Laughter on a Night of Misery

By nature, humans are attracted to the forbidden. As if guided by the magical string of misery; people can’t resist anything that could be described as dark, dangerous, or taboo. We worship pain and heartbreak, basking in their shadows while sobbing and begging for more. Make a story sad enough and someone might just attempt to leap through the pages and heal the characters themselves. 

Don’t believe me?

Well, pull up a chair and listen closely. I’ll make it a game to keep your mind from straying too far from the story. Don’t worry it’s not hard, but it can get confusing. I’ll help you out by starting you off with some back story.

 Every year on April 17th my family gathers tightly in my grandmother’s living room. My folks and I are usually one of the first to show, strictly because my dad has a personal vendetta against poor punctuality. As Grandma cooks, Mom and Dad stand by the door to greet and introduce while I stand a few steps behind to caution. I’m aware that I seem like a creepy hobbit, hiding behind the legs of my folks, but I learned long ago that these gatherings can be alarming for the unsuspecting. 

Although, I’d be lying if I said their confusion doesn’t amuse me. 

It doesn’t take long to fill the living room. By the time everyone’s present there’s only enough room for shallow breaths and stiff, slow arm movements. If it weren’t for the abundance of cornbread and baked beans consumed weekly, I’m sure there would be a bit more wiggle space, but good luck trying to snatch a plate away from this lot. 

So in true big-boned fashion, the first event to take place every year is a family meal. Food Grandma’s been slaving over for a week and a half is devoured in only minutes, barely a crumb left for any field mice that may find their way into the house. Chicken, greens, cornbread, baked beans, pasta salad, and three liters of grape soda is disposed of between laughter and the occasional story. 

“Let me tell you--” can be heard from three different mouths at any given point of the evening, a signature start to a backstory full of lies and exaggeration. “And you won’t believe--” is the following act, building the tension for whatever ever ridiculousness is about to fall from the lips of the teller. 

They’re right, we don’t believe them, but it’s okay to lie tonight as long as it’s funny.  

As the night wears on the stories become more and more descriptive as the plates are cleared and the tellers become more focused. This is usually when Grandma takes to her rocking chair in the front of the room, blocking the TV screen with her round body. One thing to know about Grandma’s house is, on April 17th no one is allowed in the chair. It may stay empty for a majority of the night, but it’s an unspoken rule that children, grandchildren, and visitors will sit on the floor before they rest in Grandma’s rocking chair. 

Despite being short, plump, and frail, it has never taken more than one word from Grandma to quiet a room. Even if she weren’t slightly terrifying it wouldn’t take much on a night like this. 

Okay, now you’re caught up.  Consider yourselves lucky, most people don’t have this long of a warning before they’re thrown into the cesspit that I call home. Now, the objective of the game is simple: uncover the true story of the Sun and the Moon.

***

“Back then, ‘Night’ didn’t have the same meaning as it does today. ‘Night’ wasn’t just when you slept, for us ‘Night’ lasted for one-hundred-and-fifty long years,” Grandma says. She drags in a lung full of air, or at least tries to through the ten years of smoke clouding her lungs. “Hours of darkness, stretching by with no end in sight. We only knew time was ticking by the coming and going of heat that wet our backs while we slaved.” 

Of course by “we” she doesn’t mean the many hefty persons now littering her living room--all it would take to “wet our backs” is a walk up a flight of stairs--but instead she speaks of our ancestors, the ones that resided across the seas and far from our mosquito infested town. Whenever we think back on these stories, “life” is usually spoken as “night” to really bring home the idea of suffering endured by the original Abergates. 

“The King would watch from his altar as we worked, his dark skin glistening underneath the sunlight.”

There’s a faint sigh from behind me and I slouch against the front of the couch. My aunt Mable leans toward my Mom to whisper in her ear, quietly enough for only she and I to hear. 

“There she goes again, mixing up the truth,” she starts, her thick accent still present in her whisper. “The King wasn’t a black man--though I know he wasn’t Eur-o-peen…”

I school my face to hide my thoughts. Aunt Mable would eat her own toenails before she admitted black people could ever do wrong. 

“He would watch us slave, with poison on his tongue and punishments at our backs,” Grandma continues. Her voice is low, gravelly, and full of suspension making her the perfect storyteller. “Nevertheless, such cruelty did nothing to sway the influence of the heart.” As a unit, the family leans in closer to the woman. “John and Marie, young and reckless as they were, found each other under the moon almost every night, attraction forming into a love so strong, some claimed they could smell it whenever the two were near. “ 

From the corner of my eye, I watch Uncle Marty lean in close to his wife. I don’t have to hear what he says, but I’m sure it’s the same as it is every year. 

“She’s got it confused again, the people couldn’t smell it, they could hear it. The sound of angel whispers whenever the two crossed paths.” 

