Stones in the Road (2 page)

“Exactly!”

“I’m lovin’ it!”

“This is important to me,” he said, clenching the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were turning white. “I need my mom and my dad to approve of what I’m doing. For once in my life. I want them to be part of our family, and I don’t want you fighting over fetuses or the Civil War or body shame or the social construction of sexual identities or how Sarah Palin needs to masturbate more or God knows what else it is with you. And it’s always something with you.”

“Okay, Captain Obvious. Got it.”

“Do you?”

“Do you want me to look in the back for a hammer?”

“Please, Wiley. I need this to go well.”

“I’m not
that
bad.”

“My mom and my dad are going to be complete virgins to the whole Wiley experience. So just go easy. If we’re having breakfast and you come to the table naked, they will absolutely freak out.”

“I’m not in the habit of going to the table naked when we have company, dear.”

“God only knows with you, Wiley.”

“If you don’t want me to tell them about Uncle Jerry’s two penises, I won’t. I’ll save it for people who appreciate it.”

“Please do!”

“All right, then.”

“Thank you.”

“So do you think you could drive a little faster?”

“God, you’re a nag!”

“I hope you don’t drive this slowly on our way home. We have to go to Noah’s school, you know.”

“Like I could forget!”

“I love you,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Love, love,
love
you, big guy!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You rock my world!”

“Put a lid on it, Wiley,” he said firmly. “A month. Zip it.”

“Fine,” I said, pouting. “I know when I’m not appreciated.”

“You’re too much sometimes, that’s all.”

“
When a penis comes along… I must zip it
!” I sang.

“Oh, Jesus!”

In the backseat, Noah sang, “Hoo hoo awk! Hoo hoo awk!” He was deaf and didn’t quite know what a note was, but he was determined to keep trying until he got it right.

What are you singing
? I signed.

It’s a J-o-h-n D-e-n-v-e-r song
, he signed with a sly smile.

Are you being smart with me?

Yes.

I’ve taught you well! Good boy! Are you hungry?

Can we go to M-C
? His face was suddenly very earnest. “M-C” was finger spelling for the Golden Arches, which we rarely visited because we weren’t especially fond of food-like products. Well,
I
wasn’t. Just one of the many things that has yet to rub off on my only child.

I don’t know
, I said.

Please? I’ll stop singing….

Really
?

He nodded eagerly.

Maybe….

Please?

Maybe….

Daddy! We never go! My friends go all the time, but we never do! Please? Just once? Why can’t I have a normal father like everyone else? Why do you have to be so weird?

I’m not weird!

Are too!

Am not!

Are too! Please? Can we go? Just once?

I don’t know. Have you been a good boy?

Of course!

Your room is a pigsty.

I’ll clean it up. I promise!

You’ve got clothes that have been laying on your floor for so long they’re going to get up and walk away.

Please?

I don’t know….

You’re my favorite daddy, and I love you so, so much, and I’ve been so good, and even Mrs. H says I’ve been so, so good—

Was this before or after you put a spider on L-i-s-a’s desk at school and I had to talk to your teacher
?

His grin was full of mischievous joy.

You think that was funny
? I asked.

He nodded. It was hard to argue because it
was
funny, if only because Lisa Stedler was an insufferable little snot who had joyfully taken it upon herself to inform their classmates that Noah had “two daddies” and should not be allowed to play with them during recess.

You should not have done that
, I signed as sternly as I could.

I told her I was sorry
, he signed, striking a penitent pose.
And you already punished me. And anyway, you can’t punish me twice—that’s the rule. Remember? You can’t break the rules. So… can we go?

If you don’t stop singing, Papa’s going to make you sit on top of the car for the rest of the trip.

He will not!

He’s really cranky today. He might….

I’ll stop
, he promised.
So… can we?

Oh, all right
!

