by Chase Connor
I turned away, something about that blank space made it difficult to keep looking at it. Instead of looking at where Barkley’s used to be, I walked in an even measure down the street towards the Sunny Side Up Café. Why had Carlita been on Main Street in Point Worth? She lived in Toledo as far as I knew. What had brought her to town—especially on a night when something like this would happen? Of course, I had no idea what happened, so how was I to know if Carlita being in town was unusual? In fact, I didn’t know Carlita’s habits or anything about her life in general—other than she was a drag performer—so, it might not have been all that unusual for her to be in Point Worth at all.
My vision suddenly blurred, and I felt a sharp pain right between my eyes, and I stopped in my tracks, wincing at the feeling emanating from within my skull. Instinctively, I bent down and put my hands against my knees, bracing myself as the lightning bolt of pain shot through my head and made everything in front of my eyes dance like I was on a bad acid trip. Firelight continued to dance, making everything I saw look like it was coming from behind a veil of gasoline fumes. As if out of place frames had been inserted into a glitchy reel of film, a dark figure appeared farther down the street, snapping in and out of the movie playing before me.
Shaking my head to chase away the pain and to clear my vision, the figure blinked out of existence and the haziness altering my vision slowly evaporated. I kept my hands against my knee for a few moments longer as I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The sharp pain in my head eased until I felt nothing at all. I righted myself and carried on down the street, looking around slowly for the dark figure. Without question, I knew it was crazy, but I knew the dark figure that had appeared in the street. Even with the pain behind my eyes and the hazy vision…I knew it.
Outside of the café, I didn’t bother climbing the steps to enter but instead stepped around them to the side of the café to peer through one of the large windows. Just as I had expected, I was sitting on one side of a booth, and Lucas was across from me. Only, it was Lucas and me as we had been during our high school years. A little thinner, a little lankier, a little more awkward, a lot younger. We were talking animatedly to each other across the tabletop, smiling widely as we kept company with each other there in the Sunny Side Up Café.
Only, that wasn’t true.
The Sunny Side Up Café had not existed when we were in high school.
It had been The Red Rooster Tavern.
We never would have been allowed inside at night at that age.
It had been twenty-one and up after dark.
Neither teenage Rob nor teenage Lucas saw me standing there, staring at them through the window of the tavern. They continued their conversation, hands gesturing wildly and excitedly, smiles shared, stories told, obvious affection passing through looks and body language. I smiled tightly at the scene before my eyes. Lucas and I had never been to The Red Rooster Tavern at night, only during the day. But I liked watching the two of us there together anyway.
Once, Lucas had taken me out onto the lake in a rowboat Jackson Barkley, his grandfather had owned. It wasn’t the only time we had found ourselves in the rowboat on the lake, but we had laid back together and watched the stars and talked about our dreams. We had imagined that each star was a dream we had cast out into the universe, begging for…something…to hear our desires. To grant us a wish. I remembered those dreams. Those wishes. None of my dreams or wishes involved becoming famous—in any way. There had been plenty of wild things I had wished and hoped for, but fame had not been one of those things. A single tear slid down my cheek, and I quickly brushed it away with the back of my hand.
“Do you like remembering?”
I didn’t even start at the sound of the voice.
I had expected it. And I knew the voice.
“This isn’t a real memory,” I replied evenly, my eyes staying on the two boys inside of the tavern.
“No.”
The hooded figure stepped up beside me, its face peering through the window as well. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I could only see the figure’s nose peeking out from within the depths of the hood. My eyes went back to Lucas and me inside of the tavern.
“Why is it here?” I asked. “This memory?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” The figure replied. “This is the memory of the time the two of you obtained fake identification and, even though Clancy knew you were not old enough, he overlooked it. Your first real date.”
“That never happened.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Yes.”
“You remember everything?”
“Yes.”
“Are you entirely sure?”
I nodded. And I knew I should have panicked, remembering everything I had forgotten, all of the memories that had returned to my brain; but I wasn’t panicking. I just felt complete.
“Seems Point Worth is on fire.”
“Seems to be.”
“There were no firemen to call.”
“I know.”
“That’s your fault.”
“I know.”
“You don’t seem to care at all,” The hooded figure said.
“I do,” I responded, still looking through the tavern window, though the scene inside was slowly growing dark, casting teenage Lucas and me in deeper shadow. “I just don’t know what other choice I had.”
“Don’t you?”
I had no answer to that.
“Fortune may be smiling upon this worthless little town.” He added.
“It’s not worthless.”
The hooded figure chuckled, the sound like ice being rubbed along my spine as I watched the scene before me grow darker still.
“You have returned.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It was time.”
“Running away didn’t suit you?”
“No.”
“Are you ready, then?”
I turned to the hooded figure.
“Let me see your face,” I said. “Again.”
The figure continued to stare into the tavern.
“Please?”
“That is your choice, then?”
“Do I have another?”
Another chuckle; another spine tingle.
“Of course, you do.” Said the voice. “You can just wake up. Go on with your life as it was. Go back…to Hollywood.”
The way the figure said “Hollywood” made me shiver. I turned back to look through the window, only to find that the tavern was just a concrete lot…just like Barkley’s now was.
“Where is everything going?”
“You are taking too long to make your decision.”
“I already told you my choice.”
“Did you mean it?”
Turning once more, I stared at the figure.
“Let me see your face.”
The figure stood there, ignoring me for a moment, then slowly turned to face me, though the figure’s face, aside from its nose, stayed in shadow. My eyes connected with the mass of shadow within the hood, but I could see nothing apart from that nose. Of course, I knew the face within that hood, so it was not absolutely necessary for me to see. However, before I could make my choice official, I had to see that face once more.
“I have been waiting for this day, Robert,” The figure said. “I knew it would come.”
I swallowed hard as the figure seemed to loom over me.
“We’ve wasted so much time. That vexes me.”
“You shouldn’t have presented me with options, then,” I replied.
A chuckle once again, though it held no humor.
“I had no choice then,” I added, “but now I do.”
“Are you so sure?” The figure asked. “Or have the years and distance emboldened you?”
“Where are we?” I ignored the question.
“In the place between.” The figure answered. “The place between places, the time between times. The past, the present, the fut
ure, the here, the now, the then. What was, what is, and what could be.”
The figure gestured with its pale hands as it spoke.
“But this place is disappearing. Maybe forever.”
“I’ve made my choice,” I said with finality.
Gesturing around, the figure drew my eyes around the street as fires slowly faded out, and another building snapped out of existence. The post office, I think.
“Have you?”
“Let me see your face.”
The figure chuckled a final time as the gas station blinked out of existence.
“If I see your face, I will make my choice.” I pleaded.
Another building blinked itself away, and the darkness crept in around us before another building disappeared, leaving nothing but a concrete slab in its place. The dark figure reached up, and pale, nearly skeletal fingers grasped the sides of the hood as I locked my eyes on the shadow within the hood. Slowly, the figure pulled back the hood, and as the face of the figure came into view, the darkness began to swallow us. Finally, before the last of my vision was swallowed by nothingness, I saw the face I had been longing to see once again.
“Thank you.” I managed.
“You’ve made your choice.” The figure responded.
“Will it hurt?”
“Oh, you will have your pain, Robert.” It responded. “There will be plenty of pain. All you have to do is wait. But this…will just sting a little bit.”
Then everything went black.
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 around, 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’ 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. 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.
