Stones in the Road (6 page)

“That’s what you say. But down inside, I think the long hair is a way to get attention. To stick out. To be a sore thumb. Sore thumbs always get attention, of course, and that’s the point. You want attention. You liberals always do.”

I looked from Mr. Ledbetter to his wife and then to Jackson. I felt like I was on the set of a bad Woody Allen movie—not that there were any other kind, but still.

“I feel like I’ve just woke up in some sort of parallel universe,” I offered.

“So do I,” Mrs. Ledbetter said, chuckling. “Except you live here and I’m only visiting—and thank God for that. But we’ll try to make the best of it. So, William, tell me: What’s it like to live in the poorest, fattest, and dumbest state in the Union?”

“My name is not William!”

“Now, Eunice,” Mr. Ledbetter said. “Let’s try to be fair. I’m sure there are many good things about this state.”

“I’m sure the best thing about being from the state of Mississippi is that it implies that you are all but guaranteed of winding up somewhere better,” she said.

“Mom, please,” Jackson said.

“Or perhaps you could tell us the story about how you had sex in the bathroom at the mall. You know. You wrote about it in your book. I hope your son wasn’t with you.”

“Mom!”

“You must be
far
too busy to finish your education and get a proper job,” she went on. “What with all the masturbating and bathroom sex and the skinny-dipping and all the rest of it. Hell of a way to raise a child.”

I stood there, words on the tip of my tongue that were best left unsaid.

“Do close your mouth,” she said. “You look like a cow that’s being artificially inseminated.”

I closed my mouth, turned to look at Jackson.

“Would you guys please not do this?” Jackson asked. “I thought you wanted to meet Wiley and Noah and to see how I was doing. If you came down here just to insult me, then—”

“Then what?” his mother asked pointedly. “Are we not allowed to talk about your life and the people in your life? Are we not allowed to talk about your choices? We have to love you and be supportive, no matter what? Is that it? We’re going to go through all that rubbish again? Are you going to be all traumatized and run back to therapy because your mommy is so mean and your father is so distant? Really, Jackson, are you ever going to grow up, or should I pop off to the store and get some diapers?”

“Eunice, give the boy a chance,” Stephen said. “We have a whole month to talk to him. And there’s no need to dig up the past.”

“Quite right,” she said. “Let’s not waste a minute of it talking about anything of substance or value. I’m sure getting along is far more important than knowing what sort of people you’re getting along with. Am I wrong?”

“On the other hand,” I suggested, “maybe we could cut through the bullcrap and figure out what you’re mad about.”

“I’m not mad at all,” she insisted. “I’m simply straightforward and I say what’s on my mind.”

“I know mad when I see it,” I said. “And you’re mad. I don’t know that I’ve done anything to make you mad, but I know I’m certainly willing to try.”

“How am I supposed to feel, Willis—”

“My name is not Willis!”

“
—
when my only son gives up a promising career in Boston so he can disappear into the butthole of the universe to live with a former drug addict whose child is deaf and retarded? Should I be proud? Is that it?”

“My son is not
retarded
,” I said, a flush of anger sweeping through me.

“He certainly talks like he is,” she snapped. “
Ai of ewe
! Deaf, dumb—they all ride the short bus, don’t they? Does he even know what he’s saying?”

“Jesus!” I muttered.

“Mom, just stop it,” Jackson said, interceding. “I thought you wanted to work some of this stuff out.”

“Now that I see you, I’m not sure there’s anything left to work out. You seem to have made your choice.”

There was a long, tense silence.

Jackson offered me an apologetic look.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” I said, “and let y’all catch up on the good old days. Jack, if she starts spitting pea soup, you know where the holy

J
ACKSON
L
EDBETTER
was on the floor doing nude push-ups when I woke the follow morning. There are worse things to wake up to on a Thursday, his mother and father springing immediately to mind. He went about his push-ups with deadly earnest. A gym monkey who reserved most of his exertions for the treadmill or the pool, he had enticed Noah and I to join him on some of his morning runs. When he added more exercise on top of his usual routine, like these push-ups, I knew he was struggling with his inner demons.

