One
“Let me pay you something, just to show my appreciation, Gregory.”
The entire time while she spoke, Greg cleaned his hands on his pants and stubbornly shook his head. “I refuse to take a penny of your money,” he said, and waved the proffered twenty dollar bill away. “Anytime you need something done over here, just call me. I'm one phone call away.”
Greg took his time as he stepped down from the ladder, and once he was safely on the ground again, he closed the ladder and returned it to her shed. “And I can guarantee you this. Next time we get a storm shower like that one we got yesterday, you won't have to worry about setting out pots and pans to catch leaks.” He pointed up at the top of her house. “That's a good, strong, sturdy roof. Slate roofing. Mother Nature can try, but she can't harm that right there.”
Mother Washington looked at him, smiling her toothless smile. “God's gonna bless you, you know that, right? He rewards good works.”
Greg nodded his head and unhooked his tool belt from around his waist. “God has already blessed me, Mother. He allowed me to live to see another year.”
“Another year?” She frowned at him. “It's only May, suga. What you mean by that?”
His smile broadened. “Today's my birthday, remember?”
Mother Washington held up her cane like she was about to hit him with it. Greg held up a hand to shield the blow and laughed while he jumped out of her way. “That's how you repay me?” he said, chuckling. “I fix your roof, then you beat me black and blue with your cane?”
“If you would've told me today was yo' birthday, chile, I would've never let you get out that bed and come over here first thing in the morning just to lay me down a new roof.”
“And that, Mother Washington, is why I didn't tell you.” He gave her one of his winning smiles, and watched as her anger melted like butter left setting out on the counter. “But if you don't mind, Mother, for my birthday, can you cook me one of your famous peach cobblers?”
“I sure will. I'll make you two, one for you and one for that gorgeous wife of yours. But you let her eat her whole cobbler by herself. She's just as beautiful as she can be, but she ain't nothing but skin and bones. Feed that chile, Gregory. Make her eat something.”
“Oh, I'll try.” Greg laughed and reached over and gave Mother Washington a tight hug before offering her his cheek. She kissed his cheek, then patted the spot a few times.
“God ain't bless me to have no boys,” she said, “but if he would've, I'd have wanted a son just like you.”
For some reason, Mother Washington's words brought tears to his eyes, and it surprised him when he had to blink quite a few times to clear his vision. He tried to find the right words to say, but he didn't trust himself to speak. So he simply nodded, kissed her forehead, then told her he'd see her at church on Sunday. He looked over his shoulder and backed his wife's Range Rover out of Mother Washington's driveway. Since Mother only lived a few streets over from their housing complex, it didn't take him much time to return home. Though the clock on his car radio informed him that it wasn't even quite eight o'clock, he was sure that Shania was already up, in the kitchen or the basement cooking something. She had a huge wedding to cater this weekend.
When he walked through the door, the faint smell of bacon greeted him, and he inhaled deeply and smiled. She must be cooking his birthday breakfast, and he couldn't wait to see what else would fill his plate besides her cooked to perfection, not too crisp, not too chewy bacon. But before ducking into the kitchen, he made a pit stop at the bathroom and relieved himself. He had wanted to use the bathroom at Mother Washington's house, but her plumbing wasn't in the best of shape, and sometimes the toilet flushed, and sometimes it didn't.
Glancing at the ceiling, he made a solemn vow that as soon as he got a chance to take a break from work, he was going back over there to redo the entire plumbing in that old house.
He finished using the restroom, then washed his hands in the sink. While he washed his hands, he glimpsed at his reflection in the mirror. He still looked the sameâneatly edged, faded hair, trimmed mutache, thin sideburns. No crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes just yet; no smile lines permanently creasing his face. No bald spot materializing in the center of his head, thank God. But yet and still, knowing that today was his thirty-fifth birthday made him feel a bitâ¦old. He tried to shake the feeling and convince himself that age was a state of mind more so than a number. He dried his hands on the hand towel and glanced at his reflection again. Was that a . . . was that a . . .
