Three Stories

by Cameron Carter

STS-47

The first Black couple to fly into space together were the Joneses—Ethan and Mirriam—in 1992. Natives of Huntsville, Alabama, they had spent their lives driving down I-565, watching Saturn I rise above the treeline.

Everyone knew that the United States built the Marshall Space Flight Center here: Alabama offered lax labor laws, cheap land, and low wages. Which was to say, half the country expected Mirriam to be cleaning the spaceships, not onboard one.

Originally, they weren’t supposed to be the first couple. Mark Lee and Jean Davis were slated for their spaces on Endeavour. Yet, when NASA discovered they had married in secret, they contacted Ethan and Miriam. It was less risky, they said. If something went wrong, Mirriam thought, they would blame it on their blackness instead of marriage. And if their rocket suffered the same fate as Challenger, would America launch another rocket into space after witnessing a young white couple burn in the air?

Two weeks before the flight, NASA held a press conference at the U.S. Space and Rocket Center. For the rest of their team, two Europeans, one Japanese, and one other American, the media asked simple questions. Yet, when it came to Mirriam, one reporter from the Birmingham News asked her if she planned on having sex while in space. Then, when Mirriam was too stunned to respond, he asked if it was for research or pleasure. Mirriam stormed from the conference table. Ethan hadn’t come after her.

As they drove home down I-565, Mirriam told Ethan she was backing out. Their bodies were more than experiments. Their marriage more than a science project. Their love more than empirical data. Ethan told her that the reporter was only joking. He smiled as if laughter could shield them. That night, Mirriam slept far from Ethan without touching him, scared of what would be released.

When they arrived at the space station, as they unpacked boxes, Mirriam found a box with only the American flag emblem in the middle. Inside were over a hundred knock-off condoms— the kind sold in wholesale quantities to universities. They were an assortment of sizes and types: latex, non-latex, lubricated, non-lubricated, extra large, petite. The mission was to last just seven days. Mirriam tossed the box in the air. The plastic wrappers floated throughout the station. The rest of the crew watched them like confetti.

Ethan told her that mission control was only supporting them. For fun, Ethan blew up a non- latex condom like a balloon. He held it, a peace offering. Within seconds, the condom popped.

For their first two days, Mirriam couldn’t shake the feeling in her stomach. When mission control called, they referred to them as the Joneses—never separately, always together. Instead of studying the gene expression of Arabidopsis thaliana in microgravity, as they were sent to do, NASA seemed more interested in studying them.

Every night, Ethan kissed her on the cheek. He cradled her as if expecting something to happen, but each night, Mirriam pushed him out of her door to sleep alone. At night, Mirriam would look down on Earth, wondering if anyone could feel her stare. She could see the fires burning in Watts after the killing of Rodney King.

Throughout their trip, Mirriam kept to herself. She heard the laughter behind her, behind the glass. They were all waiting for the punchline, the spectacle, the climax. Mirriam wouldn’t give it to them. She focused on her Arabidopsis thaliana, watched as their thin, white roots like veins reached for the bottom of the test tube, and watched as little white flowers blossomed at their heads.

On the final night of their mission, Ethan came into her room, kissed her, then lay beside her in bed. She wanted him, but when she looked outside at the glowing Earth below as they flew over Europe, she felt as if the entire world was watching them. Ethan whispered in her ear, There’s only us. Then, she felt his hands travel down her arms, her waist, her thighs. She didn’t stop him. Tomorrow, they would be back on Earth, back in their beds, back to their privacy where not even God would be watching.

As Ethan slipped inside her, Mirriam looked out at the window, looking at the black nothingness endlessly drifting apart or clinging together. She looked at the stars, not knowing if Heaven was before her or behind. If someone down below was looking up and watching, or if the only eyes on her body were Ethan’s alone. She pulled him closer, buried his head in the crook of her neck. Then she reached toward the window, hand outstretched, hoping to touch it— whatever it was—even just for a little while.

The Jumpers

After the first one, management installed a metal sign on the rooftop that read: Do you need help? After the second, they hired a mental health specialist. Her solution: red stress balls, weekly team lunches, and monthly nature hikes. After the third, management held a mandatory, unpaid grief counselling session. They said they were a family, families stick together, families have everyone’s best interest at heart. They were emotional. A whole box of tissues went around the room. After the fourth, they installed the nets.

From my desk, I can’t see them. But I can hear them swinging against the glass windows, waiting with open arms to catch any angels falling from heaven.

