“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.”
“Steady as the day is long,” I reply.
“You need to do some serious soul searching, Derrick,” Mr. Jacobson says. “I hope you can find some way to ease what’s going on in your heart because if you don’t it’s going to eat you up inside.”
Mr. Jacobson speaks to him like there are not seventy-five people standing in the room watching with open mouths. He speaks to him the way he speaks to everyone else, honestly and with compassion. He speaks from his heart.
“Let’s go, son,” Mr. Jacobson says. He claps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze as he walks by me. I turn to follow him.
“He doesn’t deserve your kindness!” Derrick calls.
I run into Mr. Jacobson’s back when he stops short in front of me. He turns around, steps around me, and shoves me behind him like I’m a six-year-old and he doesn’t want me to see the accident that’s happening in front of me.
“He does deserve my kindness. And he deserves your kindness. And he deserves all of your kindness, because he’s a human being.” He stabs a finger in Derrick’s direction. “You need to work all this out for yourself, Derrick. Me yelling at you ain’t going to help you none.” He stabs that finger again and the man flinches, even from across the room. “One thing I know, Derrick, is that God don’t like ugly. And your daughter would be ashamed of you if she saw how you’ve been treating the man she loved. Ashamed, I tell you.” He stabs again. “God don’t like ugly.”
And utter silence settles on the room. Derrick falls into a nearby chair like his legs won’t support him any longer.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Jacobson says.
I get in the back seat of the truck. Jake turns to face me and whispers, “What did he do?”
“He said God don’t like ugly.”
Jake snorts. “Hell, nobody likes ugly, least of all Pop.”
I heave out a sigh, suddenly feeling like my insides are hanging on the outside. All my vital, easily bruised places are open and waiting to be wounded. I feel raw and exposed and so fucking vulnerable.
Mr. Jacobson gets in with a huff, slams his door, and grabs the steering wheel at ten and two. “I’m going to pray for that asshole,” he says. He looks into the rearview mirror so he can look into my eyes. “Give me one of those ribs, would you?”
“What the hell are we