Black Lives Matter Zine

for the opera or dinner. Who knew when they’d be back?

She sat at the desk intending to wait and confront them.

Time passed then Bertha decided to leave them a note.

She opened her purse and took out a pen. The only paper she could find was her list. She’d write something on the blank part of it.

What does one say in a situation like this?

She didn’t know.

She folded the paper, over and over, trying to figure out what to write. She couldn’t think of anything. She still pictured socking her husband in the mouth and throwing the tramp off the balcony.

Bertha sighed, tore the note in half, stuck her pen back in her purse and left. ~

Two days later, Bertha sat in her nicely appointed living room. A kindly policeman in the navy blue uniform of the New York City Police Department sat opposite her. He’d been talking to her for more than thirty minutes. It was finally beginning to sink in. He explained again, “Mrs. Imani Tinubu made the identification at our morgue. She asked me to tell you personally. Your husband Winston Hudson jumped or fell to his death from the balcony of the Metropolitan Hotel. I’m sorry.”

“No one else was in the room?” Bertha asked.

“No, Ma’am.”

“There was no sign of a woman?”

The officer shook his head.

“He wasn’t pushed?”

“We looked into that. There was no sign of foul play.”

Bertha thanked him and showed him to the door.

“I almost forgot,” the policeman said a bit shamed faced.

He handed her a brown envelope. Stamped on the outside was, “Property of the New York City Police Department.” The officer said, “The suicide note’s inside. Again, please accept my sympathies on your loss, Mrs. Hudson.”

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