Thriller Thursday 2 6

Did you see this:

“You have a problem?”

“No,” said Sonny.

He looked like Myrtle must have looked, fifteen years ago if she were a man.

The strong family resemblance ran in the line of their jaws, and the strong chins that were prominent in every black and white photo of ancestors moved on to their permanent reward.

“You don’t sound like there was no problem,” she said.

Her age spotted hands worked dough on the flat quartz top of the island.

She lifted a rolling pin from a drawer and began to roll the flour out in a thick sheet. Her fingers sprinkled flour from a jar onto the dough.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Sonny crowed.

He shrugged his shoulder and slicked back his long hair from a thinning hair line.

Myrtle took a wide mouthed mason jar and used it as a cutter on the dough, pushing it in and twisting it sixteen times.

She swiped the thick pads of dough into a round baking dish, covering both sides with a sheen of cooking oil before she nestled them on a baking sheet.

“How did Junior do?”

Sonny snorted.

“What?” she finished placing the biscuits on the sheet, and placed it in the oven.

“He ain’t cut out for this kind of work, Myrtle?”

“Am too,” Junior drawled from the kitchen table where he hunched over his phone.

“Look at him,” Sonny complained. “He’s never off that damn phone.”

“Was that the trouble?” Myrtle asked.

“No,” Sonny shook his head. “He just ain’t cut out for it.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think that means,” she tapped the rolling pin on the countertop.

“He ain’t his daddy,” Sonny said.

“God knows, nobody is,” Myrtle nodded. “But he is my heir apparent for our little operation.”

Sonny shook his head.

“Myrtle, I know the kind of man you want him to be, but he ain’t that kind of man.”

“He will be, won’t you Junior?”

“Yes Ma’am,” the boy agreed.

He had a baby face over a thin body, ball cap turned sideways, and a wispy mustache that aspired into a goatee on his weak chin.

The baggy shirt and pants he wore made his thin frame look even smaller, and made him look younger than he actually was.

“He’s still learning,” she told Sonny. “You’re supposed to teach him.”

“Hard to teach a pig to sing,” said Sonny.

“Who you calling a pig?”

“It annoys the pig and pisses you off.”

“Yo,” Junior snapped. “Call me a pig again.”

“And what if I do?”

“I’ll do something.”

“You wanna tell me what that something is?”

“Alright, both of you,” Myrtle said.

She stared at the oven, as if wanting the biscuits would make them bake faster.

“Go get ready for the funeral,” she ordered them.

“I’m ready, Gran,” said Junior.

“You’re wearing that?” she raised an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You look like you’re trying to be a gangster in a rap video,” said Sonny. “You’re embarrassing her.”

“I’m warning you,” Junior raised his fist.

“Try it kid, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“I said stop,” Myrtle snapped as she spun around on both of them. “As soon as these biscuits are done, I’m going to go bury one of my oldest friends. I don’t need to be dealing with this shit today.”

Sonny sank into the chair.

“Sorry, Myrtle.”

“Sorry, Gran.”

“Now go get changed,” she ordered Junior. “I laid out your church clothes on the bed.”

He slouched out of the chair, shot a look at Sonny and strutted with a swagger out of the large oversized kitchen.

“God, I miss his Daddy,” Myrtle sighed after he left.

“I know one thing,” Sonny said. “He would have never let him dress like that.”

Myrtle wiped her hands on a dish towel and prepared another sheet of biscuits to switch out with the ones in the oven.

The alarm went off and she traded one tray for the other, putting the cooked ones in a wicker basket with a red checkered lining.

“You pick your battles, Sonny,” she told him. “Best thing a parent can do is pick and choose.”

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