I’m not suicidal. Although, living in Miami with an eighty-three-year-old woman who still thinks she needs childproof latches on the cupboards to protect me sometimes makes me yearn for the Great Beyond. I was elbow-deep in cleaning solution, remnants of fried chicken, and burned corn pone when I heard the back door slam and the sharp heel taps of my seriously ticked off Nana. Scrunching my nose against the scent of chemical cleaner and not bothering to lift my gaze from a stubborn clump of charred dough fused to the side of the oven, I asked, “What did he do, now?” The abrupt cessation of her steps signaled my grandmother’s surprise. “How did you know he did something?” I smiled at her cotton-candy voice, pulled my head out of the oven, and wiped away the last of the suds. “Because I’m exceedingly clever. Because we are so close, our bond is almost psychic. Because you’re walking like you want to stomp on his face.” I turned and looked at her—big blond hair teased and sprayed, ready to withstand a category-four hurricane, and enough mascara to keep the cosmetic company in the black for the next year.
