Page 5 of Sunday Morning

He chuckled. “When?”

“When what?”

“When will it kill me?”

I shrugged. “Someday.”

“Sunday Morning, something will kill all of ussomeday.”

“Well,” I nudged him aside to retrieve a spoon from the drawer for the mayonnaise, “God’s not taking you to Heaven. I’m pretty sure there’s no smoking in Heaven.”

“What if smokingisHeaven? Have you tried it?” He took a swig of his drink.

“It’s disgusting,” I said, removing the lid from the mayonnaise jar.

“So you’ve tried it?”

He was so annoying.

“No. I haven’t tried it.” I scooped the mayonnaise into the measuring cup. “I also haven’t licked a cow’s butthole, but I bet it’s a universally shared sentiment that doing so isdisgusting.”

He barked a laugh. “You can’t speak for the universe. Ass-licking may be considered a sacred ritual in certain cultures.”

“Do you think Mom would care if I had a Coke?” Eve asked, strolling into the kitchen. “Since it’s Easter?”

My parents never let us have pop with a meal, just as a “special treat,” which meant we snuck it whenever possible.

“Why don’t you wait and ask her,” I said.

“Here. Take mine. I won’t tell anyone.” Isaac held out his nearly full glass of Coke and whatever was in that flask.

Eve’s brown eyes widened. “Thanks?—”

“That’s mine.” I dropped the spoon and snatched the glass before Eve could blink. I didn’t wait for the taste to register. It burned the entire way down, all eleven gulps.

I counted.

Eve frowned. “Fine. I’ll ask Mom.” She spun on her heels and stomped out of the kitchen.

I shoved the empty glass into Isaac’s chest. “Don’t be a butt nugget.”

Isaac wrapped his fingers around the glass, lifting both eyebrows. His smile immediately curled into something more satanic than the stuffed eggs I was supposed to finish.

Instead of acknowledging that look on his face, I threw the rest of the ingredients into the bowl without measuring.

“Do you think that’s enough salt?” Isaac asked before tipping the glass at his lips and sucking a piece of ice into his mouth.

“How’s everything coming along?” Violet’s melodic voice announced her and my mom’s descent down the stairs.

I replied with a tight, “Fine,” while stirring the ingredients.

“Well, look at you.” Violet patted Isaac’s back. “My boy became a man. A good man who helps in the kitchen.” She gushed as her son screwed the lids onto the ingredients I haphazardly threw into the bowl.

Isaac was a man. All man. I had no dispute with that. But agoodman?

No.

He was not a good man. Not even close.