Shaking the Sugar Tree (21 page)

“You don’t have to make excuses for him,” Jackson said.

“I’m explaining, not excusing.”

Noah had settled down into a quiet sobbing against my neck.

“I think he might have loosened some of your teeth,” Jackson said, fussing over me.

“Would you leave me alone?” I demanded.

“I’ve never seen Noah like this,” Mama said.

“He’s just scared,” I pointed out.

Jackson dabbed at my lip.

“At least you got to meet the family,” I said.

“W
OULD
YOU
mind explaining what the hell that was all about?” Jackson asked on the drive home.

“We’re not the Waltons,” I admitted.

“Your brother is a homophobic piece of crap!”

“Among other things.”

“It’s not a joke, Wiley!”

“Welcome to the South.”

“I couldn’t believe the things he was saying.”

“He was being nice, too,” I pointed out. “It’s usually a lot worse.”

“Why?”

“You ever gone to a Baptist church?” I asked.

“No.”

“I have yet to meet a Baptist preacher who wasn’t some fatuous gasbag spewing the most violent rhetoric he can think of just to compete with the others. Whenever you hear some over-the-top bit of nonsense from these folks, it’s a Baptist. Remember that preacher in North Carolina who said gays and lesbians should be imprisoned behind a barbed wire fence and left to die out? That was a Baptist. The God Hates Fags guy? That’s a Baptist. If you ever listen to these guys start whining about states’ rights, you’ll understand why we had a Civil War. They know how to get people stirred up.”

“I could not believe some of the shit he was saying.”

“He gets it from American Family Radio.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a religious version of Rush Limbaugh. They’re on the air all over the South with millions of listeners. They talk about how gays can be cured—”

“That’s bullshit!”

“They don’t let the facts get in the way. I was listening the other day after the Supreme Court came down in favor of gay marriage, and they were saying that crime will increase, and more people will go to prison, and state social services will be overwhelmed, and the children of gay parents will suffer and become criminals when they grow up—they don’t have a shred of proof for anything they say. They just go out there and say it.”

“Is that legal?”

“I guess.”

“How can they get away with that?”

“This past year we finally started staging protests outside their headquarters.”

“Where is that?”

“In Tupelo. Not far from the hospital where you work. We show up, carry a bunch of signs, argue with them when they come out, sing a few songs. Most of the news media is too afraid of them to provide coverage, so it doesn’t really do much good. The mayor, our city councilmen, our state representatives, our senators and congress people—they don’t want to be seen with us. They don’t want to risk pissing off the AFA because they’ll go on the air and destroy them.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Wiley.”

“Maybe in Boston, but not here. A few months ago the first openly gay candidate for mayor of a small town in Mississippi was murdered. Not far from here. Police say they don’t know what happened. But you don’t think people down here want a faggot for a mayor, do you? It’s all hush-hush, and the news media is too afraid to dig too deep because they might lose some advertisers. That’s just how it works down here.”

“That’s incredible.”

“I’m just trying to answer your question,” I said. “When Billy talks nonsense, that’s where he gets it. On the radio in the morning on his way to work. From his pastor, Brother John. All these fatuous Baptists. Plus I made him really mad by telling him I wouldn’t wipe my ass with his precious Bible. I shouldn’t have said that, but I get so frustrated with the bullcrap.”

“Is he always violent?”

“Not really. I went out of my way to make him mad.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to hit you.”

“I like to cut through the crap and get to the point.”

“How is your lip?”

“Busted it pretty good. Of course, that’s the standard Baptist answer anytime you can’t get what you want.”

“I don’t think I want to visit your house anymore.”

“Sometimes neither do I.”

“And your grandfather….”

“Leave my Papaw alone.”

“He’s crazy.”

“We don’t hide crazy,” I said. “We put it on the porch and let it entertain the neighbors.”

“O
UCH
!” I
said.

Jackson smiled apologetically as he dabbed at my busted lip with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab.

