Shaking the Sugar Tree (27 page)

Maybe that’s what filled me with such bleakness and unhappiness. Now that she was gone, she would never have a chance to know the other side of the coin. And Noah would never have a chance to show it to her. His heart was so full of love and such stout determination. He could have walked her through it. Could have at least given her a taste of it, enough to let her know that she hadn’t made a mistake; that despite her, despite me, the end result had been good. Very, very good. God had brought something good out of our foolishness, something we had never dreamed possible when we were in the thick of things. God had found a way to redeem our sin. Like Mrs. Humphries always said, The Lord was gon’ find a way—and He had.

I stared up at the ceiling and thought of the heavens beyond, that “place” where God lived.

These were weird thoughts for me. I chalked it up to the funeral, the need to make sense of what was ultimately senseless, my need to fit everything into a box and store it away in my mind.

Weird as it was for a gay man, I was a father, and I loved being a father. Loved that more than anything else in my life. I would not at all mind having more kids. I wouldn’t mind getting gay-married, creating a happy home, adopting, creating a family. I wanted that more than anything else.

I was startled when my phone began to vibrate, then ring.

The man who could have made all of that possible was calling me back.

He could still make that possible, I thought.

But my finger hesitated. I was paralyzed with indecision, insecurity, fear.

The call went to voice mail.

I put the phone on my nightstand, not wanting to hear the message.

T
HE
NEXT
morning I approached Mr. Owen’s office with a belly full of dread. The fourth of July was quickly approaching, and the moment could no longer be put off. I had promised Noah I’d get the day off and we’d spend it together before going over to Mama’s house for his big party.

“What can I do for you, Wiley?” he asked, looking up from his desk. The look in his eye said the entire world could kiss his fat butt for all he cared.

“Can I have next Thursday off?” I asked.

“Can you have the fourth of July off? Wiley, you kill me. Really!”

“It’s my son’s birthday.”

“Why do you always bring your son into this?”

“Because it’s his birthday?”

“You’re worse than a single mother.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Since I’m a single father, you’re not far off the mark.”

“Others have seniority,” he said. “You know that. I can’t let you have off a holiday and ask those with seniority to work to cover you. It doesn’t work that way.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Owen. It’s his tenth birthday.”

“So? Your shift is only five hours. You’ll have the rest of the day off. I can’t help you, Wiley.”

I sat down in the chair opposite his desk and regarded him carefully.

“You don’t understand,” I repeated. “It’s his tenth birthday. We’re going to have a big party, and I will be there, and FoodWorld will survive without me.”

“I have a business to run, Wiley,” he said in a patient tone. “Your personal problems are none of my concern. If you want this job, you will have to meet expectations like everyone else.”

“What about my expectations?”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with it. You’re compensated for your work. If you don’t like working here, you’re free to go elsewhere.”

“Now that’s why you don’t get invited to the really good parties,” I said.

“If you’d like to quit, Wiley, I have a stack of applications here from people who would love to replace you. Up to you. Just let me know. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

“Let me put it this way,” I said. “I won’t be here that day because there are some things that are more important to me than Daily Deals! and asking people if they brought their frikkin’ FoodWorld card.”

“Suit yourself.”

“And since you’re paying me the least possible amount that you can legally get away with, I’m not sure I can be bothered to care about FoodWorld’s bottom line. Maybe if you guys cared about your employees, they might care about your business.”

“We’re not communists, Wiley,” he observed.

“Unfortunately,” I said, getting to my feet.

“You better make sure you’re here,” Owen said to my back as I left his office.

A
FTER
I
got off work, I drove over to Fairpark and wandered about, feeling restless and unhappy. I needed to be alone, without Noah hanging on my tits. I needed time to think.

Elvis stood there in all his glory, towering up into the sky like the miniature god that he was, clutching his microphone, caught in the middle of a twist and shout.

Good old Elvis.

The park was deserted, which was not surprising because it was hot, hot, hot, and sane people did not wander about in public parks when the sun was higher and hotter than Paula Deen’s cholesterol levels.

I thought of Jackson and Noah standing in front of Elvis, having their pictures taken, and suddenly there was a lump in my throat.

Damn that man and his pharmaceutical ways.

Since I was alone, I sang for Elvis in a soft, hesitant tone of voice.

“Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfill….”

I was probably not the first to sing for Elvis; I certainly wouldn’t be the last. There was a certain appropriateness to it, after all. I could not imagine the soundtrack of my life without Elvis singing the tracks. It was only right I returned the favor once in a while.

“Cause my darling I love you, and I always will….”

I sat down on one of the iron benches and put my face in my hands.

I was staring into the gaping maw of thirty-five, no closer to my dreams than I had been as a freshman at Ole Miss singing Elvis songs to rowdy bar-goers on the weekends. Nothing came of my picking and grinning, my earnest songs. Nothing came of my books except apologetic royalty reports and the collective yawns of reviewers. My prospects for a decent job were about as good as the chances that Paula Deen would stop telling her viewers to slather their creations in sugar and butter. I had no career to speak of, no future, no money in the bank, no man to go home to and make love to and be with, no chance in hell that I would ever get gay-married and live happily ever after.

I don’t often throw myself a pity party, but I threw one for myself that afternoon, sitting there on the bench staring into space. I couldn’t help but feel that maybe Bill and my mother were right, maybe there was something really wrong with me. Maybe I didn’t deserve happiness. Maybe there was no room in the Magnolia state for souls like mine. Maybe I really was born at the wrong time, in the wrong place, living a life that fit me about as well as Elvis’s sideburns or Honey Boo Boo’s baby fat.

