by Jarod Powell
“What are you guys orderin’?” Mom asked, her nose buried in her menu. Couldn’t even see her face.
“I think I’m just gonna have the Cobb,” Jenny said.
“The what, Hon?”
“Cobb. Cobb salad.”
“I don’t believe I know what that is,” Mom said, distant. “Where would I find it on the menu?”
“See salads? Under that,” Jenny said it as if she were talking to a slow child. Sam thought she might try to spell it for her.
“Thanks, Hon,” Wilma said through gritted teeth. She let out an uncomfortable, demented cackle. “Duh!” She said through giggles.
“I think I might have the sirloin!” Sam said.
She was right. There was a bunch of rain. And sleet. And lightning, and thunder. During the drive home, every time the lightning would strike, Mom would let out a “Whoo!” and then tell us a story about when Katrina hit Mississippi, where she now lives. She claims to have helped with the clean-up, as her sponsor said it might be good for her confidence to do some good old-fashioned community service. If Sam were to tell the truth, he’d tell you that he’s not sure he’s believe it, but he just lets her go on.
“Well, you know, the lines at the Red Cross van just went on and on!” She rambled, reminiscing. “And those colored people, Man Alive! They were the most impatient. Now, I’m not saying they didn’t have it
rough, I remember back in the sixties, but half of those folks weren’t even born yet! Just don’t understand it. But the world buys into it! My friend Jolene said she lost her job at the factory to a Black! For no reason! Well, not for no reason. Affirmative Action. What a country!”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said, trying not to listen. Jenny was biting through her tongue by now. When they finally got home, there was no electricity.
“I’m gonna use your powder room, if that’s all right,“ she said, holding her purse near her breast.
“There’s no water,” Sam said. “Power’s out.”
“Oh, that’s okay, just need to freshen up.”
“It’s kind of a mess in there,” Jenny piped up.
“Oh, Hon, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Mom said, sweetly.
Jenny scowled at Sam, glaring through the corner of her eye. As soon as the bathroom door closed, she whispered harshly across the living
room, “And just what does she mean by that?”
“What is she doing in there?” Jenny asked. “She’s been in the damn bath room…Oh, beg your pardon, powder room, for twenty minutes.”
“Be nice,” Sam gently reminded her.
Mom finally made a loud, clumsy, dramatic exit from the bathroom, and Jenny’s face went from hostile to saccharine in a split second. Wilma’s eyes were open about a half-inch wider and she had a big,
goofy grin and a red nose.
“My my, the power’s still not on?”
“Still off,” Sam said, flipping through an old issue of Bait and Tackle.
“Oh!” Mom erupted, flailing her arms with violent animation, and holding an elated pose. Towering over the couple on the couch, she bent a few inches lower and murmured,
“You know what we should do?”
The two glanced blankly at each other, and then at her.
“We should play a word game.”
They continued to glare blankly.
“You know! A word game. Like...Like I Spy!”
“Wilma?” Sam lead her away from her jacked-up stream-of-consciousness very gently. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Hon. Why?”
“You seem a little,” I paused to choose the right word. “A little off, I guess.”
“Okay, okay! Party pooper.” She sat down, contemplating something.
She finally looked up at us with a mischievous slant in her eye. “I have a joint in my purse.”
