Shaking the Sugar Tree (25 page)

I turned to the next customer, embarrassed, suddenly hoping Jalisa would be late so my shift would be extended and Jackson would have to wait.

But no.

“Hey, boo,” Jalisa said after she’d timed in.

“How are ya?” I asked.

“I’m having a blessed day. I’ll be even more blessed when it’s over. You doing all right?”

“I’m still not dead,” I said. “But that could change.”

“You know it,” she said.

J
ACKSON
MET
me at the door. He’d been sitting on the bench outside that employees used for their breaks. He hurried over to me, an anxious look on his face.

“Don’t do this to me,” he said.

He tried to thrust the flowers and chocolates into my hands, as if these would make all the difference. I pushed them back, making it clear I did not want them.

“What can I do?” he asked. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Help me fix
it.”

I began to walk to my car, not in the mood for a conversation like this.

“Wiley, please,” he said, trailing after me. “You’re making me look like a fool.”

“Drugs make you look like a fool,” I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder.

“I know,” he said. “It was stupid. But I’m going to stop. You have to trust me.”

I turned to face him.

“I don’t
have
to trust you. I don’t
have
to do anything.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“There’s no point to this because I don’t like drugs and I don’t like people who like drugs, and that’s not going to change. And I’m not about to waste my life waiting around for you to decide whether you want reality or some artificially induced world. I prefer reality. If you had any brains, you would too.”

“I’m trying,” he said miserably.

“Good for you,” I said.

“I took them back,” he said. “All the pills. I put them back. The rest of them I flushed down the toilet. I told myself I wasn’t going to do that again and I’m not going to. But please, Wiley, you’ve got to help me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’ll live.”

“How can you be so mean?”

“I spent my whole childhood waiting for my daddy to decide whether he preferred whiskey or me. In the end, it was the whiskey. It was always the whiskey. That’s how you people are. And you expect the rest of us to help you out and put up with you and clean up the sick and empty your ashtrays and forgive you and wait for you and on and on it goes. My first boyfriend was like that. It took me an entire year to realize I was waiting around for something that was never going to come. I’m not going through that shit again, not for you, not for anybody. And I’m certainly not going to involve my child in it.”

“I’ll change.”

“I hope you do.”

“Is that it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“I thought you loved me.”

“I thought so too. Things change.”

“No matter how you feel, I love you, Wiley. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

I said nothing.

“Can’t we at least be friends?” he asked.

I started walking again to my car, not answering. I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure what my answer would be. I’d fallen hard for this man. He could so easily charm me into doing something I knew would not be good for me.

I got to my car, put the key in the door, glanced over my shoulder expecting to see him still standing there. Instead, I saw he had dropped the roses and candy on the ground and was walking away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Somehow that was worse than anything else he might have done.

W
E
WERE
late for Kayla’s celebration of life service on Sunday afternoon. I had stopped at a gas station and considered buying a pack of cigarettes, thinking they would somehow help me get through that day. Noah made a disgusted face when he saw I was going to buy cigarettes. He pantomimed throwing up all over my car just to make sure his point was clear.

I put the car back into drive and went to pick up Mama.

The parking lot at the funeral home was overflowing with vehicles as befitted the send-off for the daughter of one of the town’s more prominent citizens.

“Are you sure about this?” Mama asked as I parked down a side street.

“Not really,” I admitted. “But we were invited.”

I got out, adjusted my dress shirt and tie uncomfortably. I felt like a total doofus. I didn’t have a proper suit. My dress shoes were scuffed and had a justifiably neglected look to them. I checked Noah’s tie, brushed hair from his eyes and lint from his shoulder, offered an encouraging smile.

A dozen men lounged on the porch to the funeral home, smoking, chatting, and socializing. As I held Noah’s hand and approached, we got looks. Not hostile looks. Not friendly either. Just looks.

Police cruisers sat along the curb while deputies stood at the entrance to the parking lot, directing traffic, preparing to provide an escort.

Mama went first as we walked up the sidewalk to the funeral home steps. She’d been a teacher for many years. No doubt some of the men standing there and watching us were former students.

“Mrs. Cantrell,” one of the men said in greeting.

Mama paid no mind.

It was packed inside the funeral home as if all of New Albany had turned out. Most were well-dressed, even the children. They weren’t the sort of people who bought their duds at Walmart or the Dollar Store. The line of milling bodies led to the main sitting room where the visitation was being held.

Mama greeted many folks on the way there.

I had to give her credit for being a ballsy woman who was not the slightest bit intimidated by the forces arrayed against us. Most were Baptist; we were Catholic. Most were well-off; Mama was a woman of modest means and I was a complete failure. Most were city folk; we lived in the country. Most were safely removed from having to deal with the fallout of having an openly gay child, which was much worse than having a drug addict or a wife beater for a child. At least those things were understandable.

Noah got many looks. Word went through the crowd that Kayla’s bastard child was there, along with the homosexual who fathered him. I could see that by the way people looked at us, how they fell silent when we approached. There was pity in their eyes for a boy who had lost his mother, but oh, the deliciousness of a bastard child coming home to roost. Surely there would be fireworks.

We were not challenged until we reached the sitting room and prepared to go in.

“Mrs. Cantrell,” said an older man to my mother. He was wearing a bolo instead of a tie, cowboy boots, and a polyester suit, and he smelled like peppermint.

“Bo Jimsum,” she said. “How you are?”

“Doing good,” he said, running a hand through what was left of his hair. “Martha, do you think this is a good time?” he asked, glancing around as if to indicate the presence of so many people.

Respectable
people.

“Whatever do you mean, Bo?” she asked.

“I think it would be very upsetting for the Warrens if….”

“If their grandson attended his mother’s funeral?”

