Stones in the Road (37 page)

More laughter.

I had something else in mind, though.

“Do we have a volunteer to take Mrs. Ledbetter’s place? A tribute to stand in for a tribute? Come on, y’all. We can’t pie a visitor. It ain’t polite-like, and besides, she’s a lady, and that’s not how we roll in the land of Dixie. But I’m sure we can think of someone else….”

My eyes drifted to Jackson Ledbetter—precious, flawless, acne-free, immaculately dressed Jackson Ledbetter.

He looked horrified.

“Come on, Ledbetter!” I called. “You can’t let your mama suffer like this. Be a good son!”

There was a chorus of approving “Yeahs!” and whatnot.

Jackson’s face turned red.

“Make it seven hundred and fifty!” Mr. Ledbetter cried out.

“Yeah!”

“I want to do it too,” Bill said loudly, “but I ain’t paying no seven hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Five dollars will be fine, Daddy,” Mary replied with a huge grin.

Josh and Eli grabbed hold of Jackson’s arms and steered him to the chair.

The girls that had gathered around now giggled as Jackson sat down in the chair, looking nervous and very self-conscious. I’d heard from a little birdy that more than one of those girls secretly hoped that Jackson Ledbetter wasn’t as gay as he said he was.

“I want to go first,” Bill said with a bit of a swagger as he grabbed a pie off Mary’s table.

“That’s five dollars, Daddy!” she cried in alarm.

“I’ll five-dollar you!” he vowed, turning to advance on Jackson Ledbetter.

“Bill, please,” Jackson pleaded.

Bill paused, looked around, seemed to be in high humor. “As y’all know, Jack will probably be my brother-in-law one of these days, so I ain’t doing anything I wouldn’t do to my own brother. And as much as I’d love to put a pie in Wiley’s face—and a whole lot of other things, but I don’t reckon I have to explain that to y’all—I’ll settle for his so-called better half.”

“Get him!” one of the girls yelled.

“Yeah!” Josh offered.

“Let’s show him how we do!” Bill cried out.

“This shirt is expensive!” Jackson muttered, holding up his hands.

“Can’t hold up your hands!” Mary said. “Not fair!”

Bill, bless his heart, was gentle but very firm as he positioned the pie directly in front of Jackson’s face, then gave it a nice push. He then twirled the pie about to make sure he had good coverage.

Bill took a great deal of satisfaction in the mess he’d made, and I had to admit it was a beautiful sight, Jackson Ledbetter sitting there with lemon meringue all over his face and down the front of his shirt.

“Hoo hoo!” Noah squawked happily.

Mary came forward with a bucket of ice water. “This will help you clean up!” she called out, giving him no time to prepare as she splashed the cold water in his face.

For a moment, as he sat there rather stunned, I thought Jackson might actually be mad. Really, really mad. But he broke into a huge grin and cried out, “Who’s next?”

“I am!” I said. “But I need help. I choose Noah for my volunteer.”

Noah was pleased as punch when Mary handed him a pie and indicated that it was his turn, but first he looked to me for approval.

That’s what he gets for being a bad boy
, I signed.
You give it to him good
!

Noah’s grin was full of wicked teeth as he pied Jackson Ledbetter, who wiped pie off his face and flung it at Noah, who ran away laughing.

By the time we were through with Jackson Ledbetter, I had the not altogether disagreeable prospect of taking him home and removing all his clothes and giving him some of my spares, since we had completely ruined his spiffy outfit. I think we even got pie in his underwear.

Not a bad way to raise money.

M
AMA
’
S
HOUSE
looked forlorn and abandoned in the late afternoon sunshine as we stopped on our way home after the fundraiser. The front lawn was a mess from trucks and other vehicles coming and going. The giant oak that had sat proudly on the left side of her house for more than thirty years had been upended by the tornado and was now in the process of being cut apart and hauled away. There were more trees down in the yard and in the woods out back where the tornado had blown through, snapping the smaller trees as though they were matchsticks.

