by Chase Connor
“Mm.”
“You need to stop drinking so much coffee.” Oma said casually. “It’s a diuretic and can raise your pressures and cause heart disease—and someone as skinny as you shouldn’t be drinking it anyway.”
“I can’t tell you how to live your life but you’re going to start on me?” I looked over my menu.
“That’s right, ya’ asshole.”
I sighed.
“Must be nice.” She said cryptically before the waitress showed back up with our drinks.
Oma ordered herself biscuits and gravy and sausage and I stuck to a veggie omelet and a fruit cup, which made Oma waggle her head and mumble “fancy” to herself. The waitress ignored the movement and mumbling, gave us a smile, and darted off again.
“What must be nice?” I prodded her.
“Being somewhere you can blend in.” She said as she began putting cream and sugar in her coffee. “But then you’re wearing that goddamn cardigan and sticking out like a sore thumb.”
“I love this cardigan.” I frowned.
“It’s nice.” She nodded as she stirred her coffee. “Sure it cost a pretty penny. But it sticks out around here. Especially with a fellow wearing it.”
“That’s so sexist. And possibly homophobic.”
“Sure it is.” She nodded. “I’m just talking about reality. No one here is going to give you much grief over it or yell slurs at you—no one here is that damned ignorant. But it makes you stick out, Robbie. Guys here wear their Carhartt and flannels and regular sweaters and jeans and work boots…not designer clothes. If you’re here to escape, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
I saw her point and immediately did my jacket up all the way to my neck.
“Oh, now you just look like an idiot.” She rolled her eyes. “Take your damn coat and cardigan off and put ‘em in the booth next to you, ya’ fuckin’ moron.”
Internally I sighed, but I did as she said. Immediately, I felt a lot better.
“Better?” I mumbled.
“Yes, smartass, it is.” Her head was moving about again.
“I’ll go to the local Goodwill or Salvation Army and pick up some flannels and jeans if it’ll make you feel better. Maybe I can just dig around in the church lost and found?”
“They won’t take your fancy credit card, wiseass.” She growled at me, leaning further towards me over the table. “When did you get so damn uppity?”
“When did it become a fucking crime to wear something you wouldn’t plow a field in?” I snapped back.
“Oooooh, the boys at the center would love you.” She waggled her head.
Her head was going to snap right off of her neck and roll halfway across the café if she wasn’t careful.
“Sassy and snappy and got a fucking answer for everything.” She grumbled. “And then you’re good looking to boot. You ever need a date, just go with me over to Toledo one day.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“What’s so fucking funny?”
“You.” I waved a hand at her as I sat back. “I don’t remember you being this crotchety all the time—and now you’ve got me acting the same way. I haven’t had the energy to fight with anyone in a long time. I guess you just have that effect on people, Oma.”
“I suppose.” She appraised me carefully.
“Look—I just like my clothes.” I said. “But I’ll go with you to Toledo one day and grab a few things at Target.”
Immediately, I felt anxious. The thought of being recognized increased exponentially with every place that I went. At Barkley’s Hardware or the Sunny Side Up Café, I was pretty safe, especially on a Monday morning. But in a Target in a larger city…probably not. Of course, I did look a little different with my cheek and jaw bones showing so prominently…
“What?” She asked, sipping her coffee again.
I picked up my coffee and took a sip.
“Like your coffee like your men, eh?” She nodded at the plain cup of coffee.
“Oma!” I gasped, realized how loud I’d been, then corrected my tone. “Don’t say things like that.”
“What?” She looked offended. “You got something against people of color?”
“Of course, not—but that’s just…just don’t.”
“You ever date a black guy?” She asked, setting her coffee mug down and leaning in.
“Oh. My. God.” I looked up as though I were pleading with God to end my suffering. “I don’t know if this is racist or just tacky.”
“That’s the problem with you folks.”
“You folks?”
“Hollywood uber-Liberals.” She nodded. “Thinking everything is offensive when it’s just a simple question.”
“I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Have you ever dated a black guy?”
“Why?!” I threw my hands up.
