Learning to Fall: uncle Jacob. Yesterday Jillian and I made Momma French toast the way she likes it, where we soak the bread overnight in eggs with chopped skin of an orange in little bits and orange liquor that comes in a fancy brown bottle. The toast gets all fat and and fluffy and Momma smothers her plate in whipped cream that Dad whips up with more liquor and powdered sugar 'til it all smells like orange aftershave lollipop.
I couldn't help much with my arm still all weak and shriveled and all but I did whip the eggs the night before and I did set the table and fold the napkins, real cloth ones like we use at Christmas and turkey day. I can't straighten out my arm and it looks like a string stickin' out of my shirt, but that's okay 'cause now I'm done with that cast and that's the main thing.
In the middle of breakfast a knock at the door came and Dad and Momma thought maybe it was Gill or Ms. Harriet but they never get up before one in the afternoon on Sunday so it wasn't them, and with Terry's dad back I was sure it wouldn't be him even though he's the only one I could think it might be.
I opened the door and there stood a man who looked just like Momma but was a man, although not much of one. Really, he looked like Momma with a short haircut. He looked, well, he looked pretty, like Momma.
"You must be N.B." He spoke to me with Momma's voice. "I'm Jacob, your momma's little brother."
I had heard about Jacob, but Momma said she didn't ever expect to see him again.
"May I come in?" I swear to you, it was like Momma was standing there in black pleated slacks and a white dress shirt with short hair holding a fistful of roses and a suitcase askin' to come in to her own house, but only not her, more like a man-but not a man like Dad. It felt silly.