His triumphant smile revealed the hell that was his teeth—gaps, doubles, the sort of bad teeth that would make Satan proud and which Lisa Stedler and her clique of fifth-grade demonic entities never tired of ridiculing. Like the extra pinkie on his left hand, they were visible reminders of his start in life as a meth baby with the birth defects to prove it.

Daddy
? he asked, face suddenly serious, blond hair tumbling into his eyes.

What, sweetie?

Do you think Papa’s mom and dad will like me?

Of course they will.

They’re going to be my grandmother and grandfather, aren’t they?

Yes.

Do you think they’ll like me? I mean, really, really like me?

I know they will, baby
.

He did not seem convinced.

Why wouldn’t they
? I asked.

He shrugged, bit his lower lip.

They’re going to like you. Don’t you worry
, I said.

He turned away and looked out the window at the Mississippi countryside flying by.

I turned back to Jackson, glanced at the speedometer.

“Fifty-five? Seriously?”

“Oh my freaking God!” Jackson Ledbetter exclaimed. “Would you shut your pie hole?”

“Don’t argue in front of the kids, dear.”

W
HEN
M
R
. and Mrs. Stephen Ledbetter of Boston caught sight of their son standing in the departure area in the international airport
terminal in Memphis with a scruffy-looking, goatee-wearing
Southerner with a ponytail (me) and a pinched-faced, sandal-wearing deaf boy with a shock of curly blond hair with a life of its own (my son, Noah, looking like something from
Beasts of the Southern Wild
), there was a long moment of silence.

“So
nice
to meet you,” Mrs. Ledbetter said as we converged and Jackson made introductions. She extended a long, bony hand in my direction as she glanced down her nose at Noah. “And this is your…
daughter
?”

“This is Noah, my son,” I said.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I wasn’t sure. That hair is
so
long.”

“Mom,” Jackson said in a tight voice.

“The thing does look like a girl,” Mrs. Ledbetter said.

“The thing?” I said, incredulous.

“Hello!” Noah exclaimed in his awkward voice. He tugged on Mrs. Ledbetter’s sleeve to get her attention.

She frowned rather imperiously as she looked down at him.

“Hello!” Noah exclaimed again. “I love you!” It came out sounding like,
Ai of ewe
!

“Oh,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “That’s nice, dear.” Inexplicably, she reached into her small clutch purse and produced a twenty, which she handed to him as though giving him a tip. “Spend it wisely,” she said.

“He’s deaf,” I pointed out.

She bent down and spoke to him very slowly and very loudly: “
Spend it wisely
!”

Mr. Ledbetter hurriedly stepped forward. “Very good to meet you at last,” he said to me, putting out his hand, grasping mine like it was a turnip he intended to squeeze blood out of.

“And you, sir,” I said, wincing.

“Read your book,” he said. “
Crack Baby
. Hell of a title. But then it was a hell of a book. You must have made a lot of people mad, though. Not everyone wants to read about a homosexual raising a child on his own….”

“Not now, dear,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “We’re in the South, Stephen. Mess with one and you mess with the whole trailer park, and let’s not forget, the final ‘g’ is silent on ninety-nine percent of the words here.”

I frowned.

“Goodness! What is that smell?”

“What smell?” I asked.

“It’s like bacon and rancid butter,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “Oh, I forgot. We’re in Paula Deen’s backyard, aren’t we? You can smell the lard all the way from Georgia.”

Jackson chuckled.

“Speaking of heat, we changed planes in Atlanta,” Mrs. Ledbetter said to Jackson. “Oh, it was so beastly hot there, and it’s not even July, and that airport… oh, it’s much too large! It reminded me of that time we went traipsing around the pyramids. Jackie, however do you stand the heat? You haven’t even gotten to the dog days of summer. I don’t know how you will survive. I
do
wish you had come to visit us in Boston instead of making us come all the way down here to this… this cesspool of history. But we wanted to see you, dear. It’s been almost two years!”

“Yes, it has,” Jackson said heartily.

“And one simply cannot pry you from this…
relationship
… or whatever it is.”

“Mom,” Jackson said in warning.

