Go Tell It on the Mountains

Chapter 8: It’s a Party Thing

Mrs. Ledbetter’s “small affair” consisted of about twenty people. Most were family friends, many of whom I’d met during the three weeks we’d spent there when Jack and I had gotten married in the garden out back.

“There she is,” Mrs. Ledbetter said, taking my arm and pulling me through the small throng as Jackson and Tony trailed along. Waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne and other “nibbly bits.” As if to celebrate the arrival of the redneck from Mississippi, a Patsy Cline CD played in the background. Patsy was in the midst of explaining how she went out walking after midnight.

Mrs. Ledbetter exclaimed, “Glenda, dear! So glad you could come. This is Wiley Cantrell. Of course you know him! He’s my son-in-law. Wiley, this is Glenda Hutchins from the Boston Herald. She does society events—and if it happens at my house, I’d like to think it’s an event. Am I wrong?”

“You’re never wrong, Mrs. Ledbetter,” Glenda assured her, planting a chaste kiss on the old woman’s face before turning to me.

“Wiley Cantrell,” she said, putting out her hand. “Thank You and Goodbye—are those really Noah’s last words?”

“Well, yes,” I said.

“Which is why you used that for the title of the book. It was so heartbreaking. Did Jackson really tell you to let Noah die?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, he was holding on for your sake because he knew you weren’t ready to let him go, but he was in pain and yet he kept holding on for you…”

“I’d really rather not talk about that right now,” I said.

“It was so tragic! That poor little boy. He must have loved you so much! And those scenes in the hospital, there at the end…but then of course, all those scenes in the apartment with him in that little hospital bed…I don’t think I’ve ever read anything quite like that book, to be honest, and I’ve read a lot of books, I can tell you. What an extraordinary little boy.”

I lowered my eyes, glanced at Tony, who seemed nervous with so many people about. I took his hand, and he seemed grateful. He sidled up next to me.

“And who’s this little man?” Glenda asked in a bright, I-will-not-be-dissuaded voice.

“We’re thinking about fostering him,” Jackson said. “Maybe adopting too.”

“And you are?” she asked, peering at Jackson as though looking at an interesting insect.

“This is my son, Jackson,” Mrs. Ledbetter pointed out in a slightly outraged tone of voice.

“Of course!” Glenda said.

She turned back to me immediately. “So tell me, Wiley—may I call you Wiley?”

“That’s what you’re doing,” I pointed out.

“I mean, you’re from the South. I’m not sure if you have…you know what I mean.”

“You could call me Mr. Cantrell,” I allowed.

“Mr. Cantrell,” she said, nodding as if agreeing this was a preferable form of address. “Is it true that you’re shopping around a script for Crack Baby? It would make a wonderful movie, of course.”

“Yes, Wiley, tell us about the movie,” Mrs. Ledbetter said, taking a drag on her vape pen and smiling at me. She was not about to allow me to pass up an opportunity to toot my own horn—or bask in the reflected glory.

“I was approached, yes,” I admitted. “Nothing definite, though. It was just an idea.”

“I hear James Cameron wants to direct,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “And why not? The whole story is like the Titanic in miniature.”

“Mom!” Jackson exclaimed.

“Well, it was bound to be a disaster, what with a little meth baby, a homosexual for a baby daddy, a mother in prison, a drug-addled boyfriend—that would be you, dear. Tragedy. Comedy. All at the same time. Audiences love that sort of thing. It’s like watching a train derail.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Oh, Wiley, don’t be modest. Everyone knows the story by now. And your family—heavens! They could have had their own sitcom, the way they carried on. All in the Family Part II. And if they had put a camera in front of that grandfather of yours, he would have been a superstar.”