“It’s like we’re on a pirate ship,” Danielle said, the day after they installed them. Danielle had been my manager for the past five years. She placed a stack of claims on my desk. “You coming to the hike on Saturday?”

When the second person jumped, Danielle was working overtime in her cubicle, and for a fraction of a second, she saw Patrick from Account Services falling towards the pavement.

“I think so…” I lied.

For the past three months, they have rotated through nature trails: Piedmont Park, Stone Mountain, and Sweetwater. Danielle had been leading them and inviting me to join her. I couldn’t tell if she was being polite or if she was genuinely concerned for my well-being.

Since the deaths, management had become like miniature social workers. We were given a hotline to report any suspicious activities. Danielle once showed me the list of life events that upper management wanted to be notified of: family deaths, prolonged unhappiness, breakups or divorces, and unexpected changes in emotions.

“We’re a family,” Danielle said, smirking as she left. I couldn’t tell if she was making fun of management or if she genuinely believed in their words.

In the end, out of guilt, I came on Saturday morning. At Roswell Mill, Danielle arrived early. She wore a plain T-shirt and khaki shorts. She looked ready to save Smokey the Bear and put out forest fires.

We waited in the parking lot. We made small talk. She asked me about my siblings, my dating life, how my parents were. I wondered if she was asking, Will you be the next one? After fifteen minutes, she called a handful of numbers, printed on a clipboard, as if she were a camp counselor. One by one, new excuses grew why they couldn’t make the hike today. At each, Danielle’s impatience grew. With every name on her list struck through, she told me it would just be the two of us.

Danielle continued the small talk as we walked along the hiking path. The windy path was covered in puddles and mud from yesterday’s rainfall. I nodded along. She smiled when she turned around. I wanted to get the trip over with, so I could get back to my Saturday.

Nobody played in the waterfall. Waterfall was a loaded word for the average-sized hill with water falling from it. Slippery rocks scaled the bottom of the falls. At the water’s edge, Danielle rolled up her pant leg.

“Is it cold?” I asked, watching the water slowly devour her pale leg.

The only time I’d seen Danielle’s legs was at the annual winter party. The only time she wore a dress.

She splashed cold water at me. I dived into the water after her.

After thirty minutes, Danielle asked if I wanted to do something crazy. I nodded. She led us up the trail towards the top of the waterfall. We put our stuff down by the water’s edge. Here, it was quiet; none of the families were this far up. She tiptoed across the rocks, towards the waterfall’s edge. Halfway across, she motioned for me to follow behind her.

I followed behind her. Once she reached the center of the edge, she sat down with her back against the running water. With her legs extended, the waterfall’s edge was meters from her feet. I did the same, but further away from the edge.

“Do you do this often?” I asked.

“It’s the only way I can collect my thoughts.” She pointed towards the view.

Downtown skyscrapers peeked out of a canopy of lush trees kissed by the setting sun. We sat there in silence, taking it in. After a while, Danielle began to cry.

“Why do you think they did it?” she asked.

I didn’t know why they had. Maybe, they had given up. Once they realized that, after getting married and settling into their jobs, there was nothing else awaiting them except retirement.

When I attended the funeral for the third one, the pastor wept, so brave, so brave. Maybe, we were wrong. We were scared, clinging to life because we were too scared of the other side. But I didn’t know how to put this into words, so instead I told Danielle, “I don’t think they wanted to die, they were just tired of staying.”

“They were good people,” she said.

We could do it here. We could hold hands, fall onto the sharp rocks beneath us, and be free from working another day in the cubicle office. I imagined the wind in my face, blowing my afro behind me, and the air struggling to fill my lungs. When I looked up, Danielle was walking toward our belongings, back to the trail, back to work, back to our lives, so I followed her.

The Water Boys (or They Took Black Mecca from Us)

When the power went out, I was in my car, scrolling through BlackSpace. I know, pathetic. I was on my way to a date, yet I was still scrolling through the dating apps. But this was my first date with K.: a picnic in Piedmont Park—her idea. When we first messaged, she asked, “When was the first time you knew what love was?” I changed the subject.

I checked my car’s battery status: 5%. Not enough to get me to Midtown, I thought, so I slammed my hands on the steering wheel. Atlanta has been plagued by outages since the summer. Although they lasted no more than an hour, people prepared for them like summer storms.

In the car next to me, two men were arguing—I assume a couple, by the way one tried to caress the cheek of the other. Like me, they were stuck here, or maybe they were lingering till the power returned. I tried not to stare, but I have a habit of people-watching—always have. I wondered if this was the future that awaited me with K.

