“Dad, I hate oatmeal! Why do we have to eat it every morning?”
The young boy whined the same complaint to his father as he sat down at the table before school every morning. Every morning, his father calmly replied, “Because it will make you manly. Don’t you want to be manly, like me?” Usually, the boy sulked into his chair and methodically ate the lumpy mass sitting at the bottom of his beautifully hand-crafted antique cereal bowl.
Today before sitting at his place at the table, he looked at his father and said, “Why will it make me manly?” As he slid into his seat, he mumbled, “Did you put nails in it? Or dragon tails? Or witches brew?” Then, as his father looked on thoughtfully, the boy poked at the lump with his spoon. “I don’t see anything manly about it,” he said before shoveling it into his mouth.
The boy took a few more bites in silence when his dad put down his spoon with a thunk. “Jake,” he asked. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“It doesn’t matter what you say, I still won’t like the stupid oatmeal. I hate oatmeal.” Jake shoveled a heaping spoonful of the vile sludge into his mouth and immediately his face scrunched up as if he had just eaten a spoonful of battery acid. Before his father could respond, Jake heaved himself out of his chair, grabbed his backpack from the back of the chair, and made a mad dash for the door.
“Jake!” called his father mournfully as the door slammed shut. “You’ll thank me some day,” mumbled Jake’s dad under his breath to no one in particular.
*****
The next morning, Jake flew down the stairs and came to an abrupt halt in front of the kitchen table. “Oatmeal again? I hate oatmeal,” said Jake. “I HATE OATMEAL!” Jake glanced at his father who looked dourly back at his son without saying a word. Jake deliberately pulled out his chair and slid into it. He took up his spoon, examined the lumpy substance in the old ceramic bowl, glanced at his father once more, and took a bite.
Throughout the whole performance, Jake’s father said nothing. He watched intently as Jake forced down a couple more bites. The older man took a deep breath and said, “Your grandfather made that bowl when he was a young man before he ever had any children. I ate oatmeal from it every day of my childhood. Magic oatmeal.”
Jake looked at his father, looked at his oatmeal, looked back at his father, and didn’t say a word. He shoveled another spoonful of lumpy oatmeal into his mouth.
His father continued, “A fortune teller came to your grandfather’s shop one day. She knew things about him that no one should have known. She never told him his fortune, but she left a small book bound in gold sitting on the counter after she bought a few of his wares. The book contained instructions. Special instructions. Your grandfather set all of this in motion.”
Jake poked the remnants of oatmeal in his bowl and asked, “What do you mean?”
Jake’s father rubbed his temples and continued, “The magic oatmeal, if eaten everyday from the magical bowl, will turn you into a mighty warrior. It will make you manly.”
“I don’t understand what that can possibly mean. You really believe this? Dad, I’m twelve. Why would I believe that this oatmeal or this bowl is magic? There’s no such thing. The oatmeal isn’t magical, I’m not a warrior, and I’m not stupid either.” Jake scraped the bottom of the very old bowl with his very un-magical spoon. He forced himself to take one last bite, stood up, and grabbed his backpack from the back of his chair. Then, deliberately, he turned to his father and said, “I’ll never eat oatmeal again. Not magic oatmeal. Not regular oatmeal. Not any oatmeal. You can’t force me. I don’t even want to know why you think it is magical, so don’t tell me.”
Jake walked calmly to the door and as he paused before opening it, his father said, “It’s magical because there are cat’s bones ground up in it. Cat’s bones, bird feathers, and a few dog toes for good measure. The fortune teller’s book left specific instructions on the mixture. You’ve been eating it since you were a child.” As the old man said those words, he looked beaten. He put his head in his hands, and watched as his only son walked through the door.
After taking a few steps, Jake looked back toward the door. He examined it for a moment, then retched the oatmeal he had finished eating only moments before into the bushes lining the sidewalk.
*****
“Who wants to volunteer for show-and-tell this morning?” asked Jake’s teacher, Miss Wilder. Jake quickly raised his hand. “Jake, please, give it your best shot.”
Jake rose from his desk, and walked morosely to the front of the room. He stood there looking for a moment then said, “My father has been making me eat cat bones, dog toes, and bird feathers for breakfast since I was old enough to hold a spoon. He grinds them up, and puts them in my oatmeal, and makes me eat it every morning.” The students looked at Jake in bewilderment.
“Jake, please, don’t be telling tales,” said Miss Wilder.
Jake looked at her in astonishment and said, “It’s all true. Dad told me this morning. I barfed the oatmeal into the bushes. He thinks he’s some sort of wizard or something. I HATE him.” Jake stood sullenly in front of his classmates and astonished teacher.
Miss Wilder stood from her desk, walked to Jake, and steered him toward the door. “Class, please, work quietly on your homework while I’m gone. I will be back in just a moment,” said the young teacher as she walked Jake outside into the hallway before asking, “Jake, are you absolutely positive that your father... did this?”
“Yes,” answered Jake quietly, “I don’t want to be a warrior.”
“Will you tell this to Mrs. Willows, the counselor? I can’t help you if you won’t talk to her,” said Miss Wilder. Jake nodded and the pair walked quickly down the hall.
*****
That same afternoon, two police officers walked up an unassuming sidewalk a few blocks from an ordinary school. “I can’t believe anyone would do this to a child,” said the taller of the two.
“At this point, I can believe anything,” said the shorter of the two policemen as he stopped short in front of the door. He reached out and knocked on the door.
“I’m coming!” yelled a male voice from inside the house. After a couple of minutes, the door swung open. “Can I help you, officers? Is my son okay?” asked Jake’s father worriedly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts, but we’ll need you to come with us down to the station. We have a few questions to ask you.”
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