Shaking the Sugar Tree

Chapter 3: Stood Up

I don’t normally go to parties thrown by complete strangers, much less with my nine-year-old son in tow, which can be a real deal-killer when you’re horny and hoping to get laid, but I made an exception in this case. Probably not one of my better decisions, but horniness does that to you and it’s not like Tupelo is drowning in gay bars since the only one it ever had was closed down years ago.

It was just after seven in the evening when Noah and I went in search of apartment number twenty-two at Terrace View.

Noah is a scrap of a boy, barely forty-five pounds, about four feet tall, my little midget. For a premature meth baby who was not expected to thrive, he’s certainly had the last laugh.

He’s a beautiful boy. To me, at least. His head is a bit too large for his body. He has a darkness around his blue eyes that never goes away no matter how much he sleeps. About his face there is something imperfect, something unfinished, not quite right, off in a way quite impossible to describe. I let his hair grow in glorious abandon because he doesn’t like having it cut. In that, he takes after me since I haven’t had my hair cut since 1998.

We were both dressed in shorts and tank tops, standard summer wear. To be frank, when stores put “No shirt, no shoes, no service” signs on their front doors, they’re thinking about the Cantrell boys. We’re nothing if not scruffy. I had tied back my hair in a ponytail in a lackluster attempt to make myself look presentable. I should have trimmed my goatee, but I only do that for weddings and funerals and sit-downs with all the fixings. At least we wore shoes.

I carried a box of cookies that I’d bought at FoodWorld with my EBT card. The cookies were a “FoodWorld Daily Deal!”

I glanced at Noah and smiled a bit of encouragement, which I needed more than he did.

Are you going to knock or what? he signed.

Be good or I’ll sell you on eBay, I replied.

He smiled his ha-ha-ha-you’re-so-funny-I-could-die smile.

He’s really cute, I signed. I’m nervous. Give me a second.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms on his chest.

How do I look? I asked.

He shrugged with disinterest.

How are my teeth?

I received a thumbs-up.

Can we go in now? he asked. I’m hungry!

I’m nervous.

Just don’t act so stupid and he’ll like you.

Thank you!

You’re welcome.

Without regard for my insecurities, he banged on the door like a state trooper.

Jackson Ledbetter answered wearing an expensive running suit. He was a fine-looking how-do-you-do.

“Come in,” he said.

“Hey,” I said.

We followed him into a sad apartment empty of furniture that was somehow spiffy and modern and new, yet bleak and bare and sterile. Boxes stood hither and yon. A tablecloth had been spread by the large bay window, and the evening’s fixings had been laid out upon it. The air-conditioning was heavenly. Emily Sandé was on the CD player singing “Next To Me.” I kept hearing that song everywhere I went and it grated on my nerves. Give me Reba, Patsy, Johnny Cash, Willie, Waylon.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “We brought cookies. Should have brought chairs, from the look of things.”

“I haven’t had time for shopping. And who’s this little man?”

“My son Noah,” I said.

“Hello!” Noah said in his strange voice.

Jackson did something rather extraordinary. He turned to Noah and used sign language.

Hello, he said.

Noah smiled with pleasure at this unexpected communication.

My name is No-a-h.

My name is J-a-e-k.

Noah grinned.

My father thinks you’re cute, he said.

“Pay no attention to him,” I said.

“I didn’t get that last part,” Jackson said.

“He said his father thinks you’re cute or something. He’s determined to find me a boyfriend.”

Jackson grinned.

Turning to Noah, he signed, Are you hungry?

Noah nodded vigorously.

“Where did you learn sign?” I asked.

“I’m a pediatric nurse. I had two semesters of sign so I could help deaf kids and their parents.”

“You’re pretty good, but you told him your name is J-a-e-k.”

“I’m a bit rusty,” he said, blushing with embarrassment.

We sat down on the carpet at the edge of the tablecloth. Noah tucked into the cold cuts and cheeses, which he adored, but which we couldn’t always afford. Food stamps only went so far.

“Not to be indelicate,” I said, “but I thought you were having a party.”

“I’ve been stood up,” he said, scratching his head in wonderment. It was probably a new experience for him. I couldn’t imagine anyone standing him up.

