Shaking the Sugar Tree Part 6

I dried off with my s.h.i.+rt.

"It's hot, ain't it?" I said to her.

"You ain't kidding."

"You might feel better if you cooled off," I suggested.

"I ain't swimming in there!"

"I didn't say anything about swimming, sister-in-law."

"Wiley Cantrell, you keep your hands off me!"

Being the intrinsically disordered person that I am, I, of course, could not do that. I dragged her from the shade of the tree and pushed her pretty a.s.s into the water, spiffy clothes and all.

The kids screamed with delight.

9) My name is Juan

ONE OF OF my first customers the next day was a shy Hispanic man with the most amazing brown eyes. Soulful, like a deer, wide, open, trusting, yet filled with a strange caution. He was dressed simply in a T-s.h.i.+rt and shorts, had beads around his neck like the kind you get when you go down to the Gulf Coast and swim in the ocean. His elfin features were a pleasing brown. Soft curls of black hair were a riot on his head, hanging in his eyes, climbing down over his ears, which poked out of them disobediently. my first customers the next day was a shy Hispanic man with the most amazing brown eyes. Soulful, like a deer, wide, open, trusting, yet filled with a strange caution. He was dressed simply in a T-s.h.i.+rt and shorts, had beads around his neck like the kind you get when you go down to the Gulf Coast and swim in the ocean. His elfin features were a pleasing brown. Soft curls of black hair were a riot on his head, hanging in his eyes, climbing down over his ears, which poked out of them disobediently.

"How ya doing?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Do you bring your FoodWorld card?" I asked.

He lifted his eyes to me in confusion and shrugged.

It was a look I knew well.

Do you have a F-o-o-d-w-o-r-l-d card?

Those amazing brown eyes lit up and he smiled.

No.

Would you like one?

Yes! You know sign?

My name is W-i-l-e-y.

My name is J-u-a-n. Nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you, J-u-a-n.

Not only was he deaf, but my gaydar was beeping something awful, and something told me his was too because of the way he kept smiling at me.

When I handed him the change, I allowed myself to hold on to his hand for a moment-the cas.h.i.+er's love touch. That touch might linger a little longer than it should if there are some unspoken things that need to be said. Mine lingered as I pretended to fumble the coins, as though I wanted to make sure they didn't spill from his hand and I had to keep it steady. Gave me the perfect excuse to hold his hand for a few moments.

He smiled as he put the change in his pocket. Then he fished around and handed me a slip of paper, which said: My name is Juan. I am deaf. I can work for cheap. My number is (662) 822-1152.

Below that, the same message was written in Spanish.

I gave him an application for a FoodWorld card. He filled out his name and address and phone number. He pointed out the phone number to me, lifting his eyebrows as if to say, Make sure you use it! Make sure you use it!

On a piece of paper, I wrote down my own number and address and handed it to him, knowing he must have access to a TTY phone system.

I want to have a friend, he said. The way he signed the word "friend" suggested he had something more in mind than watching football games. he said. The way he signed the word "friend" suggested he had something more in mind than watching football games.

He added, I'm lonely. I'm lonely.

He looked at me frankly, his need, his loneliness written plainly in his eyes, across his face.

Why do you know sign? he asked. he asked.

My son is deaf.

You have a son?

Yes.

Wow.

A lady with two kids pushed her cart up to the line. She began to unload her things.

It's nice to meet you, I said. I said.

Please call me, he said, biting at his lip. he said, biting at his lip.

He turned quickly, grabbed his bags, and walked away.

I watched him for a long moment. He was such a sweet-looking guy, handsome in that Latino way, but he walked as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders and he didn't have a friend to his name.

There are many Hispanics in Tupelo. All throughout the South, actually. No doubt a great many are illegal, a fact that enrages many of my Tea Party neighbors. That Juan gave me a card indicating his willingness to work cheaply suggested he was one.

What would it be like to be an illegal immigrant who was not only deaf but gay? Talk about three strikes against you.

He didn't give me that ants-in-the-pants feeling that Jackson Ledbetter did, though I was certainly willing to give him an opportunity to shake the sugar tree and see what might fall out.

10) Kayla gets out

THE NEXT NEXT day was Tuesday and Noah and I got up early to make the long drive to Pearl, home of the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility, the only prison in the state that houses female prisoners, including those on death row. Noah's mother had spent the last five years of her life at this facility after her boyfriend's meth lab got busted down in Monroe County. She was set to be released at eight o'clock that morning sharp. day was Tuesday and Noah and I got up early to make the long drive to Pearl, home of the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility, the only prison in the state that houses female prisoners, including those on death row. Noah's mother had spent the last five years of her life at this facility after her boyfriend's meth lab got busted down in Monroe County. She was set to be released at eight o'clock that morning sharp.

We had visited the prison exactly once during those previous five years, the first Christmas after Kayla's incarceration. After making the drive and getting his hopes up, Noah's mother refused to see him and we drove home disappointed. Noah was four at the time. I'm not sure how much he remembers.

The guard at the main gates directed us to a special parking lot where inmate releases were "processed." Kayla's parents were already there, standing by their sleek SUV. I parked my old station wagon nearby and Noah and I got out.

I was dressed in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt and had my camera on a strap around my neck. I wanted to take a picture of Noah with his mother, which would be precisely one more than he currently had.

