I look for Derrick, my used-to-be father-in-law and find him in the corner with a small crowd of men around him. Most of them are looking in my direction, and Derrick’s face is bright red as he points toward me and hisses expletives at the men around him.
The deputy fire chief waits for him to finish. Then he nods, hangs his head long enough to take a deep breath, and he walks toward me. He stops in front of me. “Ethan,” he says. I reach out my hand to shake, but he doesn’t take it. “I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This isn’t the time or the place to rehash the past.”
“I had no plans on bringing up the past,” I reply. “Did you?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare at him. He’s about five inches shorter than me, and he seems to get smaller the longer I look at him.
“Well, no, and personally, I’m fine with you being here, grateful you showed up, actually, but Derrick…well…Derrick is not.”
“What’s this about?” Mr. Jacobson interjects loudly.
I hold out my hand, as if that’s going to hold the old man back. It doesn’t. He charges forward like a bull, his chest getting wider and wider the closer he comes.
I get bumped by someone holding an empty plate, and I realize that there’s a line already moving where people are loading up on Mr. Jacobson’s barbecue. I step a foot to the left to get out of the stream of people.
“You’re going to have to leave, Ethan,” the deputy fire chief says quietly.
“Like hell he is,” Mr. Jacobson says.
“Mr. Jacobson, we don’t want an argument,” he says, holding up his palms.
“You might not, but somebody does.” He glares toward Derrick. “Derrick, I thought this was a meeting for volunteers,” he says, his voice loud enough that everyone in the room hears and stops to listen.
“It is,” Derrick replies. His face is the color of the fire truck parked in the bay next door, and his armpits are so sweaty that I can see the stains from here. “But we reserve the right to refuse some volunteers. It’s nothing personal against you, Jacobson,” he says. “He can wait in the truck until you’re done.”
Reluctantly I turn to walk out, but Mr. Jacobson grabs my shoulder. “Don’t,” he says. Just that one word. I feel like a dog that has been told to stay.
Jake leans toward me. “All you can do now is sit and enjoy the show,” he says out of the side of his mouth. “There’s no stopping him once he gets started.”
“I don’t want this,” I say quietly.
But Mr. Jacobson will not be quelled. “Derrick,” he says, staring hard at the other man. “You’re telling me and everyone else here that this young man can’t volunteer to save lives because you’re still holding on to that hatred you’ve had festering inside you all these years?”
Derrick repeats, “We reserve the right to refuse volunteers. Again, it’s nothing personal.”
Mr. Jacobson’s voice grows deathly quiet, but it seems so loud to me in that moment. “It feels pretty damn personal to me,” he says. “Are you certain this is the way you want this to go? You want to welcome all these people—” He points to indicate everyone in the room. “—but send this one young man home? Really?”
Derrick hitches his pants higher, but all it does is make him look like his balls are up near his bellybutton. “We do have a morals clause in our policies.”
“Morals clause?” Mr. Jacobson snorts out a laugh. “If you were operating under a morals clause, most of the people in here wouldn’t qualify as volunteers.” Mr. Jacobson’s eyes sweep the room, lighting briefly on certain faces, many of which turn scarlet, and one man even gets up and leaves the room as fast as his feet will carry him.
“We’re not doing this tonight, Jacobson,” Derrick warns, his voice filled with the type of authority that one can only give oneself.
“Uh-oh,” Jake mutters. “He’s gone and done it now.” He looks at me. “You might want to duck.”
“Maybe you should go, too, Jacobson,” Derrick adds.
“Oh, fuck,” Jake breathes, and he takes three steps back.
Suddenly, Mr. Jacobson starts walking through the crowd. He pulls plates full of barbecue from startled people’s hands, and even yanks a beef bone right from between one man’s teeth. The man doesn’t immediately let it go, and I see Mr. Jacobson’s lip snarl, the most menacing look I have ever seen on a man, and I saw some pretty shady sons of bitches in prison. The man opens his mouth and Mr. Jacobson take the bone and everything the man has left on his plate and stalks to the trash can. He tosses every plate into the trash, as startled men and women stare at him in disbelief.
“Get those pans, Jake,” Mr. Jacobson says, motioning toward the pans of barbecue on the table.
“Yes, sir,” Jake replies, as he springs toward the table. He quickly covers the trays back up, stacks them, and lifts them into his arms. “I’ll meet you at the truck, Pop!”
“I’ll be right there, Jake,” Mr. Jacobson replies calmly.
Jake inclines his head toward the door. “Run while you can,” he whispers to me.
But I don’t follow Jake. I watch Mr. Jacobson. People are murmuring behind their hands, as others look on with guilty faces. Little Robbie Gentry comes to stand next to me. “I do love me some Mr. Jacobson,” he says with a laugh. “That man never changes.”