Page 6 of Jacob Michaels is Not Here

There’s a time in every young person’s life where they decide the person they want to be with their parents—or their parental figure. Do they want to show their most authentic self and risk that it won’t be good enough…or do they try on a persona so that they don’t have to find out if the person they truly are is good enough to be loved? My teenage self chose the former.

“There’s a boy I like, though.” I felt the truth slide from my mouth.

The “skritch-skritch” of the spoon in the skillet stopped, and Oma seemed to freeze at the stove. My teenage heart palpitated within my chest as I waited for whatever was to come to…come. Thick, heavy silence grew between us in the kitchen as bacon sizzled in the other skillet, creating a soundtrack comprised of delicious sounds and smells. Just when I thought that I might scream out just to break the tension, the “skritch-skritch” of the spoon in the skillet started up again. Oma let the spoon rest against the side of the skillet and turned to me again, her hands on her hips once more.

“You know they got one them ‘LGBT’ centers over in Toledo?”

I shook my head nervously.

“Well, they do.” She nodded. “I been thinkin’ about goin’ over there to volunteer while you was in school all week long. Help the boys and girls out. I guess that’s just what I’ll do.”

Then she turned back to the stove and started stirring the gravy again. I allowed myself to give a wary smile.

“Maybe you can go with me?” She suggested gently.

“Maybe…”

“Who’s this boy?” Oma didn’t let my hesitance overtake the conversation. “Do I know him? I should. I know everybody around here. Better not be one them Kelly boys. Ugly, Irish assholes.”

“Are you ever going to be nice to them?” I teased. “Besides, they’re all a lot older than me, Oma.”

“I’ll sit up in my coffin to spit at them if they show up at the funeral.” Oma waggled her head as she cooked. “Who’s the boy, damnit?”

“Luc-Lucas Barkley?” I stammered, suddenly very nervous.

Oma turned to me again, the spoon in her hand dripping gravy onto the floor. She didn’t notice.

“That Jackson Barkley’s grandson?” She asked quickly. “The one who plays football?”

I nodded jerkily.

Oma cackled and then noticed the gravy on the floor.

“Shit.” She admonished herself before retrieving a paper towel to clean up the mess she had made.

Oma bent down to wipe up the gravy.

“Well,” She grunted as she wiped, “Lucas is a good kid. But Jackson Barkley will shit his britches knowin’ that his grandson is…”

She glanced up at me, stopping herself from saying whatever it was she was going to say. I stared at her.

“I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ too bad.” She waved me off as she stood up and deposited the soiled paper towel in the trashcan. “I don’t even know if Jackson will give a shit, to be honest.”

“Oma…”

“Well, I’m sorry.” She snapped, but she didn’t have the heart to put the full force of her sass behind it. “I was just gonna say he ‘had a little sugar in his tank’ is all.”

“It’s not the most offensive thing you’ve ever said,” I mumbled, and Oma shot a squinty-eyed look over her shoulder, silencing me.

The cellar door creaked open suddenly, and I looked over to see Ernst come out, looking around as though to make sure that there were no visitors. Once it was clear to him that it was just the three of us, his eyes locked onto me.

“Good morning, Ernst.” I beamed.

“Good-mornin’, Rob.” He smiled back.

Ernst exited the cellar and shut the door gently behind himself as Oma gave him a “good mornin’” over her shoulder. Ernst returned the sentiment and sauntered over to the table to stand beside me, his head barely higher than my lap in my seated position.

“Didja sleep well, Rob?”