Shaking the Sugar Tree (10 page)

“Yeah,
that’s
keeping me back. My hair. I suppose I could stop being gay too.”

“You know these companies don’t want to hire people like that.”

“People like
me
,” I corrected her.

“I don’t know why I talk to you. It’s not like you listen. I told you to stay away from Kayla, but you wouldn’t listen. I told you not to get some girl pregnant, but you knew better. When the baby was born, I told you that you were going to need help, but no, you don’t listen to me. You should have worked something out with Kayla’s parents.”

“And give them custody of Noah?”

“Well, yes, why not?”

“He’s my son!”

“But you’re not suitable,” she said forcefully.

“I seem to have somehow managed for ten years now,” I pointed out.

“There’s a difference between surviving and thriving,” she said.

“How can you be so heartless?” I asked.

She threw her hands up in disgust. I resisted the urge to get up and smack her right across the face.

“You’re mad now,” she observed. “I’m not being supportive. I’m being mean. It’s always my fault. It’s always the same with you, Wiley.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Maybe you’re right, Mama. Maybe I’m a lousy father. Maybe Noah would have been better off with Mr. and Mrs. Warren, going to the Baptist church and hating on the sinners of the world. Maybe I can’t give him the kind of future he deserves. Maybe I should have just turned him over to you and let you raise him. Or let Billy and Shelly take care of him, and I could have visited once in a while. Maybe y’all could have done a better job. Maybe I’m nothing more than a penis with legs who’s going to die in the gutter with a telephone pole shoved up my ass.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it, Wiley? You didn’t have to get that girl pregnant. You didn’t have to have a baby. You didn’t have to keep it. You had options. You could have gotten married to a nice girl. For once in your life, why don’t you think about somebody else? But no, you always have to go your own way and do your own thing no matter who gets hurt.”

“I tried to do the right thing, Mama,” I said.

“I’m sure that’s what you
think
,” she replied.

I got up, glanced at her.

“See you, Mama,” I said.

“Wiley, wait!”

“I’m not going to have this argument again.”

“I’m just trying to make you see.”

I got in my car and drove off.

T
HERE
WAS
only one other place I could think of where Kayla might be, and it was not a place I particularly wanted to go. I took Highway 78 back into Tupelo, then veered off onto Highway 45 South heading south down into Monroe County.

I had been tempted to ask Jackson Ledbetter to go with me, or even Tonya, Keke’s mother and my best friend, but had decided against it. This was not a part of my past that I wanted either of them to visit. The trip was also not without a bit of risk, at least not for gay men and black women.

I drove by many cotton fields and soybean fields along a route I remembered well from the many visits I’d made to Kayla during her pregnancy, taking her to checkups, doctor visits. KUDZU offered Elvis’s “In the Ghetto.”

On a lonely stretch of pavement between Nettleton and Amory, a small dirt road led off into the trees, and I turned my car down this road feeling uneasy and uncertain about the wisdom of this visit.

About a half mile down this road was the trailer where Kayla had lived with her boyfriend. I was never clear as to who exactly owned the trailer, only that it was also used as a meth lab, and might still be used as such.

The trailer still stood on its hesitant foundation in the midst of a sea of junked cars and whatnot. There was a bonfire going off to one side with a couple of guys tending to it.

When I pulled into the drive, three large dogs barked and hurried over to my car, and the men by the fire stood up, looking my way, on alert for… well, who could really say?

The blue car that had picked up Kayla at the prison was parked in the back behind the trailer and out of sight of the road. People who parked behind their houses so that the police couldn’t see their cars always had a good reason.

I rolled down my window, waiting for the two men to walk over. They took their time. They were a couple of redneck toughs, not the sort you messed with unless you wanted your tires slashed.

“I’m looking for Kayla,” I said as they neared.

One of the men was heavyset. He had a real ballbuster look like he’d be perfectly happy to bury an ax in your forehead. The other was rail thin, gaunt, had that meth-user look and way too many tattoos. They might have been brothers, for all I knew. They had both shaved their heads. The fat one had a beard. The other was trying.

“Ain’t no Kayla here,” the fat one said.

“She’s the mother of my son,” I said. “She got out of Central recently. I just want to get a message to her and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I reckon I don’t much care about your personal business,” the fat one said.

“My son is nine years old,” I said. “He’s deaf. He just wants to see his mother.”

“He does or you do?” the fat one asked.

“Does she live here?”

“I reckon that’s none of your business,” the man said.

I glanced at the trailer. The drapes on the kitchen window were parted slightly. Was Kayla standing there, watching? Why did she have to be such a cornpone bitch?

“Tell her Wiley was here to see her,” I said. “I work at FoodWorld during the morning. She can find me there. Her son would like to talk to her once in a while, that’s all. I’m not asking her for child support or anything else. If she’d like to see her kid once in a while, that would be great.”

“We don’t know no Kayla,” the thin one said, speaking for the first time. He scratched at his face as he spoke. “You with the police?”

“He ain’t with the police, you fuckface idiot,” the fat one said.

“How are we supposed to know?” he asked.

“Shut up.”

“Maybe he wants to buy something.”

“I said shut up, you stupid fuckface! Didn’t I tell you shut up? You got something stuck in your fucking ears? I’ll stick my goddamn dick in your ears if you don’t shut your goddamn stupid fuckface! Shit on a shingle! If you ain’t the dumbest bastard I ever knew….”

The thin one scratched at his bare arms nervously.

“Give her the message please,” I said.

“Yeah,” Fatty said, turning to me and smiling. “We’ll do that. Now why don’t you get the fuck off our property?”

I put my car in reverse and hurried off.

