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Because I am Entitled, Mon Chat
by Cesca Janece Waterfield "You spelled 'carney' wrong, though." "Really?" She laughed, a little giggle. Little miss wordsmith, she aspired to be, found it funny she'd flubbed a six-letter word; felt sorry it had been in a poem she'd written with the intent to cheer him, down as he was, down. But tonight he was in his cups, having had to wait on her again. Everybody knows. They call and say, what are you doing? I say, Waiting on Ava. Again. She hurried harder the next time. Harder. Because patience and sponge-like intellect were not his only virtues. Tonight, she knew better than to ride him, so she made lighter and lighter, little dancing girl, pleasing papa. Pas de chat. "I wonder why I thought it was spelled that way." Smiling wine, bubbling in the bowl, rising to make a path to his computer. He angled briskly at his waist, forearm suddenly tense, careful not to lose grip on his stem. "Why would I fucking lie to you about the spelling of a word?" he shot out, between his proud teeth. Patience, again, as he waited on Ava. "No, Tex, that's not it. I just –" "WHY THE FUCK, YOU CRAZY CUNT?" She hoped not to have to hold him still in another rage. Talk about tired. But something brought her into each morning, back at night, tottering between believing she was the latest symptom or source of his misery, depending on where she was. The injured, the inured. Who knows. Drink up! And she did. She came back for more. Maybe she was as cold as he claimed. You'd sell your mother for a single page, he once said to the bottom of a glass pilfered from the job gotten by somebody else, lost by his tired hands, so tired. Her mother had sighed with relief to be freed. That's what he told his friends when they called: What are you doing? Now what? He commiserated with an adulterer buddy, Sherry, over lunches she bought. Get rid of that one. Too bad we never made it work. But I'm in love, and he's gonna leave that bitch anyday. We'll be rid of that one, too. Birds of some feather, I bet. Ava pictured them at the Watering Hole, by turns grinning and grousing about the unlucky in love. About wearisome bitches who make people tired. That was a word she could spell. Having heard it pinned with precision and loosed in spray, both kinds. His evening always came in on cat's feet. And that's another thing. You always fucking wake me up! Before, when she tottered between disclosure and silence, she usually erred on the side of devotion. When she finally came steady, she found rest in devotion still, but the lights had changed. The wheel even now pulled to the right, but she lived there. Once long ago, in his house on Temple Crest filled with holes vulnerable to water, she said, on her way out, "I'm gonna get the paper and be right home." He teared up and pulled her near: You called it home, Ava. Your home. After she stepped out and hurried down the sidewalk, she heard him thundering through the vines: Gonna get some sleep now, goddammit! I'm Texas Wicked! And I deserve more! Because I am tired!
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