by Chase Connor
I giggled. So silly.
“I’m so hungry, mommy!”
“What do you want for breakfast, baby?”
“What did you make?”
“What do you want?”
I giggled. This was our game.
“What did you make, mommy?”
She smiled widely.
“What do you want?”
“I want eggs and bacon and pancakes!” I crowed towards the ceiling, excited for a new day, full of endless possibilities and wonder.
The way a five-year-old lives each day…with possibility.
“Well,” Mom kissed my forehead quickly, “you must have read my mind. That’s exactly what I made.”
Cheering, I headed over to the table, my mom patting me on the butt as I turned away from her. I sat down, yawning and rubbing my eyes again as my mom got a plate from the cabinet in Oma’s kitchen and went over to the stove to serve my breakfast. That was probably the best thing about being so young—no real responsibility, all the wonders of the world, and your mom served you breakfast. As I sat there, listening to the spatula scrape against the cast iron skillet, I couldn’t help but wonder where Oma and my father were. They always had breakfast with us in the morning. In fact, Oma was usually the first person down in the kitchen. She usually made our breakfast. Sometimes mom did…but not very often. Frowning to myself, I rubbed my eyes with my balled-up hands again, trying to chase the last of the sleep away.
Just as I was turning in my seat to peek at my mother over the chair back, I felt it. The rumbling in the floor. At first, it just felt like a train passing nearby, though there were absolutely no train tracks anywhere near Oma’s house. My eyes grew wide as the rumbling turned into shaking, and the whole house seemed to shake with the movement. A low roar began, then louder and louder until it sounded like a tornado was about to rip the house apart. I looked at my mother in terror as she turned to me, the half-filled plate in her hand, her own eyes wide with concern. No…with absolute terror.
“Mommy?” I squealed as loudly as I could over the sound.
“Stay there, Robbie!” My mom replied desperately, her hand unsteady as she reached out to set the plate on the kitchen counter as the house shook.
The plate clattered to the floor, shattering, food flying everywhere as I grabbed onto the chair, trying not to fall off of my seat. Next, it was the small radio falling off of the kitchen counter, its crash to the floor muted by the roaring and shaking. The roaring and shaking increased until I knew that I would fall from my seat to the hard ground below. My mother held onto the kitchen counter, trying to stay on her feet and also not step on the broken plate shards or chunks of greasy food. Suddenly, as though it had never even started, the roaring and the shaking stopped. We were left in Oma’s deathly quiet kitchen, me holding onto my chair, terrified, and my mother gripping the kitchen counter as though her life depended upon it. Slowly, she turned to look at me, her face ashen, concern etched all over it.
“Muh-mommy?” I peeped.
My mother’s mouth moved, but whatever came out was muffled, as though she were speaking underwater.
Then the roaring and shaking were back, and green light filled the room.
“Robbie!” My mother screeched as someone in a black hooded cloak flew through the backdoor.
Oma had fucked with the only memory I had of my mother. But she hadn’t done enough to make me completely forget it. She hadn’t overlooked trying to inject herself into the memories I had before she appeared…she just hadn’t done a good job. She wasn’t as powerful as she thought.
Are you scared?
No. I’m just lost.
I’d be scared.
I have no reason to be scared. I just don’t know what to do. Things are changing. She’s worried.
What do you think we should do?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.
I wish I could help you.
We could…run away.
Together?
Would you run away with me?
Of course, I…did you see that?
What?
Rob! Run!
Why? What did you see?
Rob!
“Were you waiting for me?”
Lucas was standing at the bottom of the bleachers, his letterman jacket on, making him look as sexy as he was. I was sitting in the bleachers, my boring coat pulled tightly around my torso to keep me warm. I had been waiting on Lucas. Just like I always did.
“Of course, I was waiting on you,” I replied, my voice not as deep as it now was. “I’m always waiting for you.”
He smiled.
“I thought I was always waiting for you.”
“Well,” I shrugged comically, “one of us is always waiting. But…the wait is always worth it, right?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” He replied. “Don’t you get scared out here all alone? What if someone tried to get you?”