“Because one of my boys over at the center, Andrew, he’s just the sweetest boy. Always so nice and kind and helpful and helps me carry things in and out. Holds doors for me. But if you got a problem with black guys…”
“I’ve never dated a black guy.” I answered. “But that’s just because I have only dated two guys in my entire life.”
“Well,” she nodded, “you need to meet Andrew then. You’d just love him. Sweetest boy ever.”
“When you say ‘boy’…”
“I’m not being racist!”
“I’m wanting to know how old he is, Oma.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh.” She gathered herself. “Twenty-five, twenty-six. Same age as you or about. He has a degree from OSU. Buckeye through and through. Got a good job. Not much family in the area anymore to speak of, so you won’t have to worry about meeting the parents too early in the relationship. He told me he’s looking to settle down, and…”
“Have you got the wedding planned out?” I snorted. “A seating chart and menu for the dinner?”
“Well, you could take him out to dinner for starters, smartass.” She quipped. “He loves Indian food—but, I don’t think The Trots is a great first date situation, so you might want to try Italian or something.”
Luckily, our food arrived and Oma dug into her biscuits and gravy and sausage links like her life depended upon it. I ate my omelet and fruit, looking at my grandmother across the table. How did we go from her acting like she hated my guts to her trying to set me up with ‘one of her boys’ from the center? Instead of asking, I just ate my food and asked the waitress for more coffee, which Oma rolled her eyes at, though she kept her mouth shut for once.
Halfway through our meals, the café was empty except for us and the waitress—and assumedly, the cook in the back. Oma was onto her second cup of coffee as well, watching me in between bites of her food. I wanted to ask her what was going through her head but I was afraid of what she might say. I didn’t want to be cussed out or fought with for as long as I could delay it. It was best to just wait for her to say something herself and enjoy the peace. Of course, I didn’t have long to wait.
“You ever regret not finishing school, going to college, finding you a decent man, settling down?” She asked before popping another bite in her mouth. “You definitely could’ve had your pick around here.”
“Here? As in Point Worth?” I realized that I was being snarky again, so I corrected myself. “I mean…you mean in this area?”
“Mmm.”
“Sometimes.” I shrugged. “Sometimes I wish I’d stuck around. But…when I was sixteen, this place held no appeal.”
“What about now?”
“It looks a little different with an extra ten years on me.”
“How’d you ever get jobs out there in California being sixteen years old and no parent with you anyway?”
“You lie that you’re older when you’re young and you lie that you’re younger when you’re old.” I shrugged. “It’s how it works.”
“You ain’t been doing the pornos have you?”
“Seriously?”
“I h
eard the boys make some extra money that way.” She shrugged.
“I’ve never done a porno, Oma.”
“Maybe you should try it.” She snorted. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the goddamn time.”
I sighed. “I’ve never done anything sexual for a job.”
“No wonder you don’t have a man.” She chortled.
“Are you endorsing those types of behaviors?” I cocked my head to the side.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a good porno.” She shrugged. “It’s honest money.”
“I’m not disparaging porn or porn actors.” I glared at her. “I’m just saying that you seem to be suggesting that I should be having sex on camera to get a man—which I don’t need by the way.”
“Everyone needs a man.” She shook her head. “Well, gay men and straight women, I mean. Everyone needs someone to love.”
“I have myself.” I said.
“Yeah.” She snorted. “And look what you’ve done with that.”
“You are the rudest person I’ve ever met.” I stated simply. “I came here because I’ve hit bedrock and now you’re asking me to build a goddamn basement.”
“I’m just saying, you’ve been all alone—apparently—maybe you need a good man in your life. To watch after you. To show you love. That’s all.”
“I need rest and food.” I frowned.
“Well, that, too.” Her head was waggling again. “At least come to the center when I go and meet Andrew. The least you’ll do is have a good meal and polite conversation.”
“Do you know what will happen if I walk into your LGBTQ center?” I cocked an eyebrow at her.
She threw her hands up.
I looked around and leaned in to whisper-hiss at her.