“I invited folks from the hospital. I just started working at the North Mississippi Medical Center. Maybe I shouldn’t have told them I was gay. They warned me not to, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Adventures in cultural misunderstandings,” I said.

“Something like that,” he agreed.

“They’ll come around. Thanks for inviting us. Is it Jack or Jackson?”

“Call me Jack, please,” he said. “I hate Jackson. It sounds like a state capitol or something.”

“It is a state capitol.”

“My point exactly. Would you like a beer? I’ve got two cases.”

“Good thing I live just down the street. How are you finding Tupelo?” I asked.

“It’s good,” he said. “Weird, actually. It’s the birthplace of Elvis. I guess I expected…well, I don’t know. But I like it so far. Very laid-back.”

“Allow me to welcome you to the buckle of the Bible Belt.” I raised my beer in salute. “There’s a church on every corner and a bigot in every garage.”

He laughed at this throwaway line.

“My friends told me I was crazy to accept a job down here,” he said. “I’m from Boston, and I was tired of the big city. I thought Tupelo was the right size. Not too big. Not too small. The money’s great, and cost of living is cheap compared to Boston, but it’s just so different down here. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Well, that’s not quite true. I wanted to get away from Mack. Far, far away from Mack.”

“And Mack is…”

“You don’t want to know,” he assured me.

“The joy of ex-husbands,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“You’re about as far away from civilization as you’re likely to get,” I said. “We’re relatively enlightened in Tupelo, but the further south you go, the crazier it gets. Down on the Gulf, it’s not so bad—lots of beaching, gambling, boozing. I wouldn’t wish Alabama on my worst enemy, though, what to speak of Louisiana. If you get desperate, Memphis is only two hours away. Lots of titty bars, I’ve heard. Got casinos up that way too, if that’s your thing. So you’re a nurse, huh?”

“It’s the only way to meet a doctor,” he said with a smile.

“You work with kids?”

“I love kids, yeah. It’s a great job. Makes me feel like I’m doing something useful, especially when you help kids through stuff like cancer and leukemia. Four years of college was about all I could stand, though.”

“I made it through two,” I confessed.

“And now you’re a…cashier?”

“Among other things.”

“Mysterious. I like it.”

“I thought I was going to be a writer. I had a few books published, but life sort of got in the way.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s what happens when you get a girl pregnant and she runs off and leaves you with a baby and a box of diapers and a rectal thermometer.”

“Sorry, but it’s hard to picture you getting a girl pregnant…”

“I was young,” I said in my defense. “Young and dumb with something to prove. But it didn’t take me long to realize that the love that dare not speak its name had me on its dance card. And anyway, I think everyone should have kids if only because they’re a constant reminder of why your parents have gray hair and no frikkin’ teeth.”

Jackson snorted and accidentally spit up a little beer on his spiffy running suit.

“Would you like a napkin?” I asked, handing him a napkin.

“Excuse me.”

His face turned red with embarrassment.

“Kids are always hanging on your t**s,” I added. “By the time they grow up, you’ve got t**s down to your knees and curvature of the spine.”

“Doesn’t seem to have had any adverse effect on you,” he pointed out.

“I work hard to maintain my figure,” I said. “You don’t want to have kids unless you’re comfortable being puked on and all that stuff.”

“I get a lot of puke and pee at the hospital,” he pointed out. “And I’ve had my share of bedpans and vomit bags. And diapers, for that matter.”

“A fellow traveler. I salute you.”

I raised my beer in a toast.

“Somehow I don’t think it’s the same,” he added, glancing at Noah. “At least I can leave it all behind when my shift is over.”

“I always tell Noah to behave or I’ll sell him on eBay. You’ve got to have some way to keep these little buggers in line or they’ll just walk all over you. It’s a nightmare. Honestly. All the live long day. Daddy, I want this. Daddy, I want that. Daddy, daddy, daddy! Gimme gimme gimme! I’m like, honest to almighty Christ and sweet and sunny jumped-up Jesus, if you don’t shut up, it’s back to the basement and the duct tape and the handcuffs again and I’m not joking. Now get me a beer, you frikkin’ munchkin!”

