Shaking the Sugar Tree (8 page)

We could save money.

I’m tired of saving money.

So am I.

Dad?

Yes?

Why do you have to be so weird?
he asked.

I’m not weird.

No wonder nobody likes you.

People like me.

You won’t even go to McDonald’s. K. says her mom takes her there all the time.

“K.” was fingerspelling shorthand for Keke.

Can’t we go? Just once? It’s been almost a year!

I’ll think about it.

Can we go tomorrow?

I’ll think about it!

The conversation was interrupted as he gulped down sweet tea.

Dad?

He had a cheeky smile on his face.

Why doesn’t your boyfriend call you?

Shut up!

Told you you were weird.

He’ll call,
I said, nodding my head, as if to say,
you wait and see
.

He probably thinks you look like a girl.

Your hair is almost as long as mine!

No it isn’t!

Have you looked in the mirror lately?

But you have a ponytail like a girl.

The conversation was again interrupted as he started on dessert, a small bowl of grapes.

Dad?

Yes?

Where does Mom live?

I don’t know.

Do you think she’ll visit me?

I don’t know.

His face fell and he lowered his eyes so that he couldn’t see anything else I might say.

A
S
A
Southern gay man, I reserve the right to sing while washing dishes, especially when Glen Campbell comes on KUDZU singing “Rhinestone Cowboy,” as he did after dinner.

“
I want to be where the lights are shining on me
,” I sang, “
like a Rhinestone Cowboy
….”

I danced around at the sink, remembering how I used to sing that song when I belonged to Southern Nights, a college band I’d joined when I was eighteen and had dreams of glory.

Noah appeared at my side. He looked up into my eyes and smiled.

“Come on,” I said.

He put his bare feet on top of mine, his arms around my shoulders.

“
I dream of the things I’ll do
,” I sang to him, “
with a subway token and a dollar tucked inside my shoe
.”

He laughed as he followed the movements of my body and we cut ourselves a decent rug on the kitchen floor with our carrying on as Glen Campbell crooned in a way that only he could. Noah anticipated my moves, following the shifting of my weight from one foot to the next.

Dancing with the Stars
was one of his favorite shows. He watched with rapt attention as those fine-looking folks shifted and sallied across the stage, and would often try out some of their moves on the living room carpet, dancing to music in his head that no one else could hear.

“
Like a Rhinestone Cowboy, riding out on a horse
….” I bellowed.

We swayed side to side, round and round in a circle on the kitchen floor.

Glen Campbell gave way to John Denver, who sang “Back Home Again
.
”

We slowed the pace. He put his face against my chest, listening to my heart and to the vibrations in my chest as I sang. We rotated in a small circle.

When he was small, I used to dance with him in my arms all the time, dancing and singing and having fun. Even then, it seemed that what he enjoyed wasn’t the music or the dancing, but the vibrations in my chest from my vocal chords. He would lay his head in the crook of my neck, and he always put his ear against my throat. Very often he fell asleep.

We’d learned this because, like most meth babies, he used to scream and howl long after his addiction had been dealt with. Screaming out his soul pain, my mother used to say. Screaming from the phantoms that haunted him that we could not see or understand.

I had discovered that putting him on my chest and singing to him would quiet him down. He would also calm down almost immediately if put against bare skin. When he got especially bad, screaming, out of control, in a rage, I would take off my shirt and hold him against my skin, which always did the trick, as if only the warmth of a human being could satisfy whatever demon haunted him.

“There’s all the news to tell him, how you spend your time….”

We were so busy singing and enjoying the moment that I didn’t hear the knock on the door.

As I rotated through a slow circle with Noah in my arms, I looked up and saw Jackson Ledbetter standing in the doorway of the apartment, watching us.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed, startled to see someone standing there.

Noah broke away, glanced around.

“Sorry,” Jackson said. “Your door wasn’t locked….”

“You scared the crap out of me,” I said.

Jackson came into the kitchen. He held out his hands to Noah.

Beaming, Noah took hold of his hands and climbed up on top of his spiffy Nikes.

They began to dance.

“Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend….”

Noah stared up at Jackson, his pale-blue eyes boring into this man as if to divine his secrets. Jackson stared back at him, grinning his confident grin that made me feel faint and nervous. Suddenly the kitchen was entirely too hot.

“It’s the sweetest thing I know of just spending time with you….”

Jackson had his own dancing style. Like a chameleon, Noah mimicked him, following him perfectly, step for step, letting Jackson hold him and swing him and set the pace.

As he rotated into my field of vision, Jackson looked at me, offering a huge smile.

I imagined them dancing at our wedding, both of them in tuxes and tails. It would be a happy day for all of us as we became a modern family. I would have to meet Jackson’s parents. He would have to meet Mama and Papaw and Bill. We’d have a big to-do at the Link Centre, maybe, or some old plantation home down in Monroe County. Noah would have two dads.

We’d….

I put a hand to my mouth and took my eyes away from them. Such a rush of grief swelled up in me, I thought I would burst into tears. What was the point of dreaming about things that could never happen?

W
HILE
I
like guys—you have to if you want to sleep with them and stuff, or it just doesn’t work—they make me nervous. Especially the cute ones. I feel like a little girl with a crush on her teacher. I can’t speak properly. I say the dumbest things.

“So you’re not dead,” I said.

“Dead?”

“You didn’t call.”

“
I
didn’t call? Here I was thinking
you
didn’t call.”

“So do you need to borrow an egg or something?”

“Wiley Cantrell,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “I need you to kiss me.”

“Shake the sugar tree?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“Now?”

