I didn’t expect to find Zoey in the kitchen alone, busting suds. I strolled up to the cabinet to the left of her to retrieve my bottle of Maracame Gran Platino I made sure to have stocked here along with the list of grocery items Sarah sent to Paul.
“Doing dishes allows you to ruminate?”
Zoey’s head popped up and her eyes were stretched, deceptively startled by the sound of my voice. I purposely diverted my eyes to the bottle and grabbed it.
“Huhn?”
“You’re making that sound with the back of your throat.”
“Oh! No. At least I don’t think so. Maybe because I’m trying to get through this mountain of dishes.”
“So, you got stuck with dish duty?”
“I guess. It was really no question, considering Mommy and Ruth cooked, and you gave Jordan his nighttime bath. I had to play some part in the holiday teamwork. I guess I can take his monitor tonight so that you can get some rest.”
Is that what this was? Was I a part of that?
I grabbed a tumbler and poured my drink.
“Well, your mom has him in her room. She didn’t say it, but I know she was giving me the night off.”
Zoey giggled a tune that made my stomach flutter. “Yeah, she was being slick. She got over on you. She made you her sucker tonight,” she jeered as she scrubbed a pot.
I couldn’t help the grin cresting my face as I walked off. “Yeah, I guess she did.”
I went into the great room, recalling the view. Paul did his thing selecting this cabin. It had a mountain view, handcrafted woodwork in the A-frame ceiling and exposed rafters. The lighting in the sizeable room radiated a warm glow, conducive to the decompression I needed.
What a fucking day.
Enjoying the ambiance, I clicked on the mounted plasma, trying to unwind. I turned to MSNBC to revel in Barak Obama’s recent win. I’d contributed to his election and campaign, even met him on several occasions during and after his win. Not much could compare to the feeling of having your first child—a male, no less—be born the same year the United States of America elected its first African American president. I could tell my seed with more proof that the sky was the damn limit for him. That his greatness couldn’t be stifled or be forced into parameters by anyone but himself.
I don’t know how long I’d been there, watching the coverage of his celebrations, life, and even conspiracies as to how he gained office, before I saw an image nearing in my peripheral. I turned to catch Zoey dumping herself on the sofa with the bottle of Maracame Gran Platino in her hand. I detected her vanilla scent first, then noticed her hair was damp, alerting me of her having recently showered. Zoey immediately leaned over to pour more into my glass, which was empty. She didn’t wait for me to react. She picked up the glass and took a gulp from it, barely grimacing at its potency. I didn’t know what to make of her not acknowledging me right away, but instead, keeping her attention on the television.
Moments later, after placing the glass back on the long wooden center table, she muttered, “Just think, my son was born the same year we elected our first African American president. He has no excuse but to succeed as a man of color, born in the 21st century.”
I was amazed at our parallel thinking. On second thought, I shouldn’t have been. Zoey’s mind was brilliant. Our upbringings may have had stark contrasts, but our spirits…our souls had always been on par.
This fucking woman drives me insane!
I nodded. When there was coverage of the possible rigging of ballots, Zoey hissed her displeasure and frustration with inequality while taking sips of my drink in between, all to my entertainment and delight, though I didn’t show it. I kept cool, still sour as hell about her earlier antics.
“Sarah Barrett thinks she’s slick. She had JR all day, drove him up here, and now she wants to “put him down,” too?” she used air quotation marks. “She played us. I guess it’s all good that everybody wants that little boy.”
Without looking at her, I murmured, “I brought him up here.”