At twenty-six, Jacob had the slight figure of a girl, which made him look much younger, maybe twenty — constantly getting carded at bars. Not a big, brawny southern man with a beer gut like myself, handsome in his own unique way. I had heard him described as “something from a Greek painting,” or even “a beauty contest host.” He had a thick head of brown hair, nothing like the straw on my head, which had started thinning my senior year of high school. He stood six feet tall, when you could get him to get off his butt and stand up, that is; and he possessed a smile that could bewitch anyone. And trust me, he used that charm every chance he got. If he didn’t shave for a week, he might pass for a lanky cowboy. Until he opened his mouth.
Jacob had been gay for as long as I could remember.
The day it become very clear to me was back in high school, when I walked in on Jacob and Bryan Derbing fooling around. He was a friend both of us had shared until that moment. Seeing them in that compromising position made me sick. Jacob swore that Bryan had talked him into it, but deep down I knew Jacob had masterminded it.
It only fueled my own fire to be as manly as I possibly could. At twenty-three, I had a job with the parks and recreation department as a maintenance man. This after years of mowing lawns, hauling hay and any other outside job I could take. But as I looked at Jacob, lying on the sofa like some sort of male model, it made me realize how much all those jobs had taken a toll on me. The sun had already weathered my skin so much that I looked older than my own brother. Even lazing around the house, his hair was neatly combed, while mine was unkempt. His face had no marks on it, whereas I had scars from where I had scratched myself as a child when I had chicken pox, as well as a huge one on my chin where I fell against the coffee table as a kid. I matched him in the height department, but I was much more round, which also made me look older. He definitely got the looks in the family, while I oft en felt as if I had been awarded the “thanks for just showing up” prize. And I’m sure if I got close enough, he would reek of some fancy cologne, while I could smell the stink of my own arm pits.
Speaking of smells, the aroma got there long before Mama entered the room with a plate of piping hot donuts, some smothered in white powdered sugar and others in chocolate syrup.
“Fizzlesnits! Do I have to do everything myself?” she asked us.
Jacob chimed in. “Smells great, Mama.”
“Thank you. You boys should try some,” she said as she tried to get spilled white powder off her four year old polyester dress. Between that and her premature specs of white hair, which had sprouted over 15 years before, it seemed like there had been a powder explosion in the kitchen that covered the woman.
Jacob was already grabbing two donuts and devouring one.
“I think this is your best batch yet,” he said.
“Kiss up,” I said.
“Hush up, Noah,” Mama scolded. “Leave your brother alone.”
“Why don’t you let him cook?” I asked. “He is spending your money to learn to be a great chef.”
Jacob had been in a cooking class for a year now, one of the many fads he had gone through since graduating from high school. Community college hadn’t work out. I was keeping constant tabs on all of his failures, while Mama only noticed his successes.
“This isn’t cooking,” Mama said. “It’s just fixing up biscuits to look like donuts.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Jacob said, shooting a huge grin towards me.
I knew there was nothing more to say on the subject. Once Mama took a verbal stand for her Jacob, that conversation was closed.
“There is a luncheon this Sunday after church,” Mama said, bringing the cat-eyed glasses dangling from a chain around her neck up to her eyes so she could see what Jacob was watching on TV.
Neither of us responded. We knew we were about to be led down guilt lane.
“Do you think either of you can come?” she said. “People have been asking why my boys never show up.”
“I don’t like to go to church anymore because people gossip about me,” Jacob said. “Not very Christian of them.”
“They do not, son. You should come back.” She rubbed his arm as if he were a six year old boy who had fallen off a bike.
“We’re both a part of the birth and resurrection society now,” I said. “We attend on Christmas and Easter.”
“Noah Preston!” Mama said, using my middle name, which meant trouble.

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