Rich Girl Problems by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

a cigarette and I need to leave here before I completely lose it!”

CHAPTER 6
JOURNEE
    J ournee, dressed in a midthigh, green, blue, and white plaid and pleated Catholic school skirt, a starched white cotton blouse with a loose plaid tie hanging around the unbuttoned collar, leaned against her husband Zachary’s bedroom doorway and watched him drop the needle on the vintage record player, filling the room with the sounds of Sarah Vaughan. “I’ve been . . . waiting . . . on you,” he said, “wondering . . . what took you so long.”
    â€œI was praying.”
    â€œAbout . . . what?” he asked, his raspy voice sounding as if he’d lived one too many lifetimes.
    That by the time I arrived you’d be dead. “About so many different things, Granddaddy.”
    â€œDifferent things— like what ?”
    How today is the four-year anniversary of the day the doctor told me you had three days to live. So I ran home, planned our wedding and your funeral, had Ralph Lauren hand make you a dual purpose suit, only for you to live four years past that diagnosis and continue to be the perverted and stubborn motherfucker your five ex-wives before me all said that you were. But, instead of being a rich and happy widow, I’m now a pissed Catholic schoolgirl every other Monday; an underage slut the last Thursday of the month; and every first Sunday, I’m an eighteen-year-old nun trying to find my way, all to the backdrop of Sarah Goddamn Vaughan and your fucked up, perverted, pedophile fantasies.
    â€œJournee . . . did you . . . hear me?”
    â€œI heard you, baby. I was only praying that you would be my granddaddy forever. And thinking about how much I’ve missed you since last night.”
    â€œIf you missed me . . . so much, then why are you . . . so late? Eight o’clock in the morning is when . . . you’re supposed to be here. Not eight-twelve. Eight. I’ve stopped and started . . . this record three times. And I don’t like waiting.”
    Me either. And I’ve been waiting a lot longer than twelve minutes. I’ve been waiting for four fuckin’ years. “Oh, Granddaddy,” Journee whined. “Don’t be upset. It’ll only aggravate your heart.”
    â€œCome . . . here.”
    Journee hesitated. For a moment, she considered walking away and leaving him sitting in his wheelchair. She didn’t. Instead, she pushed aside her feelings of disgust and found comfort in the thought that one day she’d be able to cremate his black ass and blow him away.
    Her five-inch, black Mary Jane pumps tapped against the wood floor as she stepped over to him, stroked his cheeks and placed her hands on his feeble shoulders.
    Her eyes swept over his wrinkled caramel skin, from his wide and flared nose invaded with oxygen tubes that snaked down the creases in his neck, to his sunken chest, connecting to the large steel tank strapped to the back of his wheelchair.
    Journee ran her hands over his bald head and rested them back on his shoulders.
    His quivering lips kissed her right arm. Then her left. He ran his hands over the wet spots his kisses left behind, clutched her wrists and snatched her down to his chest. His arms shook, but his hold was strong, evidence that once upon a time he was a strapping man who stood upright and didn’t take kindly to anyone disobeying his orders. “Where the fuck were you?” he demanded. “And don’t tell me you were praying!” He tightened his grip. “You were supposed to be here at eight o’clock and you’re late.”
    â€œI overslept, Zachary, baby. I was up late last night. Bridget and the cameras were here having a tour. You’re hurting me.”
    He let her go. “Did you . . . fuck one of them?” He squinted as he looked her over.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me! Take your panties off!” he demanded.
    â€œZachary!”
    â€œI need to smell