by Chase Connor
“Oma?” I stomped into the kitchen.
“What?” She turned from the sink like the cat that ate the canary.
“I thought you took my sweater and jeans to the dry cleaners?”
“I did, ya’ asshole!” She snapped. “I told you so, didn’t I?”
I just stared at her.
“I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow or Wednesday!”
“They’re on my bed. Cleaned and folded.” I cocked an eyebrow at her.
“They must have delivered them.” She threw up her hands. “Why are you in here bugging the shit out of me? I’m trying to do my chores!”
“The dry cleaners…delivered…my clothes?” I frowned. “And let themselves into your locked house, put them on my bed—with no protective covering, and let themselves out and locked up behind themselves?”
“Piss off!” She waved me away.
“If you washed them in the machine, that’s fine…”
“Would you just go away?” She snapped. “Your clothes are clean, ain’t they? Leave me be!”
“Okay, crazy.” I rolled my eyes.
Oma spun back around and immediately went about busying herself. I just shrugged my shoulders and headed back to the stairs. I didn’t know why Oma didn’t want to admit that she had just washed my clothes in the washer—they had looked fine. My grandmother was always the worst about going around and doing chores and fixing up and getting her nose in other people’s business. Looking back, ever since I was a child—and especially after my parents died—she was always doing and going.
Never once did a bed go unmade or a floor go unscrubbed or a dish sit in the kitchen sink for long. Never did dust settle in her household. It was probably the German in her, I figured. If she wanted to sneak around washing my clothes and making beds and acting crazy, that was her own business. I’d just let her do it. She’d been doing it my whole life, so why try to change her behavior now? Especially when I’d just get cursed at for trying.
When I got back up to the room I was staying in, my underwear and pajamas were sitting, clean and folded, next to the first pile.
Chapter 3
The Carhartt that Mr. Barkley had given me came in handy the next morning. I made sure to get up at first sign of light and get changed into an old pair of jeans and an old sweater before meeting Oma down in the kitchen for a quick breakfast. All throughout our breakfast of coffee and oatmeal—and the two boiled eggs she made me scarf down—she was mostly quiet. She just shoveled food into her mouth and nodded or harrumphed when I said anything. I didn’t really know how to handle my grandmother acting like she didn’t know how to talk or curse.
The previous night had been the same. Lunch and dinner had been mostly silent affairs, which in and of itself was fine, but it was unnerving since this was Oma of all people. The woman didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut for any length of time. I was beginning to wonder if she needed some medication or if I had done something to make her angry without knowing it. However, I decided to let the whole thing go. Eventually, she’d snap and yell at me for whatever it was that I had done, or she would stop being quiet.
We walked out to the garden together after breakfast since Oma announced succinctly that the delivery from Barkley’s would be around anytime. Out on the back lawn of the property, the white picket fence around the garden shone brightly in the early morning sun. And the entire garden looked as though it had been freshly hoed. I frowned to myself, remembering that Oma had only gotten about a fourth of the garden done before she had stopped the day before.
“Did you come out here yesterday afternoon?” I asked as we approached the garden.
I had taken a three-hour nap in the afternoon, so I realized that I wasn’t exactly keeping an eye on my Oma’s activities.
“Yes.” She snapped. “What of it?”
“Well, if you were planning to go ahead and hoe up the whole garden, we probably didn’t have to buy a tiller.” I shrugged. “That’s all.”
“It’ll need to be tilled anyhow.” She grumbled. “The ground’s merely turned up, not tilled.”
“Okay,” I replied.
“What’s it to you anyway?” She snapped.
“You’re firing arrows into a corpse, Oma.” I held my hands up defensively.
She harrumphed just as a beeping noise came from the driveway on the other side of the house. Signaling that the truck had arrived with the manure and tiller, the beeping got louder as it got closer. Within moments, I saw the back end of a delivery truck come out from behind the side of the house. Oma clapped her hands together with a “let’s get to this” determination. I folded my arms over my chest, feeling like I was swimming in the Carhartt, as the truck backed up so closely to the garden fence that I started to get worried.
At the last possible second, the truck braked and the fence was spared being run over. Oma didn’t seem to have the least bit of concern that the truck wouldn’t stop in time to keep her fence standing, so I tried not to worry about it. Once the truck was parked, and the engine was off, the driver’s side door swung open, and a pair of work-boot laden feet popped into view. I watched as the driver jumped down, landing squarely on his feet, his head down, hidden under a baseball cap that had seen better days.
The driver was dressed for the job, heavy, steel-toed work boots, jeans that were clean but obviously distressed by use and not for fashion, a flannel showing from underneath a Carhartt coat, work gloves, and the aforementioned baseball cap. He sauntered down the length of the truck towards us, and Oma clapped her hands together. The delivery driver was obviously familiar with being out in the sun, as evidenced by his bronzed skin. Even in early Spring, he was tan. His dark hair peeked out from under the sides of his cap, and his face probably hadn’t been shaved in the last 24 to 48 hours. Everything about his face was masculine and handsome—strong jawline, squares and angles, with thick eyebrows and a strong nose and chin. He probably would’ve been the model for a Greek sculptor if he’d lived in a different time.