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I said. “My editor said there had been some interest in a script, but nothing has been decided, and I think the James Cameron thing is just a rumor. He’s certainly never—”

“Oh, Wiley! Don’t be so modest,” Mrs. Ledbetter ordered. “You don’t have to tell us all the gory details, but we know you’re up to something. And I’m not at all averse to having a famous son-in-law. I wonder who they’ll get to play me in the movie. I’ve always thought Sophia Loren would be wonderful if only she could talk properly and not sound like she was chewing on a sun-dried tomato. And I’m not sure her breasts are quite right—”

“Mom!” Jackson muttered.

“—but I’m sure they could firm those things up a little. Let’s face it. Her breasts are just not what they used to be, hanging down all the way to her waist these days. She’s really let herself go. And those lips! I’m sure there must be an operation or something they can do. Just as long as they don’t pick someone like Angela Lansbury. Honestly! I don’t want people to think I have five chins. And they really must get Robert Redford to play my husband. Did you see his last movie? A man. A boat. The open ocean. Two hours of nothing but Robert Redford, a man, his boat, the ocean. Oh, it was dreadful! He can do better than that! I think he could play Stephen perfectly, lend an air of gravitas…”

“Can I take a picture, Mr. Cantrell?” Glenda asked, magically producing an iPhone and holding it up.

“No,” I said.

“Oh, Wiley!” Mrs. Ledbetter exclaimed. “Don’t be like that, dear.”

“No,” I said, “we’re doing a visitation with a child we want to foster. We’re not allowed to publish pictures of him.”

“Well, leave the orphan to one side, dear,” Mrs. Ledbetter ordered. “Jackson, take your little friend in hand.”

“Mom, don’t call him that!”

“I’d really rather not have my picture taken,” I said as Jackson took Tony’s hand and moved him to one side.

Tony grunted unhappily.

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “You wrote a book about your life and published it for the whole world to see. You must have wanted attention—and now you’re getting it. So enjoy, Willis! You only live once.”

“That must be a relief for some people,” I said, cringing as Mrs. Ledbetter sidled up next to me and smiled for the camera.

Glenda snapped away with her iPhone, and I felt positively ridiculous.

“What are you working on now?” Glenda asked, putting her phone away in a small clasp bag and looking at me eagerly.

I frowned.

I looked around for Tony, who had a curious sort of grimace on his face.

Are you okay? I signed.

“What is that smell?” Mrs. Ledbetter asked, turning around in a circle, sniffing the air like a hound dog.

That smell was someone’s flatulence.

It was hard to miss, but drawing attention to it seemed rather unkind, even by Mrs. Ledbetter’s standards—or lack of them. I glanced at Jackson to see if he was the guilty party. He tilted his head slightly at Tony and frowned.

Tony twisted his hands together nervously.

Oh no, I thought.

Tony had a pained, stricken look on his face.

What is it? I asked.

He burst into tears and hurried away through the sea of bodies clutching drinks and nibbles.

I followed after him. I’d forgotten how fast kids could be.

Tony ran pell-mell across the fine carpet, clipped a waiter carrying a tray full of champagne glasses. The waiter leaned dangerously far to the right, trying to get out of Tony’s way. A dozen expensive glasses teetered and swayed.

“Tony!” I exclaimed, forgetting he was deaf and feeling like I needed to say something.

There was a chorus of ooohs when the champagne classes went flying and crashed to the floor.

Tony ran for the large staircase, scrambling up those stairs like he had a devil on his tail.

I scrambled after him in full view of the partygoers, knowing I must look like some wild-ass Southern yahoo.

“Tony!”

We got looks.

I heard Jackson behind me somewhere, calling out my name.

“Tony!” I cried, feeling embarrassed as I huffed up the marble steps after him.

He raced to his room, slammed the door, the sound of it like a shotgun in the quiet hall. I turned the handle on the door and met with some resistance, but not much. Tony was trying to prevent me from following. I forced the door open as gently as I could, not wanting to accidentally hurt him.

He scurried away to the window, put his hands on the sill, sobbing.

I went to stand next to him, panting now, not as young as I used to be when Noah had his little meltdowns and gave me a run for my money.

What is it? I signed.

He wouldn’t look at me.

