Stones in the Road (16 page)

“We’ve been down this road before….”

“Don’t read too much into it, Wiley. Don’t you trust me?”

I want to, I thought but did not say.

“Be careful with the hot grease,” I suggested. “Get some of that on your pecker and you’ll be singing the blues worse than Muddy Waters did when he went through that whole thing with the hemorrhoids.”

N
OAH
CAME
to the table about an hour later, after Jackson had put on his running shorts and disappeared out the front door. I fixed a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice for Noah, watched as he ate. His forehead was purplish with bruises, his skin starting to brown from the sun we’d got yesterday.

Are we going to see Papa’s parents today
? he asked.

I nodded.

They don’t like me
, he said, frowning.

They don’t like me either.

Really?

Really
.

He grinned.

We don’t need people to like us, do we
? I asked.

He shook his head.

I had a bad dream.

What was it, sweetie?

I was in a big house and someone was chasing me and I couldn’t get away.

Who was chasing you?

I don’t know
, he said, frowning.

Was it the blue man?

Maybe. I don’t remember.

You’re safe now
, I said.

Daddy?

What?

Can we get a bird?

We don’t have money for a bird. They’re expensive.

Please?

Why do you want a bird?

I like them.

We’ll see.

You always says that.

When we go to your grandmother’s house, we’ll look at the rabbits.

Memaw said I could have one.

Papa doesn’t like rabbits.

Why not?

I don’t know.

I want a bird
, he said again, as if deciding the matter in his mind.

Why don’t you ask Papa, see what he says?

Okay.

I’m going to take you to the doctor tomorrow.

Why?

Just to make sure you’re all right.

Do I have to get a shot?

No.

Do you feel okay?

I’m fine
.

W
E
PICKED
up Jackson’s parents at the hotel, and as we drove to New Albany, we got an earful about Faulkner’s house while Jackson fiddled anxiously with the radio, trying to find a news station to get updates on the tornado watch. What he received were gospel singings, sermons, and dispatches from right wing radio talk shows. We conveniently pretended that I hadn’t stormed off from the restaurant the other night, and we said not a word about the lovely folks at the DHS visiting our apartment the day before.

“I hate your frikkin’ tornadoes,” Jackson muttered.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I replied easily.

“Easy for you to say.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life and have never once seen a tornado,” I replied. “And I don’t plan on starting today. Haven’t you ever been to a hurricane party? You need to get out more.”

He muttered, pursed his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” I said. “Honestly.”

“I may get called into the hospital if… something happens. Just so you know.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

He peered through the windshield at the dark skies overhead, was not convinced. The sky promised rain at some point, perhaps a few thunder boomers, perhaps more. It was hard to tell.

We met Mama in the parking lot at Saint Francis. A former school teacher, she dressed the part, the gray in her hair increasingly apparent.

“Memaw!” Noah squawked, throwing himself into her arms and honking happily.

“Oh my goodness!” Mama exclaimed, giving him a hug.

“Mama, this is Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter,” I said.

“So nice to meet you,” Mrs. Ledbetter said, offering a bony hand.

“Jackson’s a wonderful young man,” Mama said. “You must be very proud of him.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Ledbetter said with an odd sort of smile. “
So
very proud. And your son Willis is—”

“His name is Wiley.”

“Oh. That’s right.
Wiley
. Like the coyote. What a… charming name.”

“It’s an old family name,” Mama said. “From his great-grandfather on my daddy’s side.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “This is my husband, Stephen.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Stephen said vigorously.

“Are y’all enjoying your visit?” Mama inquired.

“It’s been very interesting,” Mrs. Ledbetter assured her.

“So nice of you to come to mass with us. It’s only a small church.
I’m sure it’s nothing like the big churches in Boston. Are you
Catholic?”

“
Recovering
Catholic,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “At least I am. Stephen’s family was always Presbyterian. Or… whatever. It’s hard to keep track—there’s so many churches these days. They’re a bit like syphilis, aren’t they? They just keep popping up everywhere, but I guess people need something to believe in, don’t they?”