O
N
MY
way back to Tupelo, my phone rang. I looked at the screen and saw that it was Jasmine, a gay rights activist that I’d met at UU Tupelo, our local Unitarian Universalist congregation.

“Wiley, I need you!” she exclaimed in her breathless, energetic way.

“You know I don’t swing that way,” I said.

“I need you to sing, fool,” she said.

“Again?”

“We’re protesting the American Family Alliance on September 1. Can you be there? Bring your guitar? We want you to sing ‘It’s a Good Day to Be Gay.’ Everybody loves that song.”

“I’m flattered, but you know I don’t like to sing in public.”

“Please, darling?”

“Jasmine….”

“Please, sweetie darling honey baby, you hunk of a man, you?”

“When you put it that way….”

“I knew you’d say yes. You’re so easy.”

“You’ve obviously never tried to get into my pants.”

“And never will, sweetheart. How are you?”

“Good,” I said.

“And how’s Noah?”

“He’s great. His birthday is coming up.”

“Really?”

“We celebrate it on July the fourth. His birthday is the fifth, but we always have a party on the fourth at Mama’s house. You should come.”

“I will. I came last year, remember?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“You’ll have to give me directions again. Scratch that. I think I’ve got them in my e-mail. I’ll check. So you’ll sing for us?”

“You know I really hate it,” I said.

“But you’re good at it, Wiley. Honest to Christ! I don’t think there will be more than twenty or thirty of us, like the last time. We had fun. Don’t you remember?”

“We did,” I agreed.

“All right, lover boy. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t back out on me!”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Don’t give me that wishy-washy
I’ll try
business. If I have to stop by your house and drag your ass and your guitar to the protest, I will. And you know I will.”

Indeed I did.

“How’s everything with you?” I asked. “It’s been a while since I talked to you.”

“And whose fault is that? We miss you at the UU. Why don’t you and Noah start coming again?”

“We’ve been going to mass.”

“Don’t get me started on that. Going to mass. Please! Sleeping with the enemy is more like it.”

“I don’t take it seriously,” I said in my defense. “We’re Catholics. We go to mass. That’s about it.”

“Someday you’ll come back from the dark side,” she said hopefully.

Great, I thought, hanging up. One more thing to piss off Mama and Billy, me singing at a protest and taking Noah. They had all but crucified me the last time.

A
S
WE
sat down for dinner that evening, the doorbell rang. We have a light that flashes when the doorbell is pressed so that Noah can see when someone is at the door.

He jumped up.

Someone’s here!
he signed.

Go see who it is.

He went to the door, opened it. I heard nothing, but saw him signing. I got up, went to the door, and found Juan standing there, looking rather sheepish.

Come in,
I signed.

He came in, regarding us both somewhat fearfully.

Are you okay?
I asked.

I just wanted to see you,
he said.
I hope I’m not bothering you.

Not at all. Are you hungry?

A little.

This is my son N-o-a-h.

We met,
he said, smiling as he looked at Noah.

Juan tucked into my baked chicken and veggies like he hadn’t eaten for several days.

Noah looked at me, smiling mischievously.

Eat!
I ordered sternly.

He grinned.

When Juan had taken the edge off his appetite, I asked him where he lived.

I live with my mom
, he said vaguely.

Where are you from?

My mom brought me here when I was five. I was born in M-e-x-i-c-o C-i-t-y.

You’re an illegal?

He shrugged.

His signing wasn’t that good. Adequate, but nothing more, as though he did not have many people to practice with.

Where did you learn to sign?
I asked.

I taught myself with books. I used to have an American deaf friend. She taught me some things. But my signing is no good.

It’s fine,
I assured him.

It’s no good.

We understand perfectly.

You are nice.

Are you working?

I could not get a job this summer.

When he saw the look of questioning in my eyes, he added,
Everyone went to Alabama except me and my mother. She stayed here with me. My father didn’t want me to come.

Didn’t want you to go to Alabama?
I asked, to clarify.

Come here. America. I was deaf. He said I wouldn’t be able to work. My mother said she wouldn’t come unless he brought me.

I could sense the bitterness as he signed this information.

What’s in Alabama?
I asked.

Picking… food.
He shrugged to indicate he didn’t know the word he was looking for, which was probably “cabbage” or “cotton” and some such thing. There were also jobs that involved harvesting chickens and God knew what else.

Can I use your bathroom?
he asked suddenly.

I’ll show you where it is,
Noah signed, getting to his feet.

When Noah came back, he signed,
He’s weird.

He’s hungry,
I countered.

Do you like him?

I don’t know him. I met him at the store.

He considered this thoughtfully.

I
did
like him, on a purely physical level. There was a refreshing sweetness about him, a sort of painful honesty. Poverty had rubbed away some rough edges.

He had a second, then a third helping, finishing off the chicken and mashed potatoes, smiling sheepishly and apologetically as he did so. He had a long conversation with Noah about everything under the sun, and his manner was frank and easy, as though Noah were his little brother. Noah corrected his signing often, which Juan didn’t seem to mind.

After dinner, Noah showed him how to play Xbox, which, to Noah’s great astonishment, he’d never played before.

After Noah went to bed, Juan sat on my sofa and looked at me with eyes full of silent pleading, perhaps hoping to spend the night, perhaps wanting something more.

I have to work in the morning,
I said.

Can I stay here tonight?

I offered an apologetic smile. While the attraction between us was obvious to me, he had not mentioned it, had made no reference to it at all.

I’m a gay man,
I signed.

I know.

He offered nothing further.

You can sleep on the couch, if you want to. I can get you a blanket and pillow.

I want to sleep with you.

I don’t know….

Please?

He looked at me with anxious, hungry eyes. He needed some loving on, and he’d decided that I was the one to do it.