I watched for about two minutes, increasingly horny for him, but he paid no attention to me. When I sat up in bed, he righted himself and looked in my direction.

“You forgot to mention your folks are possessed by Satan,” I said, my eyes raking over his body with obvious desire. “But what’s a little psychosis among friends?”

“Don’t start.”

“Preparing the way for the Antichrist, are they?”

“Wiley….”

“Making the world safe for ax murderers and rape gangs?”

“Wiley….”

“There’s nothing wrong with them that can’t be fixed with a chain saw and a bathtub full of hydrochloric acid. Just ask my Uncle Jerry. Ooops. Sorry. You can’t!”

“Very funny.”

“A shotgun would be faster, but it makes a hell of a mess.”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“Come here,” I ordered.

Obediently, he padded across the carpet and stood before me. I put my hands on his hips. “Wanna fool around?”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Now that’s why you don’t get invited to the really cool parties.”

“Leave me alone.”

“They will only be here a month,” I said, neglecting to mention that those thirty-one days stretched out like a small eternity that could only end in bloodshed. This was, after all, the South, and it don’t take too much Yankee nonsense to start a war.

“They’re not usually this bad,” he replied. “I don’t know what’s gotten into my mom. She can be very mean when she wants to be, but she’s never talked to any of my friends the way she talked to you. What she said about Noah….”

“Forget it,” I said.

“Reminds me of the times when I’d bring a puppy home or something. She’d get so mad and say so many bad things, trying to get me to give the puppy away, but after a while she would get so attached, and she’d act like she never said any of those things.”

“I ain’t worried about it,” I said.

“I’m sorry about what she said about Noah. Actually, I think she likes him.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“If you’ve ever wondered why I’m so screwed up….”

“All the time,” I said with a smile. “But I’ve seen worse. Believe me, Jackie.”

“Don’t call me Jackie.”

“How do you feel about
Jackie-boy
?”

“I’m not kidding, Clarence!” he exclaimed.

“Okay, fine,” I said.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get through this.”

“One day down, thirty more to go,” I said. “That’s how.”

“Really. I don’t know how—”

“One day at a time. Worrying doesn’t help.”

“I know, but—”

The door to the bedroom opened suddenly and Noah appeared, a look of worry in his eyes. He was dressed in underpants, and I got a whiff of urine.

“I wish he’d learn to knock,” Jackson muttered as he grabbed the end of the sheet to cover his privates. He was downright Christian when it came to nudity, a fact about him that I found rather baffling. I was admittedly rather too free with my ways, having never learned to be properly ashamed of myself and my body.

Daddy
? Noah said.

What is it
? I asked.

Can you come here
?

He left as silently as he’d come.

“Now what?” Jackson asked.

“He must have wet the bed again,” I said.

Jackson frowned.

I put on boxers, went down the hall to Noah’s bedroom.

I’m sorry
, Noah signed, a fearful look in his eyes. He was standing by his bed, which had received a good soaking during the night.

It’s okay
, I said.

He turned his eyes in the direction of the master bedroom.
J’s going to be mad
, he signed, finger spelling “J” for Jackson rather than using the sign for “papa.” He only did that when he was worried Jackson would be mad at him. Suddenly it wasn’t “papa” anymore, rather the more formal “J.”

How do you feel
?

Noah shrugged.

Headache
? I asked.

He shook his head.

I felt his forehead; the fever was gone.

Let me have those
, I signed, motioning for his wet underwear.

Don’t tell him
, Noah signed as he handed over the evidence of his crime. He was nervous, agitated, pale.

Don’t worry about it.

I don’t want him to think I’m a baby.

You’re not a baby.

I didn’t mean to do it!