I waved my hand in front of his face to get his attention, then very slowly put my hand on his jaw to make him turn to look at me.

What? I asked.

I’m sorry.

Why?

I’m sorry!

What is it?

He looked away, biting his lips, wiping at his eyes, in a complete state.

I crouched down. The smell of flatulence was rather strong. And it wasn’t flatulence, I realized. He smelled like a baby that had filled his diaper. He’d had a little accident.

I raised my eyebrows. You’ve got a problem?

He lowered his eyes.

I waited for him to come around, not wanting to scare him, not wanting to embarrass him, but he wouldn’t lift his eyes to look at me.

I went to the bed where I’d left his clothes spread out. I picked out a pair of pajamas and underwear, then went back to him. I showed him the clothes, motioned for him to follow me.

He looked at me with eyes full of shame.

It’s okay, I said. Let’s go clean up.

I’m sorry, mister.

Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.

I…stop…I cannot.

It’s okay.

Scared.

Don’t be scared.

Scared, mister.

Don’t be scared, honey.

But he was scared. So scared he was trembling. I could only imagine how the other boys at the home had made fun of him.

I crouched down.

It’s okay, Little T. I won’t tell anyone.

Bad.

What’s bad?

Me…bad…not good.

Don’t say that.

Me…not good. Me…Bad.

You’re not bad.

True.

No, it isn’t.

True!

No. It’s not true. You’re a good boy. I know it.

He shook his head, looked away from me.

I put my finger on his jaw to turn his face back to me, but he flinched.

No! You…no!

I’m sorry.

No!

I’m sorry, T.

You! No! Me. Scared! No! Me…I say…No!

I’m sorry, honey. Don’t be scared. I’ll help you.

He turned to the window, stood there, twisting his hands together in utter misery, as though caught in the grip of emotions he could neither understand nor control.

The way he stood was exceedingly odd. He wasn’t fighting, wasn’t running away, wasn’t trying to escape. No fight, no flight. He was simply caught up in something and was waiting for that something to crash down on his head. He was a tiny little human being with the forces of hell arrayed against him, or so his face said. It was as though he believed there was absolutely nothing he could do to save himself, that any fight would be pointless.

The sight of his misery washed through me, and I blinked back sudden tears.

Jackson rushed into the room.

“Wiley, what the hell?”

I held up my hand, motioning for him to be quiet.

“He had an accident?” Jackson whispered.

I nodded.

“Why is he crying?”

“I don’t know. Shut up. Better yet, just go away and leave us alone. I’ll take care of this.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think he’s a little bit scared of you, so just go away. It’ll be all right.”

“Do you need me to help clean up?”

“I can manage.”

“Don’t forget he has HIV, Wiley.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Do I have to do anything special?” I asked.

“Not really,” he replied. “Not unless he has blood in his stool or something. Just be careful. I’ll get a bag for his clothes.”

“Do they have to be washed separately?”

“Not really. It would be almost impossible to contract the virus from urine or feces, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

Jackson hurried off.

I waved my hand at Tony, tried to get his attention. I showed him the clothes, nodded in the direction of the bathroom, the look in my eyes saying Come on. Let’s clean up.

Scared.

Don’t be scared.

Scared, mister.

Don’t call me mister. I’m your friend.

True?

Yes. You had an accident, so let’s go clean up. Okay? Then we can watch TV or something. It’s been a long day for you. You must be tired. We can lie down and watch TV. Would you like that?

Scared.

Don’t be scared, Little T. I’m right here and I’m going to help you. I promise.

True?

Yes.

You…not hurt?

Hurt you? No. Never.

You…good? Good…me?

Yes. I want to help you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re my friend now, and friends don’t let their friends get hurt.

You…not same…not…

I was not sure what he meant by this.

Come on, Little T., I said, standing up and offering my hand.

He looked at my hand, pursed his lips.

I motioned again for him to follow me.

He would not.

Scared, mister. Scared!

Tears began to stream down his cheeks. It seemed it was all he could do just to make the sign for “scared.” He looked completely terrified.