“You’d protect me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I shrugged. “I just know.”
“I’d argue,” He said, “but I’d be wrong. And I don’t like being wrong.”
“You nearly fumbled the last pass.”
“I held on. For you.”
“For me?” I chuckled.
“So we’d have a reason to celebrate.”
“How do you think we should celebrate?”
“Maybe you can give me one of your amazing kisses?” He said, glancing around, as though he thought we might not be alone.
“You’re the football star,” I said as I lifted my legs to place my feet on the bleacher row below me. “Show me your skills. Come get it. Make a play.”
Lucas grinned wickedly then slowly stalked up the stairs, his eyes never leaving mine. When he got to my row, he stepped over my leg, then brought his other leg over it as well, positioning himself between my legs. He looked down at me as his hand came up to cup the side of my face as I looked up at him. I wanted him to kiss me so badly.
“You’re…beautiful.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that a compliment for a guy?”
“I wasn’t talking about your looks.”
That made me swallow back any retort.
“Do you want me to kiss you again?”
“Yes.” I exhaled.
“Do you love me?” He asked.
“Yes.” I breathed the word. “I love you.”
Lucas sighed.
“I love you, too.”
Then he leaned down, and his lips found mine. For several long seconds, our lips, no longer amateurish in their movements, pressed together passionately. When Lucas finally pulled away, he was smiling, his eyes dreamy, but there was also concern.
“Is tonight the night?” He asked gently, his fingers finding my hair.
“Yes.” I nodded slowly, my eyes closing at the feel of his fingers in my hair.
“Are we still going to…ya’ know?” He whispered his question.
“Yes.” I tried to smile, but I was nervous. Not for the sex, but for the second part of our plan. “And then…”
“I don’t want you to go.” He swallowed hard, fighting his tears back.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. “But…I have to. You know that, right?”
“I wish I could go with you.”
“Me, too.”
“But you’ll come back.”
“Always.”
“We’ll always be together?”
“Even in death.”
Oma was in the kitchen like she always was, preparing another breakfast, humming a tune to herself, cupboards suddenly slamming shut, and shadows shifting as I gamboled into the room. Bacon and biscuits and sausage gravy perfumed the air—the signature scent of Oma’s house in the morning. Too hungry to entertain propriety, I plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs, prepared to eat. I was hungry. I was always hungry.
“What have I told you about flingin’ your ass into my kitchen chairs?” Oma turned a
round; the large kitchen spoon in her hand was coated with gravy.
It made my mouth water.
“I’m sorry, Oma.” I blushed. “Your cooking just always smells so good.”
“I guess I can take that as an apology.”
She cackled and turned back to the stove. Oma had rules in her house and a strict sense of what was and wasn’t proper behavior. While she was quick to correct breaking the rules or displaying improper behavior, she was just as ready to laugh and forgive. Oma wasn’t one to ever genuinely hold a grudge against anyone. Besides the Kelly family. As far as I knew, she’d never actually punished me for anything. Of course, Oma had a way with her looks and her words that let one know you would never want to suffer one of her punishments. So…I was a pretty good kid.
“Now,” Oma said, the metal spoon scratching against the cast iron skillet, “what have you been up to the last few days?”
Summer sun was streaming through the window, making everything look soft and lazy and warm.
“Nothing.” I shrugged.
“Nothin’.” She snorted. “Nothin’ my wrinkled ass, Robbie.”
“Oma…”
She waggled her head. “Rob.”
“Thank you.” My pubescent voice cracked.
“I’ll never get used to calling you that.” She turned to me, putting her fists against her hips. “You’re not a ‘Rob.’ You’re too damn sweet to go by ‘Rob.’ I’m just goin’ to call you ‘Robbie’ until you feel like a ‘Rob,’ and you can hate me if you want.”
She gave me a wink and turned back to the stove. Since Oma’s back was turned and she couldn’t see it, I let myself smile.
“You’ve been stayin’ away from the house from sun up to sun down the last few days.” Oma teased over her shoulder. “To me, that spells out that you’re sweet on some girl.”
