Bread and Butter

LyNae Golder

It’s ten o’clock at night when Nia wakes, again as she does every night, to 
the loud pops! and bangs! surrounding the house. When she was a child, the sounds 
would scare her—are they fireworks? Now, a young woman in her late twenties, 
she doesn’t bother to distinguish the sounds. For her, they’re all fireworks. They 
must be, she thinks as she looks out of  the window. Why else do they make the 
night come alive? Why else do they wake everyone to hear their song? 

It’s eleven o’clock at night when she stops watching the window and final-
ly gets out of  bed. She drags her feet because she knows she’ll be up a while; she 
can’t go back to sleep until Zion walks in the door and she knows he’s safe. He’s 
a big, strong man, more than able to care for himself, but she still doesn’t trust 
the world with him. He’s a tall, dark-skinned man, real good-looking and smart. 
She hates watching him leave every day to clean in those suburban White neigh-
borhoods, even though she’s grateful because it’s their bread and butter. Because 
even though they’re free of  the colorful fireworks, they’re full of  silence, which is 
worse. 

It’s twelve o’clock in the morning when the pops! and bangs! are at an all-
time high. It’s almost melodic with its constant rhythm. Pop! Bang! Bang! Pop! Bang! 
Bang! She dances along to the beat as she sweeps the living room floor to keep her 
mind moving, to keep her from thinking about all the what ifs. What if  he didn’t 
use the right smile? What if  he gets lost in all the silence? What if  he doesn’t 
come home? What if  it’s like that time a few years back, when he barely outran 
the White folks harassing him? 

It’s one o’clock in the morning when she stills her feet and sits in the old 
rocking chair. It was her father’s, before he passed away two and a half  years ago 
from anger and alcoholism and cardiac arrest. As she relaxes in the comfort of  
the worn leather, she thinks about how he hated Zion. He wanted her to marry a 
White man, so that her future kids would have White names and the privilege of  
a White future. She thinks about how wrong that was. He didn’t respect that Zion 
grew up in a poor neighborhood just like her and was raised by a single mother, 
nor did he respect that Zion was a genuine, good man. She smiles. Zion’s every-
thing she wants and more. He may not work a white-collar job, but he’s incredi-
bly kind and makes sure she’s taken care of. 

It’s two o’clock in the morning when Zion walks in. The fireworks have 
died down to a hum. Having napped beforehand, Nia’s wide awake to greet him. 
He’s tired and sweaty, his clothes dirtied from hours of  scrubbing the floors and 
baseboards on his hands and knees. She rushes toward the door and pulls him in 
for a hug. “Welcome home, Zi, how’re you?” she asks, and with a smile, he says, 
“I’m happy to see you.” 

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- 40 -

“The fireworks have been keeping me company.”

“They’re not fireworks, Nia. You know that.” 

“I know,” she says, “but a woman can pretend.” 

He puts his arm around her and leads her toward the bedroom. “Come 
on, let’s go to bed.”