All the houses on Loretta James’s block in Park Slope have been abandoned for the holidays. The windows are dark and empty; the wind whistles as it blows empty plastic shopping bags down the street, getting caught on the outstretched limbs of trees and lampposts.
Loretta’s own town house is lit up brighter than the Rockefeller Center tree or a couple of drunk teenagers sneaking vodka in water bottles into a BYOB karaoke bar. Now that the sun sets so early and dusk engulfs all the colors that easily catch the light, the blue of her front door appears more melancholy than magnificent. It evokes sadness. I feel sad.
I walk up the stairs of her stoop. I’m about to let myself in when I hesitate.
I close my eyes and try to picture Loretta and Sarah sitting at their long, marble dining room table, at either head. In my mind’s eye, they’re both dressed to the nines—Loretta is in a taffeta, hot-pink ball gown and her signature combat boots, whereas Sarah is in a sleek suit the same color as her off-duty scrubs. And they’re eating in silence, so quiet that you can hear the sound of forks clanking against plates, knives cutting into white turkey breast.
Then I try to insert myself into the space and find I can’t even imagine how I would proceed. I don’t fit into my own daydream. What would I say? Where would I sit? I watch as Loretta looks up from the cranberry sauce she’s moving around on her plate—a far cry from bone broth, if I may say so myself—and stares directly at me. How can she see me?
Alarmed, my eyes fly open, and I’m back in front of her big, blue door.
I count to five then knock three times with a loud, steady fist. I hear footsteps scrambling on the other side. They sound muted, like the scraping of a chunky sneaker.
“Who is it?” I hear Loretta’s voice faintly call from somewhere else inside the house.
“Not sure,” Sarah replies. “It’s too late for trick-or-treaters and too early for carolers, right?”
I can hear someone laugh, a melodic lighthearted chuckle. Who was that? It couldn’t possibly have come from Loretta, could it?
“Maybe it’s another Jehovah’s Witness,” Sarah says. “Only one way to find out.”
The door flies open, and I come face-to-face with Sarah, who looks up at me, mouth agape.
She’s dressed in a pair of plaid pajamas, the kind American Girl dolls wear. Her hair is in a loose braid that falls down her back, and she doesn’t have a drop of makeup on. Once the shock settles, she smiles at me.
“Noora, what a pleasant surprise! Please come in,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her inside. “Honey, Noora’s here!”
“What?!” I hear Loretta’s voice call out from down the hall.
As I remove my shoes, I notice how different the house looks with two people occupying it. The fireplace is lit, creating a warm glow in an otherwise cold, manicured environment. The smell of Chinese food wafts in from the kitchen. And as I turn the corner, I’m surprised to find Loretta not seated with her back straight, at her dining room table, but curled up on the couch, covered by a knitted blanket. She’s holding a white takeout box in her left hand and using her right to pick out dumplings and plop them in her open mouth. It would appear she’s put her chopsticks to work, holding together a messy bun that’s sitting on top of her head. Her signature red hair is visibly graying; it’s clear she hasn’t been to the salon in at least a week—so, I guess SPP isn’t the only place she’s been avoiding. Perhaps most surprising is the fact she’s in sweatpants. Okay, a cashmere sweat suit, but still!
The image of Loretta James vegging out on her sofa, watching a rerun of the National Dog Show, is one I’ll never be able to get out of my head.
“Darling, what in God’s name are you doing here?”
She stands up and throws her arms around me, pulling me in for a tight embrace. I stand perfectly still, listening to the judges rate a Yorkshire terrier on the TV behind me.
“Why aren’t you celebrating Thanksgiving with your family? Oh, right, your parents are back in Afghanistan or wherever, aren’t they? But don’t you have a sister? You two must have had some sort of falling-out, eh? Well, it’s no matter. You can join us here. Although I must apologize, neither of us were expecting company. We’ve both been feeling so exhausted you see, Sarah with her night shifts and myself with, well, you know. So we didn’t feel up to cooking and chose to cheat Turkey Day a bit by doing as our Hasidic neighbors do and ordering Chinese food!”
I’m about to correct her but decide not to bother. I have bigger items on my agenda.
“Loretta, where have you been?”
Sarah gets up and slips into another room, probably sensing what’s to come. Loretta looks up wistfully at the fire.
I decide to try again.
“I’ve been worried sick, Loretta. We all are. You haven’t been returning our calls or texts, your email password has been changed, you’re not even posting Instagram stories. You went totally AWOL at a time when everyone’s desperate for answers.”
I pause and study Loretta’s facial expression. She looks stoic, sculpted out of fine marble. I continue.
“It was absolutely terrible, Loretta. Margaret Hader, she fired everyone on Print. Your entire team. Even Beth. She was let go, just like that! And then we had this weird champagne toast thing to ‘cheers’ the end of Vinyl. Jade was there, but there was no formal announcement that she was taking over as editor in chief. Everyone wants to know if you’re still in charge—if you’ll be taking over as the new head of Digital and restructuring the team. They all suspect you might be, for one reason and one reason only: me. I’m still here. I wasn’t laid off with the rest of them. But then you stopped coming in, and everyone started to panic.”
Loretta says nothing and plays with her wedding ring.
“What’s going on, Loretta? Are you coming back? Am I out of a job?”
Loretta sighs deeply. She uses her thumb and pointer finger to shove another dumpling into her mouth, then chews slowly and swallows with dramatic flair. Then she looks up to meet my eyes.
“I’m sorry I scared you, love,” she says, locking eyes with me. “The truth is, I’ve been scared myself. You see, I found out the night before the announcement that Vinyl was kaput. The night of your little fall, remember?”
Little fall is an interesting way of describing fainting, but okay.
