Stones in the Road (5 page)

We’re going to a nice restaurant. We don’t want to look like homeless people, do we
?

He made a face.

Let me help you
, I said, trying to take the sting out of it.

There was a pained, distant expression on his face.

What’s wrong
? I asked.

I don’t feel good
.

For the past month or so, Noah had been feeling poorly, with frequent headaches that appeared out of nowhere, an unexplained listlessness, other various and sundry vague complaints. Migraines, perhaps. Or allergies. Or….

I did not want to think about
that
.

He moved robotically to the dresser in search of socks. When he well and truly did not feel good, he simply announced the fact and went about his business, which was not at all how he acted on mornings when he didn’t want to go to school and was desperately earnest for me to believe he was sick.

I picked my way through the mess on his floor and put a hand on his forehead. He was hot.

You have a fever
, I said, turning him around so he would look at me.

He shrugged.

Are you sick
? I asked.

I’m tired, Daddy.

Do you want to go to bed
?

He nodded.

It was just after five in the evening.

All right
, I said.

He crawled into bed. I felt his forehead, his chest. I couldn’t remember the last time he had willingly gone to bed so early in the evening.

Jackson came into the room. “Why aren’t you getting ready? We’re supposed to meet my parents at the restaurant at six!”

“Noah doesn’t feel good.”

“That’s convenient,” he retorted.

“It’s true,” I said.

“Why did you make him go to bed?”

“I didn’t
make
him do anything, Jack. He went to bed himself.”

“So he
is
sick….”

“That’s what I said.”

“He’s sick…
again
.”

“Yes.”

“He’s got an appointment to see Doctor Kemmer next week.”

I did not reply.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Jackson said, feeling Noah’s forehead and chest as I had. Jackson Ledbetter was a pediatric nurse and knew his way around sick kids.

“They’ll run some tests,” he assured me.

I put a hand to my mouth.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Jackson said again, concern in his voice.

I shook my head.

“It’s
nothing
,” Jackson said forcefully.

We both knew that probably wasn’t true.

“Don’t go looking for trouble, Wiley. He’s going to be fine.”

“They warned me,” I said, intending to say more, but I fell silent instead. There was no need to finish the thought. Noah, his back to me, did not see me wipe at my eyes.

“You’ll upset him,” Jackson warned.

“And we can’t have anyone in this house getting upset about something, can we?” I asked, too angrily, my voice full of bitterness and frustration.

“I’ll watch him. Get a thermometer.”

I went to the bathroom and shut the door.

A
FTER
J
ACKSON
left for dinner with his parents, I crawled into bed with Noah. His body was limp and feverish. I looked at his face, now relaxed in sleep. Dark circles lay under his eyes, and he was more pale than usual. This morning in Memphis, he had seemed perfectly fine. Now, suddenly….

Doctor Kemmer had warned the onset of puberty might bring “troubles.” He had been in no hurry to elaborate on what sort of “troubles” to expect, had told me to simply keep an eye on Noah and report anything unusual. Anything at all, no matter how small it might seem. I suspected it had to do with the growth spurt brought on by puberty. His small, underdeveloped veins might not accommodate the increased flow of blood to places like the heart and brain. A tiny hole in the heart in the wrong place could become a serious problem when the heart grew larger. A deformed or smallish organ might get overwhelmed as its neighbors grew in size and capacity. The possibilities were plenty—and frightening. Rather than engage in endless what-if scenarios, Doctor Kemmer preferred to wait and see what actually occurred.

He was right not to panic, of course, but I could not shake the feeling of impending doom. Noah had done amazingly well for so many years now, would soon be twelve. I could not bring myself to believe our luck might run out.

Yet….

When he was born, the doctors warned me not to get my hopes up, said it would be a miracle if he lived more than three months. Three months came and went, and they extended the deadline to a year. Then it was two years. Then it was five years. Noah kept right on keeping on, oblivious to their deadlines and doubts.