“They weren’t happy, but they damn sure were the only ones feeling what they were feelin’.” That earned a few chuckles from the family. “Well, like all good things, God decided it was time for a test, and with him, the King decided it was time for a bride. As all men do, John had chosen the most beautiful of our people, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed to Mister-High-and-Mighty on his altar. The fight was bad, the aftermath worse. I wish I could say the two escaped and had a table full of babies, but we all know the story. Marie was married before the moon gained its face and John was forced to stare at his lover from afar as he worked beneath her.” 

There was a pause and we clung to the silence as we waited for the ending.

“No one knew she was pregnant, not even sweet Marie, until it was too late. The King knew it wasn’t his, everyone knew it wasn’t his.”

“Good thing too,” Uncle Marty hoots. We chuckle. 

“Outraged, the King sends after John. The trial was swift and his execution was even quicker. So filled with grief and unable to cope, Marie was found dead in her bed only two days later.”

Aunt Mable huffs irritably. “That woman was not found dead! She killed herself in the name of her lover, right beneath the King's hairy nose!”

Dad rounds on his sister. “Hush Mable. Mama tells the story and you can spew your fable afterward.”

Ugly gestures were exchanged between the two when Grandma’s attention was averted. 

“Sorrow swept through the world as if John and Marie lived in the center of it. Even though their happiness was not our own, they were ours to protect. That’s when Night got darker and Devil’s shadow encased us all.” Slowly, Grandma’s head lowered as if the hurt was her own. “Light was slow comin’ but when it did, oh, it was bright. During the day, heat unlike any other would sweep the land, leaving only those working the fields with a soft spring breeze. The King was sheltered in ice and water in an attempt to keep him chilled, but it was no use. He was sick only a month after the tragedy, confined to his bed.” 

Aunt Mable opens her mouth to interrupt again, but Dad is quick to shoot her a look.

“Not long after, the moon seemed to disappear from the sky, causing panic to everyone but those who walked for miles and miles on bare feet. Sight was gifted in the darkness, and we watched as the King and his people stumbled and sweated through the night. Confused and terrified, the people retreated behind their doors, leaving us to fend for ourselves--not that we needed any assistance.” What was supposed to be a hearty laugh turns into a bone rattling cough. 

“She’s gotta quit smoking,” I hear Mom whisper to herself. 

When Grandma’s no longer a threat to herself, she speaks again, her voice a lot more throaty than before. “We, of course, knew the true reekers of havoc,” she croaks. “Legend says John died and soared to the sun, his fury hot enough to wither the plants and cause water to boil. They say, Marie headed to the moon, begging the mistress to hide the world her baby never got to see.”

My cousin Laurel, looked ready to fall over. She naws on her bottom lip aggressively in an attempt to keep quiet.

 Of course she would have something to say, her parents told her Marie went to the Sun, and John shot to the Moon. No matter how many times I tell her she’s wrong, her hard head refuses to accept the truth. 

“The King's death was a tragedy to his people, but we had never hollered so loud. For once, there was light in our suffering and heart in our songs. The legend gets foggy around here, but long story short, Marie never gave that man a baby, meaning his line ended with his dirty business. Today, we celebrate Ms. Marie and Mr. John for their service to our people. Whenever you want to show gratitude to anyone but God himself, you better think about the real reason you’re free.”

Satisfied, Grandma falls against the back of her chair and the room explodes. 

“Marie was never pregnant--”

“I’m sure the story’s been warped time and time again, but scholars believe John killed the King with a sword, not a massive heat wa--”

“Oh hush, you don’t know nothin’--”

By the time everyone had stated their opinion, not one person could be heard over the arguing. If they hadn’t already, this is usually when non-family members sneak away to their cars. Like I said, most people aren’t given such detailed warnings when they step through Grandma’s screen door. After Aunt Mable lost her job at the packing plant because she invited her supervisor one year, it’s been an unspoken rule that only close friends are allowed to attend. 

Content with her speaking quota for the night, Grandma usually produces snacks for everyone to chew on while they threaten each other. Dad and Mabel are always the loudest two, so while we wait on him to finish with her, Mom and I split apple slices and listen to the various beliefs being exchanged. The night ends with disgruntled huffs and snide comments, but kisses are exchanged between everyone before we depart. By the next morning, most issues are resolved and April 17th becomes a problem for the next year. 

***

So, there you go. I told you people are obsessed with misery. My entire family built a holiday off of the unlucky end of two faithful lovers, believing it necessary for their memory to be remembered. 

Frankly, I have my own theories as to what occurred to Marie and John, but I’m interested to hear what you have to say. Did you figure it out? Have you done your research? Submit your responses and one day--if I ever grow the balls to say something--I might argue your side of the story.