Page 55 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“Ha! I will definitely do that.”
I take a moment to scan the room. It’s an office from another era. And it’s frozen in time. A wooden desk sits under a window with an old calculator and reams of lined yellow paper at the ready, like the man who ran this farm will be back any minute to resume his work and calculations. The metal bookshelf to the left is bursting with binders labeled Bedd Fellow Farms, with bright green stickers showcasing the year. As far as I can tell, they’re not organized into any cohesive pattern. Binders from 1998 are wedged against ones from 1987. A few from the late seventies are even mixed in.
It saddens me to think about Colleen’s grandfather up in this office at night, desperately crunching numbers and keeping all the details to himself. The stress he was carrying must have been enormous.
That stress has now been passed on to his wonderful family, and I really want to find a way to help.
“This is wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Bedd.”
“Please. Call me Ethel.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You can and you will,” she insists.
“Isn’t that a little—I don’t know—disrespectful?”
She sighs. “What I wouldn’t give for a man to disrespect me right now.”
“Excuse me?” I say and immediately regret it. “Excuse me” implies I want Colleen’s seventy-one-year-old grandmother to repeat what she just said, and I very much do not want that to happen.
“Well, Bacon, when I said ‘what I wouldn’t give for a man to disrespect me right now,’ what I meant was that I’d dearly like to have intercourse again.”
“Mm. I see.” That is all I can manage to say.
“Was that shocking, dear?”
“Not shocking,” I say. “A little surprising, maybe?”
“Young people need to get with the program. Life doesn’t end when you turn sixty,” she huffs.
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” I say emphatically, hoping I haven’t offended her.
“I’ll have you know, Bacon—this might surprise you too, but—when I saw you on that television screen, my very first thought was, ‘well, that there is a very sexy boy.’”
“Oh, that’s—That’s, uh?—”
“Completely natural, that’s what that is.” She turns even more serious than she already was. “But I’ve put those feelings behind me now that you’ve impregnated my granddaughter. It’s the right thing to do. I wouldn’t want there to be any awkwardness between us.”
“Yes. Awkwardness would be terrible.” I look frantically around the room for something to spark a subject change. A framed family photo catches my attention. “May I?” I ask as I reach for it.
“Of course,” Ethel says. “Colleen and Samuel were around eleven there. That was just about one year after their parents passed.
“She was adorable,” I say in an almost whisper.
The photo gives me a glimpse of what our little girl or boy could look like a decade from now. I’m struck by how young and innocent she was. By the sweet smile on her face, in spite of everything she’d already been through.
I don’t know how long I’m lost in the photo before Mrs. Bedd says softly, “Did she not respond to your drunken declaration of love this evening?”
Now that my beer buzz is wearing off, I’m keenly aware of the fact that I sent Colleen impromptu poetry that went completely unanswered.
“She did not,” I say on a heavy exhale.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, sweetheart. I can tell you’re the kind of spirited boy who dives into life whole hog, but my girl takes her time. Especially with her heart.” She reaches a hand up and pats my shoulder. “I hope you’ll be patient with her.”
“I’ll give that woman whatever she needs,” I say, carefully placing the photo back on the desk.
Colleen’s grandmother responds with a warm smile and a pinch to my cheek.
