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“I can get used to this. Be careful!” Joyce giggles again, putting Anna on her bed.
“Please, don’t,” I say, trying to sound playful, but I notice I just sound annoyed.
“Where did you learned to clean like that, Mr. Bardin?” Joyce asks.
“You’re having fun at my expense, aren’t you?” I say, and once again, I come across as moody.
“Um, a little?” Joyce holds back laughter then turns to Anna. “Ask daddy if you’re going anywhere tonight. Otherwise, I’ll put you in your jammies.”
“Are we, daddy?” Anna asks, hopeful.
“No baby, not tonight,” I shake my head. I realize I’m feeling oddly satisfied at the sight of the paint stains going away. “You can put on your pajamas and have breakfast for dinner. How about that?”
“Can I have waffles?” she asks, and I can just about hear her mouth watering from here.
“Strawberry waffles it is!” I say and she squeals in delight.
All the while, Joyce listens in silence, a shadow of a smile on her lips. She dresses Anna in her pajamas, a matching set of pink flannels, shirt and pants, and then launches herself in the middle of the room, looking for something.
“Where is your hairbrush now?” Joyce mutters under her breath.
“I saw you put it in the bathroom this morning,” I say, in the middle of dabbing more water off the carpet.
I’m left alone with Anna while Joyce searches for the brush.
“Do you like Joyce so far, baby?” I ask in a whisper.
“Yes!” she cries out loudly, in the opposite of a whisper.
“Is she good to you?” I ask.
“U-huh!” she nods emphatically.
“How so?” I want to know.
She thinks about what to say, and I can almost see the wheels turning in her little brain, the precious gem that’s getting smarter by the second.
Finally, she says “Because she’s never angry.”
“Um,” the answer surprises me, “And daddy is?”
Anna now kicks her feet at the edge of the bed, eyes not meeting mine.
“Sometimes,” she says.
Joyce then makes her triumphant return, holding the hairbrush as a trophy. “Found it!” she says, then uses it to go at it on Anna’s hair. “What were you two talking about?”
“How daddy is always angry, and you are not!” Anna says before I can say anything.
“Hey, you said ‘sometimes’ angry!” I interject, still scrubbing with the brush at the floor.
I look at the stain and it’s pretty much gone. I’ll be able to re-evaluate after it’s dry. Dabbing the water just a little more, I call it quits and stand back to my feet.
“I bet daddy is never angry with you, sweetheart,” Joyce says, carefully brushing my baby’s hair.
“You’re not, daddy?” Anna looks at me, searching for validation.
“No, baby,” I sit on the bed by her side. “I’m always angry with work, with Mary, and with Joyce.”