Jackson offered such a hearty laugh that I momentarily lost my train of thought.

God, but he was good-looking! His dark-brown eyes were clear, but smoky, somehow, and very mysterious. His dark-brown hair was the kind you just wanted to put your hands in and play with, or maybe tease him by pulling on it or messing it up so you could watch him smooth it back out. Thick eyebrows, a strong but not overbearing nose, lovely lips that you just wanted to kiss, lovely cheek bones, like a girl—Christ, he was like a model or something.

I’m insecure around good-looking guys. Always have been. I use humor to cope, and it seems to work on most cute guys, and I hoped like hell it would work on Jackson because I was about as horny as I’d ever been my whole life. And that’s saying something, especially after the puberty I went through, about which the less said, the better, but I will say that I m*********d so much as a child that I was afraid my brain would explode, my d**k would fall off, hair would grow on my palms and I would die penniless and blind in the gutter with an umbrella stuck up my ass as a priest read the Rite of Exorcism over my prostrate body.

I chuckled.

“What?” he asked.

“When I was young, I didn’t know the difference between an erection and m**********n, so I had a hell of a time when I went to confession.”

“That would be a problem.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I thought they meant the same thing and I certainly couldn’t ask my mom about it. Problem was, I used to get erections all the time, day and night. I couldn’t help it. So when the priest asked me if I had committed any sins of m**********n since my last confession, I used to say yeah, I’d committed a lot of them. I told him it happened in school, at gym class, on the playground, sitting at my desk, sitting at the dinner table eating fried chicken, sitting on the school bus, playing with my friends. I don’t know what he thought.”

Jackson spit up more beer.

“I told one time it happened right there in the confessional.”

“You did not!”

“Yes I did, because it was true. I was going to confession one Sunday and we were talking about it and I started thinking about it and my little pecker got hard. Wasn’t my fault.”

“He must have thought you were a little slut,” Jackson said.

“And he would not have been wrong,” I said.

“So…anyway…what happened to Noah’s mother?” Jackson asked.

“Childhood sweetheart, you know. One thing led to another, and suddenly we were parents, but she thought the best way to feed your kid was to use a slingshot. She ran off with her new boyfriend, which was probably for the best for all concerned. Anyway, you’re going to have to liquor me up with a bunch of tequila slammers if you want to hear that story.”

“I’ll put that on my list of things to do,” he said mischievously. “What do you do for fun in this town?”

“Well, you know. Wash dishes. Wipe up baby drool, put a new quart of oil in him once in a while. Watch the Weather Channel to see if any of the neighbors have been blown away by a tornado. Eat too much cheese and get cheese farts.”

“Keeps you busy, huh?”

“You have no idea. And don’t say I didn’t warn you about the little cheese-eater in our midst. We’ve also got a community theater. They did one of my plays once. They keep asking me for another, but I think they’re just being nice. We go out to eat. We do church. There’s only one shopping mall, which is good because no one has any money, so that’s okay. You just missed the Elvis Presley festival extravaganza. When you’re really bored, you can go to a Gospel singing or risk your guts at a barbecue place.”

“So you keep busy?”

“I do a lot of photography, too. Mostly pictures of Noah. I also like to knit or crochet.”

“You do not!”

“Ask the midget. I’m a huge hit with the ladies in the craft section at Walmart, I can tell you.”

“Just the ladies?” he prompted with a smile.

“I don’t do so well with the men,” I admitted. “Most of them want to kill me because I have long hair, or I haven’t accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior, or because I’m gay. The others just want a quickie in the bathroom at the mall. Guess they don’t like having a child tag along on their dates or something.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It takes a special man to tackle both of us. It helps if you enjoy picking lice out of his hair.”

He smiled as if not sure whether to believe me or not.

We consumed a fair amount of the fixings as we talked. A good eating, as we say.

Noah had his eye on the flat screen television, which sat on the floor next to a box marked GAMES.

Can I look at your games? Noah signed to Jackson after we had finished eating.

“Sure,” Jackson said. “Want me to help you set it up?”