“Everyone knows they weren’t close.”

“Do they?” she asked.

He swallowed uncomfortably.

“There’s talk,” he whispered confidentially. “Don’t take it personal. I’m just trying to smooth things over.”

“Of course you are,” Mama said, pushing past him and entering the sitting room.

Kayla was in a beautiful mahogany casket directly in front of us. A couple stood in front of her, blocking the view. Couches and chairs were full. People stood next to potted plants, talking, reminiscing. In one corner a television played a video about Kayla’s life, showing pictures of her as a child, pictures with her parents and friends, pictures at school. Along the left wall was a long table with guest books to offer condolences. Flowers filled the nooks and crannies. Mr. and Mrs. Warren were seated at the main sofa, surrounded by family and friends. They could not see us.

It took about three seconds for quiet to fall on the room.

Eyes turned to look at us.

I had one of those moments when I genuinely wished the earth would split apart and receive us into its fiery bowels.

The crowd in front of the Warrens parted, and Mr. and Mrs. Warren were suddenly aware of our presence. Mr. Warren got unsteadily to his feet. Onlookers gave him room.

“What are
you
doing here?” he asked, looking at me with undisguised contempt.

Mrs. Warren stood behind him, twisting her hands together, lips moving as if she was trying to find her voice.

“You killed my daughter!” Mr. Warren shouted.

“Harold,” said a man behind him in a calming voice.

“I will not be silenced!” he exclaimed. He shook a finger at me. “If it hadn’t been for you… I wish she’d never laid eyes on you, you dirty homosexual!”

“Harold,” the man said again, louder, more urgently, the voice of someone encouraging him not to make a fool of himself.

Harold was having none of it.

“I wish to God she’d never met you!” he croaked, stepping forward unsteadily. “Oh God, my baby’s gone! How can this be happening to me?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, you’re sorry?” he said, mocking me. “The homosexual is sorry! The man who ruined my daughter… he’s sorry! Oh God in heaven! If I ever see you on my property, Wiley Cantrell, I’ll put so much buckshot between your shoulder blades you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat! Oh Christ, how could you do this to me?”

“Harold,” an older, commanding woman said, putting a hand on his arm and trying to steer him back to the couch. This was his sister, a stern-faced matron named Grace Mary.

“Why are you here?” Mr. Warren demanded, shrugging her off and looking at me. “How dare you! Haven’t you done enough?”

“I invited him,” Mrs. Warren said from behind him in a halting voice.

There was a hush.

“You what?” he asked, turning to look at her.

“I invited him,” she said. I could see her screwing up her nerve, plucking up her courage. Then a steely determination came over her features.

“You?” he asked, incredulous.

She pointed a trembling finger at Noah. “That boy is all we have left of our daughter, Harold. Do you understand that? He’s the only grandchild I’ll ever have and you will not take him away from me. You’re punishing him for something your daughter did. You’re pushing him away because you don’t want to face the truth. Well, I’ve had enough of it.”

“You know perfectly well how I feel about this,” he said. “I do not want this man or this child… I will not… you know how I feel!”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said, nodding her head. “But maybe it’s time you paid attention to how I feel.”

“After what this young man did to our daughter?” Mr. Warren said, glancing at me.

“Kayla was already on drugs,” she said. “You know that, Harold. Would you stop blaming everyone else for what you and I did? You drove her away, Harold.
You!
She could never please you, never make you happy, and in the end she decided she didn’t care anymore and she ran away. From us, from her baby, from her life. You did this, Harold! I’m not about to stand here while you drive away my grandson, too. You can go to hell for all I care.”

A
LL
THIS
time, I stood with Noah in front of me, my hands on his shoulders, holding him close to me. He turned in my arms. I glanced to the side and saw the couple in front of the coffin had moved aside. Noah suddenly caught sight of his mother.

“Ma?” he exclaimed fearfully into the stillness, his eyes riveted on the coffin and its contents.

Dozens of eyes turned to look at him.

Not knowing what else to do, I led him slowly to the coffin, ignoring those staring at us, and held him as he stood there gazing at her.

“Haah!” he grunted in confusion.

He looked up at me, his face full of anxiety.

Is she sleeping?
he asked.

I shook my head.

But she looks like she’s sleeping!

She went to heaven to talk to Jesus.

No! She’s sleeping! She must be sleeping!

No,
I said, shaking my head slowly.

He turned to the coffin, his body stiff with fear.

“Ma!” he said very loudly.

She didn’t answer.

“Ai of ewe!” he wailed.

He turned back to me again, his eyes full of confusion.

Why won’t she answer me?

She can’t, sweetie.

Why doesn’t she ever answer me?

She went to be with Jesus.

It’s not fair!

I know.

He looked around at the many folks staring at us. His eyes darted about wildly, not knowing what to make of all these people. His face seemed to suddenly cave in with grief and emotion. Keening suddenly in the back of his throat, he darted past the people, rushed for the door, and dashed down the hall.

I ran after him, not bothering to call his name.

He sideswiped an elderly woman, who was leaning on the arm of a grandson. She fell against the wall and her grandson gave me an angry look as I hurried by. Noah ran for the door and straight out into the broad daylight.

“Stop him!” I shouted as the people looked at us and did nothing.

Noah raced down the sidewalk and dashed pell-mell into the street.

I ran across the lawn after him, tripped suddenly on a sprinkler, and landed flat on my face on the concrete sidewalk. I felt my shirt rip. Pain hollered up and down the right side of my face. It was an ungracious thing to do, and a wash of embarrassment swept through me. As if I needed an additional reason to feel self-conscious.

I sat up, wondering who had seen me, what had become of Noah.

“You all right?” a police deputy asked, hurrying down the sidewalk in my direction. He held out a hand, pulled me to my feet.