We were at my kitchen table. The overhead fan did little to ease the stuffiness and humidity of a Southern night. Noah was in bed and I was reluctant to let this weekend end.

“I’ve got to get going,” Jackson said again. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve got to be at work by eight.”

“I know,” I said. “What’s stopping you?”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“It’s just a fat lip.”

“I feel like I should stay here and take care of you. I could call in sick tomorrow.”

“I’m not a baby,” I said. “I’ll be all right. Your sick kids need you more than I do.”

He put the cotton swab aside, a look of unhappiness stealing across his face.

“What?” I asked.

“Your family is really disturbing,” he admitted.

“They have their moments,” I admitted.

“Would it kill them to be more supportive?”

“It might.”

“Living down here is just so weird. All this talk about religion, all these churches, all these bigots….”

“It’s all good,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“It is what it is.”

“It scares me,” he said quietly. “I’m not used to living in this kind of environment. I’ve noticed my friends at the hospital never talk about politics. I was asking them the other day what they think of Obamacare. They don’t even know what it is, but they hate it and they think it’s the most terrible thing in the world. There’s so much ignorance.”

“We work hard to be the dumbest and fattest and poorest,” I pointed out.

“I read a lot about that,” he said. “The poorest state, the least educated, the fattest, the least healthy, all of that. I didn’t really understand what they meant, but Jesus, it’s true. I don’t understand why people live here.”

“It’s our home,” I said.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“I know what you meant,” I said.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Of course it does.”

“And?”

“What do you want me to do about it? It’s been this way for hundreds of years. Things are changing with the younger generation thanks to Facebook and the Internet. And Mississippi has changed a lot even since I grew up. But the past is different down here. It’s like it never goes away. We want the past to go away but it won’t.”

“Why not?”

“How the hell should I know? Maybe people don’t really want it to.”

He shook his head slowly.

“It’s not all bad,” I said. “The right wing nutters are the most vocal, but they don’t represent everyone, not by a long shot. About half the state voted for Obama this past election, not just the blacks, but a lot of whites and Hispanics and everyone else. Try selling Mitt Romney to a bunch of Baptists and see where that gets you.”

He touched my lip, checking his work again. “If it wasn’t for you, I think I’d pack my bags and go back to Boston,” he said quietly.

“There’s a lot of people like me,” I said.

“Not as cute as you are.”

“Well, no.”

“I want to kiss you,” he said, sniffing my cheek.

“Is that all?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ve got to go.”

I walked him to the doorway, stood silently as he kissed my cheek, watched as he walked off into the night.

W
E
TOOK
Jackson downtown to Fairpark on Tuesday evening to see the newly erected statue of Elvis, of which we were rather proud.

“If we decide that we really like you, we’ll take you to the Elvis Presley Birthplace,” I said as we paid homage to the King, squinting up at his shiny metallic awesomeness in the waning sunlight.

We had most of the park to ourselves with the exception of a couple of parents with their kids, who were playing on the swings. The park itself was not much to speak of. City Hall looked down on its small collection of swings and struggling trees and playground equipment. There were metal benches to sit, a few picnic tables, and concrete walkways for strolling.

“Elvis was here,” Jackson said with a grin. “I mean, he was really
here
. But I can’t say I was ever much of a fan.”

“Excuse me?” I said crossly.

“Well, you know.”

I signed to Noah:

He says he doesn’t like E-l-v-i-s!

“Bad!” Noah exclaimed.

Jackson pulled a long face.

“You can’t live in Tupelo and not do some loving on Elvis,” I said. “Not unless you want to swing from a magnolia tree.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s like going to Dollywood and dissing Dolly Parton. And that’s something else you don’t do down here cause Dolly Parton fans will scratch your pretty eyes out with their press-on nails.”

“Long live the King!” Jackson exclaimed, bowing before Elvis. “Is that enough ‘loving on’?”

