PodCastle

* Author : Kai Ashante Wilson
* Narrator : Sofia Quintero
* Hosts : Erin Roberts, Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali and Justina Ireland
* Audio Producers : Peter Adrian Behravesh and Graeme Dunlop
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This story was originally published by TOR.com.


Content warning: graphic violence and mature content


Rated X for sex, drug use, graphic depictions of violence with blood and gore and all it’s wet and slippery trappings, and general horror.
The Lamentation of Their Women
by Kai Ashante Wilson
pre.
“Hello,” answered some whiteman. “Good morning! Could I speak with—?” He mispronounced her last name and didn’t abbreviate her first, as nobody who knew her would do.
“Who dis?” she repeated. “And what you calling about?”
“Young lady,” he said. “Can you please tell me whether Miss Jean-Louis is there or not. Will you just do that for me?” His tone all floured with whitepeople siddity, pan-fried in condescension.
But she could sit here and act dumb too. “Mmm . . . it’s hard to say. She be in and out, you know? Tell me who calling and what for and I’ll go check.”
Apparently, the man was Mr Blah D. Blah from the city agency that cleaned out Section 8 apartments when the leaseholder dropped dead. Guess whose evil Aunt Esther had died of a heart attack last Thursday on the B15 bus? And guess who was the last living Jean-Louis anywhere?
“But how you calling me — it’s almost noon — to say I got ’til five, before your dudes come throw all her stuff in the dumpster?”
“Oh good,” exclaimed Blah D. “I was worried we weren’t communicating clearly.”
“She live out by Jamaica Bay! It’d take me two hours just to get there.”
“Miss Jean-Louis,” he said. (Public servants nearing retirement, who never got promoted high enough not to deal with poor people anymore, black people anymore, have this tone of voice, you ever notice? A certain tone.) “There’s no requirement for you to go. This is merely a courtesy our office extends to the next of kin. The keys will be available to you until five.” Blah hung up.
“Fuck you!” She was dressed for the house, a tank top and leggings, and so went to her room for some sneakers and a hoodie.
Mama was scared of Esther, said she was a witch. Both times they had went out there, Mama left her downstairs, waiting in the streets, rather than bring her baby up to that apartment. Now, she didn’t believe in that black magic bullshit, of course, but she also wasn’t trying to go way the hell out there by herself. Mama, though, wouldn’t want no parts of Esther, dead sister of the dead man who’d walked out on her some fifteen years ago. Naw, better leave Mama alone at work and call her later.
She’d get Anhell to go. They were suppose to had been broke up with each other at least till this weekend coming, but whatever. She could switch him back to “man” from “ex” a couple days early. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m a be over there in twenty, she texted.
She put a scarf on her head and leff out.

1
how can I word this?
you ain’t been perfect
Damnit. Forgot the keys to his place back in her other purse! She texted again from the street, and then hit the buzzer downstairs for his apartment.