Shaking the Sugar Tree (33 page)

I
HADN
’
T
been to confession in many years, so many I had trouble telling Father Ginderbach exactly when my last had been.

“I think I was fifteen,” I said to him. “And that was almost twenty years ago.”

“And what do you want to confess?” he asked.

We were sitting in the confessional room in comfortable chairs. The cold wind of Christmas Eve seeped in through the old windows. Ginderbach wore a purple stole over his shoulders and a friendly look in his eyes. He had set aside two hours in the late afternoon for those who wanted to go to confession in preparation for Midnight Mass.

“I don’t know if I really want to go to confession,” I admitted. “I love God and I’m sorry for my sins, but I’m not sorry that I’m a gay man. I’m not sorry because my conscience doesn’t accuse me of doing anything wrong. I’m sorry for my one-night stands and all the mistakes I made. I’m sorry I took drugs. I’m sorry that my taking drugs might have led to my son having birth defects. I’m sorry for all the ways that I’ve been bad person. But I will never be sorry for who I am, because it’s the only thing I can be. I don’t know what else the church expects of me.”

“Maybe that’s enough,” he said.

“I’m in a relationship now,” I admitted. “It’s going well. We’re creating a family. I wish the church would bless my family and stop condemning me. I wish I could go to church and not have people wondering why I go to communion since I must be in mortal sin for being a homosexual.”

“Do you want to confess your sins and receive absolution?” he asked kindly.

“I do, but I’m going to walk right out that door and sit with my boyfriend. You’re not going to stop me from loving the man that I love. If I have to go to hell for that, I guess that’s how it is.”

“I doubt that anyone is going to go to hell for loving someone else.”

“It’s Christmas,” I said. “I want to be right with the church again, but I don’t see how that’s possible. But if it is, I want to confess my sins and receive absolution. At the end of the day, I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. I believe God is a loving God and I don’t think He’s as mad at me as the pope is.”

“Neither do I,” Ginderbach said.

“My heart accuses me of some wrongdoing,” I admitted. “Over the summer, for example, I had casual sex with a deaf man a couple of times. I shouldn’t have done that. We weren’t hurting anyone, but it wasn’t in the context of a loving relationship, and it just felt sort of wrong.”

“Would you like to confess that?”

“Yes,” I said.

“If you confess it and you’re determined not to do it again, God can forgive you. What else would you like to confess?”

Father Ginderbach walked me through the last twenty years of my life and I wound up confessing a great many things that perhaps weren’t big, huge sins, but were things I was sorry about, things I might have been better off not doing.

When he offered absolution at the end of it, I felt clean again for the first time in many, many years.

“You know I’m going to walk out this door and go home with my boyfriend and have sex with him?” I asked.

“If you love him, if you’re committed to him, if you’re in a stable, permanent relationship with this man, a relationship based on mutual love and respect and concern and care, then… follow your own conscience, Wiley,” he said. “There are some things that God will have to sort out, things that are currently beyond the church. My only hope is that you’ll leave room for God in your life, and that you’ll give away some of the love He has so freely given to all of us.”

I smiled hesitantly at this sentiment.

“Thank you,” I said at last, and I meant it.

I went outside to the pew and knelt next to Mama. Noah went in next and I waited for him. He was not in the habit of going to confession because few priests knew how to sign. Even if they did, I would not have allowed him to bare his soul to just anyone. But Father Ginderbach was not like most priests. Something about him made me want to be a better person. Something about him made me want Noah to get to know his church better.

“I can’t believe you went to confession,” Jackson said, leaning over and whispering in my ear as I knelt on the kneeler and said my penance.

“It’s a Catholic thing,” I said, whispering back.

The church had been gorgeously decorated by the Junior Auxiliary. An army of poinsettias marched out from the sanctuary to engulf the pews. Christmas lights twinkled in the growing gloom. The side altar to the right had been transformed into a nativity scene.

The dark skies outside offered a slight chance of snow, rare, but not unheard of in Union County, Mississippi.

Noah was all smiles when he came out. He knelt down next to me and folded his hands in prayer, closing his eyes and pursing his lips together rather earnestly.

