“I said no; I’m saving the reward for your birthday.”
“Well, I don’t deserve all that.”
It slipped out before I realized I meant it. Our eyes find each other as seriousness rapidly fills the space that moments ago had been nothing but lighthearted. Her dark-circled eyes soften; her head tilts as if to say, My poor baby. I don’t mind her response—my mother’s pity and empathy are all the stitches I currently need on my sliced-up heart.
“Don’t ever say that,” she whispers, taking my hand across the table. I almost gasp, it’s been so long since she’s done this. “You’ve had a tough time at school, and I see you trying. Everybody’s got tough times. Lord knows I have. You’ve got a work ethic, Connor, and that counts for something. You’re gonna make such a good da—”
My hand turns cold and limp inside hers as she stops herself.
A good dad.
She doesn’t mean “a good dad” as in “someday,” she means as in next week when Vicky is due to have her baby. Mom slowly withdraws her hand from mine, as if loving me is a big-ticket purchase she’s changed her mind about buying. She counts out cash for the tip and mutters, “I was reading an article saying it’s good luck for dads and sons to have birthdays so close together…”
I turn as stony and quiet as a grave until a dreadful idea strikes me: If I came out, that would kill this conspiracy theory that I’m Vicky’s baby daddy good and quick.
“Momma…?” I ask, my terrified throat clotted with a thick residue of milkshake.
“Yes…?” she asks, her voice engorging with hope.
Say it, Major. End this bullshit and say it.
“I forgot,” I choke out as the door to the diner swings open on a ring-a-ling bell.
Every head in the room turns toward the enormous, bearded raven standing alone in the doorway, as if all the lights had gone out except in this one spot. For one startling moment, the Reverend Stanley Packard holds the diner’s breath in his hands. His narrowed eyes appraise us through glasses perched above a beard so full it might be carved out of solid oak. As a short man myself, the Reverend’s proportions never cease to stun me silent. He has to duck slightly to clear the top of the door and enter diagonally to accommodate the belly stretching the buttons of his black pastor’s shirt. The white thumbprint of a clerical collar clamps around his reddening throat.
“He looks like a bear standing in attack mode,” Vicky once said, but it felt weird to agree with her—bear tends to trigger a different response among gays, and my feelings about the Reverend are complicated enough. My mom is obviously in love with him; she’d spend every waking moment volunteering at his church if she didn’t have the hospital to think about.
“Oh no,” Mom curses to herself as she spots the Reverend. “I gotta get going, but…oh…” Mom opens her front-facing camera to give herself a once-over, but her slumped shoulders tell me she hates her reflection. She can’t wear any excessive makeup or scents in the NICU, so my mom is painfully limited in ways she can gussy herself up for the Reverend.
As she frantically brushes her long, frizzing hair, I distract myself from my embarrassment with Ario’s texts: So proud of u! This takes so much guts! Hope ur ok!
The only guts I have at the moment are my intestines, tangled like a ball of rubber bands as the Reverend enters the diner. God, please don’t let him spot us. He weaves through Sue’s as a politician would: grinning wickedly, shaking hands, and cracking inside jokes with every customer—many of whom are donning John Deere or MAGA hats. So much red and green, it looks like Christmas. All of them flush to be blessed with the Reverend’s attention as he greets them:
“I put in a word for your sister at Ben Sherman’s.”
“Have they fixed your transmission yet?”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“You slipped out of my service eight minutes early last week. Hope everything’s okay.”
“Don’t let him put too much hot sauce on it; pepper’s not good for him, trust me.”
It lasts for minutes. Person by person, Reverend Packard swoops through the crowd of diners—he’s their preacher, their therapist, their mechanic, their doctor. If you’ve got a problem, he’s on the case… And if you’ve got personal business, he’s up to his nose in it. If I ever came out—when, Major, when—it won’t be a conversation just between my mom and me. The Reverend will have his say.
Mom and I already paid our bill, but we remain in the booth, knowing we must wait our turn to be anointed by the Reverend. When our time comes, he looms like the Angel of Death for a moment and then plunks down beside my mom, kissing her cheek (“Marcia!”). I half-expect him to insist we stay and eat with him. Mom would totally blow off her shift if the Reverend asked her to, so I blurt, “Ah, Mom, you don’t want to be late.”
“Don’t be rude,” she snaps, instinctively leaping to the Reverend’s defense, even though nobody asked her to take sides.
“Mr. Major,” the Reverend says, booping my nose as if I were a puppy. “I’m not staying. I’ve got my own table. Ooh, I hope you’re not drinking coffee? Too much, and you’ll never get that growth spurt.”
“Pretty sure I’m done with that,” I say, slurping my second cup of the night. I haven’t had a growing pain in over a year—it’s officially going to be a teeny life. Honestly, I’m relieved I won’t be cramming myself through doorways for the rest of my days like the Reverend.
“I—I wish I’d known you were coming,” Mom says.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” he says. “You’ve got babies to save. The most important work there is.” He tosses her a wink, and she blooms with an inner light. “And looking stunning doing it.”
Mom can only laugh pitifully as she taps her flat, wilted hair. “This old smock.” I battle a tidal wave of cringe as my mom falls prey to these warmed-over pickup lines.
“I only stopped by because I wanted to introduce Connor to a good friend,”—the Reverend only has good friends—“one of the ones he’s going to be helping with Meals on Wheels.”
Yesterday, my mom stunned me with the news that she’s commandeered my entire summer by making me drive hot meals to the elderly and indigent of Ambrose and Greater Noble County.
“Your friend’s come here to the diner, but still needs me to drive ’em meals?” I ask. Mom and the Reverend are momentarily speechless by my attitude. “I’m just asking!”
“Ricky Hannigan is a very independent person,” the Reverend says with forced calm. “He likes being out and about, and he likes being with people whenever possible. But the summer gets brutal and tires him, and his health goes up and down like a yo-yo. Going out is a treat for him, you understand.”