I left the others and wandered to the left side of the house. Papaw’s bedroom was the one on the left corner. The windows to his room had been blown out. The end of a curtain now hung out of one of them.

I missed Papaw. I had tried not to think about his passing, had been in no hurry to confront the realization that Papaw was not coming back, had gone somewhere that we could not follow. His death had been so fast, so unexpected, as though life had done a drive-by shooting and left us breathless at the randomness and cruelty of it.

I hugged my cast to my chest as I stared at the windows to Papaw’s bedroom.

Papaw had stopped going to mass after the thing with Father Michael. I had returned home from that trip to Jackson to see the bishop, and I couldn’t sit down because my butt hurt—my butt, my back, my hips. Apparently a child’s anus is not the most accommodating place for a priest and his penis.

Mama asked me what was wrong, why I couldn’t sit down properly, why I did nothing but lay on my bed in a state of pain and befuddled bewilderment, and I had told her what Father Michael did, even though I had promised him I wouldn’t breathe a word of it. I was twelve, didn’t have the proper vocabulary, so I had told her that Father Michael had “made love” to me. That’s how I thought of it at the time, that we’d “made love.” It would not have occurred to me to think I had been raped or ill-used, or that Father Michael had not acted out of the love he professed for me. He’d done it, not once, not twice, but three times—the last just minutes before we packed up and left the hotel room. My poor little anus had been on fire the whole way from Jackson to New Albany, but I had tried not to squirm around in my seat because it made Father Michael mad.

Mama didn’t believe me. But Papaw did. Mama was too embarrassed to look at my butt and make sure everything was all right. Papaw wasn’t. Papaw made me lay in a hot bath for about thirty minutes, gave me aspirin for the back pain, and put me to bed. Then he grabbed the keys to his truck and drove off, fishtailing that old Ford when he reached the end of the driveway and turned onto the county road, driving like a bat out of hell.

What he said to the good souls of Saint Francis in New Albany that evening, I did not know.

I never saw Father Michael again. And Papaw stopped going to mass.

I could talk about anything with Papaw. Anything at all. Painful, confusing crushes on some of the boys at school, masturbation, girls’ tits and why they didn’t interest me—nothing was off limits with Papaw. Hopes, dreams, secret things you never say to anyone—with Papaw, the words came easily. When I stopped believing in God. When I stopped loving my daddy. When I wanted to be a rock star. When I couldn’t understand why a cute boy at school didn’t like me. He always found a way to make it better. When I learned how to play guitar and started writing songs, Papaw encouraged me while others laughed. He read my first short story and promised me I had something to say that the world would want to hear.

Oh, Papaw
, I thought, standing there and looking at those blown-out windows.

What was I going to do without my papaw? How could my life go on without him? I missed him so much it was physically painful.

I went to the nearest window, stepping on or around boards and blown-off siding and insulation. Broken glass crunched underneath my feet. Papaw’s personal things had been taken away already, but his dresser still stood against the far wall. His bed was there too, the one I’d hurried to when it stormed at night and I was afraid. I knew I could always go to that bed and be safe in Papaw’s arms, be called “honey” and “sweetie” and “baby,” and not have to be afraid of anything, even if it meant listening to Papaw snore.

I stared at the bed for a long time and cried quietly.

“Daddy?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Noah had come to watch me, his imperfect, pale face full of worry and possessiveness.

Why are you crying
? he asked.

I shrugged.

He picked his way through the rubble to come stand beside me.

You miss Papaw
? he asked.

I nodded.

You’ll always have me, Daddy.

I know.

You can cry if you want. Papa says crying is good for you
.

I tried to offer a smile.

What would Papaw say to me if he knew I’d been thinking of giving up custody of Noah?

