Stones in the Road

Chapter 2: Bride of Chucky

When Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Ledbetter of Boston caught sight of their son standing in the departure area in the international airport terminal in Memphis with a scruffy-looking, goatee-wearing Southerner with a ponytail (me) and a pinched-faced, sandal-wearing deaf boy with a shock of curly blond hair with a life of its own (my son, Noah, looking like something from Beasts of the Southern Wild), there was a long moment of silence.

“So nice to meet you,” Mrs. Ledbetter said as we converged and Jackson made introductions. She extended a long, bony hand in my direction as she glanced down her nose at Noah. “And this is your…daughter?”

“This is Noah, my son,” I said.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I wasn’t sure. That hair is so long.”

“Mom,” Jackson said in a tight voice.

“The thing does look like a girl,” Mrs. Ledbetter said.

“The thing?” I said, incredulous.

“Hello!” Noah exclaimed in his awkward voice. He tugged on Mrs. Ledbetter’s sleeve to get her attention.

She frowned rather imperiously as she looked down at him.

“Hello!” Noah exclaimed again. “I love you!” It came out sounding like, Ai of ewe!

“Oh,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “That’s nice, dear.” Inexplicably, she reached into her small clutch purse and produced a twenty, which she handed to him as though giving him a tip. “Spend it wisely,” she said.

“He’s deaf,” I pointed out.

She bent down and spoke to him very slowly and very loudly: “Spend it wisely!”

Mr. Ledbetter hurriedly stepped forward. “Very good to meet you at last,” he said to me, putting out his hand, grasping mine like it was a turnip he intended to squeeze blood out of.

“And you, sir,” I said, wincing.

“Read your book,” he said. “Crack Baby. Hell of a title. But then it was a hell of a book. You must have made a lot of people mad, though. Not everyone wants to read about a homosexual raising a child on his own…”

“Not now, dear,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “We’re in the South, Stephen. Mess with one and you mess with the whole trailer park, and let’s not forget, the final ‘g’ is silent on ninety-nine percent of the words here.”

I frowned.

“Goodness! What is that smell?”

“What smell?” I asked.

“It’s like bacon and rancid butter,” Mrs. Ledbetter said. “Oh, I forgot. We’re in Paula Deen’s backyard, aren’t we? You can smell the lard all the way from Georgia.”

Jackson chuckled.

“Speaking of heat, we changed planes in Atlanta,” Mrs. Ledbetter said to Jackson. “Oh, it was so beastly hot there, and it’s not even July, and that airport…oh, it’s much too large! It reminded me of that time we went traipsing around the pyramids. Jackie, however do you stand the heat? You haven’t even gotten to the dog days of summer. I don’t know how you will survive. I do wish you had come to visit us in Boston instead of making us come all the way down here to this…this cesspool of history. But we wanted to see you, dear. It’s been almost two years!”

“Yes, it has,” Jackson said heartily.

“And one simply cannot pry you from this…relationship…or whatever it is.”

“Mom,” Jackson said in warning.

“I find all this gay marriage talk a bunch of highfalutin nonsense, Jackie. Don’t get me wrong. I have no religious objections. You know I don’t go in for religion, dear. It’s so tedious, people going on about theology like anybody cares. Foolish, I think, and a waste of time, and oh, so very tedious. It’s like Mahler’s music—it doesn’t quite sound as good as it looks. I think you should just live together in sin and be happy. What’s the big deal? It’s not like a piece of paper will make any difference.”

“That’s not quite true,” Jackson said.

“Your father and I lived together in sin for almost a year before we got married, and I was using contraception before they would ever talk about it in the Boston Herald. We have always been a very progressive family that way. Am I right, Stephen?”

“Oh, indeed,” Mr. Ledbetter said, nodding very agreeably.

“So I think you need to get all this ghastly business of gay marriage and…children…right straight out of your head, Jackie. Listen to your mother. Nobody knows you quite like I do, and unless I’m very much mistaken, this is headed for disaster. Gay marriage? Please!”

“Mom, don’t get started. I think we should drive down Beale while we’re in Memphis. What do you reckon?”

“Beale?”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “It’s very famous.”

“Never heard of it,” Mrs. Ledbetter sniffed. “What is it, a dog or something?”

“If it was a dog, we wouldn’t be driving down it,” I pointed out.

“I know, dear. I was making a small joke. Do try to keep up. But I suppose you can’t help it with all that lard marinating your brain.”

“Mom, please!” Jackson exclaimed.

“I’m just kidding. I’m sure Southern food is wonderful. I can’t wait to try it, darling. Why don’t we go to KFC right now and eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes and a great big old tub of grease? Shall we? It’s finger licking good, and who doesn’t enjoy licking their extremities?”

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“You really are slow, aren’t you? What is your name again, dear? Willy? Willis?”

“Wiley,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “Wiley. Like the coyote. A cartoon. Must be a proud Southern name. Your parents must have thought very hard to come up with such a marvelous name. And somehow it suits you. And it seems Jackie forgot to tell us he was dating a member of Duck Dynasty. Should we go deer hunting? Would you be more comfortable if we were clutching rifles and bullets and shooting and killing things? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of firearms back at the trailer, or whatever shack it is that you live in. I do so hope you have indoor plumbing. Please tell me you do. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to squat in the woods.”

“Excuse me,” I said, frowning heavily.

“It’s the vodka talking,” Mr. Ledbetter offered.

“I’m just kidding,” she said, smiling broadly. “Do try to keep up, Willis!”

“It’s Wiley,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. She waved a hand in front of her nose. “I can’t get that smell out of my nostrils.”

“What smell?” I asked.

“Oh, there was an Indian couple sitting in first class with us. Eating some vegetarian food. Some curry or something. Stunk up the whole cabin. You know how those people are. The smell was dreadful. Reminded me of that time when we went to Paris. We sat next to some French woman who wasn’t wearing antiperspirant. Oh, it was most unpleasant. I asked the stewardess if she had some antiperspirant this poor soul could put on, but she didn’t. Dreadful! All the way across the Atlantic Ocean sitting next to someone who smelled like a dead body. Travel is so difficult. Now, Jackie, what have you done with our luggage? You’ve hired someone, yes?”

“We’ll collect it downstairs,” Jackson said, heading for the escalator.

“You’re going to make me carry my own luggage in this beastly heat?” she demanded.

“We’re parked right outside, Mom,” he said, trying to assure her.

“Surely you’ve got all kinds of people down here, of all places, that you can hire to do this sort of thing. No? A few Mexicans, perhaps?”

“Mom, please,” Jackson said quietly.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll just put it on my back like a mule. I’ll carry it around like I’m a pack horse. Will that be all right, dear? Or maybe I could be like one of those African women, and I’ll just pop it right on top of my head. How about that, dear? What do you think? Hmm? You think mommy would look good with a bag on her head?”

I resisted the urge to point out that it might actually be an improvement.

Jackson turned away and disappeared down the escalator.

What is she saying? Noah asked.

I shook my head to indicate I couldn’t possibly explain.

She looks really nice, he said, excited.

I snorted.