He leaned in to take a closer look, hoping it was just the lighting. No such luck. It was exactly what he thought it was. A silver strand of hair stuck right out of the front of his head, teasing him like a little kid saying, “Nahnee-nahnee boo-boo.”
Swearing that gray hair hadn't been there the night before, he huffed as he searched for the tweezers to pluck the unruly strand. He found the tweezers in the top pullout drawer and braced himself against the vanity as he pulled the wiry hair. The pain of the pluck pulled tears from his eyes. Rubbing the tender spot in his head, he held the strand up to the light and stared at it.
“Hey, babe,” he yelled, twisting the hair in the light, still trying to determine whether the hair was black, off-brown, or truly gray. “Hey, babe!” he called again.
“Coming,” Shania called back, and he listened as her footsteps brought her closer to him. His wife, still dressed in lingerie, walked into the bedroom, looking fresh faced and radiant as she kissed him on the lips. Her breath smelled like minty mouthwash. “Good morning, birthday boy.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and leaned against the door frame of the bathroom. “Where'd you head off to so early this morning? You beat the birds.”
“Over to Mother Washington's. Had to fix some of the shingles on her roof. Does this look gray to you?” He held up the tweezers that still held the questionable hair hostage.
Shania dropped her jaw and gave him “the look.” “I know you didn't just call me all the way in here to look at a piece of gray hair. Are you serious?”
“So it is gray?” Greg said, and held the tweezers up to the light. He squinted and stared hard at the hair. “You sure it's gray? It doesn't look off-brown to you?”
Shania stared at him and blinked a few times. “This is pitiful, Greg.” Against his protests, she took the tweezers from him and dropped them back into the pullout drawer.
“Hey!” he said, retrieving the tweezers and glaring at her. “I wasn't finished.”
“Come on, I cooked you breakfast,” she said, and though he continued to protest, she hooked her arm through his and dragged him out of the bathroom. “You left in such a hurry, you left your phone on the nightstand. It's been ringing off the hook. Nearly all the calls are from Franklin.”
He knew exactly what his co-worker Franklin was calling for, and it wasn't just to say happy birthday. About a month ago, he had seen this beautiful BMW motorcycle on a TV commercial. On a whim, he had told Franklin that he was going to treat himself to it for his birthday. Though he had said it half jokingly, Franklin, a die-hard biker and collector of vintage cars, had taken his vow to heart; and from that day forth, he had continually bombarded Greg with enough magazines, brochures, and biker jargon to drive even the savviest motorcycle mechanic insane. He had to admit, though, had it not been for Franklin's incessant pursuit of the whole bike issue, Greg wouldn't even be considering slipping off to the BMW dealership to take a look at the motorcycles.
Still tugging at his arm and leading him down the steps into the kitchen, Shania said, “I figure since Franklin was calling so much, you two must have plans for today.”
“Not big plans,” he promised her, being deliberately aloof.
“Well, good, because I want you all to myself today.”
Greg frowned. “But don't you have that big wedding coming up next weekend?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, “but that big wedding is going on the back burner. I have plans to make your day as special as possible.”
“Just being my wife is special enough.” He pulled her to a stop in the middle of the kitchen floor and tucked her into his arms, kissing her lips repeatedly. He ran a hand through her relaxed hair and gazed into her large, almond eyes. “You look delicious in that little slip.”
She caught his bottom lip between hers and said into his mouth, “Do I?”
His hands slid down to her thighs, and he hooked his thumbs under the hem of her lingerie, lifting it slowly. With his lips close to her ear, he said, “But you'd look even better without it.”
“No, no, no,” she said, laughing, and whisked out of his arms. “You had me up all night, giving you an early birthday present, and I'm still sore. That, my friend, will have to wait until later.”
