“Pizza rolls! Yay!” I heard Jordan shout from behind me.
That night we ate together and discussed the upcoming preschool year for Jordan. Together Stenton and I worked to really hype Jordan up for school. We laid out our expectations for him in concert. This was unusual, but felt good. When it was time to turn in, I slept in Eligia’s bed, not understanding why I hadn’t thought to do it days before. She wouldn’t be returning from her homeland, the Dominican Republic, for a few days.
The next morning proved there was no end to the discoveries of one Jordan Michael Rogers. While he was using the bathroom, just before washing up for school, Stenton strode into his room.
“What are you doing?” His throaty morning vocals stirred something within.
I snorted. “I’m making the bed. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I see that, but I guess my question is why?”
“Because the bed won’t make itself.” I stood, taken aback by his undertone.
“It doesn’t have to,” he informed before calling out, “Jordan, come out here after you’ve washed your hands.”
“‘Kay,” Jordan dragged out, sleepily.
I jerked my head. “Stenton, I usually wash his face and fix his toothbrush for him to brush his teeth after he pees.”
Stenton ignored my objection and waited until Jordan came out. When he did, Stenton asked, “Why is your mom making your bed, dude?”
Jordan’s little eyes bounced back and forth between his father and me, and within seconds I was able to identify guilt in them. He shrugged his shoulders, holding his little palms out.
You little—
“Come make your own bed, Jordan. You know how to do it. You do it every morning at my place.” I gasped. “And when you’re done with that, I’ll watch you put toothpaste on your toothbrush and get your washcloth soaped for you to clean your face.”
“Okay,” Jordan murmured as he advanced toward the bed and began picking up where I left off.
I couldn’t believe Jordan knew how to make a bed. A short while later, I learned he was far more independent than I knew at getting washed up, too. Stenton supervised him washing his face and brushing his teeth, but Jordan did it all himself. I felt hoodwinked. Is this what happens when parents don’t work together? Was the distance between Stenton and me negatively impacting our co-parenting?
An hour after sending Jordan off for his first day back at school, Stenton’s driver picked us up and with his security in a car behind us, we drove up to New York for Quincy’s funeral. Not only was it completely packed, but it was of a different culture than I was used to. All the funerals I attended were more emotionally charged, with heavy organ-play, random guests regretfully speaking about the deceased, a choir crooning, and a whooping eulogy from the preacher. Quincy’s home going service was more polished, formal, almost aseptic, but not quite. There was emotion shared by his wife, who had a few screaming bouts, and his son who was too overcome with grief to speak.
During the repast, the dynamics were strange. Jackson, whom I’d met a few times over the years at functions for Jordan, sat with a woman looking to be around his age during the service. The same young woman stuck around for the repast. When Stenton and I were ready to leave, we searched for Jackson, not wanting to go before saying goodbye. We found him out near the restrooms, coming from a side door with an older woman—a very pregnant older woman—on his heels. She was calling out to him, trying to grab him once he hit the hall, but retracted quickly once she noticed us there. Jackson approached us upon recognition.
“You good, Jax?” Stenton asked in reference to the weeping older woman.
Old hag!
It was easy for me to see there was an intimate connection between the two, and for some strange reason, that pissed me off. What is a woman her age doing screwing Jackson Hunter?
“Yeah, I’m good, Stent. Y’all leaving?” Jackson asked, turning towards me.