As I knelt beside him, I looked up at the large crucifix hanging in the sanctuary. Words from “Walking in Memphis” drifted through my mind.

Tell me are you a Christian, child?

And I said man, I am tonight!

I had never considered myself a Christian, perhaps never would.

But Jesus was all right with me.

And I was walking in Memphis….

Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale….

Walking in Memphis….

But do you really know the way I feel?

W
E
HAD
Christmas Eve supper at Mama’s house that year because Jackson and I both had to work on Christmas Day and Bill and Shelly always went to the Baptist church on Christmas morning. We had to compress our merrymaking into a few hours before Midnight Mass.

Josh and Eli wore matching sweaters and jeans. Mary had been to the beauty shop with her mother and sported a fancy do full of curls and ribbons which the boys teased her about to no end. Papaw sat on the recliner watching the kids as they opened their presents.

“Bunch of greedy shits!” Papaw announced. “When I was their age, the only thing I got from Santa was syphilis!”

“You did not!” Mama said, rolling her eyes.

KUDZU played “The First Noel
.
”

“Look, Mama!” Josh said excitedly, holding up
Modern Warfare III.

Noah grabbed it from his hands and pressed it against his chest as if to claim ownership.

I shook my head at him.

“We don’t kill imaginary people,” Jackson said to me with a laugh.

“Give it back!” Josh exclaimed.

“This better be an iPhone 5,” Mary announced as she held up a small box and shook it.

“Like I need more phone bills,” Bill said.

“Oh, Daddy,” she said wearily. “If this is not an iPhone 5, I’m going to be
so
mad.”

“You show your ass and I’ll take a hammer to it,” Bill vowed. It wasn’t clear what the hammer would be taken to, exactly.

“It
is
an iPhone, isn’t it?” she said excitedly, ripping into the packaging.

“Who wants eggnog?” Mama asked, carrying a tray of glasses into the living room and handing them out. “Jackson? Would you like some?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jackson said.

“Be careful,” I warned.

He took a big gulp, then grimaced.

“What the hell?” he asked.

“Vodka,” I said. “I told you to be careful.”

“You’re not giving that to the kids,” Bill said. As a Baptist, he was not allowed to drink, which didn’t stop him at all, but he drew the line at giving vodka to children, bless his heart.

“Some are nonalcoholic,” Mama said primly.

“Whoever heard of vodka in your eggnog?” Jackson asked, appalled.

“We like it,” I said, taking a dainty sip to show him how it was done.

“Puts hair on your balls,” Papaw offered.

Jackson chortled.

“A lot of people don’t know it, but you’ve got to milk a lot of chickens to get eggnog,” Papaw went on.

“Oh please,” I said.

“You just go talk to those chickens out there. Your Mama’s been pulling on their tits all day trying to get that eggnog for you. Show a little respect!”

“Chickens don’t have… udders,” Jackson said.

“Ever heard of chicken breasts?” Papaw asked him.

Jackson smiled uncertainly.

“When the boys was younger,” Papaw said, “I told them to go out there and milk those damned chickens before their titties exploded. So they went out and they tried, the stupid fools.”

“We did not,” I said in my defense.

“Y’all did too,” Papaw said seriously. “And everything was all right until you started in on that rooster.”

“Pay no attention to him,” I said.

“Made that rooster hopping mad, I’ll tell you,” Papaw said. “He had to go see a counselor after that. Then we took him down to the government office and got a disability check for him.”

“Daddy!” Mary screamed when she saw that her present was indeed an iPhone 5.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Mama exclaimed. “It’s just a phone, Mary.”

Mary held the phone up in the air as if it were a gold medal. Then she got up and sashayed through the living room, holding it front of our noses, then pulling it away.

“So why did the chicken get a disability check?” Jackson asked Papaw.

“Well, that’s just it,” Papaw said. “The boys didn’t know a titty from a pecker so they yanked on the guy’s tallywacker until it came off. Poor thing couldn’t pee anymore. Three days later, it swelled up and exploded, so we couldn’t get a check.”

I smiled.

