by Nya Rawlyns
After a while, the hot water ran out, his hand cramped from the effort and he was in an even shittier mood. Flopping on the bed, his body and hair still mostly damp, he growled, “You better be worth it, Jacques Lambert.”
Unlike his perky neighbor, he was not optimistic about the coming week. In fact, his belly was in turmoil, and his nerves were on full alert: flight or fight. He’d already had the fight option. That left flight.
So which is it, my little friend? Am I running from, or running to something?
He repeated, I have a good feeling about this, like counting sheep, until sleep finally took him.
Chapter Two
Jack
It was a nightmare four poster. There were vertical vines and embossed roses on the walls, and the unmistakable scent of female possession. His sister was thirty-eight years old and was still working on being a girl. It was unrelenting. And she’d done it up special for him.
I’m gay, Sis. That doesn’t make me a chick with a dick. Jesus.
“Jack. Yo, wake up, man.”
That would be his brother-in-law. Man of the house. Jocks-R-Us. He had as much in common with Ted as with … well, no one and nothing. At least he’d choked back “faggot” which was his usual greeting, but Sally had been adamant about ole Ted watching his mouth around the kids.
As for the snarly, entitled generation … they were probably still burrowed under the covers. That’s what happened when you played vid games until the wee hours, whupping Uncle Jack’s ass six ways from Sunday. The teens he liked, he loved his sister, Ted was his punishment for running back east with his tail between his legs and a bankruptcy fight looming.
“I need to find an apartment.” For two weeks, he’d awakened, glanced at the tent in the quilt and sighed relief that at least one part of him still functioned, then voiced the dead-broke man’s mantra … I need my own space.
Instead of the coulda woulda shoulda, he’d fallen down the well of wanta needa ain’t gonna happen. Carmen had stripped him clean, like a vulture. Assets, furniture, even his damn collection of vintage cooking guides. A van, an opportunity, a state line … and a restaurant with a CLOSED sign and a few pertinent details about not passing inspection codes.
He’d cried “bullshit” but said inspector was friend-of-a-friend and apparently Carmen’s next new squeeze. He took his attitude to the bathroom, brushed his pearly whites until they bled, then harrumphed his way to the kitchen and his ever-optimistic sister.
“Hi, sweetie. Did you sleep well?”
Jack glanced at the calendar on the wall, mentally ticking off day fourteen, same question. Marie meant well and it was what older sisters did. He was going to goose her, make her giggle, but the air changed to just shy of rancid. He looked behind him. Ted lounged against the doorway, assessing him for cooties or something that might infect him and his with unsavory character traits.
“Not really. Found a really cool gay porn site…” He paused for a tick, then followed up with, “Sheets need changed again, hon. Should I bring them down later?”
Marie’s shoulders hunched. Ted’s scowl of disapproval bored into his spine, ramming straight through and out the other side. He wasn’t imagining it. The man hated him with enough vitriol it was like being stabbed with a virtual butcher knife, over and over.
Marie slid a plate of pancakes onto the counter. Biting her lip, she mumbled, “He’s gone.”
“Good.”
“Sweetie, why do you keep antagonizing him?”
With his mouth full, Jack muttered, “Because he’s an asshole homophobe?”
Margarine and fake maple syrup followed a second helping. He cringed. “These are fine just like this, Sis. Thanks.” Actually they weren’t bad for out-of-a-box. His thing wasn’t the breakfast grill, anyway, so he cut people a break when it came to the early morning shift.
Fingering the local Sunday paper, he tried to separate the classifieds from the rest of the sections. Marie “tut-tutted.” It was a glottal stop of we’re family and this is what family does, they help each other.
“I need to look, Marie. I can’t…”
A small box appeared next to his orange juice. “What’s this?” He opened it, not sure what to expect. It was a cell phone. “Ah, Marie. I can’t take this.” Damn, it’s a frigging smart phone. What the hell?
“You need it, baby bro. There’s no way anything gets done in the valley without one.”