I looked up at Elvis and sighed.

If you could make it out of here,
I thought,
why can’t I? Or do we worship you precisely because you made it out, and we know we never will?

I lingered rather longer in Fairpark than I should have. Mrs. Humphries would be waiting for me. Reluctantly, I walked to my car, drove home, and walked down the street to fetch Noah, who was in a somber, unhappy mood. His face looked the way I felt. When we got home, he went to his room and quietly shut the door rather than plopping himself down in front of the Xbox as he normally did.

I went to his room, opened the door.

He sat on his bed, crying.

What’s wrong?
I asked.

Why didn’t Mom love me?
he asked, wiping at his eyes, unable to stop himself from crying.

I don’t know,
I admitted.

I’m a good boy,
he said.

Yes, you are. You’re a very good boy.

I don’t understand, Daddy.

He cried silently, embarrassed by his tears because he thought he was too old to cry.

I stood in the doorway and watched him.

“Why, Daddy?” he asked in a strangled voice.

I sat on the bed, put my arm around him, pulling him close.

“Why?” he asked again. “I’m not dumb!”

Ai not dub.

I rubbed a reassuring hand on his back.

“I can speak!” he exclaimed angrily.

Ai ken speck!

He got up suddenly and went to the dresser. I watched nervously, but all he did was stand there with his back to me, leaning against it, his shoulders hitching with his sobs. I wanted to go to him, hold him, kiss him, tell him everything would be all right, but I did nothing but sit there. He was going to have to come to terms with this particular problem and there wasn’t anything I could do to help.

He cried for a few minutes, sheepish, not wanting me to see him. When the worst had passed, he turned around to face me.

Why didn’t I-r-o-n M-a-n come to help me?
he asked.
He could have done something!

This is a problem you have to take care of by yourself
, I said.

I hate her!
he exclaimed, his face twisting up in anger.
I’m glad she’s dead!

No, you’re not.

Yes I am!

Then why are you crying?

Because she was so mean!

She was,
I agreed.

But I’m a good boy….

I know you are.

Why didn’t she like me?

I don’t know,
I said again.
She didn’t like me either and she didn’t want anything to do with either one of us. But we didn’t do anything wrong. Stop blaming yourself.

Aren’t you mad at her?

A little bit.

He fell silent.

I got to my feet, went to the door.

If you and J. get married,
he signed,
you won’t stop loving me, will you?

His face was screwed up with a desperate earnestness.

Why do you keep asking me that?
I asked.

I want to know.

I’ve already answered you.

You could be lying.

I sighed a bit too heavily. I was tired of this particular conversation. Noah had a deep, abiding insecurity. Nothing I did seemed to make it better.

“Come here,” I said, waving my hand at him.

He walked slowly over to me.

I put my hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes for long, long moments. I could see all his fear and insecurity in his eyes, his hesitation, his doubts.

I’m going to answer this question,
I signed at last,
but I want you to promise me you will never ask me this question again. Do you promise me?

He nodded.

You’re my only child and I will never love anyone as much as I love you. I would cut off my own arms for you. Don’t you ever doubt it. I’ve been there for you since the day you were born and I will always be there for you, and that will never change. Do you understand?

He shrugged.

I shook him by the shoulders to show that his answer wasn’t good enough.

Do you understand me?
I demanded.

He turned away from me and hurried back to his dresser, not looking at me.

I went after him, took him by the arm, and swung him around so he would look at me.

“No!” he exclaimed fearfully, pulling away from me, cringing as though afraid I was going to strike him.

What’s wrong with you?
I signed.

I can’t stand it!

Stand what?

You want to have a boyfriend because you hate me!

I slowly shook my head.

It’s true,
he insisted in his stubborn fashion.

No, it isn’t,
I replied.

I was perfectly aware that he was using the wrong words, as he often did. It was not easy to explain to him all the many nuances of a word like “hate.” He wasn’t afraid that I would hate him. He was afraid I would stop loving him, or that we would no longer be able to spend so much time together, or that something would somehow change, or that, like his mother, I would abandon him and run off with some new love.

His hands said one thing, his eyes quite another. His eyes said he was jealous and afraid and unsure of where he might stand if there was a man in my life. They said he couldn’t cope with the thought that our home would be broken up over some stranger. It was merely another replay of his underlying insecurity about life itself.

I’m lonely,
I signed.

I meant to add an entire conversation about how having someone to love would make me happy, which would make him happy, and that we’d all be happy together, but I fell silent and said nothing further. I didn’t have the heart or the energy to fight this battle any further.

You don’t have to be afraid,
I said.
But if you want to, go ahead. I can’t stop you. I don’t want to argue about this anymore, okay? I’m going to get supper ready.

I left his room, went to the kitchen.

Instead of fixing supper, I sat down at the table and put my face in my hands.

I heard his footsteps as he came to the kitchen, stood behind me. He leaned on me, putting his arms around me, laying his head on the back of my shoulder. He was checking in. He was saying that he was still here, that it was all right, that everything was going to be fine.

I
WORKED
the express lane on the Saturday before Noah’s birthday, and was in a fairly decent mood until I saw Jackson Ledbetter getting ready to check out. Instead of coming to my lane, he went down to register 5, keeping his eyes averted as though he hadn’t seen me. Jalisa checked him out, running his lunch items through her scanner, her back to me.