He kept his head down as he approached but looked up often enough to be able to navigate his way over to us easily enough. It came off arrogant and rude, but I couldn’t help but believe that it was maybe shyness. Maybe if it had just been Oma waiting for him, he would have approached her differently. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat as he approached, looking as though he wasn’t sure how to broach a conversation. I found myself incredibly drawn to the incredibly tentative, yet confident masculinity of this driver. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and waited for Oma’s guidance.
“Lucas!” She held her arms out as he approached.
He gave a half smile and accepted a hug from her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wagner.” He said lowly. “Sorry I’m late, I had to run over to Toledo this morning before I came here.”
“You’re right on time, hon.” She patted his hand as she pulled away from him. “You remember my grandson?”
She gave a perfunctory, bored wave in my direction.
“Yes’m.” He nodded, then reached his hand out to me.
I smiled at, apparently, Lucas, and reached out to shake his hand. Internally, however, I was wondering where the Hell I would know this man from. Immediately, I set about shuffling through memories, wondering where I might have run into him or when we would have been introduced in the past, but I came up completely empty.
“He was a year ahead of you in school,” Oma whispered out of the corner of her mouth as I shook his hand.
“He can hear you, Oma,” I spoke back in the same manner to her, then directly to Lucas. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been gone a while and don’t have the best memory. It’s nice to meet you. Again, I guess.”
“You look different than I remember.” He gave a nod of his head, his eyes not quite connecting with mine.
“He’s lost some weight,” Oma interjected.
“And gained ten years.” I shrugged.
Lucas just nodded at that.
It became app
arent that the conversation had come to an end.
“Well, look now, Lucas.” Oma was giddy as a schoolgirl around him. “We just need to get those bags off the truck there. If we can stack them over by the front fence here and then get the tiller down here, then we can get to work on getting this garden ready for Spring.”
“All right.” He nodded.
He seemed to size me up, as if appraising whether or not I was capable of slinging bags of manure. I wanted to be offended, but I couldn’t really blame him. I had very obviously turned into a “city boy” over the previous decade—and I was so skinny that I looked like I’d break. I needed a few more weeks with Oma before I looked hearty enough to sling bags of cow shit, I supposed.
“I suppose I can stick around and help you out if you’d like.” He spoke from under the bill of his cap again. “Grandpa gave me the rest of the day off since I’ve been working so hard and all.”
“Well, we sure wouldn’t mind the help, would we?” Oma smiled widely at Lucas.
Lucas was Jackson Barkley’s grandson, that was apparent now. He wasn’t just a regular delivery guy.
“Lucas Barkley!” I stated more loudly than I had intended. “Yeah! I remember you now.”
I was so proud of the fact that a memory about my hometown had come back to me without a massive amount of pressure from Oma.
“You played football, right?” I asked.
He looked up at me for the briefest of moments, his eyes connecting with mine, before he looked down again and nodded. Lucas Barkley was weird. Hopefully in a harmless way.
“Yeah.” I shrugged at Oma. “We could use help, I guess.”
So, at Lucas nonverbal direction, we all started pulling bags of—thankfully—cold cow manure off of the delivery truck. The cold kept the cow shit from stinking more than I’m sure it would have during the warmer summer months. We stacked all forty of them along the front side of the garden fence. Then the three of us worked together to pull the tiller to the end of the delivery truck and lower it to the ground. Something about Lucas’ build told me that he didn’t really need our help, but was being gracious in letting us help him, even if it somewhat hindered his work.
“Now, Lucas,” Oma frowned, “I don’t know the first thing about this shit. Why don’t you get it up and running for us? Robbie and I can dump bags of shit while you do the tilling?”
“You sure?” He asked, still not looking up for any length of time. “The tilling is the easy work.”
“Well, you’re helping us, so it’s only right.” She nodded. “Besides, neither one of us knows how to get that thing going. Maybe you can explain it to us as you go?”
We got a crash course in tiller operations and maintenance from Lucas—though he wasn’t too keen on having two attentive people looking over his shoulder as he worked. But once it was gassed up, filled with oil, and all systems were a go, he set off tilling after Oma and I dumped the first few bags of manure on the garden.
I kept an eye on Lucas as Oma and I picked up bag after bag of cow shit and dumped them in uniform rows in the garden so that it would get tilled under thoroughly and evenly. Lucas focused on tilling, his eyes rarely moving from the ground in front of the tiller. Something about him made me anxious. He was just…weird. Not in a bad way. But he was definitely not a social creature and didn’t seem to know how to interact with other human beings. However, after two hours, I gave up on worrying about Lucas and focused on making sure the cow shit was getting dumped in the right places, then taking turns with Oma as we used the hoe to spread it out more for the tiller.
Within four total hours, the whole garden was full of shit—literally—and the tiller had done its work. My stomach was starting to grumble, but Oma had Lucas show us the best way to clean the tiller up and get it stored away in the shed. Apparently, a water hose was the best option, then air dry, then storage. Who’d have figured that out? However, we got the tiller washed up and set alongside the shed for the “drying cycle” before Oma spoke up again.