“Oh,” Mama said.

She fell silent, a look of consternation on her face.

“Shall we go in?” I asked. I steered Noah toward the steps that led to the front doors. Once we had navigated our way inside to a pew, pausing now and again as people made a fuss over Noah—which he enjoyed tremendously—Mama leaned over and whispered to me, “Syphilis?”

I shrugged.

“Syphilis?” Mama whispered again, incredulous.

“Let it go, Mama,” I whispered back.

A few minutes before mass, Father Ginderbach, vested and ready to rumble, wandered up the aisle to greet parishioners. Stopping at our pew, he signed to Noah:

Good morning, N-o-a-h
!

“Hello!” Noah said, his voice ringing out through the church.

How are you
?

“I fine!” It sounded like
Ai fy!

Have you been good this week
?

“Good! Good!” Noah agreed, nodding and smiling. “I love you!”

There was a smattering of laughter among the pews, but not unkind laughter. Noah and I came to St. Francis at least twice a month, and folks had grown to accept him, his homosexual baby daddy notwithstanding, not to mention his too-loud voice and tortured grammar.

I love you, too, N-o-a-h
, Ginderbach signed.
And Jesus loves you too. Don’t forget server practice is next week.

I won’t forget
, Noah promised.

My heart fluttered a little at the thought of Noah serving mass. What could possibly go wrong? But just because he was deaf, Father Ginderbach had pointed out, that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of serving mass like other boys and girls. From what I saw on some Sunday mornings, as long as you could stand upright and not drop things too often while you continued to breathe, you were good to go.

After mass, we caravanned to Mama’s house.

The skies had cleared somewhat. The sun was shining in the west, and the long roll of black and blue clouds to the east seemed like they might go their way and rain on someone else. Still, it was windy, and some of the clouds were moving fast. Worse, banks of clouds were moving in different directions, never a good sign.

We arrived there about the same time as my brother, Bill, his wife, Shelly, and their kids, who had come fresh from the services at First Baptist.

Introductions were made on the porch.

“Howdy,” Bill said, sticking out his hand and looking rather Southern with his bald head and sunglasses perched on the top of it. His cheek bulged with an after-service chew. He was putting on a good show for the sake of strangers, but I could tell he was in a pissy mood.

Mr. Ledbetter shook his hand. “Call me Stephen,” he said. “You’re the one who works at the furniture plant?”

“Well, yeah,” Bill said with a frown.

“I read Wiley’s book,” Mr. Ledbetter offered by way of explanation.

“Oh,” Bill said. He looked like he’d stepped into a warm turd. “We’re not big fans of Wiley’s book.”

“No, I suppose you’re not,” Mr. Ledbetter said.

Bumblebee, Mama’s golden retriever, quickly got underfoot.

“Bumple!” Noah said, burying his hands in her fur.

“This is my wife, Shelly.” Bill introduced my sister-in-law, who looked prim and proper in her Sunday best. “And these are the boys, and that’s Mary,” Bill added, nodding at fourteen-year-old Josh, twelve-year-old Eli, and seventeen-year-old Mary, who looked fetching in a yellow dress, black stretchy pants, and leather boots.

“Y’all from Boston too?” Mary asked, staring at the gold bangles on Mrs. Ledbetter’s wrists with wide eyes while simultaneously playing with her iPhone as if she meant to take Mrs. Ledbetter’s photo and immediately post it on Facebook.

“That’s right, dear,” Mrs. Ledbetter said.

“Mary, don’t pester your elders,” Shelly said.

“Y’all come in now,” Mama said. “Food will be ready in just a bit. I’ve got it all prepared.”

She led the way inside, and we made our way to the dining room table, where Papaw, my grandfather, sat cleaning a pistol.

“Daddy, we got company,” Mama said.

“They here to steal my goddamn teeth?” Papaw demanded, giving Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter a suspicious look.

“Be nice, Papaw,” I said. “This is Jack’s mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter. They’re from Boston.”

