Just as I suspected, The Dad, indeed, informed Shontyl (The Sister)
that her cast-iron skillet, or black skillet as it is often referred to in the
South, was too small for whatever beast he wanted to roast in the oven along with ‘taters
and gravy’. So off to the skillet store
she went. They have those in Texas, do
they not?
I told
her to expect The Dad to be ‘all up in her business’ as he is nosier than a
next-door neighbor from a 60s sitcom; like Gladys Kravitz, with more facial
hair but about the same level of annoyance for things he finds to be strange,
which could be something as mundane as hummus, which he truly in his heart believes
is something I invented to be "fancy".
When we
talked later in the week, she told me The Dad had been peppering her with questions
about her personal life, anticipated frequency of trips to The Dairy Queen and
state of her wardrobe and hairstyle. When
The Dad lived with me, I discovered that the way he looks at the world is
frozen in place from around 1989, when he got hurt offshore and was forced to
retire. It took him about a year to ‘remember’
that I was a real adult with a job, home and ability to function independently. She said they had, that very morning, an odd
conversation.
The
Dad, “Why is your hair so straight?”
Shontyl,
“I use a flat iron to straighten it.”
The
Dad, “I like it curlier. When did you
start straightening it?”
Shontyl,
“It’s been years. You’ve seen it
straight, at least every year at Christmas.”
Incredulous,
The Dad said, “Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck? I remember you had curly hair not too long
ago.”
Shontyl
said, “Oh, good lord, Daddy, the last time I curled my hair, I think, was at my
wedding. In 1989.”
He just
stared at her, feeling confident that she was wrong. This came as no surprise to me, y’all. I’ve met him before; I am familiar with his
work.
However,
she surprised me when the conversation segued to telling me that he had used
her fancy, locally-made lemon soap from the one little over-priced boutique in
their town, “even though I bought him that giant bar of soap from The Dollar
General.”
I said,
“Well maybe he wanted to be fancy. I don’t
believe all my bougie-ness came from Mother. I mean, there so much bougie-ness; it has to
be from both parents, right?”
“But he
told me he didn’t like the smell of all that lemon-scented lotion you sent me.” At first, I was as confused as she, but then I
remembered how inscrutable he can be. And
he is the master of plausible deniability.
This was a tactic he used with my food that he swore he didn’t like or
said was weird, so when it disappeared, he could swear it wasn’t him because “(I)
don’t even like that stuff.”
I shared
the concept with her and told her she needed to hide her fancy things somewhere
The Dad couldn’t find or reach. To be honest,
that would be any location more than 6 inches from his outstretched arm, as he
cannot bend over, reach up or walk very far.
As long as she doesn’t place the lotion in his hand and then walk away,
she should be good to go. My parting
advice was, “Just in case, though, pretend that janky soap you bought him at
the Dollar General is fancy. He’ll be
more than happy to use it.”
She said,
“Well, he can keep that lemon soap he already used. I’m sure not gonna use it after him. Lord only knows the stories that little bar
could tell.”
Indeed,
dear sister. So many stories, and none
fit to ponder or share, y’all.
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