“I can’t afford the…”
“It’s handled, Jackie.”
“Sis, I am not going to let you…”
“Not me.”
“Huh?” That brought him up short. “Whadya mean, not you?”
Marie smiled, her mouth tight. Sometimes that meant disapproval, sometimes it meant she was on the verge of peeing her pants with laughter. The disapproval … nobody in the family ever wanted to see that.
“Ted.”
“Ted.” He set the phone back in the box and wondered at the reports about how electromagnetic something-or-others could fry the brain. The cell phone shark glared back, so he echoed, “Ted?”
“Give him some credit, hon. He’ll do the right thing if you cut him a little slack.” What she left unsaid was … he’s trying to boot you out of the house without shoving fistfuls of tens and twenties down the front of your thongs.
Gracious was hard for him. He’d managed high volume kitchens, done battle with beef tenderloin and wild mushrooms on a bed of yellow squash comfit, plated and de-plated with the next-to-best chefs in the big city. He, quite literally, knew his shit. And his shit wasn’t being nice or grateful or even goddamned pleasant.
“I don’t know what to say.” Sticking to the truth never got anybody in trouble.
“There’s one other little thing.”
There always was. “What?”
“Ted needs help in the office.” She held up a hand to stay his objection. “A few hours during the day.”
No. Just no.
“His business manager’s mother’s doing chemo and he needs to run her to the cancer center couple times a week. Means waiting while she gets the treatment.”
Christ, a cancer card. The guilt. Oh, the fucking guilt.
“I’m not an accountant.”
Marie raised her eyebrows. He lied like a dog. Part of the program had been restaurant management, actually most of the program was that: logistics, ordering, payroll, taxes. And bankruptcy. Don’t forget bankruptcy.
“It’s a car dealership, sweetie. Not rocket science.”
“I don’t want to.” That much was true. And it sounded petulant, even to his own ears. “And what about that class I’m supposed to be teaching?”
“Oh, sorry. Meant to give you this.” She slid an envelope alongside the tempting smart phone. It looked less lethal, but it was still an obligation. A Ted Have I Got a Deal for You Mayer non-negotiable kind of snare.
Ignoring the paper cut on his thumb, he slid the information out and examined his upcoming schedule. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. Starts at seven.”
Marie grinned ear-to-ear. “See, told you things would be looking up.”
“It’s one class, Sis. Doesn’t mean I’m faculty.”
What it meant was the gal on tap to hold the holiday and all its fixings class had come down with a surprise pregnancy. She wasn’t up to handling food without a barf bag and a bottle of Pepto. The director of the program explained that the community college tried hard to fill its mandate to keep seniors entertained, cooking classes being one of those hugely popular outlets in the valley.
All he had to do was pull together a syllabus to fill up six meetings on the run-up to Christmas week. What better way to celebrate the holidays in Christmas City than to indoctrinate a roomful of blue hairs into the wonders of country ham, yams and pineapple slices used in new and creative ways.
Marie seemed to anticipate his despair. “Three weeks. You can do it, sweetie.” She came around the counter and gave him a hug. “I know it’s not how you imagined every
thing turning out. But give it a chance. This is a nice area. Good people. You’ll find a way to fit in.”
Fitting in meant Ted. And baked ham. And not one decent wine store in sight. He’d been on the verge of making it. He’d been interviewed and reviewed. Not quite five stars but rated Up and Comer. Regular blow jobs. A dark-haired latino waiter with come hither eyes and swagger, the memory so close he could still taste the promise of pouty lips and a dusky, shadowed chin.
“Hey, Uncle Jack.”
“Hey yourself, twinkle-toes.” Miss Mandy, his favorite—and only—niece minced into the kitchen and slid onto the stool next to him.
The teen whispered, “Wiped your ass good last night. You up for a repeat later?”
“Not if you two are gonna tag team me, girlie.”
A punch on the shoulder announced the arrival of Mark. He towered over all of them, six four and still growing. His father had NBA-hopeful painted on the back of the kid’s tee-shirts, metaphorically speaking. Too bad for Ted the kid had other ideas about a career track.