On the exit ramp, water boys seized this opportunity to hustle snacks and water through car windows. Outside the gas station, they shoved chips and water bottles into cars as drivers passed crumpled cash to them.

I texted K. She immediately texted back, saying I was lying.

I didn’t blame her. I, too, would have seen it as a sign that she was talking to someone else.

I pulled a joint from the middle console. I searched through my pockets for a lighter but couldn’t find any. I looked at the car two spaces away from me: a pregnant white woman sitting in the driver’s seat.

I tapped on her glass. She looked me up and down, one hand on her pink, plastic pepper spray, on her key ring. She cracked the glass, just enough so I could feel the car’s air conditioner.

“Do you have a lighter?” I asked.

People flocked here for the promise of comfortable city living without harsh winters, only to discover that the city extended beyond Centennial Olympic Park, the Battery, and Ponce City Market. They found themselves standing in the remnants of Black Mecca. I wondered how she would’ve answered K’s question. How could you know when you felt a feeling you didn’t know?

The first and last time I told someone I loved them was in grade school. I typed the number into my flip phone, and we texted every day for two months. I kept my phone close, waiting for her response. Then, one night, I typed the words to her. She told me her brother told her love didn’t exist and stopped replying to me.

She pushed a pink lighter through the window. I grabbed it, gently as if playing Operation. I lit the end of my blunt. When I tried to push the light back through the window, she shook her head.

Back by my car, two of the water boys were yelling at the gay couple. They punched his side mirrors. The man spat at them. Now, all seven of them surrounded the car.

They yelled slurs. One kicked his taillight. He told them to return to their third-world country. The one closest to him, a tall, lengthy kid with an afro, yelled a slur, pushing the man past his limit. He exited the car and lunged at him.

Just a minute ago, the man was brushing away his lover’s touch from his face— now he leaned into it. Love. I don’t think I ever understood it. I rushed over there.

As I pulled the child back, he kept yelling slurs at the gay couple. I wondered who had taught them to hate. Had they learned these words from listening to angry adults, who saw the world around them teeming with so much love— a love that always passed them by. Had they longed for it? Of course. Would they tell anyone? Of course not.

The man slipped from his partner’s grasp. I held him back with my free arm, but the other water boys had joined. A crowd watches from the sidewalk, refusing to acknowledge or record the incident. I put my palm on the kid’s chest. I felt his heart beating against my fingertips. So close now, I could see the sweat beading on his forehead—the white chalk left from his shape- up, felt the reverberation of his words pass through his body.

He slipped out of my grip, landing a sucker punch on the man. The man’s partner whipped his phone out and called the police.

The other kids surrounded the man on the pavement. The man raised his hand to his nose. Blood. He swung at the water boy I had been holding, landing a kidney shot. The kid dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach, wincing in pain.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the pregnant white woman leaving. Deep down, we knew how this would end when the police arrived. No matter how many cranes dotted the skyline or how many newly built condos opened on the beltline, we all knew that the city’s foundations persisted underneath.

The water boys surrounded the man, kicking and swinging at his limp body on the pavement.

I tried to pull them off him. I tried. But every time, an elbow swung toward my face. When the police arrived, they got one last hit at the man, then ran down the street, leaving their friend behind.

I walked over to the officers. I apologized for the children, saying they were just kids. Yet, the officer didn’t listen to me. He slapped the cuffs tightly around the kid left behind, still wincing in pain as the officer ironed his body straight with his knee. His partner narrowly dodged traffic, chasing after the other boys.

For fifteen minutes, I sat on the hood of my car, watching the procession. The officer pushed the kid into his squad car. The gay couple observed the entire ordeal while an ambulance checked his nose.

The first time my mother bailed me out of jail, for disorderly conduct. I spent the night in a cell alone, with every thought in the world bouncing in my head. Then, when morning came, my mother stood there in the reception area, ready to pull me into her open arms. I didn’t know how to tell K. This would’ve been my answer, or if I had the chance anymore.

I smoked my joint while watching the police officer drive off with the kid. Their black dot disappeared past the skyscrapers into the blurred horizon. I sent him a silent prayer, hoping someone was waiting for him, arms open, like mine had been. Then, the lights flicked back on.

BIO: Cameron Carter is a fiction writer and educator from Atlanta, Georgia. He holds an MA in English from Ball State University and is pursuing an MFA at Georgia State University. He received the 2024 Zora Neale Hurston/ Richard Wright College Award and the Paul Bowles Fellowship and was a Steven R. Guthrie Memorial Award finalist.