“You don’t seem to realize that while I’m Robert Wagner, your grandson, I’m also Jacob Michaels.” I said quickly. “I can’t go into a goddamn Starbucks to get my own coffee in L.A. without causing a security issue. If I want to buy new clothes, stores have to close their doors for me. Or I shop online or call designers directly. If I want to go through a fucking McDonald’s drive-thru, I have to make sure that it’s not during a busy time so people don’t cause a fucking traffic jam in the parking lot. Maybe people in Point Worth haven’t caught on to the fact that Robert Wagner is Jacob Michaels—especially with how skinny I am right now—but they’ll also put two-and-two together quickly enough. I won’t be able to go anywhere here, either. If I go to the center with you in Toledo, you better be ready with the goddamn National Guard to get us out of there.”
“No one here gives a damn who you are.” She waved me off. “You’re my grandson and that’s all they need to know. You put on normal folks’ clothes, stop acting so goddamn uppity, and no one will look at you twice. They might steal a peek since you’re so damn handsome, but they won’t realize who you are over in California, smartass.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” I rolled my eyes.
“So, you’re going to the center to meet the boys or not?”
I laid my head on the table and stayed there. Luckily, I had finished my food and moved my plate.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.” Oma snarled.
I paid the bill and left a tip with what little cash I did have in my wallet and Oma and I left the Sunny Side Up Café. On the way back to the house, we talked very little. Oma made a few comments about this or that thing changing in town, new neighbors, some idle gossip about folks in town, but for the most part, we were silent. When we got back to the house, we went our separate ways—Oma towards the kitchen, me upstairs.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was still raw about the whole venture into Point Worth proper and all of the abuse that I’d been made to endure. I wasn’t used to people being so blatantly…honest. I’d lived in L.A. and traveled the world and moved in circles where people talked about you behind your back. They didn’t say such rude things to your face. People were polite. But then I thought of how Mr. Barkley had indirectly said that my cardigan was a sight to behold. Then he offered me a “real coat” to keep me warm. He might not have liked my cardigan but that didn’t stop him from offering actual kindness. Oma said whatever was on her mind…but she was letting me stay with her, feeding me, inviting me to meet her friends…maybe I was looking at things the right way.
If someone in L.A. told me that my cardigan wasn’t good enough, they certainly weren’t going to just hand over something else. They just wanted you to know that they didn’t approve of your choices. Which was real kindness? Politeness with an upturned nose, or blunt honesty followed by an offer of help? It pissed me off to no end that maybe I’d spent ten years hating a place I’d run away from…but they weren’t actually as rude as they seemed at face value. Nothing is more frustrating than someone you’ve seen as poorly mannered doing something so kind.
I actually kicked the doorjamb as I entered the bedroom I was staying in at Oma’s house. Hoping I didn’t scuff the wood, I closed the door behind me and felt myself deflate. I had left this place in the middle of the night, without so much as a word, because I had looked down my nose at it. Looked down my nose at Oma and her brusque ways, but here I was regretting all of it. Well, not the running off and becoming rich and famous part—but the way in which I had done it. I couldn’t really blame the woman for being suspicious of every little thing I’d done in the past and that I was doing in the present. I’d be suspicious of a person like that, too—especially if they showed up looking like a skeleton waving around some exclusive credit card no one in town had ever seen before in their lives.
I was a dick.
And my jeans and sweater were folded and on my bed.
I frowned to myself as I looked at them from where I was leaning against the closed door. Hesitantly, I walked over to the bed and examined the pile of clothes, making sure they were actually mine. That was when I realized that the bed was made. I hadn’t made the bed before we left, and Oma certainly hadn’t gone into the bedroom after I had left the it to take us to town. Frowning, I turned on heel and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Oma was talking to herself in the kitchen, I could hear her when I was halfway down the stairs. I rolled my eyes, wondering what new words and insults she was mumbling to herself about me. Obviously, I was a total fancy asshole who needed to be punched in the throat. I stomped my way through the living room, and obviously Oma heard me, because she stopped talking to herself. Apparently, even my Oma wasn’t rude enough to continue her formerly private diatribe as I approached.
“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. Lookin
g 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.
