“Andyou’rewell aware your mother has a sixth sense about these things.” He grins, plucking a sizzling piece of chicken straight from the pot, blowing on it, then popping it into his mouth. “Resistance is futile.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine, chuckling as I scoop rice into my bowl. He’s not wrong.
Looking at my mother, most people would see an elegant, beautiful, eloquent Black woman with neatly coiffed curls. They’d see the light makeup, deep dimples, and approachable smile, and easily match her elementary school teacher job with the quiet simplicity of a doting wife—Theodore “Teddy” Bridges’s high school sweetheart. Nowhere in that soft smile would you see glimpses of the Bridges household disciplinarian. Yes, she’s modest and classy in every respect. But if there’s one thing about Carlotta Ellswood Bridges, it’s that she’s not to be tested.
Period.
So when she tells Dad and I to settle down or she’ll make us, we quickly hurry to take our seats at the dining table.
“Got you drinks, silverware, napkins…” Mom scans the kitchen, mentally crossing her Ts and dotting her Is before she plops down on her chair at Dad’s right, facing me.
The three of us link hands, and Dad leads us in grace. “God is good. God is great. Let us thank him for our food, and everything—”
Mom swats him playfully, cackling. “Now, Teddy, there won’t be no playing with the Lord’s blessings.” She’s still chuckling as she forces us to bow our heads again while she properly shows her respect and appreciation for this meal.
Then we dig in.
Five minutes pass with us shoveling gumbo-drizzled rice into our mouths before Mom, over a mouthful, points her fork at me. “Now, this good mood you’re in,” she starts, unable to leave well enough alone. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your working at Madison Manor with Ebony King—”
“Livingston, you mean,” I correct her. “Her name is still Ebony Livingston. And no.” I laugh, completely telling on myself. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her.”
“Ahh, so you’re lying to your mother now.”
Here wego.
“Thank youso much, really, for noticing my good mood. But can’t I just generally be happy? Does it have to be about a woman?”
The look she gives me—aplease, I wasn’t born yesterdaylook—has the three of us bursting into laughter. We all know I’m lying and deflecting. I’ve always kept my feelings for Ebony under wraps. And yet, somehow, Mom has always been able to suss them out anyway.
After a minute, when Dad is still breathless and gasping for air, we just stare at him.
“Ooh, Lottie…” He slaps the table, leaning his large frame over to lay a quick kiss on Mom’s lips. “Lord, the kid has no idea. I was just like him.”
Okaaay…was itthatfunny?
“Uh, you want to let me in on whatever’s got you so tickled?” I shake his forearm, teetering on that fine line of smiling at and cringing over seeing my parents still so affectionate after all these years.
I’m always amazed by the attentiveness that they show each other. It takes effort, care. And day after day, they choose each other.
It’s aspirational, for sure. I can only hope that one day I’ll be so in love, so blessed to share my life with someone who loves me so deeply.
My thoughts drift back to that afternoon in the billiard room with Ebony, her embarrassed and tongue-tied, trying to form coherent sentences. Then tonight, a complete three-sixty, calling me a snack and telling me she fantasizes about me—that she doesn’t “give a good goddamn who sees us.”
Damn.
A small laugh escapes me.
“Uh-huh. Not about a woman, my tail,” Mom says, reading between the lines to the blaring subtext. But then her expression smooths, hardens. “Now, don’t you go getting your heart involved again, you hear?”
Her warning is loud, but half of me is still focused on Dad. Where Mom can be an eagle heart and stone-faced—nothing’s getting by her—he’s an open book. Whether he’s happy, excited, upset, or hiding, his emotions tell on him. It’s a gift and a curse. It keeps him honest. Sometimes, too much so.
“What did you mean when you said I have no idea? That I’m just like you?” I ask.
Again, Mom purses her lips, and it’s a telltale sign I’m barking up the right tree.
“Come on, Dad. What aren’t you saying?”
“Teddy…” Mom warns, and it feels sort of hypocritical. She can read our every emotion, body language, dissect my good mood, and I can’t ask Dad for clarification when he’s the one who had a slip of the tongue?