“That’s better,” I said. “At least you got some skin in the game. He’s not the only famous person from the Magnolia State.”

“Who else could possibly come from this hellhole?”

“How about Oprah?” I said. “Or Morgan Freeman. Channing Tatum. John Grisham. James Earl Jones. Britney Spears. What more do you want? The Muppets, for God’s sake! Darth Vader! Magic Mike! Margaritaville! Lance Bass from ’N Sync! B.B. King, LeAnn Rimes, Tammy Wynette, Soulja Boy—”

“Oh, all right!”

“Of course they all left for Hollywood and I don’t think many of them ever came back, not even to die. Except maybe Morgan Freeman, but he’s weird that way.”

“He’s not dead yet. Is he?”

“How would I know? Point is, if Britney Spears can make it out of here, anyone can. Might have to shave your head and sleep with some producer, but hey, a ticket out is a ticket out.”

“Isn’t Britney Spears dead yet?”

“Just her career.”

“Bitchy. I like it.”

“Britney Spears can get married for fifty-three minutes or whatever the hell it was, and that’s fine, but I can’t get married because I would destroy the sanctity of marriage. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for her.”

“Well, there is that,” he said.

“How about I take your picture, Jackson Ledbetter? We could do the standard tourist thing, which is where you stand behind Elvis looking up at his ass.”

“Oh, please!”

“Just a suggestion.”

“Take a nice picture and I’ll send it to my mom,” he said.

“Bless your heart!” I exclaimed.

“Isn’t that what people say down here when they’re making fun of you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Go over there and I’ll take some nice pictures for your mommy of you and the cheese-eater.”

Jackson and Noah hammed it up for the camera.

“How about a nice picture of you and me for my mommy?” Jackson asked, offering me a come-hither look.

I called Noah over and switched the camera settings to automatic so he could point and shoot. He gave me an impatient thumbs-up when I told him to pay attention to the composition of the picture. He was getting better but he had a tendency to chop his subjects’ heads off.

He made a shooing motion with his free hand.

Go!

Jackson and I stood in front of Elvis. Jackson draped his arm around my waist and leaned close. I put my finger in my mouth, the somewhat universal sign for throwing up.

M
UCH
TO
Noah’s delight, Jackson took us to McDonald’s afterward.

“I know I’m a nurse,” Jackson said, “and I should set a good example, especially down here in the land of Rising Obesity, but I want a Big Mac and that’s all there is to it.”

“Amen,” I said.

Sitting two tables away was a middle-aged couple with a quiet baby in a stroller who kept glancing at us and frowning.

Jackson noticed it, offered me an upset look.

“Leave it,” I said quietly as Noah tucked happily into his Happy Meal.

Don’t forget to say thank you
, I signed to Noah.

Thank you!
Noah signed.

You’re welcome,
Jackson signed back.

I had forgotten how good french fries at McDonald’s could be when piping hot, and I ate contentedly while Jackson kept glancing at the couple two tables away.

After an anxious minute, he asked, “Why do they keep looking at us?”

“Leave it,” I repeated.

What’s wrong?
Noah asked.

Nothing,
I said.
How is your food?

It’s the best!

Better than my food?

Of course.

“We have just as much right to eat here as anyone else!” Jackson exclaimed too loudly.

“Remember where you are,” I whispered in warning.

What’s wrong with J.?
Noah asked.

Nothing.

He looks mad.

He’s not mad.

Those people are looking at us.

Never mind.

Noah busied himself with his cheeseburger, smiling mischievously as he enjoyed his guilty treat.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Jackson asked in a hiss.

“There’s nothing to be done, just ignore it.”

Just then the woman turned her chair to face us.

“Excuse me,” she said in a heavy drawl. “We couldn’t help but notice that y’all were signing. I don’t mean to be rude, but I was wondering if I might ask you about our daughter. We think she might be deaf.”

“Of course,” I said. “We could scooch together, if you’d like.”