------------------------------------
On Sunday evening, Wila Ardale sat in the lotus position on the thick, plush carpet of her family room with her eyes closed. Despite the nag champa incense wafting through the air and her yoga pose, she jerked when pots banged in her kitchen. Her role as War, the third Horseman of the Apocalypse, or rather Soccer Mom of the Apocalypse as her friends preferred to call themselves, seemed to feed on her PTSD. The same PTSD she believed she had mostly dealt with after she left the army nearly fifteen years ago.
Her right eye opened and peered up at Grandpapa’s antique clock on the stone mantel above the fireplace. Five frickin’ minutes. It had been five frickin’ minutes and she couldn’t even get into the first level of a meditative trance. Not with her grandmother rattling around in the kitchen.
Her recently risen from the dead Gammy.
Wila knew Gammy had dealt with her own stress by cooking when she was alive. Apparently, it held true in her resurrection. But the damn noise was driving Wila crazy. She was used to total silence on her days off work while Derek was at school or at his father’s house like right now.
And the ex-louse would be bringing her son home at any moment. She trusted Derek to remain silent about Gammy living with them, and the ex-louse avoided talking to her. He would probably drop Derek off at the door as usual.
“Me-arow,” Malcolm complained at another bang. Wila glanced at the couch. Her seal-point Siamese sat on his haunches on the middle cushion, cocked his head, and repeated his complaint. His blue-point brother Martin lay on the back of the couch and swished his tail in agreement.
“I know, I know,” Wila muttered. “I’ll go talk to her.”
Martin sniffed to indicate he didn’t think anything Wila said to Gammy would work. With another round of banging from the kitchen, he had a point.
Wila stretched out for a count of fifteen before she rolled to her feet and padded into the kitchen. Gammy crouched before the open pots and pans cupboard, shuffling things around loudly.
“Whatcha looking for, Gammy?” Wila asked.
“Don’t you have a colander, girl?” Gammy straightened.
Wila walked around the breakfast bar. A large bundle of collard greens sat in the sink. Yep, her grandmother was cooking again.
“Gammy, I told you that you don’t have to cook every meal for us,” Wila said. “And especially not tonight. Derek is eating dinner with—” It took all her will not to refer to Deion as the ex-louse in front of her grandmother. “—with his dad tonight.”
Gammy shook her head sadly. “I can’t believe you and Deion are divorced. I remember you two being so happy that day your blessed little baby was born.”
“Well, that was before I found out he was screwing my best friend Rashida, our babysitter Kristy, and his secretary Eileen,” Wila grumbled.
“Eileen?” Gammy’s forehead wrinkled. “She’s your mama’s age, and she’s white.”
Wila crossed her arms and leaned her left hip against the counter. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Still need a colander for the greens.” Gammy waved at the leafy vegetables in the sink.
“I can throw in a pizza from the freezer for dinner.” Wila stalked over to her refrigerator. “That’s plenty for the two of us.”
“That processed food isn’t good for you,” Gammy lectured.
Wila took a deep breath before she turned to face her grandmother. “I can pick up soup, salad, and sandwiches from the café down the street. That would be healthier, right?”
Gammy shook her finger at Wila. “It’s a waste of money eating out all the time. How are you going to save up Derek’s education by spending willy-nilly?”
“The money for Derek’s education is already set aside.” That had been the one thing she refused to compromise on during the divorce negotiations.
“Fine, but that doesn’t take care of these collard greens, girl. And I bought a nice ham hock, too.”
Wila tensed at the reminder her friend Francine was doing more for Gammy than she was. Like buying Gammy clothes and taking her grocery shopping while Wila was at work. She didn’t need a white savior to take care of her own damn family.
“I have a strainer I use for pasta,” Wila pointed out.
“Too small.” Of course, the old woman wanted a bigger colander. She was used to cooking for her eight children, their spouses, her grandchildren, and all the cousins. However, Mom and most of the aunts and uncles had passed. Dad lived in Florida with his girlfriend. And all the cousins had scattered across the fifty states to wherever their jobs took them.
“How about we go shopping in the morning?” Wila said. “We’ll find you a colander you like, and I’ll help you with cleaning greens before I head into work. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you can cook to your heart’s desire.”
Grammy stared into Wila’s eyes before she rested a warm callused palm against Wila’s cheek. “You always were a good girl, Wila.”
Her eyes burned, and she laid her own hand over Gammy’s. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
Gammy laughed. “I admit I never thought the sounding of the trumpets on Judgement Day was going to be like this.”
“Those sounding trumpets are what we’re trying to avoid, Gammy,” Wila said sternly.
The security system beeped, and Derek shouted, “Mom, I’m home!”
“In the kitchen!” she responded.
He raced in, skidding on the hardwood, and hissed, “Dad’s here.”
His warning was too late to rush Gammy upstairs to her bedroom. Sure enough, the ex-louse walked in behind Derek. His confident swagger had first attracted Wila to him, but now, it just pissed her off.
She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Deion? None of your girlfriends are here.”
“Ah, Wila, always a pleasure to speak with you.” His equally confident smile faltered when he noticed who was standing beside her. “Gammy Latricia? B-but you’re dead!”
“You got no right to address me with any familiarity, Deion Jackson.” Gammy shook her index finger at him. “If my great-grandson weren’t standing right here, I’d be giving you a piece of my mind.”
Wila crossed her arms. “It’s been three weeks since the dead started rising from their graves. You may not have a lick of compassion, but I’m not about to turn my grandmother away from my home.”
Something alien shone from Deion’s eyes, but this was normal human malice. He wasn’t possessed by a demon.
“Derek, get in my car,” he demanded.
“What? No!” Derek protested.
“You had your weekend with him, Deion,” Wila said. “You’ve delivered him safely home. It’s time for you to go.”
Deion said nothing. None of his usual attempts to intimidate her or threaten her with legal action. Nor did he reprimand Derek for giving him lip. No, Deion pivoted and stalked out of her kitchen. She followed to make sure he exited her house, and she watched him back out of her driveway.
His silence indicated he planned something. Something she wasn’t going to like.
Too bad her flaming sword didn’t work on living ex-husbands.
No comments:
Post a Comment