It’s all right.

I’m sorry, Daddy
! Tears formed in his eyes.

It’s all right
.

He stood there, head lowered, filled with a strange listlessness.

Why don’t you put on shorts
? I suggested.

He looked around despairingly at the clothes he’d left strewn about on the floor, as if the task of deciding which pair of shorts to put on was too confusing, too overwhelming.

I had noticed this about him before—this paralysis, this look of bewilderment about the simplest of things. Jackson said I babied him when I made such decisions for him, and perhaps he was right, so now I waited to see what Noah would do. He continued to look around, biting at his lower lip, looking distressed, almost afraid.

What’s wrong, sweetie
?

He offered me a helpless look, hugging his arms to his chest. I handed him a pair of shorts.

I stripped the sheets off his bed and gathered them up. He followed me to the laundry room, one hand hooked in the waistband of my boxers as if to make sure I didn’t leave. He continued to cling to me while I loaded the washer.

Is J going to be mad?

He’s just concerned about you, that’s all.

I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do it
!

He looked wretched, embarrassed.

Are you okay
?

He shrugged miserably.

I felt his forehead, his chest. Although he was almost twelve, he was not developing like other boys. He still looked very much like a seven or eight year old, with thin arms and legs, a pinched belly, his head too big for his body, his teeth too big for his mouth, his rib cage so delicate looking I was afraid someone might push on it a tad bit too hard and break one of his ribs. While puberty was surely on the way, I had yet to see much evidence of it in his physical development. He had tiny blond hairs on his arms and legs, but that was all. No pimples. No hint of pubes or underarm hair or a moustache. Since kids were hitting puberty much younger these days, I was getting worried.

Does anything hurt
? I asked.

He shook his head.

You were sick yesterday. Now you’re fine
?

He shrugged.

Does your head hurt
?

No
, he said.

Your stomach
?

No.

Any aches or pains
?

No.

Headache? Sore throat? Nausea? Congestion? A cold? A fever? Joint pain
?

No, no, no. Nothing like that.

Then what?

But he did not know.

Then he began to cry and put his arms around me, unabashedly wanting to be held, cuddled, babied, wanting skin time. It was another sort of childish behavior that had recently made a comeback. I obliged, feeling a small terror in my belly, the same sort of terror I had felt in his younger years as he struggled with the demons from his meth-baby childhood that had haunted him long after the addiction had been dealt with and which might very well haunt him the rest of his life, the doctors said. Literally born addicted to meth, it had done things to his brain, to his physical and emotional development, even his spirit and his soul. It had left deep, unfathomable scars.

He put his head in the crook of my neck, positioning his ear against my throat so he could feel the vibrations as I talked, wrapping his arms around me and holding on tightly. His breathing eased, and he calmed down, as if my warm skin was some sort of drug or antidote for his peculiar kind of pain.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” I cooed into his ear. “Daddy’s here. Daddy will always be here.” I did all kinds of loving on him, whispering sweet nothings, knowing he could neither hear nor understand anything I said, but that wasn’t the point. He occasionally turned his head so he could lay his other ear against my throat, soaking up the vibrations.

I picked him up and carried him to the kitchen, walking around in a circle, singing softly. He was almost too big now for such babying, fifty pounds and counting.

Jackson, dressed in running clothes, came into the kitchen and offered a worried glance. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe you could hold him for a while?”

I tried to hand him off to Jackson, but Noah would have none of it. “No!” he muttered in his awkward, loud voice, wrapping his arms tightly around my neck and squeezing his eyes shut the way he did when he was afraid and didn’t want to see what was happening.

“You’re too big, baby,” I said, knowing he couldn’t hear me. My arms felt like they were going to be pulled out of their sockets.

I tried to put him down, but this made him cry even harder, so I went to the living room and sat with him in the easy chair. I could not count the number of times we had sat in such a chair over the past eleven years, cuddling, skin on skin.