“That’s your stinking thinking talking, Wiley,” he’d say. “You’re a Cantrell, and a Cantrell’s got balls, don’t he? You want your little boy to be a goddamn Christian? I don’t blame Nero. Who wouldn’t fiddle with that many Christians on fire? It was like the biggest block party of all time! The fucking Christ-less bastards!”

I knew what Papaw would say.

And he would be right.

I wasn’t the best father in the world. I wasn’t rich, wasn’t successful, hadn’t even finished college. I was a little too free with my ways, a little too mouthy, too full of doubts, too rebellious. But for all that, my son would never lack for love. And maybe, at the end of the day, it was love that mattered most. Generous, extravagant, no-holds-barred love, the sort of balls-to-the-wall love that every child deserved.

I could give him that, I knew. He would always have that from me, and nothing less.

I pulled him close, kissed the top of his head.

Do you know how much I love you
? I asked.

He smiled.
As big as the M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i?

Bigger!

As big as the ocean?

Bigger!

As big as the sky?

As big as the biggest thing in the world.

What’s that?

G-e-o-r-g-e B-u-s-h-’s stupidity.

Who’s that?

Never mind. I love you so, so much. Do you believe me?

Yes. Does this mean we can go to M-C’s?

Maybe….

Please?

Do you love me more than french fries
?

He pretended to think this over.

You little shit
! I exclaimed.

He grinned mischievously.

Memaw wants us to live with her in her new house. What do you think
? I asked.

But Memaw lives here.

She can’t live here right now. Not until they rebuild her house. So she’s going to rent a house. And she wants us to live with her.

Really?

Yeah.

I love Memaw!

I know you do.

Will Papa live with us?

Not right now, sweetie. Maybe someday….

Why?

He’s got a problem. He’s trying to fix it so we can be together again, but it will take some time.

Can I still see him?

Of course you can. He’s your papa.

He’s not going away?

No.

I love Papa. I don’t want him to go away.

No one’s going to go away, sweetie.

If we live with Memaw, can I have a rabbit?

Sure.

And you won’t be sad anymore?

I’m not sad, sweetie.

Yes, you are.

Well, maybe a little… but I have you, so it’s okay. As long as I have you, everything will be okay.

If you have the boo boos, I’ll help you.

I know you will
.

We looked through the window at the dresser and bed, both of which I’d told Mama I wanted.

Daddy?

Yes?

Papaw was like your daddy, wasn’t he?

Yes, he was.

Did you love him?

I sure did.

As much as I love you?

I hope so, sweetie. I loved him with all my heart. Just the way I love you. Don’t you ever forget that. Okay?

Okay
.

I regarded him with a long gaze. He gazed back, the expression in his eyes frank, unafraid.

I need to talk to you about something
, I said.
You asked me why you were deaf… well, the answer is, you’re deaf because I did something bad
.
Both
y
our mother and I did… we did something really bad. We didn’t know your mother was pregnant. We didn’t know we were hurting you. But we did, sweetie.

You didn’t hurt me.

Yes, we did. The reason you’re deaf is not because God hates you and not because anyone hates you. It’s my fault. It’s your mother’s fault. We were doing something we shouldn’t have been doing.

I know, Daddy.

If we hadn’t done that, you might be a normal boy.

It’s all right, Daddy.

No, it’s not all right, sweetie. And I hate myself for what I did. I’m so sorry about it, but I can’t fix it.

You don’t have to fix me, Daddy, because I’m not broken
.

His words caught me like a thunderbolt, and twelve years of guilt and shame came pouring out of my eyeballs.

You got the boo boos
? Noah asked.

I nodded.

He put his arms around me, hugged me, patted at my back.

So you forgive me
? I asked when I at last pulled away and wiped sheepishly at my eyes.

I already did, Daddy.

Really?

Sometimes you do something bad, but you don’t mean to, like that time I broke Papa’s lamp when I was playing with the Frisbee. I didn’t mean to do that, so he wasn’t mad. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, so I’m not mad.