Page 72 of Cocky Origins: May and Jerald Cocker

Wiping the smile from my face, I force earnestness. “I’m awful sorry.”

He swipes his hat off, hand swinging it ferociously as he limpsinside. Mother takes my arm, pausing by the Holy water to whisper, “Do be patient with him. He feels you’re growing up too fast.”

“I’m used to you worrying, not him!”

“Watch your tone,” she warns, friendly manner evaporating.

Exasperated, I sigh and follow them to a pew where we don’t speak to one another.

“Fred! Dottie! How wonderful to see you this Sunday morning!” We look over to watch Frances Cocker shimmying past other parishioners in order to sit beside us in this very row. “I love your hat! Is this new?”

Father moves to put me in the center of them as Mother tries to ignore his rude maneuver and answer her much-admired friend, “Thank you for noticing! I bought it last week. Dipped into my savings for the splurge on account of it’s May’s eighteenth birthday this week.”

“Oh, when?”

“Wednesday.”

“August 19th then?”

“That’s right.”

“Will there be a party?”

“Her friends have one planned for next Saturday, I believe. Would you like to keep me company so I have someone my own age to talk with?”

“Yes! I’ll make sure to stay in town.”

Holding his hat, Mr. Cocker says, “Good to see you, Dottie! Fred, been a long time!”

Father doesn’t get the joke since his mood is upside down. “We just saw you last night!”

Mr. Cocker blanks, “Right, well...”

Jerald gives a polite but detached, “Good morning,” taking off his hat and setting it on the seat.

Jerald leans forward to catch my eye, but it’s Father’s he catches instead.

Mrs. Cocker quietly titters, “What a lovely day, isn’t it? And so many people! There wasn’t a parking spot left. My son had to park on the dirt, and you know what he did? He ran around to open the door for his mother.”

Father practically snarls, her attempts to soften his demeanor with tales of Jerald’s manners so transparent they receive the opposite desired effect.

But Mother has fallen in love with her friendship with Mrs. Cocker, and will let neither her husband’s nor her daughter’s behavior upset that. “I saw that. It’s usually only this crowded on Easter and Christmas.”

“Quite right!” Mrs. Cocker leans to look past her husband to her son. “Jerald, do you know what would be a fine idea? If you were to take May out for a nice lunch after this!”

I gasp, which everyone ignores because they’re each embroiled in their own reactions to her bold suggestion. Father, especially. “I don’t approve of that idea at all!”

“Oh look! Father Timothy!” Mrs. Cocker turns her back on us to watch the procession and send a signal that she won’t hear another word of nonsense.

For the entirety of Mass, I do not attempt a single sideways glance to Jerald for fear of an argument we’ll never recover from. With Frances Cocker singing the hymns as if nothing is awry, her voice louder than ours, we are teetering on the brink of destruction.

During the final prayer, I reach for Father’s hand, and his white knuckles loosen from their strict hold on his fedora. His frown softens, and he exhales, closing his eyes as I give his strong fingers a squeeze to tell him I love him, and I appreciate his caring so much about me.

Lily’s father left because he couldn’t take his wife being a drunk. He’s hardly around, and that’s why she didn’t follow her little brother Tommy’s decision to live with him.

Sable might be joking about it every chance she gets, but the truth is her parents are rarely there. When they are, they don’t pay her much mind. Sure, she’s an independent and very intelligent girl, but it stings a little that they don’t take much interest in her or her studies. I see it in her eyes no matter how strong she is. She’ll cover it up a moment later, make jokes of sarcasm more often than not.

Gertie’s folks are good people, but not very interesting.

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