Noah wore the new suit given to him by Cousin Eli. He had washed his hair and asked me to put gel in it so he could comb it back off his forehead the way he liked. His friend Keke down the street told him it looked cool that way. She's the girl who once put cornrows in his hair so her judgment was not always reliable.

Mrs. Warren looked at Noah and a hand went to her throat.

I approached warily.

"Good morning," I said.

"Wiley," Mr. Warren said.

Then he said no more.

"h.e.l.lo," Noah said nervously, loudly, refusing to be ignored.

"h.e.l.lo, Noah," Mr. Warren said, looking down at him.

Do you remember your grandmother and grandfather? I signed. I signed.

He shook his head, but smiled hopefully.

"How is he?" Mrs. Warren asked.

She wants to know how you are, I signed I signed.

"I fine," he said to her, smiling and showing his mismatched teeth, the gaps, the doubles, the h.e.l.l that his dentist patiently tried to soothe.

"He's gotten so big," she observed.

She looked at her husband as if to judge how to proceed. The determined set of his jaw and the hard flint in his eyes were palpable. She lowered her gaze and said nothing further, deferring to his judgment. Mr. Warren was very good at judgment.

I put my hand on Noah's shoulder and pulled him close.

"He is is your grandson," I pointed out quietly. "No matter what you think of me." your grandson," I pointed out quietly. "No matter what you think of me."

"I believe I made our feelings quite clear to you, Wiley," Mr. Warren said, staring at me as if defying me to look away. "Since you refused to give up custody of Noah so that he could be raised in a decent, proper home-our home-a Christian home, you left us no choice. Raising the boy in a h.o.m.os.e.xual environment... but let's not get into that that."

The last time I had seen Mr. and Mrs. Warren, they were standing on the other side of an incubator, looking at the pathetic, scrawny little thing that was their grandson, born a month too soon, addicted to crystal meth thanks to his mother, cursed with various and sundry birth defects. They came to announce that their daughter Kayla had run off and would not be coming back, and that they had decided they would take care of Noah themselves if I gave up parental rights and disappeared into the background. Clearly they had given the matter a great deal of serious thought. Had even talked to their lawyer.

They seemed surprised when I refused.

They had come up with what they considered, in their business-like minds, the only possible solution to the problem that was their grandson. They were genuinely upset when I told them I would not disappear, that Noah was my son and I would take full responsibility for him, no matter what, even if I was gay and not a very good person. I was not going to cut and run like their daughter. They were welcome to help and be part of his life, but I was not going to be chased off.

"Then we wish you the best," Mr. Warren had said, steering his wife out of the hospital room and refusing to listen to her protests.

Standing there now, with the two of them, I couldn't help but think of that night.

True to their word, they had nothing to do with Noah. No birthday cards, Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas presents. They did not call and ask how Noah was doing. They did not ask to have Noah for a couple of weeks over the summer so that I could have a break from parenting and they could spend quality time with their flesh and blood. They were not concerned about his health, his progress at school, his grades, his hearing aids, what his favorite sport was, who his favorite superhero was, what it was like to experience the world as a deaf child.

Noah looked up to me, sensing the tension in my body, his eyes asking what was wrong. I shook my head in a way that suggested something was wrong but he was not to worry about it.

He put his arm around my waist.

We waited for Kayla's release in silence. The camera was a rea.s.suring weight against my chest.

At about five minutes to eight, another car pulled up, parking at some distance from us. It had modified rims, tinted windows, was rather showy. It was dark blue, almost black. The young man who stepped out wore sungla.s.ses, a tank top, and baggy shorts that were almost falling off his skinny a.s.s. There were tattoos on his arms, a cigarette in the corner of his lips.

He was a man going somewhere in this life. Where, well, he probably had no clue.

He did not look at us.

I saw Mr. and Mrs. Warren exchange a worried glance.

Who is that? Noah asked me. Noah asked me.

I don't know.

He bit at his lip.

I held him to me, my arms over his chest, as though I were telling him that whatever happened, we were in this together and he was safe with me. He put his hands on my arms, and I saw Mrs. Warren glancing uneasily at his left hand with its extra pinkie. I put my hand on it to cover it. She looked up at me, realizing I had caught her looking.

She looked away, embarra.s.sed.

Mr. Warren glanced at me, a look of disapproval in his eyes that I knew only too well. Noah and I were too friendly, too affectionate, too touchy-feely. I did not bother to explain that touch is an important part of a relations.h.i.+p with a deaf person, especially a deaf child. It's one of the ways they connect with others. They can tell a lot about you just by touching you, holding you, connecting with you. Your body is a map as far as they're concerned.

At precisely eight o'clock that Monday morning, under cloudy skies that promised rain, a door opened at the end of a long, fenced-in corridor, and Kayla appeared, escorted by a female prison guard. Kayla wore street clothes, carried a duffel bag. She was still pretty, in a way. She would always be pretty to me, I guess. She had gained weight, but not much. She looked healthy for a change. Had cut her hair really short.

Noah broke from my arms and ran to the locked gate on this side of the walkway.

"Ma!" he exclaimed happily. "Ma!"

He had spent a great many hours practicing that one syllable. It rang out across the parking lot. It was too loud; he couldn't judge how loud to speak. It sounded awkward, more like a grunt or a honk than a word. It was not a word he used often.

She glanced at him, frowning.

The guard led her to the gate, unlocked it.