“He’s good at that kind of stuff,” I said.

Noah scampered over and opened the box. He held up Modern Warfare III with a look of wretched pleading on his face.

I shook my head.

“What’s wrong with Modern Warfare?” Jackson asked.

“We don’t play games where we kill imaginary people just to have fun,” I said.

“Kill imaginary people just to have fun?” Jackson repeated with a smirk.

“That’s the rule. I’m the pinko commie bastard of the family and my son is following in my footsteps. If you’ve got a game where he can shoot people like Mitt Romney and the Koch brothers, hey, I’m all for it. Until then…”

“So you’re a bit political?”

“Don’t tell me that you’re one of these morons who doesn’t vote because you don’t think your vote will make any difference.”

“I never had time for it.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! So you’re the reason why we’re drowning in all these ideologically inebriated Tea Party mad dog types.”

“I take it you’re not Republican.”

“Just the thought of the Republican party makes my balls jump back up into my scrotum.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a smile. “Would you like another beer?”

Jackson fetched fresh beers from the fridge while Noah got the game console hooked up.

We watched him play for a while.

“I shouldn’t have brought him,” I said, “but I couldn’t get a babysitter. Well, I already had one for this morning when I had to work. Couldn’t afford another one, is what I’m saying. Just so you know, we’re a package deal. I’m telling you that straight up before you’ve got any skin in the game.”

“Two for the price of one, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“I hope not, but it’s the truth. Noah’s my main man. I might be able to squeeze you in now and again for a quickie, but he’s my first priority. His mom ran off on him. I’m not about to do the same.”

“I think it’s kind of sexy dating a single dad. I’ve never done that before.”

“So we’re dating now?”

“I don’t know. Should we be?”

He put his hand on my bare knee to emphasize his point.

“A tempting proposition,” I said. “North meets South. It could get ugly.”

“Butt ugly,” he said.

“The naked truth could be…”

“Worth seeing?” he suggested.

“Definitely,” I said. “But we’re a conservative lot down here.”

“Does that mean we can’t hold hands while we’re out in public?”

“Something like that.”

“A challenge. I like it.”

“It’s like they say: If you love Southern men, raise your glass. If you don’t, raise your standards.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard that one.”

“You need to get out more. You any good at courting?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he said.

“I think I’m going to like you,” I said.

“If you like me now, just wait until I get you alone and in bed.”

“Promises, promises,” I said dismissively. “Takes more than a sugar mouth to shake the sugar tree, darling.”

He leaned over and put his lips against mine. His hand fell to my crotch, felt the sudden, urgent hardness there.

“We’ve got to be careful in front of the children,” I said, pulling away. “But not too careful.”

Noah was too engrossed in the whole Xbox extravaganza to notice or care.

“You remind me of Daryl on The Walking Dead,” Jack observed.

“The redneck with the crossbow?” I said, incredulous, and somewhat offended.

“Yeah,” he said. “He’s a hottie. Just like you.”

“A hottie?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You’re not so bad-looking yourself. A bit too clean, like a metrosexual fella. Probably got a bunch of anti-aging cream in your bathroom or something, but you in Dixie now, boy. You walk around looking pretty and these Southern girls will scratch your eyes out because they’re afraid you’ll tempt their husbands into committing horrible, unnatural sins.”

“I should hope so.”

“It’s the least you could do,” I agreed. “Makes life far more interesting. At least until you get sent up the river on a morals charge and they use you as a pass-around-Patty in the prison shower. Those guys are Parchman are horny bastards, I hear. And I should know.”

“Why is that?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. Can’t spill all my secrets to some Yankee carpetbagger, not without the tequila slammers.”

“The plot thickens,” he said with a smile. “I’ll have to put tequila on my shopping list.”

I got to my feet, stretched my cramped legs.

Jackson stood, a hint of a smile about his lips.

“We’d best mosey on down the river,” I said. “Got school tomorrow.”

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“Shut up and kiss me like you mean it.”

So I did.

After stoking my internal fires—like any more stoking was necessary at that point—the meth baby and I took our leave.

I wiped my lips as I walked to the car.

Damn, he was hot.

Noah giggled.