Shaking the Sugar Tree Part 15

I offered directions and we were there within ten minutes. Walking through the mall, with Noah between us and holding our hands, I felt like any other family on an outing to the mall. We got looks, of course. Looks of curiosity, of disapproval, of disgust. The love that dares not speak its name ought not to dare to walk through the mall with a child in hand like a couple of hussies with their love child in tow, is what the looks said. Don't want no sodomy-based marriage here, thank you!

At the Italian place, we ordered hot sandwiches, a plate of meatb.a.l.l.s, and pizza. Jackson insisted on paying. We claimed a table and had ourselves a good eating.

"It's good," Jackson said.

"You're just saying that," I replied.

"No, really, it's good. A little greasy...."

"The grease is part of the charm," I pointed out.

"Said the heart attack to the clogged arteries."

"You're in the South now, boy. Grease is one of the four main food groups."

"Ain't that the truth!"

"You've got to say it like you mean it," I said. "Obesity doesn't just happen. You've got to work at it."

Noah stuffed himself with pizza and got sauce on his face, which I wiped at with a napkin.

"You seem upset today," Jackson said. "What's going on?"

I glanced at him and bit at my lip, not wanting to answer.

"What?" he pressed.

"You're way out of my league," I admitted. "I already knew that, but l.u.s.t can make you overlook pesky little facts."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you looked at yourself lately? Could you be more handsome? What could you possibly want with someone like me?"

"You're not handsome?"

"Maybe in a white trash p.e.c.k.e.rwood sort of way."

"What's a p.e.c.k.e.rwood?"

"It's like the N-word for white people," I explained.

He laughed out loud.

"You see?" he said, holding out both hands and talking like an Italian, "that's why I like you. Right there. You make me laugh. Not to mention you have the whole Kurt Cobain thing going on."

"I thought you said I looked like that p.e.c.k.e.rwood on The Walking Dead The Walking Dead," I pointed out.

"Him too," he said. "In a scruffy sort of way. I can picture you with a crossbow."

"Thanks," I said.

"I mean that in the nicest way."

"Next thing I know you'll be asking me to wear camo."

"What's that?"

"You've obviously never watched Duck Dynasty."

He smiled.

I regarded him for a long moment.

"What?" he said.

"I'm just kidding myself," I said. "I have a child to take care of. I can't go out on dates with you. I can't take you to nice places. I can't be the sort of person you need."

"I'm glad you know exactly what it takes to make me happy," he said. "You might want to consult me on that, though."

I said nothing.

"Man, what is going on with you?" he asked. "I feel like I'm getting the brush-off."

"I'm just trying to be honest. I'm no good at relations.h.i.+ps. It's not you, don't worry. I'm good at having s.e.x, but that's about all."

"Why do you say that?"

"That seems to be the general consensus about me. Not much good for anything but a quick suck and a f.u.c.k."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it," I said. "The last time I had s.e.x in the bathroom at Sears, the guy gave me twenty bucks afterward."

"Why?"

"He thought I was a hooker. Why do you think?"

"Did you give it back?"

"Of course not. I needed the money. You can buy a lot of Ramen noodles with twenty dollars."

He laughed again.

"I'm intrinsically disordered," I said.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Sometimes I think it's true."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"Everything I do goes to s.h.i.+t. All my relations.h.i.+ps go right down the c.r.a.pper. And I don't think I've had a relations.h.i.+p that lasted longer than an ice cream cone. Everything I touch turns to complete c.r.a.p."

"Like your son?"

I glanced at Noah.

"Why don't we keep him out of it?" I suggested.

"Seems to me he's the most important thing you've ever done-and you've done a h.e.l.l of a job."

"You're the only one who thinks so."

Jackson sat back in his chair, regarding me carefully. "Are you saying you're not a good father?"

"He could have had a much better life with a decent set of parents, people who could have loved him properly and bought him the stuff he needed and given him the help he needed."

"And you don't do that?"

"I did the best I could."

"And you don't think it was enough?"

"I don't know what I think."

"I've only been around Noah a little bit, but even I can see he loves you more than anything. You should give yourself more credit. He's a really nice kid."

"He certainly doesn't get it from me," I said.

"Why are you beating up on yourself?"

"I'm just... thinking out loud."

"What am I not getting here?"

"Every time I turn around, there's someone standing there telling me what a bad parent I am."

"Like who?"

"For starters, my mom. Then there's my brother. His wife. Her family. Her church. My own church. My priest. The whole society I live in. It's not like there's a lot of people down here saying, yeah, you go gay parent, go!"

"You don't feel anyone supports you?"

"Maybe they don't support me because I don't deserve support."

"What kind of bulls.h.i.+t is that?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Doesn't sound like I want to."

"Well, there you go."

"I didn't mean that. You're a touchy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you?"

"I'm just tired."

"Tired of what?"

I looked around at the faces feeding themselves in the cafeteria, faces full of suspicious, judgmental eyes.

"Tired of what?" he pressed. "What is it, Wiley? Why can't you just spit it out? You don't like me? You want me to get lost? What?"

"It has nothing to do with you," I said.

"It must have something to do with me or we wouldn't be talking like this."

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to get hold of myself. "I shouldn't be talking about any of this. I don't know what I'm talking about. There's a reason why they don't let me talk to adults."

"Are you finished now? Can I get a word in? Maybe two?"

"Sure."

He looked at me for a long time without speaking.

"Well...?" I prompted.

He laughed.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because you're so cute."

"Cute?"

"And hot. Really, really hot."

"Hot?"

"Oh yeah."

"That's... interesting."

"And you're complicated," he added. "I like that. Most guys would have been into my pants by now and gone about their business and I'd never see them again. I can't seem to get you into my pants at all."

"What would I do if I was in your pants?"

"You'd think of something."