The kids bookended him, Mandy reaching for the class schedule and Mark angling for yet another platter of flapjacks.
He smiled at his sister and winked. It was a good thing Ted provided for his family. At the rate the teens consumed calories, it would be enough to bankrupt even the most secure income stream.
Shit, there’s that word again. When do I get to crawl out from under and start making something out of my frigging life?
While Mandy chattered with her mother, Mark bumped his thigh to get his attention. The kid kept his head down, his mouth full, and muttered, “Can we talk?”
“Um hmm.” The boy had been dancing around a one-on-one for over a week. Jack had thoughts on what the topic of conversation might be but hadn’t been able to pry enough alone time to give the sixteen-year-old his undivided attention. Away from curious ears and his father’s overprotective nature. No way was the old man letting one Jacques Lambert be a corrupting influence on the fruit of his two-hundred-forty-pound loins.
Marie removed the plates and announced, “You two can go fix that thing in the garage for me.”
“Sure, Mom. No problem.” Young master Mark stood, his face carefully blank.
“I’ll help with the dishes. You go ahead, Mark.” That was Mandy, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the last one in the family to volunteer for domestic duties.
Jack sensed a conspiracy. “Sure, we’ll do the thing.”
Marie and Mandy kept their backs to him as he followed his gangly nephew out the back door into the adjoining three-car garage. The two near-side bays contained his sister’s eco-friendly model, the other was reserved for the kids’ shared Subaru. Ted liked to have his rotating high-end manager’s specials parked in the driveway for the neighbors to appreciate. His own van was hidden behind the house, out of sight, out of mind. And nearly on empty. He was going to have to beg for a few bucks to fill it with gas. The community college was just down the road a half mile or so, walking distance, but getting around to restaurant suppliers to check out his class requirements meant driving.
Mark handed him the cell phone. “Don’t forget this, Uncle Jack. I programmed the numbers you need and did some Safari shit for you, too.”
“Oh, so you’re the one…”
“Nope. It was Dad’s idea. But he asked me…” The kid blushed to his red-haired roots. “Uh, well…”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He did, but he’d be damned if he’d say it to Ted. Turning to the work bench along the far wall, he asked, “So. This thing?” He craned his neck to look at his nephew. Jack was no slouch at six-foot even, but the kid seemed to be sprouting before his eyes.
A notepad appeared. A few finger taps and the screen filled with icons, the teen playing the touch screen like an instrument. The thumb and forefinger created a swath of more icons, and it soon became clear his nephew was looking to follow in his uncle Jack’s footsteps. In more ways than one.
This was going to be serious shit, not just a “thing” in the garage. “Grab your coat and hat, kiddo. Let’s take a basketball to the park and shoot some hoops.” They needed to get far away from the house and the potential for Ted overhearing what was going to be a very difficult conversation. “And put that away.” He pointed to the notepad.
Mark idly dribbled the few hundred feet to the park adjoining the development, keeping his face averted. What the kid wanted was no sin. But it wasn’t the path his father had chosen. Showing him, the uncle who magically appeared out of thin air just two weeks previously, the gay uncle, the gay chef uncle, must have been like an answer to a prayer.
“I’ve never seen you cook.” It wasn’t an argument for or against, just an observation.
Mark took the shot, got the three and passed the ball. Jack did a layup, missed. He was rusty.
“Took Home Ec last year.”
“Ah.” He switched hands, tried for the outside shot, missed again. “Damn it.”
“I met Jamal there.”
“You don’t mean the McDonnell kid, do you?” One look at his nephew told him all he needed to know.
He remembered Marie telling him about how tight Jamal and Mark were last year. And how Ted had put his size twelves on his son’s neck and pummeled the gangly teen into doing tryouts for the basketball team. Unfortunately for Mark, he’d not only made the varsity squad, he was actually a pretty decent guard. And that had been the end of that friendship. At the time, both he and Marie had put it down to Ted not liking the fact that the new friend was mixed race and from a blue collar family. With a brother doing time in juvie. Didn’t make it right, just understandable in a skewed way.