“But I’ll have you know,” Papaw went on, “that rooster voted in the next eight elections, and he always voted a solid Democrat ticket. At least until Ronald Reagan came along and he broke ranks, the Christless damned traitor.”

“Chickens can’t vote,” Jackson pointed out.

“Can too,” Papaw said. “Just put your scratch there. Isn’t that what they tell you? You ever heard of chicken scratch, boy?”

“I thought you said the chicken exploded.”

“Well, we saved one of his feet and when the election time came around, we took his foot down there and made his mark.”

Jackson pretended to be dubious.

“Then Martha sold the foot at a garage sale,” Papaw added.

Mama shook her head slowly from side to side.

“Bobby Greenwood bought it, if I remember correctly,” Papaw said. “Thought it was a lucky rabbit’s foot. Paid a dollar for it just as pretty as you please. Then he went off to World War Two and got his brains blown out by an Italian.”

“Must you make up so many lies?” Mama asked.

Noah wore a huge grin as he wandered over to where Jackson and I sat. He showed us his present from his Uncle Bill and Aunt Shelly:
Dance Central III
for the Xbox.

Now we can dance,
Jackson signed happily to him.

Why don’t you get our present for your Memaw?
Jackson suggested.

Noah hurried to the tree and scrounged around, returning with a carefully wrapped package for my mother.

“Well, thank you,” Mama said to him as she sat down and opened it.

He stood in front of her expectantly.

“What did you get her?” I whispered.

“You’ll see,” Jackson said.

It was a nice picture frame, which was also carefully wrapped in tissue paper.

Mama removed the paper to find a portrait of Jackson, Noah, and myself. It was based on pictures we’d taken in the photo machine at the mall, all of us crammed into the box and laughing goofily. Jackson had taken one of those tiny photos to a print shop and had it turned into an eight-by-ten that had been colorized with an art filter.

“It’s wonderful,” Mama said, smiling.

“We want one,” Shelly said, taking it from Mama and looking at it.

“I had some extras made,” Jackson said. “I’ll be happy to give you one.”

“That’s so sweet,” Shelly said.

“You’re like an old married couple,” Papaw observed. “It’s not like the old man doesn’t like photos of his grandkids. But no, no one thinks of me anymore, do they, the ungrateful bastards.”

“We’ll get you one, Papaw,” I promised.

“If you want to get your greedy hands on my lock box when I die, you’d better,” he warned.

“We did get you something, Mr. Cantrell,” Jackson said, producing a small package and handing it to him.

“Oh, the queer boys gave me a present,” he said excitedly.

We laughed.

“Probably a bunch of condoms,” he added as he opened it. “If that nurse friend of mine was here, I might have to use a few.”

“Daddy!” Mama exclaimed.

“She’s just begging for it, her and that fat behind,” Papaw said.

“You’re too much,” Mama said.

“Still got a little fire in the root,” Papaw said, leering at her.

“You get someone pregnant, and you can raise it by yourself,” Mama shot back.

Papaw grinned.

“Well, what is this?” he asked, peeling back the wrapping paper. “Probably a bomb. Can’t wait till I die, gotta send me on my way.”

“Stop talking about dying,” I said. “You’ll probably outlive all of us.”

“And I’m mean enough to do it,” he said. “And if I don’t, well, by God, at least I want people to know I was here. If folks don’t sigh with relief when I’m gone, I’ll consider myself a failure. Now, what the hell is this?”

He held up a small, plain box.

“Open it,” Jackson said.

Papaw opened it and withdrew a roll of toilet paper. Every other square had a humorous quote on it. These were alternated with pictures of celebrities, writers, and politicians.

“Look at that!” Papaw exclaimed. “Now I can laugh and crap at the same time!”

“I thought you always did that, Papaw,” Mary said. “At least it smells that way.”

He grinned at her.

“Mary Cantrell!” Shelly said, embarrassed. “You watch your mouth or I’ll take that iPhone right back to the store.”

“She’s gon’ be just like me,” Papaw said happily.

“She is
not
going to be like you, Papaw,” Shelly said firmly.

“If only because I don’t have a penis,” Mary said.