"Alright, what is it now?"
"Oh, so he does speak more than five words," Morris snarks, crossing his arms over his chest and raising a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "You were practically a zombie last I saw you."
I wince. "Yeah, I had to figure out some stuff."
"Figure it out?"
"Does anybody?"
"Hmmph. Let me put it like this then—are you addressing it?"
I stare at Morris, a strange feeling crawling up my back.
Morris is the grandfather of Trey, Liam's basketball coach. I know he's a frequent flyer at Mabel's, so he's probably been talking to Wendy, but I'm not sure what he knows.
Wendy usually keeps things close to the chest, but the Jeffersons have a way about them that can get you to speak. Morris is damn near a century old. I know he's got experience in all walks of life.
So, I wonder...
"Every day," I nod once. "Every second."
He studies my face for a long moment before the tight line of his mouth softens.
"That's all we can do," he barks, laughing. "And pray our lovely women don't get tired of our bullshit and leave."
I glance over to him, but he seems to be staring into space, lost in his own thoughts.
"You speak from experience."
He pauses, his face dropping slightly as he stares at his truck being lifted.
"I almost lost my Ronnie," he says, his voice low. "From my own stupidity. I grew up in a different time. Men were the breadwinners, and women took care of child-rearing and the household."
My throat feels tight at his words, and he laughs bitterly.
"I thought I was abig shot,making good money so I could do whatever I wanted. Came home late from the bar, stumbling into the house and smelling like booze, demanding dinner that I missed hours ago that she made from scratch while wrangling three kids with a fourth on the way. That was after she cleaned our entire house top to bottom, did the laundry, and helped the kids with schoolwork. The entitlement I felt during those times still makes me sick to think about fifty years later."
My ears burn shamefully. I know our situations aren't exactly the same, but I still wasn't showing my appreciation to my wife for the work she does, unpaid and with measly thanks.
I just thought that was the way things were—I made the money, she took care of the kids and house.
Harmonious. Happiness.
Something else occurs to me, "You didn't...with another woman—"
"No," he shakes his head, jaw clenched tight. "That's one thing I could never do, but... there are many ways to hurt your wife without cheating on her."
I nod, agreeing, thankful that we share that mindset.
"You know, we men like to say we're the head of the household, but the head is useless without the spine," he shakes his head, looking me right in my eyes. "Our women are the spine."
"God damn right," I practically growl, and Morris smiles, clapping me on the shoulder.
"Ultimately, I did lose my Ronnie, but she died happy and smiling, in her sleep—in my arms. I'll never regret that."
His words strike me dead in my chest. My worst fear—losing Wendy, her dying and leaving me alone, and Morris Jefferson is living it.
And yet, he still walks around with a smile on his face, because even though she's not here anymore, he had that time with her.