“It’s getting on lunch time.” She said, clapping her hands together again. “Why don’t you stay and have lunch with us, Lucas? It’d be the least we could do for all of your work.”
“What are y’all having?” He asked.
“Don’t worry, I got plenty of creamed peas and potatoes, cabbage, potato rolls, a good apple pie—you ain’t gotta eat any meat if you don’t want to.” She laughed with a roll of her eyes.
I frowned, wondering what that was about. Then it dawned on me. Lucas, the ex-football playing country boy, was a vegetarian. I internally shrugged. I lived in L.A. Who was I to judge?
“That’d be all right. Thank you.” He nodded, his head still staying down.
“Why don’t you boys gather up all the bags and get them thrown out and by the time you get in to wash your hands, I’ll have everything laid out?” Oma suggested, then turned on her heels as if the matter was settled.
I wanted to kick my grandmother in the ass as she walked away. How could she leave me alone with this obviously strange stranger? Steeling myself for the awkwardness, I walked over to the front fence line of the garden, surveying the plastic damage laying about. Lucas sauntered over, head still down, staring at the ground, and we each started picking up remnants of bags.
“So…you work for your grandpa?” I asked, picking the first topic that came to mind.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Came back here after college.”
“That’s nice.” I agreed, though I wasn’t sure that I did. “Where’d you go to college?”
“NYU.” He said simply.
My eyebrows raised of their own accord.
“Very nice,” I replied. “What did you major in?”
“Secondary education with a specialization in English.” He mumbled. “I teach over at the high school sometimes as a sub.”
My eyebrows went higher. I couldn’t imagine this shy person I was picking up bags that previously held cow shit with standing in front of teenagers and teaching them anything. He didn’t seem the type that could handle that many eyes on him at one time.
“You have my respect,” I said. “I certainly couldn’t deal with teenagers. And teaching…not many professions as noble as that.”
“It’s usually the advanced placement classes.” He explained. “Those kids usually aren’t so bad.”
This was the most he had said in the last four hours that wasn’t about tilling or dumping cow shit. He didn’t follow up my questions with any of his own, which most people would find annoying and rude. I found it to be a relief. I didn’t want to announce to anyone in town that I was Jacob Michaels, and they just hadn’t put two-and-two together. And I certainly didn’t want people in town calling me “fancy,” and “uppity” like Oma was prone to do.
I was glad that Lucas didn’t have any interest in what I did. But it made picking up the bags together a lot more awkward than it should have been. I found myself wondering if Lucas had some type of social disorder or was just terminally shy. He picked up the bags methodically, wadding them up in his rough, large hands and moved on to the next one, looking like he wished the ground would swallow him whole.
“Your guitar playing in high school really paid off,” Lucas spoke suddenly, his head still down.
“I’m sorry?” I asked as I bent down and grabbed another bag.
“I saw you on T.V.” He explained. “When you did that concert in England. I watched it with Mrs. Wag—your grandmother.”
“Oh.” I chewed at my lip.
I was an idiot. Obviously, at least one or two people in this town would know who I was upon meeting me.
“It was a really good concert.” He said simply.
“Thank you.”
Lucas seemed to be having an internal debate with himself before he spoke up again.
“I remember you liked being in the plays and playing guitar and singing in high school.” He said. “Everyone always thought you were crazy.”
I shrugged.
> “They still do.” I tried to laugh it off.
“Nah.” He shook his head. “You really made something of yourself, Jacob.”
“Rob’s fine,” I said. “That’s…Jacob’s just a stage name. No one who knows me calls me Jacob.”
He nodded. And I suddenly had the realization that a lot of people called me Jacob.
“You look different than you did in your last movie.”
“You watch that with Oma?” I cocked an eyebrow with a smile.
“We went to the theater over in Toledo.” He said. “We go every time a new one comes out.”
I looked up at the house with a grin but didn’t mention to Lucas what my grandmother had said about never having seen my movies.
“She buys the tickets, and I buy the popcorn and sodas.”
“You’re getting the sharp end of the stick there.” I teased.
He actually chuckled.
“Yeah. Anyway.” I shrugged. “I’ve lost some weight.”
“You sick?” He glanced up for a split second.
“No.” I shook my head as I bent down to pick up the last sack. “I’ve just run myself into the ground. I’m here to rest up and get some weight back on me.”
Lucas indicated that we could just toss the bags back into the truck and he’d dispose of them later.
“You’re not sticking around then, I suppose?” Lucas asked once the door to the truck was pulled down.
“I don’t really know,” I replied. “I’ll be here for a while.”
He nodded again. It was annoying.
“They say you’re gay in all the magazines.” Lucas blurted out suddenly, then his head dipped lower.
I considered this question-statement as he kicked at the dirt and held his hands in his pockets.
“If it’s going to get me a punch to the mouth—no,” I said. “If it won’t—then yes.”
“Just a question.” His head stayed down.
“Well, there ya’ go.” I shrugged.
