Page 72 of The Fed Sex Man

“I won’t.” He stood. “I always wondered what happened. I heard he was in a car wreck, but I didn’t know if that was what broke his ankle. I’m sorry, Jo.”

I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

“What kind of a mother could leave their kid?” my father bellowed. “Was she wacked-out on dope?”

“I don’t know, Daddy.”

“I bet she was wacked out on that meth-a-phetamines.”

“Meth-AM-phetamines,” Jarod said.

“That’s what I said. That shit’s gonna be the downfall of this nation. People lose their minds on that crap.”

My mother reached for my knee and rested her hand there. “I’m sorry, Josephine. I really am. Anything we can do to make him comfortable, you just tell me.”

“That’s another thing,” I said, looking toward my father as I spoke. “Can you give up your diet for a day?”

“Suppose I can.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why?”

I looked at my mother. “His dad used to cook this: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans with bacon and onions. I’d like for you to make that when we come.”

“Sounds like my kind of fella,” my father said.

“He said he hasn’t had a good home-cooked meal in years,” I whispered. “After his father died, he moved in with his best friend. I guess this guy’s mom didn’t cook very well, if at all.”

She patted my knee. “I’ll cook the best I’m able, Josephine. If he doesn’t like it, he’s not a Texan.”

“He was born and raised here,” I said. “He’s a Texan.”

“I imagine he’ll leave full, and happy,” she said with a smile. “I’ll use my mother’s recipes. They’re southern through and through. The secret is to let the steaks marinade in the buttermilk overnight.”

My father clapped his hands together. “Is this the recipe with the cayenne?”

“It sure is.”

“Whoo-eeee. This fried steak will make a puppy pull a freight train,” my father bragged. “Fry up some green tomatoes with it.”

My mother lowered her chin and gave a playful glare.

“If we’re frying dinner,” my father said. “We just as well fry dinner.”

She grinned. “I might fry a few tomatoes.”

“What if he brings up football?” He glanced at me. “What do we do?”

“I guess tread softly. Be sensitive of his loss, now that you know about it.”

My mother wagged her index finger at my father. “If you say one word, John, mark my words…”

“I’m not saying a damned thing,” my father assured her. “But, if he brings it up, I’m not going to be rude.”

“If he brings it up, you better just change the subject to the Texas weather.” She looked at Jarod. “And, you, mister come-late-or-not-at-all, can talk about cars.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jarod replied.

My mother dusted off her apron. “I’m going to need to pick up this pig sty.”

“It looks, fine, Mother.”

She glanced around the room. “I’d be ashamed to have him here with the way it looks.”

“I’m nervous,” I whispered.

She looked up from her survey of the room. “Why?”

My shoulders slumped. “I just want him to like me.”

“Don’t be nervous.” She put her hand on my cheek. “If you act like yourself, he can’t help but like you. The good Lord put him in your life for a reason. If it’s not for him to like you, I sure don’t know what else it would be for.”

Sexwas the other viable option, but I didn’t mention it. While my stomach churned at the thought of having Tyson over for Sunday dinner, I simply offered my mother a smile. “I hope you’re right.”