I knelt down in front of him, looked into his eyes, wiping at my own. I said nothing, just looked at him to let him know we were in this thing together, whatever it was. I was not going to abandon him.

You…cry…why? he signed.

I feel sad, I said.

Why?

I want you to be happy, but you’re not happy. I want to be your friend. I want to help you, but you’re scared. I’m scared too, Little T.

Why?

I don’t know.

He stared at me for a full minute, maybe more. Then, very slowly, very carefully, daintily almost, he reached out a finger to wipe at a tear on my cheek, as if to feel it, to see what it was. He looked at me, pursing his lips in disapproval.

I slowly lifted my hand to put out a finger and rub away some of the tears on his right cheek. Then I gently took his hand into my hand and rubbed a circle in the palm, not looking at him as I did this. I rubbed another circle, very lightly, then another. After a while, I looked up at him. He was peering at me intently. I continued to draw circles in his palm and stared back at him.

I don’t know why, but this seemed to calm him.

I held up my index finger in a “pay attention” gesture. Slowly, I reached up to his forehead and traced a circle there, then took my hand away. I raised my eyebrows. Okay?

He nodded.

I traced another circle on his forehead, staring into his eyes and smiling.

He took hold of my hand suddenly, made me turn my palm up, and he started to trace circles of his own. He did this for about two minutes, maybe more. He didn’t look at me, was caught up in this circle-drawing as if it was a way for him to make sense of the world. Then he began to explore my hand, tracing my fingers, the lines on my palm, the ridge of my thumb, apparently oblivious to the smell of poo-poo.

Eventually he lifted his eyes to look at me.

He was completely calm then, very solemn. He traced a circle on my forehead, then one on my cheek. Then he ran his finger over my lips before rubbing at the hairs on my goatee.

You feel better? I asked.

He shrugged.

I stood, offered my hand, nodded at the bathroom.

He took my hand.

I led him to the bathroom, ran water in the shower so he could wash off. I was rather nervous as I put his soiled clothes in the plastic bag Jackson had left. It was one thing, of course, to talk about taking care of a child with HIV, quite another to actually do it. Most daily activities were perfectly harmless, I knew.

Still.

I made him stand under the warm shower longer than I should have, but I wanted to make sure he bathed properly. I could see the scar tissue on his right hip was especially tight, that it pulled on the surrounding tissue. He was due for another series of skin grafts, which he would receive periodically as he grew so that the rest of his skin could grow in a normal fashion. The scar tissue was thick and hard, and his body would have to grow around it. There was so much of it that I frowned.

His genitals were another problem entirely. They would require continuing cosmetic surgery to give him as normal an appearance as possible under the circumstances. But something told me they would never be normal, that no amount of cosmetic surgery could fix what had basically been all but completely destroyed.

I’d seen photos of the scar tissue in his file, but now, looking at it with my own eyes, I felt something in my heart seize up. This kid would have a long, long row to hoe, and it would not at all be easy or pain free.

Tony saw me looking at the tissue and turned away from me, as though embarrassed. His back looked worse than his front, the scar tissue marching up to his shoulders and down to his knees, all of it a dark, angry red, not smooth and soft the way a child’s skin should be but leathery and tough.

I turned him around to look at me.

Does it hurt? I asked.

He shook his head very slowly, very solemnly.

It’s not so bad, I said, trying to reassure him.

I held out a bath towel, helped him dry off.

Afterward, dressed in fresh pajamas, he lay on the bed.

Tired, he signed.

Go to sleep.

I spread a quilt over him, tucked in the edges, lay down next to him.

Mister?

Yes?

I…

He frowned, curling and uncurling his hands as if he couldn’t remember the sign for what he wanted to say.

I…

What, honey?

I don’t know. Remember…I cannot.

It’s okay.

Mister?

Yes?

He looked at me for a long time but said nothing. Then he reached out to take my hand as he closed his eyes and settled back on the pillow.