“How do you do?” Mrs. Ledbetter inquired with a certain cold formality.

“I’ll take you out back to the woodshed and show you how I do,” Papaw replied, winking at her.

“Daddy!” Mama exclaimed. “Pay no attention to him. Y’all sit down. Dinner’s about ready.”

“Dinner’s spaghetti?” Papaw asked.

“I said dinner’s about ready, Daddy,” Mama exclaimed.

“Don’t want spaghetti, Martha.”

“I didn’t say spaghetti, Daddy!”

“You just said we’re having spaghetti for dinner!”

Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter glanced at each other uncomfortably.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Mama exclaimed. “That joke is so old it ought to be wearing adult diapers. Honestly, Daddy! We ain’t having spaghetti for dinner. We ain’t Yankees, you old coot, and since when did I ever cook spaghetti of a Sunday when the whole family was to sit down for a good eating? Now shut your mouth and let me get on with it, if you please. And put that gun away – we’re going to eat!”

Papaw smirked.

“Are we having
dinner
?” Mrs. Ledbetter said, arching her eyebrows. Dressed in an elegant beige pantsuit, she looked decidedly out of place standing next to Mama, who had changed into jeans and an Ole Miss sweatshirt. “It’s rather early for dinner, isn’t it, dear?”

“That’s our way of saying lunch,” I pointed out.

“More damned Yankees in this house,” Papaw observed. “Give it a minute, Martha, and they’ll be telling us what to do again, or drinking moonshine, or stirring up the darkies and calling the ACLU. Ain’t the North big enough, they got to send their Yankee riffraff trash our way?”

“Some of us like to travel,” Mrs. Ledbetter said easily. “I can see Reconstruction is still very much a work in progress.” She let her eyes wander around Mama’s dining room, which had seen better days and perhaps one too many family dinners and a food fight or two. Bill and I did go on something fierce in our younger days.

“We get by,” Bill said, looking perplexed. “Why don’t we all sit?”

“Yes, please, do sit,” Mama said. “It’s about ready. Daddy, put that gun away!”

Mama had pulled out all the stops, had even decorated the table with a vase of flowers. This, however, did little to hide the mismatched glasses, two of which were old jelly jars, not to speak of the different types of silverware and plates and their somewhat haphazard placement. In quick order, she laid out green beans, fried okra, corn bread, potato salad, pecan pie, and fried chicken she’d kept warmed in the oven.

We held hands, said grace.

“Wiley has told us so much about you,” Mama said, urging us to pass the food around.

“Having read Wiley’s book, we feel like we know you,” Mr. Ledbetter offered.

“Oh,” Mama said, pursing her lips unhappily.

“Do we have to talk about Wiley’s book again?” Shelly asked.

“I thought it was very interesting,” Mr. Ledbetter said. “But I’m sure it was uncomfortable to have your family history so publicly displayed. The fistfight with Bill—was that true?”

“Of course it was,” I said.

Bill’s face reddened.

“We fight like cats and dogs, so it wasn’t exactly news,” I added.

“I didn’t talk to him for three months after I read that book,” Bill admitted. “He could have just nailed us to a cross and been done with it.”

“I simply pointed out that you weren’t very supportive when Noah was born,” I said in my defense.

“Nobody thought he was going to live,” Bill shot back.

“Are y’all really going to fight about this again?” Shelly demanded.

“He made us look like a bunch of fools,” Bill said.

“I told the truth.”

“Your version of the truth. While you were complaining that we didn’t visit you in the hospital when Noah was born, you forgot to mention we were on vacation to the Grand Canyon. I’m sure it was just a little oversight.”

“So you can’t make phone calls from the Grand Canyon? You couldn’t call and see how we were doing?”

“You twisted things,” he said angrily.

“I told it like it was. Even when you got back, you didn’t visit the hospital for another two weeks. And then the only reason you did visit was because you’d been talking to Kayla’s parents, and you wanted me to give Noah up so that her mom and dad could take care of him.”