The cold air was siphoning all the warmth from his lungs. Through barking pants—his lungs about to explode, he asked, “Are you still seeing him?” The answer was clearly “yes” without Mark voicing the word. The real question was, “Do you love him?”
“I don’t know.” Good boy. Right answer. “Maybe. How do I know if it’s love?”
No what if, no is this wrong, no what the hell do I do with all these feelings that make no fucking sense…
“You talk to your mom about this?” Please say yes.
“Yeah.” He ducked his head, looked guilty, as if he were betraying a confidence. “Mandy, too.”
“What do they say?”
“Talk to you.”
“Shit.” He led the troubled teen to a park bench and gritted his teeth as frigid metal cradled his overheated butt and thighs. “You are aware I’m the poster boy for failed relationships, don’t you?”
Mark perked up. “Well, yeah. That’s why they think you can help.”
That made as much sense as anything. Deflecting going down that path meant bringing up sore point number two. “You want to go to cooking school.” A double whammy when it came to not fulfilling the patriarch’s mandate.
“Yes, sir.”
Oh boy. With a sigh, Jack dredged up as much honesty as he could muster. “Do I have to remind you what that means?” He spoke quietly for a long time, laying it all out. Days on end without sleep, days and nights where derision and failure dogged your every step, times when slitting your wrist made more sense than slicing a vidalia onion… “You have to want it more than anything, Mark. It’s not just a job. It’s who you are.”
“Kinda like being gay?”
“Kinda like. Yeah.”
The suspicion that he had a lot to do with the kid’s choice for career hit him like a ton of bricks. Mark had no male role model other than his fast-talking, overbearing father and an uncle who had seemed destined for grasping that brass ring and leaving his mark on the culinary world. Past tense.
Jack stood up, his knees creaking. “Maybe you could show me a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I dunno. How about making us a spread for watching the football game?”
Mark shrugged and grimaced. “Nothing to that.”
“Don’t be so hasty, kiddo. You want me to
help you?” Mark nodded, vigorously. “Well then, you sure as hell better impress me. Can you do that?”
“Um, we don’t really have much on hand…”
“Like I said, dude. Impress me.”
Jack dribbled the basketball all the way back to the house. Before turning up the driveway, Mark paused and murmured, “Thanks, Uncle Jack. Good talk.”
Jack took his nephew’s arm, holding him in place. “One thing we didn’t get to.” Staring up at an unlined face filled with hope and anticipation, he pondered bringing it up. But if he was going to be a role model, then he damn well was going to do it right. “One word.”
“Sir?”
“Protection.”
The teen looked at him like he’d grown another head. “Well, duh.”
Duh, indeed.
Chapter Three
Roll Call
Alan exchanged “nice young man” cordiality with the “nice older lady” and held the door open for a stream of spry and not-so-spry seniors. He was on nodding terms with nearly half of them since the assisted living center and his apartment complex shared a long city block near the community college.
The ratio of male-to-female was about three-to-two, not bad odds considering. The accountant part of his brain tallied the numbers, impressed that the gentleman were savvy enough to do a meet and greet outside the distaff-heavy church dinners and senior citizen mystery bus tours.
The friskier members shuffled to the front of the room and grabbed seats closest to the counter and faux kitchen arrangement. As per unspoken rules of segregation, the gentleman congregated left and rear, the ladies front and right. He felt conspicuous with his notebook. He had a strong urge to join the men and crouch behind the lot of them in the last row, until he saw Mrs. McDonough slide her laptop on the desk, along with a smart phone. The rest of the front row quickly established squatter’s rights to the available real estate. Small MACs, notepads, and water bottles lined up with military precision. The ladies were locked and loaded. From his vantage point of being the tallest one in the room, even sitting down, he eyeballed recipe websites and blank documents popping like mushrooms across the screens.