Caught In a Jam
Nixon Montgomery
Black
Three years later
She only wore pink on Sundays.
I swear, if it weren’t for
coffee and Aunt Sylvia’s food, I wouldn’t survive. I actually had two coffee pots. One for home with the largest capacity carafe
I could find. And another at work which
I bought myself since they didn’t provide coffee. Seriously, what kind of construction site
doesn’t have coffee? I woke up to it, I
used it as a crutch during the day, and as soon as we got home every night I’d
push the flashing red button and listen for the drip.
Tonight was especially
exhausting. I worked a ten hour shift
and then went to derby practice for an hour.
Yes, even zebras go to practices sometimes just to keep their skills in
check. But after lifting and walking all
day it wasn’t my first pick of activities.
We ate dinner, thanks to Sylvia I didn’t have to cook, and went through
our nightly routine.
Now here I sat on living room
couch alone while she slept. I was
supposed to finish a slide show for my Econ class but the longer I sat here,
the more it didn’t get done. I sat back
into the cushions and closed my eyes as the last sip of coffee ran down my
throat. And like they did every night,
my thoughts drifted to Journey.
I’d heard things through the
proverbial vine, some I treasured and some I despised. I despised hearing that she’d married Justin
after finishing school. But she’d given
up on her dream of being a nurse in favor of the title of Mrs. Conrad; never
even stepping foot in a hospital. But
then again, I’d also heard she had quit school to become a stripper and Justin
had moved on. Who knew what the real
truth was? I’d only heard one that I
really believed. That she’d decided to
start some rebellion against an administrator at Duke University—now that
sounded like her.
I got up and made another
cup, stirring in way too much creamer, so much that my coffee was now
cold. I peeked into the bedroom and she
was sound asleep. When I closed the bedroom door it squeaked and she rolled
over but remained dormant. It was a
shame to feel this way. I felt guilty
every night when I sat here alone and completely reveled in just the state of
being alone with my thoughts of Journey.
But I needed it and felt the withdrawals if I shied away.
I sat back on the couch and
let the heels of my palms dig into my eye sockets, shutting out the light so I
could focus on her. It was getting more
and more difficult to remember what she looked like or how she smelled. But I remembered the little things. I remembered she called all Coke products
Coke and didn’t get how some people called it Soda or Pop. She always took out one strand of hair and
wrapped it around her hairband proclaiming it made her ponytail look good. She constantly stole my boxers to sleep in,
even though she had a slew of boyfriends to steal from. She had a triangle of freckles on her right
earlobe. I could tell the difference
between her ‘pissed off’ whine and her ‘feelings hurt’ sob from oceans
away.
I heard footsteps from the
girl in my life as she entered the room but I wasn’t ready to let go of Journey
just yet and rejoin reality. Her hands,
soft and warm pulled mine from my face.
I could smell the shampoo that Reed insisted I buy for her. At the time I had no clue what girls
liked. I’d had to learn quickly.
She huffed out a tired but
annoyed sigh at me and I opened my eyes to see red curls and freckles
everywhere. She literally was covered
scalp to feet in clusters of light brown freckles and I’d seen every inch of
her. She wiped away tears I didn’t know
were there and then wiped her fingers on my pajama pants. Before me was the most beautiful creature I’d
ever laid eyes on.
She finally knew she had my
attention and I knew by the smirk on her face it would be good, whatever came
out of her sweet mouth.
“What is it button? It’s
late.” I asked her, rewiping my face.
She batted her big eyelashes
at me and put her tiny hands on her hips.
“Daddy, I think I need a bunny wabbit.
Parker said he has a bunny wabbit.
I need one too.”
I sucked my lips in between
my lips and bit down desperate not to smile at how damn cute she was—especially
when she was as drop dead serious as she was right now.
“Scout, we can’t have a
rabbit in an apartment. They don’t allow
pets.” This probably wouldn’t have flown
with a regular three year old. But did I
have a regular three year old—No.
I blame Falcon. Let me reiterate—I blame Falcon.
He came in one day when she
was about eight months old and gave me this huge pack of DVDs, flash cards and
books. I didn’t even look at it for
months. I was too busy being a zombie and trying not to completely suck at the
‘Dad’ thing. But what I didn’t know was that Storey and Aunt Sylvia were using
it when they kept her. It was some kind
of “I Taught My Baby To Read” kit. Well,
it turned out my baby could freakin’
read. By the time she was two, she could
read an entire first grade book front to back and write her name, which was
difficult since I named her Scout Alessandra Black. But she could.
A few months ago her four
year old preschool teacher told Storey, who usually picked her up from school,
that she was too advanced and needed to be moved to the five year old
Kindergarten class. Storey and Aunt
Sylvia were excited. But my Daddy worry force
field kicked in immediately. She was
only three years old. I wasn’t ready for
her to enter into anything that remotely resembled real school. Preschool is one thing, playing kitchen and
nap time, but the word Kindergarten threw me off. I relented and allowed her to enroll—but I
didn’t like it one bit.
“When we move to a big house
we can get one,” she told herself more than me.
“If you say so, now is that
what got you out of bed, dreams of big houses and rabbits?”
That cracked her up. I touched the cluster of freckles on the tip
of her nose, “Back to bed. Do you need a
ride?”
She giggled and climbed up
on the arm of the sofa. I backed up to
it and she climbed on. This was our
thing. I don’t think the kid had ever
walked herself to bed. I was incredibly
lucky. She was so precious to
everyone. And Aunt Sylvia never treated
her like she was anything but another one of her own grandchildren.
I dropped her off on her bed
and she snuggled in. I noticed her toes
touched the footboard of her pink toddler bed now. I’d have to remedy that soon.
“Daddy, turn my music
on. I know I can go to sleep if my music
is on.”
Any other kid probably
wanted Laurie Berkner or that Raffi cat.
That’s what she complained was played when she went to preschool. But then when she started Kindergarten, she
complained they didn’t play music at all.
She had me buy a cello CD, apparently influence of Aunt Sylvia, and give
it to the teacher.
“Name it,” she put a finger
to her chin and feigned deep thought but she and I both knew she was going to
pick The National. I showed her the band
on the iPod and she agreed—The National it was.
I bent down and kissed her forehead.
“Get to sleep, Scout. You’ve got a spelling test tomorrow.”
She nodded, “Sleep,
S—L—E—E—P.”
The P was masked by a yawn
and I knew she would soon be back to sleep and I would be alone again.
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