Go Tell It on the Mountains

Chapter 6: Spell It Out

“So tell us about this one,” Mrs. Ledbetter ordered over lunch. “He has AIDS, of course.”

“Of course,” I said with a smile.

“Actually it’s HIV,” Jackson pointed out.

“Father was an ax murderer?” Mrs. Ledbetter asked.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Mother was a drug dealer, though. Does that count?”

“A pusher. Interesting! Lice?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Sexually abused?”

“I hope not.”

“Emotional problems?”

“I’d expect no less.”

“Willis, I have to say, you know how to pick them. He seems nice enough. Quiet. But aside from Foo Foo, I’m not sure he realizes the rest of us exist. I don’t believe he’s even looked at me once. Hell of a way to treat your host for the weekend. He does know who I am, doesn’t he? I’m not used to being ignored in my own house.”

“Mom!” Jackson exclaimed.

“He’s just getting his bearings,” I said.

“Well, I believe we should talk about things,” she said. “Spell it out. Be clear. Know what you’re dealing with. Don’t beat around the bush. And you’re talking about my future grandson, so of course I want to know all the details. We can’t have just anyone in this family, you know. I can live with AIDs and having a pusher for a mother, and I can even deal with having a Southerner for a son-in-law, but I do have my standards. Actually, he seems quite the little cutie.”

“He is cute,” I agreed. “A little nerdy looking with those glasses, but I think it’s endearing. He’s apparently blind as a bat.”

“He was selected by evolution for extinction,” Mr. Ledbetter observed.

“Stephen!” Mrs. Ledbetter gasped.

“That’s how natural selection works, dear.”

“Dad, please,” Jackson said in a tight voice.

“I’m sorry, but if your mother is a drug dealer and a w***e and God knows what else, perhaps you should be selected for extinction, if only from a germ and disease and general well-being point of view. Offspring raised in such an environment have poor outcomes. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m merely pointing out how evolution works. It’s survival of the fittest, after all, not survival of the most damaged.”

“Well, there you are,” Jackson said, an angry undercurrent in his voice.

Mr. Ledbetter knew how to kill a conversation.

“This clam chowder is the bomb,” I said into the silence, lifting my eyes and looking across the table at Jackson’s mother. “Stinks to high heaven, of course, but it’s actually quite all right. Of course, they say the same thing about Ann Coulter, but that’s just a bunch of horse hockey.”

“What, that she stinks?” Jackson asked, “or that she’s quite all right?”

“There ain’t nothing about her that’s quite all right. Her only value in life is to be an organ donor, but I think I’d rather die than walk around with one of Ann Coulter’s kidneys inside my guts. Not that she can afford to lose a kidney, not with that constant tsunami of bile falling out of her mouth.”

“What is with you and Ann Coulter?” Jackson pressed.

“I find her very refreshing,” Mr. Ledbetter said. “We need people willing to tell the truth about things.”

“Well, if she does want to be an organ donor, she could start with her Adam’s apple,” I said.

“We really must make a seafood lover of you,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “You can’t visit Boston and turn your nose up at chowder. It just isn’t done.”

“The last time we were here, Jackson took me to a restaurant and they brought a fish out and I had to sit and look at its face the whole time I was eating. If you’re going to cook it, at least cut its head off.”

“Your little friend looks dubious,” she said.

Tony was dipping his spoon in the soup and looking uncertain. I don’t think it was the soup that bothered him, but the china it sat in and the three spoons and two forks surrounding the expensive bowl.

“He’s probably not up to speed on the finer points of fine dining,” I said. “And he may be too nervous to eat.”

“He doesn’t have to eat if he’s not hungry. We’ll save some and he can eat later.”

I signed this information.

Tony looked relieved.

Why don’t you play with F-o-o F-o-o? I suggested.

He got up from his chair rather stiffly, as if afraid he might knock something over. He looked at me, questions in his eyes.

Go ahead, I said. It’s okay.