Still laughing, she opened the oven, and he watched her long, shapely legs, seemingly endless as she bent over much more than was required to remove the domed silver tray. She was teasing him, and it took plenty of willpower to keep from scooping her up and carrying her back to the bedroom, flinging her onto the bed and ravaging her. They'd been at it a lot lately, probably because their wedding was just over three months ago, and technically, they were still in that honeymoon stage.
She pointed at the table. “Have a seat, Mr. Crinkle.”
As if on cue, his stomach growled, and he licked his lips, savoring the taste of their kiss as he strolled to the table and pulled out a cushioned chair. She removed the dome with a theatrical twist of her wrist and held her dainty hand in the air, singing, “Voila!”
Eggs Benedict, three slices of bacon, buttery grits, and mixed fruit. Not too heavy, and not too lightâjust the way he liked it.
“This looks great, babe. I appreciate it.” He leaned over and puckered his lips for a kiss, and she gave him a peck.
While Greg ate, Shania left the kitchen, then returned moments later with his iPhone. He thanked her and scrolled through his missed calls. Yeah, she was right. Twenty missed calls and fifteen of them were from Franklin, along with about a dozen text messages that all basically said the same thing:
Aye man, we still going? Aye man, answer the phone. Aye man, u ignoring me? Man, I knew u was gonna punk out. U worse than a female.
He laughed at the last text message, then decided to keep Franklin in suspense a little while longer while he returned his parents' call as well as calls from his brother and sister. After he thanked them for their wellwishes for his birthday, he finally dialed Franklin's number and held the phone away from his ear as Franklin exploded.
“Oh, so now you wanna call me back?” Franklin roared into the phone. “Man, forget you! I been calling you all morning. I thought we was gonna leave first thing this morning and get that bike. I knew you was gonna punk out. Something told me you was just spitting out hot air. Man up, Greg. You a thirty-five-year-old, rusty-behind, grown-behind man. Why you gotta get permission from your wife to get a bike? You already know she's gonna say no. Now, you got me sitting here, all geared up, thinking I'm about to help my man pick out his first bike, and you straight stand me up. So that's how we do things now, Greg? That's how we do it?”
Once his friend finished blowing steam, Greg put the phone to his ear and said, “You still coming or what? I can be ready in like fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“A'ight, cool, dog. I'm on the way.”
Greg ended the call and chuckled to himself. That boy was a fool. Even though he had Franklin by two years, he often felt like he had him by twelve. Franklin was irresponsible, wifeless, childless, girlfriendless, only used proper English when he was at workâand even then, slipped in his Southern slang every now and then. And the only things he cared about were his bike and vintage cars. Greg figured that if Franklin could ever find that one good woman, handpicked, packaged, signed, sealed, and delivered to him by God, he would finally grow up and realize that there was so much more to life than toys and laughter.
Greg finished his breakfast and licked his lips. Shania cooked even better than his mother, and that was no easy feat, he surmised. He checked his watch and realized that Franklin would be arriving soon. After taking a quick shower, he tied a towel around his waist, and though he tried his hardest to ignore the mirror, he glimpsed at himself once more. He scratched his scalp and picked up a handheld mirror to check the rest of his head. As far as he could tell, his freshly faded hair was still black. Maybe that hair wasn't gray, after all; maybe it was off-brown. He considered shaving his head again, but he didn't have time to deal with that now.
Sighing, he put the mirror down, realizing that aging was inevitable. The only exception was death, and he wasn't ready to die yet.
He went into the bedroom and changed into a ribbed crew neck shirt, jeans, and motorcycle shoes. The smell of chocolate cake wafted up through the vents, which could only mean one thing. Shania was downstairs in the basement, finishing another batch of those chocolate fudge cupcakes to complete the top tier of her cupcake pyramid.
What happened to today being all about me and no work?
he thought to himself, chuckling. But that was okay with him. As long as she was occupied, she wouldn't bombard him with a thousand questions about what Franklin and he were up to.