“I find all this gay marriage talk a bunch of highfalutin nonsense, Jackie. Don’t get me wrong. I have no religious objections. You know I don’t go in for religion, dear. It’s so tedious, people going on about theology like anybody cares. Foolish, I think, and a waste of time, and oh, so very tedious. It’s like Mahler’s music—it doesn’t quite sound as good as it looks. I think you should just live together in sin and be happy. What’s the big deal? It’s not like a piece of paper will make any difference.”

“That’s not quite true,” Jackson said.

“Your father and I lived together in sin for almost a year before we got married, and I was using contraception before they would ever talk about it in the
Boston Herald
. We have always been a very progressive family that way. Am I right, Stephen?”

“Oh, indeed,” Mr. Ledbetter said, nodding very agreeably.

“So I think you need to get all this ghastly business of gay marriage and…
children
… right straight out of your head, Jackie. Listen to your mother. Nobody knows you quite like I do, and unless I’m very much mistaken, this is headed for disaster. Gay marriage? Please!”

“Mom, don’t get started. I think we should drive down Beale while we’re in Memphis. What do you reckon?”

“Beale?”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “It’s very famous.”

“Never heard of it,” Mrs. Ledbetter sniffed. “What is it, a dog or something?”

“If it was a dog, we wouldn’t be driving down it,” I pointed out.

“I know, dear. I was making a small joke. Do try to keep up. But I suppose you can’t help it with all that lard marinating your brain.”

“Mom, please!” Jackson exclaimed.

“I’m just kidding. I’m sure Southern food is wonderful. I can’t wait to try it, darling. Why don’t we go to KFC right now and eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes and a great big old tub of grease? Shall we? It’s finger licking good, and who doesn’t enjoy licking their extremities?”

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“You really are slow, aren’t you? What is your name again, dear? Willy? Willis?”

“Wiley,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “Wiley. Like the coyote. A cartoon. Must be a proud Southern name. Your parents must have thought very hard to come up with such a marvelous name. And somehow it suits you. And it seems Jackie forgot to tell us he was dating a member of
Duck Dynasty
. Should we go deer hunting? Would you be more comfortable if we were clutching rifles and bullets and shooting and killing things? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of firearms back at the trailer, or whatever shack it is that you live in. I do so hope you have indoor plumbing. Please tell me you do. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to squat in the woods.”

“Excuse me,” I said, frowning heavily.

“It’s the vodka talking,” Mr. Ledbetter offered.

“I’m just kidding,” she said, smiling broadly. “Do try to keep up, Willis!”

“It’s Wiley,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. She waved a hand in front of her nose. “I can’t get that smell out of my nostrils.”

“What smell?” I asked.

“Oh, there was an Indian couple sitting in first class with us. Eating some vegetarian food. Some curry or something. Stunk up the whole cabin. You know how those people are. The smell was dreadful. Reminded me of that time when we went to Paris. We sat next to some French woman who wasn’t wearing antiperspirant. Oh, it was most unpleasant. I asked the stewardess if she had some antiperspirant this poor soul could put on, but she didn’t. Dreadful! All the way across the Atlantic Ocean sitting next to someone who smelled like a dead body. Travel is so difficult. Now, Jackie, what have you done with our luggage? You’ve hired someone, yes?”

“We’ll collect it downstairs,” Jackson said, heading for the escalator.

“You’re going to make me carry my own luggage in this beastly heat?” she demanded.

“We’re parked right outside, Mom,” he said, trying to assure her.

“Surely you’ve got all kinds of people down here, of all places, that you can hire to do this sort of thing. No? A few Mexicans, perhaps?”

“Mom, please,” Jackson said quietly.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll just put it on my back like a mule. I’ll carry it around like I’m a pack horse. Will that be all right, dear? Or maybe I could be like one of those African women, and I’ll just pop it right on top of my head. How about that, dear? What do you think? Hmm? You think Mommy would look good with a bag on her head?”