I pushed long blond hair out of his face, and he turned to me in his sleep, putting his arm around my waist, snuggling up to me like he’d done as a small boy. After what we’d been through—the meth-baby rages, the darkness in his soul, the deafness, the health problems, the insecurities, his mother’s rejection and her unexpected death a couple of years back… after we had fought so hard to get to where we were… surely God wouldn’t let it end badly.

Surely God wouldn’t take my boy from me.

Surely….

The possibility squeezed my insides into a painful knot.

Yes
… a small, still voice said in the back of my mind.

But….

What if
?

That was a question I could not—would not—answer.

But
, the small voice said again.

What if
?

I
WAS
roused later that evening by voices coming from the living room and found Jackson and his parents enjoying after-dinner coffees at our dining room table.

“Hi,” I said, clearing my throat and rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“So the thing is feeling poorly?” Mrs. Ledbetter demanded in what seemed a very unfriendly voice.

“Do you have to call him that?” I asked sharply.

“What should I call him?” she asked.

“You could use his name,” I said.

“Noah,” she said, as if trying it out. “A biblical name. A very curious name for the child of a homosexual and a degenerate drug-addicted mother, don’t you think?”

“His friends call him Noey,” Jackson threw in, as if to smooth over the moment.

“Well, how is….
Noey
?” she asked primly.

“He’s fine,” I snapped.

“Why don’t you join us?” Mr. Ledbetter asked, saluting me with his cup of coffee.

“I don’t appreciate being referred to as a homosexual,” I said, ignoring him and addressing my comment to Mrs. Ledbetter. “I find it very offensive.”

“I refer to all my gay friends as homosexuals,” Mrs. Ledbetter said.

“They probably don’t like it any more than I do.”

“On the contrary, they think it’s funny. You really are very uptight, Willis.”

“
Wiley
! My name is Wiley!”

“I know, dear. I was just having a go at you. Jackie didn’t tell me you were so touchy.”

“I’m sure there are many things
Jackie
didn’t tell you, Mrs. Deadheader.”

“You made a joke! Bravo! There’s hope for you yet.”

“I’ll get you some coffee,” Jackson said, pleading with his eyes for me to behave.

“You’ll get used to me soon enough,” Mrs. Ledbetter assured me. “Jackie tells me you’re quite the comedian. Most comedy is just barely suppressed rage, you know.”

“Is that right?”

“Some of the funniest people I know are the angriest. In your case, I’m not surprised—how could you not be, growing up here in the pubic hair of the known universe? Why my Jackie ever moved here, I will never know.”

“I like it here,” Jackson said. “You just don’t understand it, Mom.”

“Nor do I want to,” she said. “I’ve never seen so many obese people. You’ll have to remind me not to wear any sharp metal objects lest I pierce one of them and they explode and I find myself covered with three weeks’ worth of cheese grits. Really, Jackie, you couldn’t pay me to live in a place like this.”

“It’s a bit slow, but it’s quaint,” Mr. Ledbetter said. “These people know how to put their pants on.”

“I should hope so,” I said. An image of pant-less people standing in my checkout line at Food World flashed through my mind. It might perhaps be the one thing that made my job interesting.

“They’re salt of the earth,” Mr. Ledbetter added.

“They’re rednecks,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “They’re uneducated and lacking in sophistication. They think a woman should be barefoot and pregnant. Unless, of course, she’s playing tennis at the country club.”

“They have solid, traditional values,” Mr. Ledbetter countered, “and I applaud them. You’re being very unkind, and you’re making lazy generalizations that are not warranted. Anyway, the world has quite enough raging liberals.”

“You only say that to annoy me,” Mrs. Ledbetter sniffed.

“That’s merely an added benefit,” her husband replied.

“We didn’t come all this way to talk politics,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “We still haven’t decided what to get the thing for its birthday. What do you suggest, Willis?”

“His birthday isn’t till July, and you don’t need to buy him anything,” I said crossly.

“But we want to. You do have malls and such down here, surely.”

“Mom,” Jackson said in annoyance.