“Not with your child in the other room watching us.”

“Is he watching us?”

“He’s pretending not to.”

“He does that, yeah.”

“So…?”

I laughed. From embarrassment, relief, anxiety… I could not explain why, but it was funny.

“I’ll wipe that smile off your face,” he vowed.

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“Put the kid to bed and I’ll show you.”

“So we’re dating? Or something?”

He grinned his devil-may-care grin.

“Well?” I prompted.

“You’re being cruised, old man,” he said. “I dig you. I think you’re cool. Far-out.”

“I’m not that old!”

“I’m not the one living in the late eighteenth century down here. I want to check out this action, big guy.”

“Something tells me you’re a naughty, naughty boy.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I admitted.

“Got a beer?”

I did.

Jackson and Noah were soon sitting in front the television, putting Super Mario through his paces.

A storm front moved in, bringing a wave of refreshing cool air that I hoped would hang around for a while. The radio noted the cool air, and the weatherman cautioned that severe storms might result.

After getting Noah off to bed, Jackson Ledbetter and I sucked face on my sofa. I’d had three beers and was so horny for him I would have paid good money for it, even five minutes of it, but it was a school night and chastity prevailed.

“You answered my question,” he said, when he finally got up to leave.

“What question?”

“Whether you were interested in me or not. I don’t read minds, contrary to whatever anyone may have told you about people from Boston. But I don’t have to be a mind reader, not with that pistol in your pocket.”

He let his hand slide down to grasp my belongings.

I might have moaned or something stupid like that.

“So you’ve got me all hot and bothered, and now you’re just going to leave?” I blurted out.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin.

“That’s just cruel.”

“Sounds like an Elvis Presley song.”

For his benefit, I sang, “
Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s true….”

“And are you true, Wiley Cantrell?”

“Sometimes. Right now, I’m just really horny. But I can be true, too, if you want.”

“That’s all I want,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’m not like these slut puppies who just sleep with anyone. I’m old-fashioned. I have to really like someone before I—”

I interrupted him by placing my lips firmly on his and applying a certain amount of pressure. Tongue followed. Groping. Fondling. Gasping, too, if I remember correctly. Hands in hair, pushing bodies together. Hair sniffing. Cuddling. Tenderness.

“There’s more where that came from,” I said.

“I hope so,” he replied. “I really need to go. I’m on at six in the morning and I can’t be late.”

“So. Are we dating?”

“I thought you called it courting. I made my move. I’m leaving it up to you.”

“That’s a country song,” I pointed out. “
I’m leaving it up to you
….”

I’d had a bit too much to drink, is all I can say in my defense.

“By the way,” he said. “You know that little black thing that you carry around? It rings and beeps and stuff?”

“My phone?”

“Try using it.”

I
WOKE
the next morning with a silly smile on my face. Like Donna Fargo, I was the “Happiest Girl in the Whole U.S.A.” even though I was still “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed.”

I showered, then stood naked in front of the mirror as I combed out my hair and tied it back, getting ready for work.

I was not bad to look at. Jackson Ledbetter could do far worse. True, my hair could stand to be tamed, my goatee trimmed, but I could still fit into my high school jeans. I was slender, not exactly beefy with muscles, but no slouch either. I was nicely browned from playing a lot of Frisbee in the park with Noah. I was a dishwater blond, didn’t have to worry about hair on my back, and despite all of Mama’s warnings, there was still no hair on my palms. I had a big set of lips and knew how to use them. Several men before Jackson had lusted after my goods. I don’t recall any of them ever being disappointed.

I dressed, rousted Noah out of bed, went to the kitchen to fix breakfast. KUDZU was playing “Living on Tulsa Time” when Noah sat down at the table and helped himself to milk and toast.

“Good morning, kid,” I said.

He smiled a secretive smile.

“What?” I asked.

I saw you kissing
.

Why weren’t you in bed?
I asked.

I was thirsty. It was yucky.

He made an appalled face.

I kiss you, don’t I?
I said.

That’s not the same!

So you don’t mind….

You can kiss him if you want to
.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.

He dug around distractedly in his bag.

Can you mail a letter for me?
he asked.
K. helped me write it.

The letter he handed me was carefully folded. A smiley face had been drawn on the flap. Beneath it were the words:
I love you!

I opened it:

Dear Iron Man,

I realy like your movie. You funny. You look like my dad but my dad hair realy long. I realy like be your friend. Please write me back because I love you. I deaf but I read sub title. I want you help mom. I don’t know where live she. I want you find her. Your friend, Noah Cantrell. PS—I live Tupelo, which is close Memphis. It’s where Elvis can be born. I show his statyou in park to you.

I glanced at him and offered a frown.

Your spelling is awful,
I said, ignoring all the other thoughts that went through my mind
.

Do you think he’ll be my friend?

Of course.

Where does he live?

Hollywood, probably.

Do you think he can find Mom?

I don’t know.

I hope so.

So do I.

He returned to his breakfast, satisfied that his mission had been accomplished.

I
WENT
to the Tupelo Public Library after work and picked up a sign-on card from the services desk and sat down at one of their Internet-ready terminals to check my e-mail. The card gave me an hour of Internet and computer usage.

Like most people, my e-mail messages were a collection of junk. No message from my agent, impatient for my vampire-house-eats-unsuspecting-family story. No royalty reports or e-mails about checks in the mail. No publishers inquiring about foreign rights. No big shot Hollywood producers wanting to turn
Dead Man’s Lake
into a movie. Just endless messages about enlarging my penis and helping some poor Nigerian bastard transfer a billion dollars out of his country.