He sat on the floor, and Foo Foo immediately jumped onto his lap. He gave her a happy smile, issued a small grunt.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever had anyone with AIDS in this house,” Mr. Ledbetter said, not bothering to look up from his clam chowder.

“Dad!” Jackson exclaimed.

“I’m just pointing out that it’s a health risk, bringing someone like that around.”

“Unless you’re planning on exchanging bodily fluids with him, there’s no risk involved,” Jackson said crossly. “And he doesn’t have AIDS, Dad. He has HIV. There is a difference, you know.”

“We need to have a care, is all I’m saying,” Mr. Ledbetter went on. “If you insist on rescuing every stray dog in the street, don’t be surprised when they turn around and bite.”

“You’re not happy.”

“Frankly speaking, son, no, I’m not. There are plenty of healthy children you could adopt. You don’t need to go out of your way to saddle yourselves with a bunch of problems and a lot of needless expense.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said, trying to be diplomatic.

“I think he’s perfect,” Jackson said, somewhat defiantly, which was not at all what his body language had been telling me all morning. “Anyway, there’s plenty of people who want to adopt cute, healthy kids. We wanted to find one that no one else wanted.”

“He was not wanted for good reason,” Mr. Ledbetter said softly.

“Dad, do you have to do this?”

“And when you spend a fortune on health care and everything else, and he dies three years from now or five years from now, then what?”

“His life expectancy is not an issue, Dad. AIDS is not the death sentence it used to be. There’s no reason he can’t live a full, healthy, normal life.”

“His immune system is compromised, and he could die of the common cold. You’re a nurse, Jackie. You know that. I just wish you boys would be more practical, but I’m sure you know best.”

“You never approve of anything I do, so what difference does it make?” Jackson demanded, his voice rising in anger.

“Don’t tell me you’re still worrying about whether I approve of you.”

“Do the words cold, heartless bastard ring any bells with you, Dad? Jesus Christ!”

“Let’s not start fighting again,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “We have company. Anyway, I agree with Jackie. Tony’s perfect. He’s small, so he won’t eat them out of house and home. He’s blind, so he won’t be running away—if he tries, he won’t get far. Probably run into the nearest stop sign and knock himself out. And he doesn’t talk, so they won’t even know he’s around. What more could you ask of a child? You’ll hardly know he’s there at all.”

“It was very kind of y’all to allow us to have this weekend visit at your house,” I said, trying to change the subject and smooth things over.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “You’re doing us a favor. I want to get to know my future grandson, you know. Anyway, I miss that sweet little boy of yours, Wiley. We had such fun together when he was here. I wish I had gotten to know him much sooner than I did. I do so miss him.”

“I miss him too,” I said.

“He was the star of your wedding, you know, walking down that aisle in a tuxedo and bearing your wedding rings. My friends absolutely adored him. Anyway, you’re one of those people who could never turn down a sob story and a pair of puppy-dog eyes. I don’t think my Jackie would have stood a chance with you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Jackson said.

“You’re welcome, dear. I hope you’re in the mood for company.”

“Why is that?”

“Let’s just say I have a surprise planned for you.”

“Mom, no!”

“Oh, indulge me, Jackie. It’s been almost a year since you’ve been home. I wanted to do something special.”

“I told you this weekend was not a good time for that. We’re doing a visitation.”

“It will be a very quiet affair,” she assured him. “There are so many people who want to see you. Both of you. You must know that. You can’t just pop in for a weekend, darling, and not see anyone. It just isn’t done. Besides, you know my friends adore you. And our Mr. Wiley is a famous writer. He can’t hide himself away forever, you know. He has a new book he needs to promote. The thing won’t sell itself, you know. And just because I invited a reporter from the Boston Herald doesn’t mean he has to talk to her, although she adores your books, Wiley, and of course, a nice write-up in the Herald is not to be sniffed at.”

Jackson rolled his eyes.