My boots make the slightest contact with our stone kitchen floor before Iona takes her cue. She pirouettes with textbook form as her hands fly apart at her ears. Those pale, manicured hands land on her hips. She’s amazed about something – and not in a good way. Iona says, “Hiram, where is our daughter? She was supposed to join you.” Iona flinches back to the stove and jabs more than stirs a pot. 

I can only shrug – a gesture of apology without a concept of a way to do better. “Juliet moved to the bathroom,” I say. “She’s behind this morning too, so she’s got to wake up like the rest of us.”  

“I can’t believe,” Iona announces, “that she doesn’t set her own alarm!”

This time, my shrug curls my palms open at my chest. There’s a reason I don’t play poker. I ask, “Why would she?” 

Iona answers: “Because I bought her that alarm clock, so she could handle mornings on her own.” 

“All right, dear,” I say. “But, the same power outage that knocked out our alarm would’ve gotten hers too.” 

“Ugh! Go see where she’s at.”

Somehow, I resist the urge to salute at this last order, but I manage to exit the kitchen without giving too much away, I hope. 

I’m in the middle as I make another trek across the living room. This isn’t working. 

My chair trips me – it trips me. All I’m trying to do is follow my orders, and my faithful, living-room recliner stretches out a leg to snag my foot. I glare at the chair with a sense of betrayal, but then, I spot the birds in the feeder on the back porch. My friend is probably just wondering why I am not sitting, watching those birds. I apologize: “Sorry, I’ve got too much going on right now.”

When I make it to the end of the living room, one light shines down our off-white hallway between the bedrooms. It’s coming from the bathroom; Juliet has made no move since my last visit. Oh, I’ll get yelled at for this one. “Juliet,” I call, “stop lollygagging and get dressed.”

Juliet returns the expected answer: “But, Daddy, I don’t have anything to wear.” 

I run my hand over my black hair – though how I have any left is a mystery to me. Juliet’s only eight; I really thought I had more time before this became an issue. So, I default my response: “Juliet, you’ve got a hundred options in there. Pick something, or I will pick it for you.” 

Even the a/c couldn’t drown out the sigh from Juliet on that one, and I’d wager the eye-roll that came along with it is equally audible. Everyone knows what such a promise holds: I will pick the most embarrassing outfit that I can find. They all imagine that I do this from spite, but truth be told: I’m just really bad at picking outfits – at least, that’s what I tell myself. 

Iona overheard my threat, because she says: “Don’t worry, Hiram. If she can’t find anything I’ll help her.”

“Oh sure,” I think, “Iona’s going to finish breakfast, help Juliet get dressed, and get us all out the door on time.” There’s no way Iona’s going to get all this done, so I start my march back to the kitchen. Iona only needs to worry about breakfast. 

… Right?

“Iona only needs to worry about breakfast,” I remind myself. She’s got this huge presentation, which might very well result in a promotion – with a raise, so she’s got to make that on time. If Iona only needs to worry about breakfast, that would mean that I take Juliet to school. 

When I re-enter the kitchen, I announce: “I’ve got this.” 

Iona never looks up from the eggs; instead, she shakes her head. With that gesture, she absolutely denies my announcement. Iona says, while scrambling those eggs, “There’s no way. Juliet’s not even dressed, and you’ve got your first client of the day to get to.”

I say, “Let’s face it: My first client of the day is Mrs. Delores from church, so I could absolutely take Juliet to school before solving that problem. Besides, won’t you be late for your presentation at this point?”

Iona drops her spatula. She hesitates for the first time since our alarm clock failed to sound. Doubt of her abilities in this situation arises with an initial shock. Not only the doubt but also a way out becomes visible for a brief moment. However, my proposition evaporates as quickly as the liquid in the skillet. 

Iona shakes her head – with a “no-no-no” motion. She clearly asserts: “Oh, come on, man. That’s not possible,” without saying a word. Instead, Iona reminds me: “You said that Mrs. Delores told you her whole bathroom was flooded, and she needed immediate attention because her house was going to take on the water otherwise. So, Hiram, don’t worry. I’ve got this.” 

I lean back on the countertop; I’m a huge fan of these caramel-colored countertops. They hide a lot of stuff, which is useful with a small child. Now, Iona’s worried about my first client? Surely, she knows about Mrs. Delores. I say to Iona: “Dear, my first client is Mrs. Delores. She’s sometimes prone to making a situation slightly more complicated than need be.”

I watch as Iona relaxes while scrambling the eggs. She gives a nod without ever turning around, so she begins to consider the options. I continue: “So, Mrs. Delores has a clogged toilet that slowly drains. I’ll spend as much time hearing about the problem as fixing it. Then, let me take Juliet to school. Wouldn’t that take one task off your agenda?”

“Even if it would take something off my plate, it would only add to yours,” Iona says. “And, it only throws this morning further off plan. We are so far from where we need to be, so I’ve got this. Hiram, you take care of Mrs. Delores, and I’ll see to my presentation.” 

I laugh before saying, “You’re right about our morning; that alarm clock surely messed things up, and I don’t think we’re going to recover this morning. What if we write this morning off and try again tomorrow?”

At that moment, toast pops up from the toaster behind me. I jump two feet to the right – just in time to move out of Iona’s way. She darts a glance in my direction in passing. Her sharp green eyes narrow while weighing me. She’s accepting that I might have a point.

“Well, I certainly cannot disagree with this morning being a lost cause,” Iona admits. “Could be that it’s the perfect time to re-evaluate where we are and try something else. Can you manage getting Juliet to school?”

As soon as she turns around to the counter by the stove, I rub my beard. I’m not even sure she heard herself on that one. Anyway, I say: “Yes, Iona, I can get Juliet to school – we’ll manage just fine. In fact, if you made an egg sandwich with that toast, you could take breakfast to go. What do you think? Leaving now, you could still make it to the office a little early.”

“Okay,” Iona says with several forced nods. Looks to me, like she’s trying to will herself to accept a new plan. Iona says, “That actually sounds like a good plan. Besides – really, if Juliet would come on, y’all could still make it on time to school.”  Iona slaps egg on a couple plates for emphasis on Juliet’s slowness. 

While she appraises Juliet and I’s plates next to her sandwich, I wrap my arms around her. She returns the hug, and I say, “You’ve got this; go get that promotion.”

“Eww, y’all get a room,” comes the instruction from the kitchen entrance.

I hesitate to tell my daughter that Iona and me have a whole house. Instead, a simple explanation of the new plan is my reply. Juliet shrugs, hugs her mom, and takes her plate to the kitchen table.

Iona and I shake our heads before one last hug. Iona grabs her purse with the hand holding the sandwich. In a balancing act worthy of the circus, she makes it to the basement door with a free hand and without spilling a drop of her sandwich. She’s gonna do great. 

Now, I guess I need to see what I can do about school transportation.