I shrugged, though Oma couldn’t see it, as I sat at the table.
“You just gon’ be quiet about it?” Oma chuckled to herself. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a fifteen-year-old boy catchin’ sweet on a girl. All y’all go through it. Bunch of hormonal idiots just waiting for a chance to smooch…and do other things…with some willing girl.”
My cheeks were red, and I was staring down at the table. Oma talking to me about the birds and the bees—such as it was—was bad enough. The fact that I didn’t have a thing for any of the girls at school was another. Oma turned to me, her eyes locking onto mine.
“You’re going to be a heartbreaker, Robbie,” She sighed. “I mean, hell…just look atcha. Now that you’re growing into yourself. You make sure you’re bein’ a gentleman until they tell you it’s okay to act otherwise. Don’t you let me hear a single word about you treatin’ a girl wrong.”
“You won’t, Oma,” I mumbled.
“Good.”
She turned back to the stove.
“I don’t have any crushes on any girls anyway.” I found myself practically whispering.
“Well, that’s okay, too.” Oma nodded to herself. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ a late bloomer. Or never bloomin’ at all. Keep you out of trouble as long as we can.”
Oma laughed. I didn’t.
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?”
I didn’t respond verbally. Instead, I smiled and scooted my seat back, making the legs scrape against the linoleum unpleasantly. Ernst didn’t hesitate as he climbed up and sat on my knee. Oma cast a disapproving glance over her shoulder and shook her head as she began piling a plate high with the heavenly concoction she had whipped up for breakfast. Doing her best to not slap the plate down on the table, Oma set the breakfast in front of Ernst and me before shaking her head once more. I picked up my fork while Ernst grabbed a strip of my bacon and began nibbling at it happily. It had taken a few years for him to sit at the table with me, under the watchful eye of Oma. He had become less fearful of showing impropriety when it became clear that Oma wouldn’t say anything while I was around. Ernst was my friend. Oma let it slide.
“You two are thicker than thieves, ain’tcha?” Oma stated blandly as she made her own plate.
Ernst nibbled
nervously and looked up at me, and I just gave him a wink.
Lucas never liked meeting anywhere we might be seen by the other kids we went to school with each day. Being a naïve, mostly sheltered country kid myself, I assumed it was because I was a theater kid, and he was a football player. It was a personal “head-slapping” moment for me when I realized the actual reason behind his secretive behavior. Of course, when Lucas and I had first started hanging out, I thought we were becoming just friends. I had known that I was gay…or, at least, I had a pretty good idea. Lucas hadn’t indicated that he was gay when we started becoming friends, so it never crossed my mind that anything besides friendship was developing. Later, when we kissed for the first time, I had an Oprah “Ah-ha Moment.” Obviously, he was gay—or gay-ish, which were the only LGBT terms I understood at the time—and wanted more than friendship. Knowing this, he wanted to keep the fact that we hung out a secret, even though I was not out of the closet to anyone except Oma at the time. I had just been too dense to understand what was unfolding before my very eyes. Lucas, of course, had been much quicker at figuring things out than I had been. He had always been smarter than me.
“We could go down to the bowling alley,” I suggested as we walked along the shore of Lake Erie, beyond the woods bordering Oma’s property. Lucas was skipping rocks sporadically, and I was collecting interesting pebbles in my pocket. We were fifteen and should have had more exciting things to do. “We could go see a movie or something. Ernst said he would show us some more tricks if you want.”
Oma wasn’t aware, but I had introduced Lucas to Ernst within the first days of becoming friends with him. I had known that he would be able to keep a secret. Just as I had suspected, and though Lucas had been gobsmacked by the appearance of a Kobold, he had kept his lips shut. He and Ernst had taken to each other after Lucas’ initial shock wore off, and they always talked at least a little bit every time Lucas showed up to hang out. Lucas stayed clear of the house, though. He hadn’t wanted Oma to see him. We always met at the edge of the yard or down by the lake. But Ernst would always at least say “hello” to Lucas before the two of us left to do…whatever it was we decided to do.