“That night, the head of SPP offered me Jade’s position with my current title: I’d stay on as editor in chief but oversee the website instead. And I just didn’t know what to say or what to do, so I asked for time to consider my options. I called you a million times to discuss, but you didn’t pick up!”
I was sleeping off my little fall, but I digress.
“The next morning, I just couldn’t bring myself to face my team, especially when I didn’t have any concrete answers myself. So I just decided to escape, to unplug. To make my digital footprint as close to invisible as possible until I had figured out what I was going to do next. I didn’t know HR was going to lay off my entire team without me there. I figured they’d wait! I thought I’d bought everyone a little more time. But I should have known better. That company can be so ruthless, so heartless sometimes. Truly, can you imagine being that self-absorbed?”
No comment.
“So did you figure out what you’re going to do next?” I ask. “Have you concocted the perfect plan to get us all out of this mess? Because I’m all ears.”
Loretta smiles and takes my hand, holding it tightly. Behind me, a golden retriever makes its grand entrance.
“Over the past few weeks, I took some time to meditate, to go on long walks around the city—incognito, of course—with no real destination in mind but in search of some sort of greater truth. And you know what I stumbled upon, just yesterday, in the West Village?”
I shake my head.
“A protest of hundreds of queer people, of all colors and ages. They were sitting peacefully on the sidewalk, lining the walkway to Stonewall, singing songs and passing around signs. I stopped and asked one for a light. I didn’t want to admit this to you, but I have a bit of a smoking problem. It really is such a nasty habit.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes at that one. Loretta doesn’t seem to notice.
“Anyhow, we struck up a conversation. He explained to me, this little transgender African American boy from Alabama, that they were all out there to ask for better working conditions and protections for gay folks in the workplace. Isn’t that something? Decades after I protested at Stonewall, these kids were out there singing for the same supper. I sat down next to him, and he was telling me about all his pronouns and all that, which to be quite frank, confuses the bejesus out of me. This child is yammering on and on about social justice and intersectionality and privilege and all that stuff, when I finally cut him off. And you know what I asked him, sweet pea?”
“No, Loretta. What did you ask him?” Her speech is so insensitive (but so is Loretta) that I’m struggling to keep a straight face.
“I said, ‘You ever read Vinyl magazine?’ And he just gushed! It was adorable! He realized who he was talking to and began profusely apologizing for ranting for so long, thanking me for my work with the magazine and the movement and everything. As it turns out, he’s a big fan. Get this: He told me that when he was little, before starting to transition, he used to use the money from his after-school job to buy copies of Vinyl and study the spreads. Can you believe? He felt inspired because of the pages of my magazine. I was just pleased as punch.”
I try to imagine Loretta James, sitting on a dirty sidewalk corner, talking to a trans, Black protestor from a flyover state. For some reason, the image won’t compute.
“Anyway, our conversation led me to my ultimate realization. I got into this world because I wanted to make a difference. I thought I could create real institutional change for young people, and goddammit, I was right! For a little while, at least. But I was only able to take care of others because I was taking care of myself. I knew print magazines inside and out, Noora. I could put together an ROS in my sleep. But digital? I can hardly tell you where the mouse button is. I can’t think as fast as the internet! I don’t understand the internet. And what’s more is, I don’t understand what your generation wants. I don’t get what fires you up in the morning, what gets you out of bed. What matters to you people? As far as I can see, it’s all viral trash, soundboards, and clickbait. So I have decided to turn SPP’s generous offer down. I will hand in my resignation in the morning then email the staff to inform them of my departure.”
I swallow back tears. I find my own emotions confusing. I didn’t expect this to hurt so much. “Where will you go?”
Loretta looks into the fire. I watch as the flames dance around in her eyes, like two flamenco dancers.
“I’m not sure yet. I think I’ll rest for a long while, spend some time with Sarah. We’re thinking of adopting, you know. Me, a mother! Can you imagine that?”
Loretta’s face lights up as she talks about Sarah and their family, and I feel the first of many tears slide down my cheek.
“Don’t cry, honey! You’ll land on your feet. I know you will. Don’t take this the wrong way—you were kind of a shitty assistant, but you’re a wonderful writer. And this industry is full of talented people who will never get recognized because they don’t have the balls to stand up for themselves and mediocre people who get to throw around fancy titles because they have giant egos and zero skill. You’re neither of those things. That’s why I know you’ll be all right.”
I wipe my face with the back of my right hand then extend it forward. She takes it in hers, and we share a firm handshake.
“It was an honor to work for you.”
“For Vinyl,” she corrects me. “For the reader.”
“For the reader.”
I smile then take one last look at Loretta James. This is how I’d like to remember her: cuddled up on the couch, hand-feeding herself noodles, her head on her wife’s chest, laughing at a miniature poodle.
As I turn around and retreat to that blue front door for the very last time, I hear someone call my name.
“Wait, Noora,” Sarah says, catching up to me. “I made you a doggie bag of food to take home.”
She hands me a brown paper bag full of sweet-and-sour chicken, and I graciously accept. I don’t have the heart to tell her I live in Chinatown.
“And I also wanted to thank you,” she adds.
“Thank me? For what?”
“For everything you did for Loretta. I know she probably didn’t always make it easy for you, what with her crazy temper and compulsive smoking that she somehow thinks she can hide from me. But I know she cares a great deal for you. She’s grateful, Noora. You did a great job.”
Her words echo loudly in my ear, and I let out a big sigh of relief. Until this very moment, I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear them.
“Thank you. That means more than you know.”
She smiles and asks me to stay in touch. I know I won’t, so I say nothing back. Instead, I walk out of that pretty, blue door, and never look back.