back into my body my head is pounding and my mouth is dry. I have never felt such intense heaviness in my muscles as I focus on the rhythmic rise and fall of my ribcage. My eyelids struggle to open and I am no longer on the table, instead I am in a heavenly soft bed with the blankets pushed up to my chest. I take a moment to groan and try to gather myself together. I am in a new place and I am not okay. Pain thrums in my hands like their own personal heartbeat and I try to brace myself on my elbows as I push myself up.The room was a pale gray color, the furniture a dark, glossy black. It was stylish, the most modern decorations cluttered the area giving it a stylized personal feel. But I could tell it was not a personal feel. There was no real personalization- no smell of cologne or perfume lingered in the air, the sheets were too stiff to have ever been slept in, the pillows far to plump to have ever been under another persons head. Whoever this room belon

Glass is everywhere when I open my eyes and Domenico is staring at me, blood pouring from cuts on his forehead. He is searching my eyes for something, I realize and I try to pull myself from the mental fog I am trapped in. My ears ring and my body hurts. When I raise my hand to my face it comes back covered in blood. I am hurt, I realize. I try to gather myself enough to panic, but when I look into the face of my husband I calm. He is motioning for me to breathe, over and over his hands rise and drop and I try and make my lungs follow the pattern until they no longer sting when I take in air. I travel the length of his body and I am relieved when I see no visible gunshot wounds. We are not shot. When I rise up my hands hurt so badly I allow my body to return to its position on the floor and when I look I see glass protruding from my palms. My hearing slowly begins to come back and I hear the cries of someone in pain. It takes me a moment to realize it is sounds I am making.

I approach the dilapidated looking building with caution, wishing that my heels did not click so loudly on the street stones. Domenico sits behind the wheel of the car, a cigarette in his hand as he watched me walk. He had briefed me on the way over what to do and who to talk to, a small mission that was no doubt less about being successful at something and more about proving I am willing to do what I am told. After the conversation with his father I am afraid we are on thin ice and at any moment I may fall through. There are two men waiting near the doorway and when I approach they look me over. I am no threat and they know it.“Who are you here for?” One asks, his voice hoarse as though he has been yelling all night. He has a scar that splits his lip and I try not to stare as I answer. I will not be rude to these people. They are the only people keeping my family safe.“I am here for William,” My voice wavers and they stare at me,

“I am telling you what she said.”“And I am telling you that it is not good enough.”The yells wake me from my sleep and I sit up, alarm pulsating through me. I swing my legs out from under the blanket and make my way to the living room, intent on yelling at the pair of men, whoever they may be. When I reach the threshold my bravado drops and I stare at Domenico and his father, each staring at the other with anger curled into their body language.“What is going on?” I ask and Domenico runs his hand through his hair. “The whole neighborhood can hear you two yelling.”Maritzio smoked a cigar and stares at me as though I am nothing more than a speck of dust on a mantlepiece. “Go back to bed.” He tells me before he turns his attention back to his son. Domenico looks at me with sympathetic eyes and for a moment I think about doing it. But, there is something in Domenico’s

I drive myself out of my corner and back into the ballroom where the party is in full swing. The band places loudly now and people are dancing, drunk off of spirits and high off cocaine. The floor rattles with the sounds of heels and I am momentarily overwhelmed. Bodies are everywhere, flipping in dance and crawling in lust in corners and I am standing there, looking for the people from the balcony. Everyone looks disheveled now, there is no way to tell one from another.I drift into another room and the music fades. Men stand around smoking cigars and drinking liquor and my eyes are traveling from face to face trying to find my husband in the land of strangers. I do not even see Lilliana. There are no familiar people here and I wonder for a moment if I have been left behind. Surely they would not discard me?“Excuse me,” I tap someone on the shoulder and he turns to me. His eyes are glassy and he reaks of liquor. He supports himself weakly by l