“I’m not sure what a child his age growing up in an environment like this would want, although a gift certificate for a mental health professional seems appropriate. Or perhaps he would prefer a handgun?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“He’s bound to suffer, growing up with a homosexual father and his lover,” she said, putting her coffee cup down, taking a long puff on her vape pen and blowing out a cloud of vapor. “Not to mention living smack dab in the middle of the Biscuit Belt, which just happens to be at the crossroads for Tornado Alley. What could possibly go wrong in such a hellhole? You know, Jackie, I
do
wish you had thought to get Bailey’s for this coffee. It takes the edge off.”

“I’m in recovery, Mom. We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were an alcoholic,” she said.

“I’m a recovering addict. We don’t keep any drugs or alcohol in the house.”

“How sad for you,” she said. “Now, about that birthday present….”

“You don’t need to buy Noah anything,” I said again.

“That simply will not do, Willis, so you are going to have to tell me what I should purchase. For all I know Southern children might prefer a reptile for a present. Perhaps a good turtle or a snake or something. Is there a pet store about? Do you suppose he would fancy an anaconda?”

“No snakes,” I said firmly.

“A bow and arrow perhaps? He could be like that girl in the movie. He certainly has the hair for it.”

“No weapons, please.”

“Well, that narrows my options,” she said.

“Just give him money,” Mr. Ledbetter said.

“That’s a very socialist thing to do,” I pointed out.

“As long as the government isn’t forcing you to do it, it’s okay,” Mr. Ledbetter observed.

“I think I might go to bed,” I said.

“And miss all the fun?” Mrs. Ledbetter inquired.

“Is that what you call this?”

“You still haven’t told me what to get for his birthday,” she said.

“You needn’t bother.”

“Passive aggressive,” Mr. Ledbetter observed. “Willing to punish his son just to punish you. Classic!”

I glanced at Jackson for support.

He shrugged helplessly.

“Y’all enjoy your evening,” I said.

“Oh, do sit down and stop being a poopy pants,” Mrs. Ledbetter said, taking another drag on her vape pen. “We want to know all about you, Willis. You must tell us everything. We’re here for the long haul, as they say. Besides, I should think it wasn’t often that you had a chance to engage in intelligent conversation, not when you spend your days working at a grocery store. It’s not like vegetables are all that interesting. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m perfectly happy to talk about vegetables if that will help you to relax. I’m sure you talk to vegetables all the time. I mean, who else is there to talk to down here? Am I wrong?”

I said nothing.

“He’s a brooder,” Mr. Ledbetter said. “The passive-aggressive types always are.”

“Are the two of you always so rude?” I asked, unable to help myself, “or are you just pulling out all the stops for me?”

“If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the crematorium,” Mrs. Ledbetter retorted.

“I was trying to,” I pointed out.

“You can lick your wounds later, dear. Life is for the living. So… live a little. Be outrageous. Say something completely unexpected. Take a chance. What have you got to lose?”

“Do you talk to everyone this way?” I inquired.

“Of course. And they wouldn’t have it any other way. Don’t tell me you’re one of those shrinking violets who can’t abide a cross word. Oh, how very tedious such people are. I believe in the rough and tumble. I give as good as I get, darling, and of that you can be sure.”

“I’m afraid I’m not in the mood,” I said.

“The mood for what? We’re not having sexual intercourse, dear. It’s just a conversation. I thought you Southerners were famed for your manners. Or would you prefer that we women keep silent? Would you like me to take my shoes off and go barefoot? Will that make you feel more at ease?”

“You could try talking like a normal person,” I suggested.

“Normal,” she scoffed. “Very overrated. Why be normal when you can be yourself, and it’s ever so much more fun.”

I sipped coffee, felt bombarded.

“I can tell you’re a liberal by looking at you.” Mr. Ledbetter gave me an appraising look.

“Is that right?”

“The hair,” he said. “Dead giveaway. Long hair on a man is so unattractive. It tells me you don’t much care what society thinks.”

“I don’t,” I said.