Steamroller

I opened my mouth to say something.

“I’m well aware that is not an appropriate response to your question, but is in fact the one I was directed to give you.”

I had no idea what to say.

“Sweetie, let’s face it, we both know that Mr. Cooksey is not a politically correct individual, so neither of us should be surprised when he comes up with these off-the-wall responses.”

I could only stare at her.

“And he is a confusing man, because he did watch Hamilton with his daughter, and that soundtrack played on an endless loop, along with the Dear Evan Hansen one, so I’m not quite sure where he’s drawing the line on show tunes themselves.”

I was squinting at that point.

“We all know he hates country music most of all, which is just odd here in Texas.”

Really, I wasn’t even participating in the conversation at that point.

“Not that this pertains to you, since you and Matt only listen to the Foo Fighters and Metallica and classic bands like Led Zeppelin and all the rest that are very, very noisy.”

“How do you—”

“This is my house, sweetheart; I know everything that goes on under my roof. I know all about you, and that Matt and his girlfriend, Natalie, had a baby scare a couple weeks ago, and that Jaci is fighting with her best friend over the boy who sits in front of her in zoology.”

She was amazing.

We heard the front door open and close and the dogs barking out a welcome, and then Mr. Cooksey was in the kitchen with us.

“Who died?” he asked, even as he yawned and went to get a beer out of the refrigerator.

Mrs. Cooksey turned to look at him over her right shoulder, never once letting go of my hand. “Vince was just worried that he was maybe going to hell for being gay and also concerned with what we might be thinking about him and his homosexuality.”

“What?”

“Gay. Vince. He was scared.”

“Oh, oh, I see,” he said as he walked over to us. He gave me a quick pat on the back. “Well, so, are you all right?”

I nodded.

He opened the can of Budweiser and took a sip. “No show tunes, okay?”

“Yessir.”

“Except for Hamilton. That one’s kind of butch.”

My eyes got big as he leaned over, kissed his wife, gave her ass a gentle grope, and then walked off toward the stairs that led up to the second floor. He usually showered and changed before he came back down to watch TV until dinner.

We sat together, Mrs. Cooksey and me, and talked about what I wanted for my life. After a while, we heard her husband in the living room.

“Get off the couch, you dumb dog,” he yelled at Grover, their brindle-colored pit bull. He was the one who was always on the couch; Inca, their rottweiler, never got up there. He was the goody-two-shoes dog, and Grover was the lover. He was the one who went from room to room at night checking on everybody until he finally fell asleep on the end of Jaci’s bed. He loved her best of all, and she loved him right back. At fifteen going on forty, she needed to be a little girl as long as she could.

I looked out at him from the kitchen, still not believing that both of them, he and his wife, were taking me being gay so well.

“You know,” he yelled from the living room as the TV went on, “it’s too bad Matt isn’t gay too, ’cause then he wouldn’t have had his mother up pacing the floors all last week while I was contemplating turning the attic into a nursery when you left for college!”

I did a slow pan to Mrs. Cooksey.

She shrugged.

I had no idea what to say.

“Well.” She shook her head. “The point is that I was never worried that Matt was your type. I’ve seen the boys your head turns for, and it’s muscles and dimples that make you weak in the knees.”

God.

She cackled softly before she took a deep breath in, then out. “Listen, I promise you that Jesus didn’t say anything at all about being gay, so I think it’s safe to assume that he didn’t give a damn.”

“But it’s in other parts, Gary said, and then he read from the Gospel of Paul or something, and—”

“Paul, as far as I can tell, was a card-carrying homophobe, but you don’t let that bother you none,” she declared, smiling at me. “You are a very good boy with a big old heart, and Mr. Cooksey and I love having you here. You understand?”

I could barely breathe, and she very nicely let me take care of that, pushing air through my lungs until I could form words.

“All better?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am, what?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe you really like having me here.”

“Good, because we do, and whatever your parents’ reasoning, be it the gay thing or that they were actually thinking of you and didn’t want you to have to change schools in your senior year, it hardly matters. You’re here now.”